 | The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches |  |
THE RIGHT EYE OF THE COMMANDER.
The year of grace 1797 passed away on the
coast of California in a southwesterly gale.
The little bay of San Carlos, albeit sheltered by
the headlands of the blessed Trinity, was rough
and turbulent; its foam clung quivering to the
seaward wall of the Mission garden; the air
was filled with flying sand and spume, and as
the Señor Comandante, Hermenegildo Salvatierra,
looked from the deep embrasured window of the
Presidio guard-room, he felt the salt breath of the
distant sea buffet a color into his smoke-dried
cheeks.
The Commander, I have said, was gazing thoughtfully
from the window of the guard-room. He
may have been reviewing the events of the year
now about to pass away. But, like the garrison
at the Presidio, there was little to review;
the year, like its predecessors, had been uneventful,
— the days had slipped by in a delicious monotony
of simple duties, unbroken by incident
or interruption. The regularly recurring feasts
and saints' days, the half-yearly courier from San
Diego, the rare transport-ship and rarer foreign
life. If there was no achievement, there was certainly
no failure. Abundant harvests and patient
industry amply supplied the wants of Presidio and
Mission. Isolated from the family of nations, the
wars which shook the world concerned them not
so much as the last earthquake; the struggle that
emancipated their sister colonies on the other side
of the continent to them had no suggestiveness.
In short, it was that glorious Indian summer of
California history, around which so much poetical
haze still lingers, — that bland, indolent autumn
of Spanish rule, so soon to be followed by the
wintry storms of Mexican independence and the
reviving spring of American conquest.
The Commander turned from the window and
walked toward the fire that burned brightly on
the deep oven-like hearth. A pile of copy-books,
the work of the Presidio school, lay on the table.
As he turned over the leaves with a paternal
interest, and surveyed the fair round Scripture
text, — the first pious pot-hooks of the pupils of
San Carlos, — an audible commentary fell from
his lips: “`Abimelech took her from Abraham' —
ah, little one, excellent!— `Jacob sent to see his
brother' — body of Christ! that up-stroke of
thine, Paquita, is marvellous; the Governor shall
see it!” A film of honest pride dimmed the Commander's
left eye, — the right, alas! twenty years
rubbed it softly with the sleeve of his leather
jacket, and continued: “`The Ishmaelites having
arrived — ”'
He stopped, for there was a step in the courtyard,
a foot upon the threshold, and a stranger
entered. With the instinct of an old soldier,
the Commander, after one glance at the intruder,
turned quickly toward the wall, where his trusty
Toledo hung, or should have been hanging. But
it was not there, and as he recalled that the last
time he had seen that weapon it was being ridden
up and down the gallery by Pepito, the infant son
of Bautista, the tortilio-maker, he blushed and
then contented himself with frowning upon the
intruder.
But the stranger's air, though irreverent, was
decidedly peaceful. He was unarmed, and wore
the ordinary cape of tarpauling and sea-boots of a
mariner. Except a villanous smell of codfish,
there was little about him that was peculiar.
His name, as he informed the Commander, in
Spanish that was more fluent than elegant or precise,
— his name was Peleg Scudder. He was master
of the schooner “General Court,” of the port
of Salem, in Massachusetts, on a trading-voyage
to the South Seas, but now driven by stress of
weather into the bay of San Carlos. He begged
permission to ride out the gale under the headlands
he did not need, having taken in a supply at
Bodega. He knew the strict surveillance of the
Spanish port regulations in regard to foreign vessels,
and would do nothing against the severe discipline
and good order of the settlement. There
was a slight tinge of sarcasm in his tone as he
glanced toward the desolate parade-ground of the
Presidio and the open unguarded gate. The fact
was that the sentry, Felipe Gomez, had discreetly
retired to shelter at the beginning of the storm,
and was then sound asleep in the corridor.
The Commander hesitated. The port regulations
were severe, but he was accustomed to exercise
individual authority, and beyond an old order
issued ten years before, regarding the American
ship “Columbia,” there was no precedent to guide
him. The storm was severe, and a sentiment of
humanity urged him to grant the stranger's request.
It is but just to the Commander to say, that his
inability to enforce a refusal did not weigh with
his decision. He would have denied with equal
disregard of consequences that right to a seventy-four
gun ship which he now yielded so gracefully
to this Yankee trading-schooner. He stipulated
only, that there should be no communication
between the ship and shore. “For yourself,
Señor Captain,” he continued, “accept my hospitality.
The fort is yours as long as you shall
with old-fashioned courtesy, he made the semblance
of withdrawing from the guard-room.
Master Peleg Scudder smiled as he thought of
the half-dismantled fort, the two mouldy brass
cannon, cast in Manila a century previous, and the
shiftless garrison. A wild thought of accepting
the Commander's offer literally, conceived in the
reckless spirit of a man who never let slip an
offer for trade, for a moment filled his brain, but a
timely reflection of the commercial unimportance
of the transaction checked him. He only took
a capacious quid of tobacco, as the Commander
gravely drew a settle before the fire, and in honor
of his guest untied the black silk handkerchief that
bound his grizzled brows.
