CHAPTER X. — A LITTLE DINNER AT JUDGE HARDIN'S.—THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE.
The rain drips drearily around Judge Hardin's spacious residence in San Francisco. January, 1861, finds the sheltering trees higher. The embowered shade hides to-night an unusual illumination. Winter breezes sigh through the trees. Showers of spray fall from acacia and vine. As the wet fog drives past, the ship-lights on the bay are almost hidden. When darkness brings out sweeping lines of the street-lamps, many carriages roll up to the open doors.
A circle of twenty or thirty intimates gathers in the great dining-room. At the head of the table, Hardin welcomes the chosen representatives of the great Southern conspiracy in the West. His residence, rarely thrown open to the public, has grown with the rise of his fortunes. Philip Hardin must be first in every attribute of a leading judge and publicist. Lights burn late here since the great election of 1860. Men who are at the helm of finance, politics, and Federal power are visitors. Editors and trusted Southrons drop in, by twos and threes, secretly. There is unwonted social activity.
The idle gossips are silent. These visitors are all men, unaccompanied by their families. Woman's foot never crosses this threshold. In the wings of the mansion, a lovely face is sometimes seen at a window. It is a reminder of the stories of that concealed beauty who has reigned years in the mansion on the hill.
Is it a marriage impending? Is it some great scheme? Some new monetary institution to be launched?
These vain queries remain unanswered. There is a mystic password given before joining the feast. Southerners, tried and true, are the diners. Maxime Valois sits opposite his associate. It is not only a hospitable welcome the Judge extends, but the mystic embrace of the Knights of the Golden Circle. In feast and personal enjoyment the moments fly by. The table glitters with superb plate. It is loaded with richest wines and the dainties of the fruitful West. The board rings under emphatic blows of men who toast, with emphasis, the "Sunny South." In their flowing cups, old and new friends are remembered. There is not one glass raised to the honor of the starry flag which yet streams out boldly at the Golden Gate.
The feast is of conspirators who are sworn to drag that flag at their horses' heels in triumph. Men nurtured under it.
Judge Hardin gives the signal of departure for the main hall. In an hour or so they are joined by others who could not attend the feast.
The meeting of the Knights of the Golden Circle proceeds with mystic ceremony. The windows, doors, and avenues are guarded. In the grounds faithful brothers watch for any sneaking spy. Every man is heavily armed. It would be short shrift to the foe who stumbles on this meeting of deadly import.
It is the supreme moment to impart the last orders of the Southern leaders. The Washington chiefs assign the duties of each, in view of the violent rupture which will follow Lincoln's inauguration.
Fifty or sixty in number, these brave and desperate souls are ready to cast all in jeopardy. Life, fortune, and fame. They represent every city and county of California.
Hardin, high priest of this awful propaganda, opens the business of the session with a cool statement of facts. Every man is now sworn and under obligation to the work. Hardin's eye kindles as he sees these brothers of the Southern Cross. Each of them has a dozen friends or subordinates under him. To them these tidings will be only divulged under the awful seal of the death penalty. There are scores of army and navy officers with high civil officials on the coast whose finely drawn scruples will keep them out until the first gun is fired, Then these powerful allies, freed by resignation, can come in. They are holding places of power and immense importance to the last. The Knights are wealthy, powerful, and desperate.
As Valois hears Hardin's address, he appreciates the labor of years, in weaving the network which is to hold California, Arizona, and New Mexico for the South. Utah and Nevada are untenanted deserts. The Mormon regions are neutral and only useful as a geographical barrier to Eastern forces. Oregon and Washington are to be ignored. There the hardy woodsmen and rugged settlers represent the ingrained "freedom worship" of the Northwest. They are farmers and lumbermen. All acknowledge it useless to tempt them out of the fold. Oregon's star gleams now firmly fixed in the banner of Columbia. And the great Sierras fence them off.
The speaker announces that each member of the present circle will be authorized, on returning, to organize and extend the circles of the Order. Notification of matters of moment will be made by qualified members, from circle to circle. Thus, orders will pass quickly over the State. The momentous secrets cannot be trusted to mail, express, or the local telegraphs.
Hardin calls up member after member, to give their views. The general plan is discussed by the circle. Keen-eyed secretaries note and arrange opinions and remarks.
