Monday, Jan. 10. A woman, from our western border, who had drifted into California over the mountains, and looking as if she had well survived the hardships of the way, walked into my office this morning, and rather demanded, than invoked, a decree, that her husband might cut timber on the lands of Señor M——. I asked her if her husband had rented the land. “No.” If he had any contract or agreement with the owner. “No.” “Why then, my woman, do you claim the right of cutting the timber?” “Right, sir!” she exclaimed; “why, have we not taken the country?” I told her it was true, we had taken the country; but we had not taken the private land titles with it: she seemed to think that was a distinction without a difference. This anecdote will furnish a clue to the spirit with which the patient Californians have had to contend.
Tuesday, Jan. 18. Main-street was thrown into confusion this morning by a wild bullock, who had broken the lasso of his keeper. He plunged down the peopled avenue in foaming fury, clothed with all the terrors of the Apocalyptic beast: men, women, and children fled in every direction. I was standing at the moment in the portico of our Navy Agent, and before I could clear it, he swept through a corner, dashing to the earth a huge stanchion. His next rencounter was with the high paling which protected a shade-tree, and which he carried off as Samson the gates of Gaza. Something attracted his flashing eyes to the door of a small dwelling; in an instant it flew into fragments before his impetuous strength fortunately it contained no tenant except the wild monster himself, who soon issued from the door, and seemed for a moment lost in his phrensy. A caballero, mounted on a spirited horse, and with his lasso whirling high in air, now rushed up; I expected for a moment to see a desperate plunge from the beast at the courser’s side, but the rider and his steed understood their occupation too well; the lasso fell over his horn, and in an instant he was tumbling in the sand. He recovered himself, but it was only to be thrown again, till a second lasso secured his flying heels, and the knife of the Indian finished the rest. A wave of lava let loose from its crater, an avalanche that has slipped from its Alpine steep, and a wild bull that has broken his lasso, are among the most terrific objects that dash on human vision.
CHAPTER XVII.
RAINS IN CALIFORNIA.—FUNCTIONS OF THE ALCALDE OF MONTEREY.—ORPHANS IN CALIFORNIA.—SLIP OF THE GALLOWS ROPE.—MAKING A FATHER WHIP HIS BOY.—A CONVICT AS PRISON COOK.—THE KANACKA.—THOM. COLE.—A MAN ROBBING HIMSELF.—A BLACKSMITH OUTWITTED.
Monday, Feb. 7. The rains in California are mostly confined to the three winter months—a few showers may come before, or a few occur after, but the body of the rain falls within that period. The rain is relieved of nearly all the chilling discomforts of a winter’s storm in other climes; it falls only when the wind is from a southern quarter, and is consequently warm and refreshing. It is by no means continuous; it pays its visits like a judicious lover—with intervals sufficient to keep up the affection; and like the suitor, brings with it flowers, and leads the fair one by the side of streamlets never wrinkled with frost, and into groves where the leaf never withers, and where the songs of birds ever fill the warbling air.
Thursday, Feb. 10. By the laws and usages of the country, the judicial functions of the Alcalde of Monterey extend to all cases, civil and criminal, arising within the middle department of California. He is also the guardian of the public peace, and is charged with the maintenance of law and order, whenever and wherever threatened, or violated; he must arrest, fine, imprison, or sentence to the public works, the lawless and refractory, and he must enforce, through his executive powers, the decisions and sentences which he has pronounced in his judicial capacity. His prerogatives and official duties extend over all the multiplied interests and concerns of his department, and reach to every grievance and crime, from the jar that trembles around the domestic hearth, to the guilt which throws its gloom on the gallows and the grave.
Thursday, Feb. 17. There is no need of an Orphan Asylum in California. The amiable and benevolent spirit of the people hovers like a shield over the helpless. The question is not, who shall be burdened with the care of an orphan, but who shall have the privilege of rearing it. Nor do numbers or circumstances seem to shake this spirit; it is triumphant over both. A plain, industrious man, of rather limited means, applied to me to-day for the care of six orphan children. I asked him how many he had of his own; he said fourteen as yet. “Well, my friend,” I observed, “are not fourteen enough for one table, and especially with the prospect of more?” “Ah,” said the Californian, “the hen that has twenty chickens scratches no harder than the hen that has one.” So I told him I would inquire into the present condition of the children, and then decide on his application. His claim lay in the fact that his wife was the godmother of the orphans.
Wednesday, Feb. 23. One of my Indian prisoners, sentenced to the works for theft, managed this morning to effect his escape, but was overtaken by the constable on the Salinas, and brought back. When asked by me what he ran for, he said the devil put it into his head. I asked him if he thought a ball and chain would keep the evil one off; he said it might, but then if he once got at him, he should stand no chance with one of his legs chained. I told him I should let his leg go for the present, but if he attempted to run again, I should chain both of them. “And my hands too,” said the Indian, to assure me of his good conduct.
Friday, March 3. There is an old Mexican law, or usage, here, which has sometimes exempted from death the murderer who has reached the sanctuary of the church, or been favored with some accident, in the execution of the extreme sentence. Two desperadoes, of Mexican and Indian blood, were brought before me, charged with a wilful, deliberate murder. A jury of twelve citizens, the largest scope of challenge having been allowed, was empannelled. The prisoners were convicted and sentenced to be hung. But by some strange accident, or design, both knots slipped, and down they came, half imagining themselves still swinging in the air. The priest who confessed them, and who was present among the great crowd, immediately declared the penalty paid and the criminals absolved, and started post-haste to Gen. Mason for his mandate to that effect. The general told him the prisoners were sentenced to be hung by the neck till dead, and when this sentence had been executed, the knot-slipping business might perhaps be considered. This may seem to have been dictated by a want of humanity, but had the accident or stratagem in question rescued the criminals, not a noose in California would have held. The murderers were executed, and the crime for which they suffered vanished from the future records of the court.
Wednesday, March 15. A lad of fourteen years was brought before me to-day charged with stealing a horse. The evidence of the larceny was conclusive; but what punishment to inflict was the question. We have no house of correction, and to sentence him to the ball and chain on the public works, among hardened culprits, was to cut off all hope of amendment, and inflict an indelible stigma on the youth; so I sent for his father, who had no good reputation himself, and placing a riata in his hand, directed him to inflict twenty-four lashes on his thieving boy. He proceeded as far as twelve, when I stopped him; they were enough. They seemed inflicted by one attempting to atone in this form for his own transgressions. “Inflict the rest, Soto, on your own evil example; if you had been upright yourself, you might expect truth and honesty in your boy; you are more responsible than this lad for his crimes; you can never chastise him into the right path, and continue yourself to travel in the wrong.” With these remarks I dismissed the parties.