by Bret Harte
CHAPTER I.
The 10th of August, 1852, brought little change to the dull monotonyof wind, fog, and treeless coast line. Only the sea was occasionallyflecked with racing sails that outstripped the old, slow-creepingtrader, or was at times streaked and blurred with the trailing smoke ofa steamer. There were a few strange footprints on those virgin sands,and a fresh track, that led from the beach over the rounded hills,dropped into the bosky recesses of a hidden valley beyond the coastrange.
It was here that the refectory windows of the Mission of San Carmel hadfor years looked upon the reverse of that monotonous picture presentedto the sea. It was here that the trade winds, shorn of their fury andstrength in the heated, oven-like air that rose from the valley, losttheir weary way in the tangled recesses of the wooded slopes, andbreathed their last at the foot of the stone cross before the Mission.It was on the crest of those slopes that the fog halted and walledin the sun-illumined plain below; it was in this plain that limitlessfields of grain clothed the fat adobe soil; here the Mission gardensmiled over its hedges of fruitful vines, and through the leaves of figand gnarled pear trees: and it was here that Father Pedro had lived forfifty years, found the prospect good, and had smiled also.
Father Pedro's smile was rare. He was not a Las Casas, nor a JuniperoSerra, but he had the deep seriousness of all disciples laden with theresponsible wording of a gospel not their own. And his smile had anecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest objectin his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte andchorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetestpastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boyaccompanied his gardening.
Suddenly the acolyte's chant changed to a cry of terror. Running rapidlyto Father Pedro's side, he grasped his sotana, and even tried to hidehis curls among its folds.
"'St! 'st!" said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience."What new alarm is this? Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines, orone of those heathen Americanos from Monterey? Speak!"
"Neither, holy father," said the boy, the color struggling back into hispale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his clear eyes."Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad! And it almost leapedupon me."
"A toad leaped upon thee!" repeated the good father with evidentvexation. "What next? I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are mostunmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer andpenance. Frightened by a toad! Blood of the Martyrs! 'Tis like anyfoolish girl!"
Father Pedro stopped and coughed.
"I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God'sharmless creatures. And only last week thou wast disdainful of poorMurieta's pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one hisfaithful companion, even in glory."
"Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father," replied theyoung acolyte, "and it smelt so."
"Smelt so?" echoed the father doubtfully. "Have a care, child, that thisis not luxuriousness of the senses. I have noticed of late you gatherovermuch of roses and syringa, excellent in their way and in moderation,but still not to be compared with the flower of Holy Church, the lily."
"But lilies don't look well on the refectory table, and against theadobe wall," returned the acolyte, with a pout of a spoilt child; "andsurely the flowers cannot help being sweet, any more than myrrh orincense. And I am not frightened of the heathen Americanos either NOW.There was a small one in the garden yesterday, a boy like me, and hespoke kindly and with a pleasant face."
"What said he to thee, child?" asked Father Pedro, anxiously.
"Nay, the matter of his speech I could not understand," laughed the boy,"but the manner was as gentle as thine, holy father."
"'St, child," said the Padre impatiently. "Thy likings are asunreasonable as thy fears. Besides, have I not told thee it ill becomesa child of Christ to chatter with those sons of Belial? But canst thounot repeat the words--the WORDS he said?" he continued suspiciously.
"'Tis a harsh tongue the Americanos speak in their throat," replied theboy. "But he said 'Devilishnisse' and 'pretty-as-a-girl,' and looked atme."
The good father made the boy repeat the words gravely, and as gravelyrepeated them after him with infinite simplicity. "They are butheretical words," he replied in answer to the boy's inquiring look;"it is well you understand not English. Enough. Run away, child, and beready for the Angelus. I will commune with myself awhile under the peartrees."
Glad to escape so easily, the young acolyte disappeared down the alleyof fig trees, not without a furtive look at the patches of chickweedaround their roots, the possible ambuscade of creeping or saltantvermin. The good priest heaved a sigh and glanced round the darkeningprospect. The sun had already disappeared over the mountain wall thatlay between him and the sea, rimmed with a faint white line of outlyingfog. A cool zephyr fanned his cheek; it was the dying breath of thevientos generales beyond the wall. As Father Pedro's eyes were raised tothis barrier, which seemed to shut out the boisterous world beyond, hefancied he noticed for the first time a slight breach in the parapet,over which an advanced banner of the fog was fluttering. Was it an omen?His speculations were cut short by a voice at his very side.
He turned quickly and beheld one of those "heathens" against whom hehad just warned his young acolyte; one of that straggling band ofadventurers whom the recent gold discoveries had scattered along thecoast. Luckily the fertile alluvium of these valleys, lying parallelwith the sea, offered no "indications" to attract the gold seekers.Nevertheless to Father Pedro even the infrequent contact with theAmericanos was objectionable; they were at once inquisitive andcareless; they asked questions with the sharp perspicacity ofcontroversy; they received his grave replies with the frank indifferenceof utter worldliness. Powerful enough to have been tyrannicaloppressors, they were singularly tolerant and gentle, contentingthemselves with a playful, good-natured irreverence, which tormentedthe good father more than opposition. They were felt to be dangerous andsubversive.
The Americano, however, who stood before him did not offensively suggestthese national qualities. A man of middle height, strongly built,bronzed and slightly gray from the vicissitudes of years and exposure,he had an air of practical seriousness that commended itself to FatherPedro. To his religious mind it suggested self-consciousness; expressedin the dialect of the stranger it only meant "business."