Hardin announces that all arrangements are made to use all initiated members going East as bearers of despatches. They are available for special interviews, with the brothers who are in every large Northern city and even in the principal centres of Europe.
Ample funds have been forthcoming from the liberal leaders of the local movement. Millions are already promised by the branches at the East.
Wild cheers hail Judge Hardin's address. He outlines the policy, so artfully laid out, for the cut-off Western contingent. In foaming wine, the fearless coterie pledges the South till the rafters ring again. The "Bonnie Blue Flag" rings out, as it does in many Western households, with "Dixie's" thrilling strains.
The summing up of Hardin is concise: "We are to hold this State until we have orders to open hostilities. Our numbers must not be reduced by volunteers going East. Our presence will keep the Yankee troops from going East. We want the gold of the mines here, to sustain our finances. We have as commanding General, Albert Sidney Johnston, the ideal soldier of America, who will command the Mississippi. Lee, Beauregard, and Joe Johnston will operate in the East. The fight will be along the border lines. We will capture Washington, and seize New York and Philadelphia. A grand Southern army will march from Richmond to Boston. Another from Nashville to Cincinnati and Chicago. Johnston will hold on here, until forced to resign. Many officers go with him. We shall know of this, and throw ourselves on the arsenals and forts here, capturing the stores and batteries. The militia and independent companies will come over to us at once. With Judge Downey, a Democratic governor, no levies will be called out against us. The navy is all away, or in our secret control. Once in possession of this State, we will fortify the Sierra Nevada passes. We are prepared. Congress has given us $600,000 a year to keep up the Southern overland mail route. It runs through slave-holding territory to Arizona. Every station and relay has been laid out to suit us. We will have trusty friends and supplies, clear through Arizona and over the Colorado. At the outbreak, we will seize the whole system. It is the shortest and safest line."
Hardin, lauding the skilful plans of a complacent Cabinet officer, did not know that the Southern idea was to connect Memphis direct with Los Angeles.
It was loyal John Butterfield of New York, who artfully bid for a DOUBLE service from Memphis and St. Louis, uniting at Fort Smith, Arkansas, and virtually defeated this sly move of slavery.
Judge Hardin, pausing in pride, could not foresee that Daniel Butterfield, the gallant son of a loyal sire, would meet the chivalry of the South as the Marshal of the greatest field of modern times—awful Gettysburg!
While Hardin plotted in the West, Daniel Butterfield in the East personally laid out every detail of this great service, so as to checkmate the Southern design, were the Mississippi given over to loyal control.
The afterwork of Farragut and Porter paralyzed the Southern line of advance; and on the Peninsula, at Fredericksburg, at Resaca and Chancellorsville, Major-General Daniel Butterfield met in arms many of the men who listened to Hardin's gibes as to the outwitted Yankee mail contractors.
Hardin, complacent, and with no vision of the awful fields to come, secure in his well-laid plans, resumes:
"Thus aided through Arizona we will admit a strong column of Texan dragoons. We shall take Fort Yuma, Fort Mojave, and the forts in Arizona, as well as Forts Union and Craig in New Mexico. We will then be able to control the northern overland road. We will hold the southern line, and our forces will patrol Arizona. Mexico will furnish us ports and supplies.
"Should the Northerners attempt to push troops over the plains, we will attack them, in flank, from New Mexico. We can hold, thus, New Mexico, Arizona, southern Utah, and all of California, by our short line from El Paso to San Diego. We are covered on one flank by Mexico."
The able brethren are ready with many suggestions. Friendly spies in the Department at Washington have announced the intended drawing East of the regular garrisons. It is suggested that the forts, and in fact the whole State, be seized while the troops are in transit.
Another proposes the fitting out of several swift armed steam letters-of-marque from San Francisco, to capture the enormous Yankee tonnage now between China, Cape Horn, Australia, and California. The whaling fleet is the object of another. He advises sending a heavily armed revenue cutter, when seized, to the Behring Sea to destroy the spring whalers arriving from Honolulu too late for any warning, from home, of the hostilities.
A number of active committees are appointed. One, of veteran rangers, to select frontiersmen to stir up the Indians to attack the northern overland mail stations. Another, to secretly confer with the officers of the United States Mint, Custom-House, and Sub-Treasury. Another, to socially engage the leading officers of the army and navy, and win them over, or develop their real feelings. Every man of mark in the State is listed and canvassed.
The "high priest" announces that the families of those detailed for distant duty will be cared for by the general committee. Each member receives the mystic tokens. Orders are issued to trace up all stocks of arms and ammunition on the coast.
The seizure of the Panama Railroad, thus cutting off quick movement of national troops, is discussed. Every man is ordered to send in lists of trusty men as soon as mustered into the new mystery. Convenient movements of brothers from town to town are planned out. Only true sons of the sunny South are to be trusted.
In free converse, the duty of watching well-known Unionists is enjoined upon all. Name by name, dangerous men of the North are marked down for proscription or special action. "Removal," perhaps.
With wild cheers, the Knights of the Golden Circle receive the news that the South is surely going out. The dream long dear to the Southern heart! Any attempt of the senile Buchanan to reinforce the garrisons of the national forts will be the signal for the opening roar of the stolen guns. They know that the inauguration of Lincoln on March 4, 1861, means war without debate. He dare not abandon his trust. He will be welcomed with a shotted salute across the Potomac.
When the move "en masse" is made, the guests, warmed with wine and full of enthusiasm, file away. Hardin and Valois sit late. The splashing rain drenches the swaying trees of the Judge's hillside retreat.
Lists and papers of the principal men on both sides, data and statistics of stock and military supplies, maps, and papers, are looked at. The deep boom of the Cathedral bell, far below them, beats midnight as the two friends sit plotting treason.
There is something mystical in the exact hour of midnight. The rich note startles Hardin. Cold, haughty, crafty, and able, his devotion to the South is that of the highest moral courage. It is not the exultation which culminates rashly on the battle-field. These lurid scenes are for younger heroes.
His necessary presence in the West, his age and rank, make him invaluable, out of harness. His scheming brain is needed, not his ready sword.
He pours out a glass of brandy, saying, "Valois, tell me of our prospects here. You know the interior as well as any man in the State."
Maxime unburdens his mind. "Judge, I fear we are in danger of losing this coast. I have looked over the social forces of the State. The miners represent no principle. They will cut no figure on either side. They would not be amenable to discipline. The Mexicans certainly will not sympathize with us. We are regarded as the old government party. The Black Republicans are the 'liberals.' The natives have lost all, under us. We will find them fierce enemies. We cannot undo the treatment of the Dons." Hardin gravely assents.
"Now, as to the struggle. Our people are enthusiastic and better prepared. The nerve of the South will carry us to early victory. The North thinks we do not mean fight. Our people may neglect to rush troops from Texas over through Arizona. We should hold California from the very first. I know the large cities are against us. The Yankees control the shipping and have more money than we. We should seize this coast, prey on the Pacific fleets, strike a telling blow, and with Texan troops (who will be useless there) make sure of the only gold-yielding regions of America. Texas is safe. We hold the Gulf at New Orleans. Yankee gunboats cannot reach the shallow Texas harbors. Unless we strike boldly now, the coast is lost forever. If our people hold the Potomac, the Ohio, and the Missouri (after a season's victories), without taking Cincinnati and Washington, and securing this coast, we will go down, finally, when the North wakes up. Its power is immense. If Europe recognizes us we are safe. I fear this may not be."
"And you think the Northerners will fight," says Hardin.
"Judge," replies Valois, "you and I are alone. I tell you frankly we underestimate the Yankees. From the first, on this coast we have lost sympathy. They come back at us always. Broderick's death shows us these men have nerve." Valois continues: "That man is greater dead than alive. I often think of his last words, 'They have killed me because I was opposed to a corrupt administration and the extension of slavery.'"
Hardin finishes his glass. "It seems strange that men like Broderick and Terry, who sat on the bench of the Supreme Court (a senator and a great jurist), should open the game. It was unlucky. It lost us the Northern Democrats. We would have been better off if Dave Terry had been killed. He would have been a dead hero. It would have helped us."
Valois shows that, in all the sectional duels and killings on the coast, the South has steadily lost prestige. The victims were more dangerous dead than alive. Gilbert, Ferguson, Broderick, and others were costly sacrifices.