What passed between Salvatierra and his guest
that night it becomes me not, as a grave chronicler
of the salient points of history, to relate. I have
said that Master Peleg Scudder was a fluent talker,
and under the influence of divers strong waters,
furnished by his host, he became still more loquacious.
And think of a man with a twenty years'
budget of gossip! The Commander learned, for
the first time, how Great Britain lost her colonies;
of the French Revolution; of the great Napoleon,
whose achievements, perhaps, Peleg colored more
highly than the Commander's superiors would have
liked. And when Peleg turned questioner, the
himself master of the gossip of the Mission and
Presidio, the “small-beer” chronicles of that pastoral
age, the conversion of the heathen, the Presidio
schools, and even asked the Commander how
he had lost his eye! It is said that at this point
of the conversation Master Peleg produced from
about his person divers small trinkets, kick-shaws
and new-fangled trifles, and even forced some of
them upon his host. It is further alleged that
under the malign influence of Peleg and several
glasses of aguardiente, the Commander lost somewhat
of his decorum, and behaved in a manner
unseemly for one in his position, reciting high-flown
Spanish poetry, and even piping in a thin,
high voice, divers madrigals and heathen canzonets
of an amorous complexion; chiefly in regard to a
“little one” who was his, the Commander's, “soul”!
These allegations, perhaps unworthy the notice of
a serious chronicler, should be received with great
caution, and are introduced here as simple hearsay.
That the Commander, however, took a handkerchief
and attempted to show his guest the mysteries of
the sembi cuacua, capering in an agile but indecorous
manner about the apartment, has been
denied. Enough for the purposes of this narrative,
that at midnight Peleg assisted his host to
bed with many protestations of undying friendship,
and then, as the gale had abated, took his
“General Court.” When the day broke the ship
was gone.
I know not if Peleg kept his word with his
host. It is said that the holy fathers at the Mission
that night heard a loud chanting in the plaza,
as of the heathens singing psalms through their
noses; that for many days after an odor of salt
codfish prevailed in the settlement; that a dozen
hard nutmegs, which were unfit for spice or seed,
were found in the possession of the wife of the
baker, and that several bushels of shoe-pegs, which
bore a pleasing resemblance to oats, but were quite
inadequate to the purposes of provender, were
discovered in the stable of the blacksmith. But
when the reader reflects upon the sacredness of a
Yankee trader's word, the stringent discipline of
the Spanish port regulations, and the proverbial
indisposition of my countrymen to impose upon
the confidence of a simple people, he will at once
reject this part of the story.
A roll of drums, ushering in the year 1798,
awoke the Commander. The sun was shining
brightly, and the storm had ceased. He sat up in
bed, and through the force of habit rubbed his left
eye. As the remembrance of the previous night
came back to him, he jumped from his couch and
ran to the window. There was no ship in the
he rubbed both of his eyes. Not content with
this, he consulted the metallic mirror which hung
beside his crucifix. There was no mistake; the
Commander had a visible second eye, — a right
one, — as good, save for the purposes of vision, as
the left.
Whatever might have been the true secret of this
transformation, but one opinion prevailed at San
Carlos. It was one of those rare miracles vouchsafed
a pious Catholic community as an evidence
to the heathen, through the intercession of the
blessed San Carlos himself. That their beloved
Commander, the temporal defender of the Faith,
should be the recipient of this miraculous manifestation
was most fit and seemly. The Commander
himself was reticent; he could not tell a
falsehood, — he dared not tell the truth. After all,
if the good folk of San Carlos believed that the
powers of his right eye were actually restored,
was it wise and discreet for him to undeceive
them? For the first time in his life the Commander
thought of policy, — for the first time he
quoted that text which has been the lure of so
many well-meaning but easy Christians, of being
“all things to all men.” Infeliz Hermenegildo
Salvatierra!
For by degrees an ominous whisper crept through
the little settlement. The Right Eye of the Commander,
baleful effect upon the beholder. No one could
look at it without winking. It was cold, hard,
relentless and unflinching. More than that, it
seemed to be endowed with a dreadful prescience,
— a faculty of seeing through and into the inarticulate
thoughts of those it looked upon. The soldiers
of the garrison obeyed the eye rather than
the voice of their commander, and answered his
glance rather than his lips in questioning. The
servants could not evade the ever-watchful, but
cold attention that seemed to pursue them. The
children of the Presidio School smirched their
copy-books under the awful supervision, and poor
Paquita, the prize pupil, failed utterly in that
marvellous up-stroke when her patron stood beside
her. Gradually distrust, suspicion, self-accusation,
and timidity took the place of trust, confidence,
and security throughout San Carlos. Whenever the
Right Eye of the Commander fell, a shadow fell
with it.
