The pushing, restless Saxon of Atlantic America, after overflowing the valley of the Mississippi, would not bring his civilization to the farthest West. Ford rivers, traverse deserts, fell forests as he might, at last he would meet a difficulty he could not surmount, the backfiring line of a civilization, virile as his own, wrought by the hand of his English cousin, and this day begun in the capital, Monterey. Another empire was about to come under Great Britain's sway.
"Señors!" Comandante Barcelo's voice, low and tense, broke the stillness.
Farquharson started from his reverie.
With bellying sails the fleet came scudding on, the dark hulls scarcely touching the water. Fairbanks's flagship was in the lead, her commander's pennant flinging from the foremast, the union jack streaming above. Back from the leader, in triangular spread, as wild fowl move, followed the others, three on a side.
"Señors, attention!" again from Barcelo. "Let us have understanding right here and now. You people have come here to-day to see a province pass from hand to hand, but," pointing to the cannon, "straight words from the throats of these jolly boys here shall speak a salute the aspiring English little expect. You, men of the consulate, go, tell your nations, California scorns any yoke."
"Nonsense!" cried Farquharson. "Our ships will batter this ramshackle to pieces in ten minutes."
Barcelo exploded a tremendous, "Huh!" then added, "No need keeps you here. The casemates are at your disposal."
"Perdition on your folly!" from the angry Englishman. "Why, man, I've faced death a score more times than you have fingers and toes, you insufferable ass!"
"Another word, and I'll clap you in irons!" was Barcelo's threat. Turning to the women he said, "It is time for the señoras to seek safety below."
"I shall remain here," from Señora Valentino.