Hardin muses: "I think you are right, Maxime, in the main. Our people are in the awkward position of fighting the Constitution, and the old flag is a dead weight against us. We must take the initiative in an unnecessary war. This Abe Lincoln is no mere mad fool. I will send a messenger East, and urge that ten thousand Texan cavalry be pushed right over to Arizona. We must seize the coast. You are right! There is one obstacle, Valois, I cannot conquer."
"What is that?" says Maxime.
"It is Sidney Johnston's military honor," thoughtfully says Hardin. "He is no man to be played with. He will not act till he has left the old army regularly. He will wait his commission from our confederacy. He will then resign and go East."
"It will be too late," cries Valois. "We will be forgotten, and so lose California."
"The worst is that the coast will stand neutral," says Hardin.
"Now, Judge," Valois firmly answers, "I have heard to-night talk of running up the 'bear flag,' 'the lone star,' 'the palmetto banner,' or 'the flag of the California Republic,' on the news of war. I hope they will not do so rashly."
"Why?" says Hardin.
"I think they will swing under the new flags on the same pole," cries Valois, pacing the room. "If there is failure here, I shall go East. Judge Valois offers me a Louisiana regiment. If this war is fought out, I do not propose to live to see the Southern Cross come down."
The Creole pauses before the Judge, who replies, "You must stay here; we must get California out of the Union."
"If we do not, then the cause lies on Lone Mountain," says Valois, pointing westward toward the spot where a tall shaft already bears Broderick's name.
Hardin nods assent. "It was terrific, that appeal of Baker's," he murmurs.
Both felt that Baker (now Senator from Oregon) would call up the mighty shade of the New York leader. Neither could foresee the career of the eulogist of Broderick, after his last matchless appeals to an awakening North. That denunciation in the Senate sent the departing Southern senators away, smarting under the scorpion whip of his peerless invective. Baker was doomed to come home cold in death from the red field of Ball's Bluff, and lie on the historic hill, beside his murdered friend.
The plotters in the cold midnight hours then, the glow of feeling fading away, say "Good-night." They part, looking out over twinkling lights like the great camps soon to rise on Eastern plain and river-bank. Will the flag of the South wave in TRIUMPH HERE? Ah! Who can read the future?
Cut off from the East, the excited Californians burn in high fever. The grim dice of fate are being cast. Slowly, the Northern pine and Southern palm sway toward the crash of war. As yet only journals hurl defiance at each other. Every day has its duties for Hardin and Valois; they know that every regimental mess-room is canvassed; each ship's ward-room is sounded; officers are flattered and won over; woman lends her persuasive charms; high promised rank follows the men who yield.
In these negotiations, no one dares to breed discontent among the common soldiers and sailors. It is madness to hope to turn the steady loyalty of the enlisted men. They are as true in both services as the blue they wear. Nice distinctions begin at the epaulet. Hardin and Valois are worn and thoughtful. The popular tide of feelings is not for the South. Separation must be effective, to rouse enthusiasm. The organization of the Knights of the Golden Circle proceeds quickly, but events are quicker.
The seven States partly out of the Union; the yet unfinished ranks of the Southern Confederacy; the baffling questions of compromise with the claims and rights of the South to national property are agitated. The incredulous folly of the North and the newspaper sympathy of the great Northern cities drag the whole question of war slowly along. In the West (a month later in news), the people fondly believe the bonds of the Union will not be broken.
Many think the South will drop out quietly. Lincoln's policy is utterly unknown. Distance has dulled the echo of the hostile guns fired at the STAR OF THE WEST by armed traitors, on January 9, at Charleston.
Jefferson Davis's shadowy Confederacy of the same fatal date is regarded as only a temporary menace to the Union. The great border States are not yet in line.
Paltering old President Buchanan has found no warrant to draw the nation's sword in defence of the outraged flag.
Congress is a camp of warring enemies. Even the conspirators cling to their comfortable chairs.
It is hard to realize, by the blue Pacific, that the flag is already down. No one knows the fatal dead line between "State" and "Union."
So recruits come in slowly to the Knights of the Golden Circle, in California. Secession is only a dark thunder-cloud, hanging ominously in the sky. The red lightning of war lingers in its sulphury bosom.
Hardin, Valois, and the Knights toil to secure their ends. They know not that their vigorous foes have sent trusted messengers speeding eastward to secure the removal of General Albert Sidney Johnston. There is a Union League digging under their works!