Nor was Salvatierra entirely free from the baleful
influence of his miraculous acquisition. Unconscious
of its effect upon others, he only saw in
their actions evidence of certain things that the
crafty Peleg had hinted on that eventful New
Year's eve. His most trusty retainers stammered,
blushed, and faltered before him. Self-accusations,
confessions of minor faults and delinquencies, or
inquiries. The very children that he loved — his
pet pupil, Paquita — seemed to be conscious of
some hidden sin. The result of this constant irritation
showed itself more plainly. For the first
half-year the Commander's voice and eye were at
variance. He was still kind, tender, and thoughtful
in speech. Gradually, however, his voice took
upon itself the hardness of his glance and its
sceptical, impassive quality, and as the year again
neared its close it was plain that the Commander
had fitted himself to the eye, and not the eye to
the Commander.
It may be surmised that these changes did not
escape the watchful solicitude of the Fathers. Indeed,
the few who were first to ascribe the right
eye of Salvatierra to miraculous origin and the
special grace of the blessed San Carlos, now talked
openly of witchcraft and the agency of Luzbel,
the evil one. It would have fared ill with Hermenegildo
Salvatierra had he been aught but Commander
or amenable to local authority. But the
reverend father, Friar Manuel de Cortes, had no
power over the political executive, and all attempts
at spiritual advice failed signally. He retired baffled
and confused from his first interview with the
Commander, who seemed now to take a grim satisfaction
in the fateful power of his glance. The
holy father contradicted himself, exposed the fallacies
committed himself to several undoubted
heresies. When the Commander stood up at mass,
if the officiating priest caught that sceptical and
searching eye, the service was inevitably ruined.
Even the power of the Holy Church seemed to be
lost, and the last hold upon the affections of the
people and the good order of the settlement departed
from San Carlos.
As the long dry summer passed, the low hills
that surrounded the white walls of the Presidio
grew more and more to resemble in hue the leathern
jacket of the Commander, and Nature herself
seemed to have borrowed his dry, hard glare. The
earth was cracked and seamed with drought; a
blight had fallen upon the orchards and vineyards,
and the rain, long delayed and ardently prayed for,
came not. The sky was as tearless as the right
eye of the Commander. Murmurs of discontent,
insubordination, and plotting among the Indians
reached his ears; he only set his teeth the more
firmly, tightened the knot of his black silk handkerchief,
and looked up his Toledo.
The last day of the year 1798 found the Commander
sitting, at the hour of evening prayers,
alone in the guard-room. He no longer attended
the services of the Holy Church, but crept away
at such times to some solitary spot, where he spent
the interval in silent meditation. The firelight
the bowed figure of Salvatierra in darkness. Sitting
thus, he felt a small hand touch his arm, and,
looking down, saw the figure of Paquita, his little
Indian pupil, at his knee. “Ah, littlest of all,”
said the Commander, with something of his old
tenderness, lingering over the endearing diminutives
of his native speech, — “sweet one, what
doest thou here? Art thou not afraid of him
whom every one shuns and fears?”
“No,” said the little Indian, readily, “not in the
dark. I hear your voice, — the old voice; I feel
your touch, — the old touch; but I see not your
eye, Señor Comandante. That only I fear, — and
that, O Señor, O my father,” said the child, lifting
her little arms towards his, — “that I know
is not thine own!”
The Commander shuddered and turned away.
Then, recovering himself, he kissed Paquita gravely
on the forehead and bade her retire. A few
hours later, when silence had fallen upon the Presidio,
he sought his own couch and slept peacefully.
At about the middle watch of the night a
dusky figure crept through the low embrasure of
the Commander's apartment. Other figures were
flitting through the parade-ground, which the Commander
might have seen had he not slept so quietly.
The intruder stepped noiselessly to the couch
Something glittered in the firelight as the savage
lifted his arm; another moment and the sore perplexities
of Hermenegildo Salvatierra would have
been over, when suddenly the savage started and
fell back in a paroxysm of terror. The Commander
slept peacefully, but his right eye, widely
opened, fixed and unaltered, glared coldly on the
would-be assassin. The man fell to the earth in a
fit, and the noise awoke the sleeper.
To rise to his feet, grasp his sword, and deal
blows thick and fast upon the mutinous savages
who now thronged the room, was the work of a moment.
Help opportunely arrived, and the undisciplined
Indians were speedily driven beyond the
walls, but in the scuffle the Commander received
a blow upon his right eye, and, lifting his hand
to that mysterious organ, it was gone. Never
again was it found, and never again, for bale or
bliss, did it adorn the right orbit of the Commander.
With it passed away the spell that had fallen
upon San Carlos. The rain returned to invigorate
the languid soil, harmony was restored between
priest and soldier, the green grass presently waved
over the sere hillsides, the children flocked again
to the side of their martial preceptor, a Te Deum
was sung in the Mission Church, and pastoral content
once more smiled upon the gentle valleys of
Court” with its master, Peleg Scudder, trafficking in
beads and peltries with the Indians, and offering
glass eyes, wooden legs, and other Boston notions
to the chiefs.
| The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches | |