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THE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VICENTIO.
A LEGEND OF SAN FRANCISCO.
One pleasant New Year's Eve, about forty years
ago, Padre Vicentio was slowly picking his way
across the sand-hills from the Mission Dolores. As
he climbed the crest of the ridge beside Mission
Creek, his broad, shining face might have been easily
mistaken for the beneficent image of the rising moon,
so bland was its smile and so indefinite its features.
For the padre was a man of notable reputation and
character; his ministration at the Mission of San
José had been marked with cordiality and unction;
he was adored by the simple-minded savages, and
had succeeded in impressing his individuality so
strongly upon them that the very children were said
to have miraculously resembled him in feature.
As the holy man reached the loneliest portion of
the road, he naturally put spurs to his mule as if to
quicken that decorous pace which the obedient animal
had acquired through long experience of its
reputation. Sailors—deserters from whaleships—
had been seen lurking about the outskirts of the
town, and low scrub oaks which everywhere beset
the trail might have easily concealed some desperate
runaway. Besides these material obstructions, the
devil, whose hostility to the church was well known,
was said to sometimes haunt the vicinity in the likeness
of a spectral whaler, who had met his death in a
drunken bout, from a harpoon in the hands of a
companion. The ghost of this unfortunate mariner
was frequently observed sitting on the hill toward
the dusk of evening, armed with his favorite weapon
and a tub containing a coil of line, looking out for
some belated traveler on whom to exercise his professional
skill. It is related that the good father
José Maria of the Mision Dolores had been twice attacked
by this phantom sportsman; that once, on
returning from San Francisco, and panting with exertion
from climbing the hill, he was startled by a
stentorian cry of “There she blows!” quickly followed
by a hurtling harpoon, which buried itself in
the sand beside him; that on another occasion he
narrowly escaped destruction, his serapa having been
transfixed by the diabolical harpoon and dragged
away in triumph. Popular opinion seems to have
been divided as to the reason for the devil's particular
attention to Father José, some asserting that the
extreme piety of the padre excited the Evil One's
animosity, and others that his adipose tendency simply
rendered him, from a professional view-point, a
profitable capture.
Had Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at this
apparition as a heretical innovation, there was still
the story of Concepcion, the Demon Vaquero, whose
terrible riata was fully as potent as the whaler's harpoon.
Concepcion, when in the flesh, had been a
celebrated herder of cattle and wild horses, and was
reported to have chased the devil in the shape of a
fleet pinto colt all the way from San Luis Obispo to
San Francisco, vowing not to give up the chase until
he had overtaken the disguised Arch-Enemy. This
the devil prevented by resuming his own shape, but
kept the unfortunate vaquero to the fulfillment of his
rash vow; and Concepcion still scoured the coast on
a phantom steed, beguiling the monotony of his eternal
pursuit by lassoing travelers, dragging them at
the heels of his unbroken mustang until they were
eventually picked up, half-strangled, by the road-side.
The padre listened attentively for the tramp of this
terrible rider. But no footfall broke the stillness of
the night; even the hoofs of his own mule sank
noiselessly in the shifting sand. Now and then a
rabbit bounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into
the brush. The melancholy call of plover from the
adjoining marshes of Mission Creek came to him so
faintly and fitfully that it seemed almost a recollection
of the past rather than a reality of the present.
To add to his discomposure one of those heavy sea
fogs peculiar to the locality began to drift across the
hills and presently encompassed him. While endeavoring
to evade its cold embraces, Padre Vicentio
his mule as that puzzled animal was hesitating on
the brink of a steep declivity. Whether the poor
beast was indignant at this novel outrage, or had
been for some time reflecting on the evils of being
priest-ridden, has not transpired; enough that he
suddenly threw up his heels, pitching the reverend
man over his head, and, having accomplished this
feat, coolly dropped on his knees and tumbled after
his rider.
Over and over went the padre, closely followed by
his faithless mule. Luckily the little hollow which
received the pair was of sand that yielded to the
superincumbent weight, half burying them without
further injury. For some moments the poor man
lay motionless, vainly endeavoring to collect his
scattered senses. A hand irreverently laid upon his
collar, and a rough shake, assisted to recall his consciousness.
As the padre staggered to his feet he
found himself confronted by a stranger.
Seen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances
that to say the least were not prepossessing,
the new comer had an inexpressibly mysterious and
brigand-like aspect. A long boat-cloak concealed
his figure, and a slouched hat hid his features, permitting
only his eyes to glisten in the depths. With
a deep groan the padre slipped from the stranger's
grasp and subsided into the soft sand again.
“Gad's life!” said the stranger, pettishly, “hast no
more bones in thy fat carcass than a jelly-fish?
Lend a hand, here! Yo, heave ho!” and he dragged
and what art thou?”
The padre could not help thinking that the question
might have more properly been asked by himself;
but with an odd mixture of dignity and trepidation
he began enumerating his different titles,
which were by no means brief, and would have been
alone sufficient to strike awe in the bosom of an ordinary
adversary. The stranger irreverently broke
in upon his formal phrases, and assuring him that a
priest was the very person he was looking for, coolly
replaced the old man's hat, which had tumbled off,
and bade him accompany him at once on an errand
of spiritual counsel to one who was even then lying
in extremity. “To think,” said the stranger, “that
I should stumble upon the very man I was seeking!
Body of Bacchus! but this is lucky! Follow me
quickly, for there is no time to lose.”
Like most easy natures the positive assertion of the
stranger, and withal a certain authoritative air of
command, overcame what slight objections the padre
might have feebly nurtured during this remarkable
interview. The spiritual invitation was one, also,
that he dared not refuse; not only that; but it tended
somewhat to remove the superstitious dread with
which he had begun to regard the mysterious stranger.
Following at a respectful distance, the padre
could not help observing with a thrill of horror that
the stranger's footsteps made no impression on the
sand, and his figure seemed at times to blend and incorporate
itself with the fog, until the holy man was
intervals of embarrassment he heard the ringing of
the far-off Mission bell, proclaiming the hour of midnight.
Scarcely had the last stroke died away before
the announcement was taken up and repeated
by a multitude of bells of all sizes, and the air was
filled with the sound of striking clocks and the pealing
of steeple chimes. The old man uttered a cry
of alarm. The stranger sharply demanded the cause.
“The bells! did you not hear them?” gasped Padre
Vicentio. “Tush! tush!” answered the stranger,
“thy fall hath set triple bob-majors ringing in thine
ears. Come on!”
The padre was only too glad to accept the explanation
conveyed in this discourteous answer. But he
was destined for another singular experience. When
they had reached the summit of the eminence now
known as Russian Hill, an exclamation again burst
from the padre. The stranger turned to his companion
with an impatient gesture; but the padre
heeded him not. The view that burst upon his sight
was such as might well have engrossed the attention
of a more enthusiastic nature. The fog had not yet
reached the hill, and the long valleys and hillsides
of the embarcadero below were glittering with the
light of a populous city. “Look!” said the padre,
stretching his hand over the spreading landscape.
“Look, dost thou not see the stately squares and
brilliantly-lighted avenues of a mighty metropolis.
Dost thou not see, as it were, another firmament
below?”
“Avast heaving, reverend man, and quit this
folly,” said the stranger, dragging the bewildered
padre after him. “Behold rather the stars knocked
out of thy hollow noddle by the fall thou hast had.
Prithee, get over thy visions and rhapsodies, for the
time is nearing apace.”
The padre humbly followed without another word.
Descending the hill toward the north, the stranger
leading the way, in a few moments the padre detected
the wash of waves, and presently his feet
struck the firmer sand of the beach. Here the stranger
paused, and the padre perceived a boat lying in
readiness hard by. As he stepped into the stern-sheets,
in obedience to the command of his companion,
he noticed that the rowers seemed to partake
of the misty incorporeal texture of his companion, a
similarity that became the more distressing when he
also perceived that their oars in pulling together made
no noise. The stranger, assuming the helm, guided
the boat on quietly, while the fog, settling over the
face of the water and closingaround them, seemed to
interpose a muffled wall between themselves and the
rude jarring of the outer world. As they pushed
further into this penetralia, the padre listened anxiously
for the sound of creaking blocks and the rattling
of cordage, but no vibration broke the veiled stillness
or disturbed the warm breath of the fleecy fog.
Only one incident occurred to break the monotony
of their mysterious journey. A one-eyed rower,
who sat in front of the padre, catching the devout
father's eye, immediately grinned such a ghastly
intensity of meaning that the padre was constrained
to utter a pious ejaculation, which had the
disastrous effect of causing the marine Cocles to
“catch a crab,” throwing his heels in the air and his
head into the bottom of the boat. But even this accident
did not disturb the gravity of the rest of the
ghastly boat's crew.
When, as it seemed to the padre, ten minutes had
elapsed, the outline of a large ship loomed up directly
across their bow. Before he could utter the cry of
warning that rose to his lips, or brace himself against
the expected shock, the boat passed gently and noiselessly
through the sides of the vessel, and the holy
man found himself standing on the berth deck of
what seemed to be an ancient caravel. The boat and
boat's crew had vanished. Only his mysterious
friend, the stranger, remained. By the light of a
swinging lamp the padre beheld him standing beside
a hammock, whereon, apparently, lay the dying man
to whom he had been so mysteriously summoned.
As the padre, in obedience to a sign from his companion,
stepped to the side of the sufferer, he feebly
opened his eyes and thus addressed him:
“Thou seest before thee, reverend father, a helpless
mortal, struggling not only with the last agonies
of the flesh, but beaten down and tossed with sore
anguish of the spirit. It matters little when or how
I became what thou now seest me. Enough that my
life has been ungodly and sinful, and that my only
hope of thy absolution lies in my imparting to thee a
Church, and affects greatly her power, wealth and
dominion on these shores. But the terms of this
secret and the conditions of my absolution are peculiar.
I have but five minutes to live. In that time
I must receive the extreme unction of the Church.”
“And thy secret?” said the holy father.
“Shall be told afterwards,” answered the dying
man. “Come, my time is short. Shrive me quickly.”
The padre hesitated. “Couldst thou not tell this
secret first?”
“Impossible!” said the dying man, with what
seemed to the padre a momentary gleam of triumph.
Then as his breath grew feebler he called impatiently,
“shrive me! shrive me!”
“Let me know at least what this secret concerns?”
suggested the padre, insinuatingly.
“Shrive me first,” said the dying man.
But the priest still hesitated, parleying with the
sufferer until the ship's bell struck, when, with a triumphant,
mocking laugh from the stranger, the
vessel suddenly fell to pieces, amid the rushing of
waters which at once involved the dying man, the
priest, and the mysterious stranger.
The padre did not recover his consciousness until
high noon the next day, when he found himself lying
in a little hollow between the Mission Hills, and his
faithful mule a few paces from him, cropping the
sparse herbage. The padre made the best of his way
home, but wisely abstained from narrating the facts
when the whole of this veracious incident was related,
with the assertion of the padre that the secret
which was thus mysteriously snatched from his possession
was nothing more than the discovery of gold,
years since, by the runaway sailors from the expedition
of Sir Francis Drake.
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