The four electoral votes of California cast for Lincoln tell him the State is loyal. An accidental promotion of Governor Latham to the Senate, places John G. Downey in the chair of California. If not a "coercionist," he is certainly no "rebel." The leaders of the Golden Circle feel that chivalry in the West is crushed, unless saved by a "coup de main." McDougall is a war senator. Latham, ruined by his prediction that California would go South or secede alone, sinks into political obscurity. The revolution, due to David Terry's bullet, brought men like Phelps, Sargent, T. W. Park, and John Conness to the front. Other Free-State men see the victory of their principles with joy. Sidney Johnston is the last hope of the Southern leaders. The old soldier's resignation speeds eastward on the pony express. Day by day, exciting news tells of the snapping of cord after cord. Olden amity disappears in the East. The public voice is heard.
The mantle of heroic Baker as a political leader falls upon the boy preacher, Thomas Starr King. He boldly raises the song of freedom. It is now no time to lurk in the rear. Men, hitherto silent; rally around the flag.
The "Union League" grows fast, as the "Golden Circle" extends. All over California, resolute men swear to stand by the flag. Stanford and Low are earning their governorships. From pulpit and rostrum the cry of secession is raised by Dr. Scott and the legal meteor Edmund Randolph, now sickening to his death. Randolph, though a son of Virginia, with, first, loyal impulses, sent despatches to President Lincoln that California was to be turned over to the South. He disclosed that Jefferson Davis had already sent Sidney Johnston a Major-General's commission. Though he finally follows the course of his native State, Randolph rendered priceless service to the Union cause in the West. General Edward V. Sumner is already secretly hurrying westward. He is met at Panama by the Unionist messengers. They turn back with him. In every city and county the Unionists and Southerners watch each other. While Johnston's resignation flies eastward, Sumner is steaming up the Mexican coast, unknown to the conspirators.
In the days of March and April, 1861, one excited man could have plunged the Pacific Coast into civil warfare. All unconscious of the deadly gun bellowing treason on April 12th at Charleston, as the first shell burst over Sumter, the situation remained one of anxious tension in California. The telegraph is not yet finished. On April 19th, General Sumner arrived unexpectedly. He was informed of local matters by the loyalists. General Sidney Johnston, astonished and surprised, turned over his command at once. Without treasonable attempt, he left the Golden Gate. When relieved, he was no longer in the service. Speeding over the Colorado deserts to Texas, the high-minded veteran rode out to don the new gray uniform, and to die in the arms of an almost decisive victory at Shiloh.
Well might the South call that royal old soldier to lead its hosts. Another half hour of Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh, and the history of the United States might have been changed by his unconquered sword. Lofty in his aims, adored by his subordinates, he was a modern Marshal Ney. The Southern cypress took its darkest tinge around his untimely grave. Sidney Johnston had all the sterling qualities of Lee, and even a rarer magnetism of character.
Honor placed one fadeless wreath upon his tomb. He would not play the ignoble part of a Twiggs or a Lynde. He offered a stainless sword to the Bonnie Blue Flag.
The gravity of his farewell, the purity of his private character, the affection of his personal friends, are tributes to the great soldier. He nearly crushed the Union army in his tiger-like assault at Shiloh. By universal consent, the ablest soldier of the "old army," he was sacrificed to the waywardness of fate. Turns of Fortune's wheel.
California was stunned by the rapidity of Sumner's grasp of the reins of command. Before the Knights of the Golden Circle could move, the control of the State and the coast was lost to them forever. Forts and arsenals, towns and government depositories, navy-yards and vessels, were guarded.
Following this action of Sumner, on May 10th the news of Sumter, and the uprising of the North, burst upon friend and foe in California. The loyal men rallied in indignation, overawing the Southern element. The oath of fealty was renewed by thousands. California's star was that day riveted in the flag. An outraged people deposed Judge Hardy, who so feebly prosecuted the slayer of Broderick. Every avenue was guarded. Conspiracy fled to back rooms and side streets. Here were no Federal wrongs to redress. On the spot where Broderick's body lay, under Baker's oratory, the multitude listened to the awakened patriots of the West. The Pacific Coast was saved.
The madness of fools who fluttered a straggling "bear flag," "palmetto ensign," or "lone star," caused them to flee in terror.
