To strew his grave with flowers.
Tuesday, Jan. 12. After three weeks, in which we had a cloudless sky and balmy air, the wind has hauled into the southeast, and a gentle rain has commenced falling. Its having crept upon us so softly, is a symptom that it will continue with us some time. The first break of sunshine may be a week hence.
Wednesday, Jan. 13. We have no intelligence, as yet, from the seat of war. The solicitude of the public to know the result is at the highest pitch. No one doubts that the issue has been very decisive. A report reached us to-day that the town of los Angeles had been taken by our troops, and that a large portion of the Californians had laid down their arms. This rumor comes through the washerwomen of this place. They get their intelligence from the Indians, who cross the streams in which they wash their clothes. Singular as this sort of mail may seem, it very often conveys news, not only with wonderful dispatch, but with extraordinary accuracy.
The first capture of los Angeles, by Com. Stockton, was announced here by these washerwomen; they were also the first to spread the intelligence of the breaking out of the insurrection at the same place, and knew of the retreat of the Americans at San Pedro before any other class of people in Monterey. So much for a wash-tub mail. You may think lightly of it as of the soap-bubbles that break over its rim; but if you are wise you will heed its intelligence. It is an old mail that has long been run in California; and has announced more revolutions, plots, and counterplots, than there are mummies in Memphis. Who, in other lands, would dream of going to an old woman, washing her clothes in a mountain stream, for the first tidings of events in which the destinies of nations tremble? Mr. Morse need hardly come here with his magnetic machine. One of these women would snap the news from a napkin or shirt before his lightning-mail had got under way.
Thursday, Jan. 14. The small party of Californians who recently took up arms on the bay of San Francisco, soon increased to two hundred. They were, with few exceptions, men of the better stamp—men who had a permanent interest in the soil, and who had refused to join the rash spirits at the south. They had captured Mr. Bartlett, the chief magistrate of the jurisdiction, and several other Americans, whom they held as hostages.
Capt. Marston, with fifty men from the Savannah, and Capt. Maddox, with a company of mounted volunteers, and Capt. Weber, with another band of resolute spirits, met them. A general and decisive engagement was anticipated; but after a few hours of pretty sharp fighting, the Californians withdrew from Santa Clara, which was entered by our forces. A flag of truce was sent in, and the leading spirits on both sides assembled under the shadows of a great native oak. The Californians stated that they had taken up arms, not to make war on the American flag, but to protect themselves from the depredations of those who, under color of that flag, were plundering them of their cattle, horses, and grain; and that on assurance being given that these acts of lawless violence should cease, they were ready to return quietly to their homes. These demands were not enforced in a spirit of menace, but with that moral firmness which belongs to a deep sense of wrong. They were acceded to, and the parties separated, never again, I hope, to meet as belligerents.
This is a much better mode of settling differences than through the arbitrament of the bayonet. It is an easy thing to dislodge a man’s argument by dislodging his life; but this summary process of getting rid of an opponent will generally be followed by something worse. There is terror even in the ghost of a misdeed.
Friday, Jan. 15. We have further intelligence from the seat of war. General Kearny, with his staff and a guard of one hundred dragoons, arrived on the 6th ult. from New Mexico at San Pasqual, about thirty miles from San Diego. Here he encountered a hundred and sixty Californians, under Andres Pico, well mounted, and armed with rifles and lances. A sanguinary engagement ensued, marked by the most daring, determined conduct on both sides. Captain Johnson, with twelve dragoons, led the charge, and was shot dead in the furious onset. Captain Moore, with fifty dragoons, rushed to the front: the enemy wavered—retreated; when this gallant officer, with a few of his men who were better mounted than the rest, rushed on in pursuit. The enemy suddenly wheeled; and now it was hand to hand between the heavy sword and lance. Captain Moore, on his white charger was a mark which none could mistake. Lance after lance was shivered by his flashing steel, till, at last, he sunk overpowered. All this lasted but a few minutes, but long enough to reach its tragic results before the remainder of the guard could come up.
The Californians at last retreated, and Gen. Kearny encamped on the disputed field. But what a night it must have been! The camp-fire threw its pale light on the countenances of nineteen, who sprung to their saddles at the break of day, but who were now locked in the still embrace of death. The burial rites performed, and another sun in the heavens, the general was again on his way. But another hill bristling with lances obstructs his march; it is stormed, carried, and here again the weary and the wounded require repose. Through the energies of Lieut. Beale, who seems ever to be where the hardiest enterprise demands, a message is conveyed through the beleaguering lines of the enemy to the camp of Com. Stockton, and a detachment of seamen and marines, under Lieut. Gray, of the Congress, is sent out. This fresh force obliged the Californians to relinquish their purpose of another engagement. Had they not arrived, it was the intention of Gen. Kearny to cut his way to San Diego, be the odds against him what they might. His gallant guard had shown the reliance which might be reposed in them, by the desperate valor which they had already evinced. The conduct of Capt. Turner, of Lieut. Emory, and Capt. Gillespie might give a feature to any field where life is perilled and laurels won; while the muse of history would inscribe her glowing eulogy on the tombs of a Johnson, a Moore, and a Hammond. They sleep in the soil of California, where the undying year
“Garlands with fragrant flowers their place of rest.”