Stanley, Lake, Crockett, Starr King, General Shields, and others, echoed the pledges of their absent comrades in New York. Organization, for the Union, followed. Even the maddest Confederate saw the only way to serve the South was to sneak through the lines to Texas. The telegraph was completed in October, 1861. The government had then daily tidings from the loyal sentinels calling "All's well," on fort and rampart, from San Juan Island to Fort Yuma.
Troops were offered everywhere. The only region in California where secessionists were united was in San Joaquin.
While public discussion availed, Hardin and Valois listened to Thornton, Crittenden, Morrison, Randolph, Dr. Scott, Weller, Whitesides, Hoge, and Nugent. But the time for hope was past. The golden sun had set for ever. Fifteen regiments of Californian troops, in formation, were destined to hold the State. They guarded the roads to Salt Lake and Arizona. The arsenals and strongholds were secured. The chance of successful invasion from Texas vanished. It was the crowning mistake of the first year of secession, not to see the value of the Pacific Coast. From the first shot, the Pacific Railroad became a war measure. The iron bands tied East and West in a firm union.
Gwin's departure and Randolph's death added to the Southern discomfiture. No course remained for rebels but to furtively join the hosts of treason. Flight to the East.
In the wake of Sidney Johnston went many men of note. Garnett, Cheatham, Brooks, Calhoun, Benham, Magruder, Phil Herbert, and others, with Dan Showalter and David Terry, each fresh from the deadly field of honor. Kewen, Weller, and others remained to be silenced by arrest. All over the State a hegira commenced which ended in final defeat. Many graves on the shallow-trenched battle-fields were filled by the Californian exiles. Not in honor did these devoted men and hundreds of their friends leave the golden hills. Secretly they fled, lest their romantic quest might land them in a military prison. Those unable to leave gave aid to the absent. Sulking at home, they deserted court and mart to avoid personal penalties.
It was different with many of the warm-hearted Californian sons of the South who were attached to the Union. Cut off in a distant land, they held aloof from approving secession. Grateful for the shelter of the peaceful land in which their hard-won homes were made, it was only after actual war that the ties of blood carried them away and ranged them under the Stars and Bars. When the Southern ranks fell, in windrows, on the Peninsula, hundreds of these manly Californians left to join their brethren. They had clung to the Union till their States went out one by one. They sadly sought the distant fields of action, and laid down their lives for the now holy cause.
The attitude of these gallant men was noble. They scorned the burrowing conspirators who dug below the foundations of the national constitution. These schemers led the eager South into a needless civil war.
The holiest feelings of heredity dragged the Southerners who lingered into war. It was a sacrifice of half of the splendid generation which fought under the Southern Cross.
When broken ranks appealed for the absent, when invaded States and drooping hopes aroused desperation, the last California contingents braved the desert dangers. Indian attack and Federal capture were defied, only to die for the South on its sacred soil. "Salut aux braves!" The loyalists of California were restrained from disturbing the safe tenure of the West by depleting the local Union forces. Abraham Lincoln saw that the Pacific columns should do no more than guard the territories adjacent. To hold the West and secure the overland roads was their duty. To be ready to march to meet an invasion or quell an uprising. This was wisdom.
But the country called for skilled soldiers and representative men to join the great work of upholding the Union. A matchless contingent of Union officers went East.
California had few arms-bearing young Americans to represent its first ten years of State existence. But it returned to the national government men identified with the Pacific Coast, who were destined to be leaders of the Union hosts.
Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Thomas, Halleck, Hancock, Hooker, Keyes, Naglee, Baker, Ord, Farragut (the blameless Nelson of America), Canby, Fremont, Shields, McPherson, Stoneman, Stone, Porter, Boggs, Sumner, Heintzelman, Lander, Buell, with other old residents of the coast, drew the sword. Wool, Denver, Geary, and many more, whose abilities had been perfected in the struggles of the West, took high rank.
Where the young were absent (by reason of the infancy of the State), these men were returned to the government. They went with a loyalty undimmed, in the prime of their powers. Even the graceful McClellan was identified with the Pacific Railway survey. Around the scenes of their early manhood, the halo of these loyal men will ever linger, and gild the name of "Pioneer." It can never be forgotten that without the stormy scenes of Western life, without the knowledge of the great golden empire and the expansion of powers due to their lessons on plain and prairie, many of these men would have relapsed into easy mediocrity.
The completed telegraph, military extension of lines, and the active Union League, secured California to the Union.
The gigantic game of war rolled its red pageantry over Eastern fields. Bull Run fired the Southern heart. Hardin and Valois learned the Southern Government would send a strong expedition to hold New Mexico and Arizona. Local aid was arranged by the Knights of the Golden Circle to, at last, seize California. It was so easy to whip Yankees. The Knights were smiling.
At the risk of their lives, two Southern messengers reached San Francisco. One by Panama. The other crossed Arizona and examined the line of march. He rode, warning sympathizers to await the Confederate flag, which now waved in triumph at Munson's Hill, in plain sight of the guarded capitol.
Valois fears this Western raid may be too late. For the Navy Department reinforces the Pacific fleet. Valois explains to Hardin that his prophecy is being realized. The Confederates, with more men than are needed, hold their lines of natural defence. The fruits of Bull Run are lost. While letters by every steamer come from Northern spies, Washington friends, and Southern associates, the journals tell them of the deliberate preparation of the North for a struggle to the death. The giant is waking up.
Valois mourns the madness of keeping the flower of the South inactive. A rapid Northern invasion should humble the administration. The ardent Texans should be thrown at once into California, leaving New Mexico and Arizona for later occupation.
There is no reason why the attack should not be immediate. Under the stimulus of Bull Run the entire Southern population of California would flock to the new standard. Three months should see the Confederate cavalry pasturing their steeds in the prairies of California.
The friends sicken at the delay, as weary months drag on. Sibley's Texans should be now on the Gila. They have guides, leaders, scouts, and spies from the Southern refugees pouring over the Gila. Every golden day has its gloomy sunset. Hardin's brow furrows with deep lines. His sagacity tells him that the time has passed for the movement to succeed.
And he is right. Sibley wearies out the winter in Texas. The magnet of Eastern fields of glory draws the fiery Texans across the Mississippi. The Californian volunteers are arming and drilling. They stream out to Salt Lake. They send the heavy column of General Carleton toward El Paso.
The two chiefs of the Golden Circle are unaware of the destination of Carleton. Loyalty has learned silence. There are no traitor department clerks here, to furnish maps, plans, and duplicate orders.
Canby in New Mexico, unknown to the secessionists of California, aided by Kit Carson, gathers a force to strike Sibley in flank. It is fatal to Californian conquest. Hardin and Valois learn of the lethargy of the great Confederate army, flushed with success. Sibley's dalliance at Fort Bliss continues.
The "army of New Mexico," on September 19, 1861, is only a few hundreds of mounted rangers and Texan youth under feeble Sibley.
From the first, Jefferson Davis's old army jealousies and hatred of able men of individuality, hamstring the Southern cause. A narrow-minded man is Davis, the slave of inveterate prejudice. With dashing Earl Van Dorn, sturdy Ben Ewell, and dozens of veteran cavalry leaders at his service, knowing every foot of the road, he could have thrown his Confederate column into California. Three months after Sumter's fall, California should have been captured. Davis allows an old martinet to ruin the Confederate cause in the Pacific.
The operation is so easy, so natural, and so necessary, that it looks like fatuity to neglect the golden months of the fall of 1861.
Especially fitted for bold dashes with a daring leader, the Texans throw themselves, later, uselessly against the flaming redoubts of Corinth. They are thrown into mangled heaps before Battery Robinett, dying for the South. Their military recklessness has never been surpassed in the red record of war.
Though gallant in the field, President Jefferson Davis, seated on a throne of cotton, gazes across the seas for England's help. He craves the aid of France. He allows narrow prejudice to blind him to any part of the great issue, save the military pageantry of his unequalled Virginian army. It is the flower of the South, and moves only on the sacred soil of Virginia. Davis, restrained by antipathies, haughty, and distant, is deaf to the thrilling calls of the West for that dashing column. It would have gained him California. Weakness of mind kept him from hurling his victorious troops on Washington, or crossing the Ohio to divide the North while yet unprepared. Active help could then be looked for from Northern Democrats. But he masses the South in Virginia.
As winter wears on the movement of Carleton's and Canby's preparations are disclosed by Southern friends, who run the gauntlet with these discouraging news.
Sibley lingered with leaden heels at Fort Bliss. The Confederate riders are not across the Rio Grande. Valois grows heartsick.
Broken in hopes, wearied with plotting, mistrusted by the community, Hardin knows the truth at last. The words, "Too late!" ring in his ears.
It will be only some secret plot which can now hope to succeed in the West.
Davis and Lee are wedded to Virginia. The haughty selfishness of the "mother of presidents" demands that every interest of the Confederacy shall give way to morbid State vanity. Virginia is to be the graveyard of the gallant Southern generation in arms.
Every other pass may be left unguarded. The chivalry of the Stars and Bars must crowd Virginia till their graves fill the land. Unnecessarily strong, with a frontier defended by rivers, forests, and chosen positions, it becomes Fortune's sport to huddle the bulk of the Confederate forces into Lee's army.
It allows the Border, Gulf, and Western States to fall a prey to the North. The story of Lee's ability has been told by an adoring generation. The record of his cold military selfishness is shown in the easy conquests of the heart of the South. Their natural defenders were drafted to fill those superb legions, operating under the eyes of Davis and controlled by the slightest wish of imperious Lee.
Albert Sidney Johnston, Beauregard, and the fighting tactician, Joe Johnston, were destined to feel how fatal was the military favoritism of Jefferson Davis. Davis threw away Vicksburg, and the Mississippi later, to please Lee. All for Virginia.
Stung with letters from Louisiana, reproaching him for inaction while his brethren were meeting the Northern invaders, Valois decides to go East. He will join the Southern defence. For it is defence—not invasion—now.
Directing Hardin to select a subordinate in his place, Valois returns to Lagunitas. He must say farewell to loving wife and prattling child. Too well known to be allowed to follow Showalter, Terry, and their fellows over the Colorado desert, he must go to Guaymas in Mexico. He can thus reach the Confederates at El Paso. From thence it is easy to reach New Orleans. Then to the front. To the field.
Valois feels it would be useless for him to go via Panama. The provost-marshal would hold him as a "known enemy."
With rage, Valois realizes a new commander makes latent treason uncomfortable in California. He determines to reach El Paso, and hurl the Texans on California. Should he fail, he heads a Louisiana regiment. His heart tells him the war will be long and bloody. Edmund Randolph's loyalty, at the outbreak, prevented the seizure of California. Sibley's folly and Davis's indifference complete the ruin of the Western plan of action.
"Hardin, hold the Knights together. I will see if I can stop a Yankee bullet!" says Valois. He notifies Hardin that he intends to make him sole trustee of his property in his absence.
Hardin's term on the bench has expired. Like other Southerners debarred from taking the field, he gives aid to those who go. The men who go leave hostages behind them. The friendship of years causes Yalois to make him the adviser of his wife in property matters. He makes him his own representative. "Thank Heaven!" cries Valois, "my wife's property is safe. No taint from me can attach to her birthright. It is her own by law."
Valois, at Lagunitas, unfolds to the sorrowing padre his departure for the war. Safe in the bosom of the priest, this secret is a heavy load. Valois gains his consent to remain in charge of Lagunitas. The little girl begins to feebly walk. Her infant gaze cannot measure her possessions.
Lovely Dolores Valois listens meekly to her husband's plans. Devoted to Maxime, his will is her only law. The beautiful dark eyes are tinged with a deeper lustre.
Busied with his affairs, Maxime thinks of the future as he handles his papers. Fran‡ois Ribaut is the depositary of his wishes. Dolores is as incapable as her child in business. Will God protect these two innocents?
Valois wonders if he will return in defeat like Don Miguel. Poor old Don! around his tomb the roses creep,—his gentle Juanita by his side.
He hopes the armies of the West will carry the banner, now flying from Gulf to border, into the North. There the legendary friends of the South will hail it.
Alas! pent up in California, Maxime hears not the murmurs of the Northern pines, breathing notes of war and defiance. The predictions of the leaders of the conspiracy are fallacious. Aid and comfort fail them abroad. North of Mason and Dixon's line the sympathizers are frightened.
In his heart he only feels the tumult of the call to the field. It is his pride of race. Tired, weary of the crosses of fortune, he waits only to see the enemy's fires glittering from hill and cliff.
With all his successes, the West has never been his home. Looking out on his far-sweeping alamedas, his thoughts turn fondly back to his native land. He is "going home to Dixie."