"I'm rather glad I found you out here alone," began the latter; "itsaves time. I haven't got to take my turn with the rest, in there"--heindicated the church with his thumb--"and you haven't got to make anappointment. You have got a clear forty minutes before the Angelusrings," he added, consulting a large silver chronometer, "and I reckonI kin git through my part of the job inside of twenty, leaving you tenminutes for remarks. I want to confess."
Father Pedro drew back with a gesture of dignity. The stranger, however,laid his hand upon the Padre's sleeve with the air of a man anticipatingobjection, but never refusal, and went on.
"Of course, I know. You want me to come at some other time, and inTHERE. You want it in the reg'lar style. That's your way and your time.My answer is: it ain't MY way and MY time. The main idea of confession,I take it, is gettin' at the facts. I'm ready to give 'em if you'lltake 'em out here, now. If you're willing to drop the Church andconfessional, and all that sort o' thing, I, on my side, am willingto give up the absolution, and all that sort o' thing. You might," headded, with an unconscious touch of pathos in the suggestion, "heave ina word or two of advice after I get through; for instance, what YOU'D doin the circumstances, you see! That's all. But that's as you please. Itain't part of the business."
Irreverent as this speech appeared, there was really no trace of suchintention in his manner, and his evident profound conviction thathis suggestion was practical, and not at all inconsistent withecclesiastical dignity, would alone have been enough to touch the Padre,had not the stranger's dominant personality already overridden him. Hehesitated. The stranger seized the opportuni
ty to take his arm, and leadhim with the half familiarity of powerful protection to a bench beneaththe refectory window. Taking out his watch again, he put it in thepassive hands of the astonished priest, saying, "Time me," cleared histhroat, and began:--
"Fourteen years ago there was a ship cruisin' in the Pacific, jest offthis range, that was ez nigh on to a Hell afloat as anything rigged kinbe. If a chap managed to dodge the cap'en's belayin-pin for a time,he was bound to be fetched up in the ribs at last by the mate's boots.There was a chap knocked down the fore hatch with a broken leg in theGulf, and another jumped overboard off Cape Corrientes, crazy as a loon,along a clip of the head from the cap'en's trumpet. Them's facts. Theship was a brigantine, trading along the Mexican coast. The cap'enhad his wife aboard, a little timid Mexican woman he'd picked up atMazatlan. I reckon she didn't get on with him any better than the men,for she ups and dies one day, leavin' her baby, a year-old gal. One ofthe crew was fond o' that baby. He used to get the black nurse to put itin the dingy, and he'd tow it astern, rocking it with the painter likea cradle. He did it--hatin' the cap'en all the same. One day the blacknurse got out of the dingy for a moment, when the baby was asleep,leavin' him alone with it. An idea took hold on him, jest fromcussedness, you'd say, but it was partly from revenge on the cap'en andpartly to get away from the ship. The ship was well inshore, and thecurrent settin' towards it. He slipped the painter--that man--and sethimself adrift with the baby. It was a crazy act, you'd reckon, forthere wasn't any oars in the boat; but he had a crazy man's luck, andhe contrived, by sculling the boat with one of the seats he tore out, tokeep her out of the breakers, till he could find a bight in the shoreto run her in. The alarm was given from the ship, but the fog shut downupon him; he could hear the other boats in pursuit. They seemed to closein on him, and by the sound he judged the cap'en was just abreast ofhim in the gig, bearing down upon him in the fog. He slipped out of thedingy into the water without a splash, and struck out for the breakers.He got ashore after havin' been knocked down and dragged in four timesby the undertow. He had only one idea then, thankfulness that he had nottaken the baby with him in the surf. You kin put that down for him: it'sa fact. He got off into the hills, and made his way up to Monterey."
"And the child?" asked the Padre, with a sudden and strange asperitythat boded no good to the penitent; "the child thus ruthlesslyabandoned--what became of it?"
"That's just it, the child," assented the stranger, gravely. "Well, ifthat man was on his death-bed instead of being here talking to you,he'd swear that he thought the cap'en was sure to come up to it thenext minit. That's a fact. But it wasn't until one day that he--that'sme--ran across one of that crew in Frisco. 'Hallo, Cranch,' sez he tome, 'so you got away, didn't you? And how's the cap'en's baby? Grown ayoung gal by this time, ain't she?' 'What are you talkin about,' ez I;'how should I know?' He draws away from me, and sez, 'D--- it,' sez he,'you don't mean that you' . . . I grabs him by the throat and makes himtell me all. And then it appears that the boat and the baby were neverfound again, and every man of that crew, cap'en and all, believed I hadstolen it."
He paused. Father Pedro was staring at the prospect with anuncompromising rigidity of head and shoulder.
"It's a bad lookout for me, ain't it?" the stranger continued, inserious reflection.
"How do I know," said the priest harshly, without turning his head,"that you did not make away with this child?"
"Beg pardon."
"That you did not complete your revenge by--by--killing it, as yourcomrade suspected you? Ah! Holy Trinity," continued Father Pedro,throwing out his hands with an impatient gesture, as if to take theplace of unutterable thought.
"How do YOU know?" echoed the stranger coldly.
"Yes."
The stranger linked his fingers together and threw them over his knee,drew it up to his chest caressingly, and said quietly, "Because you DOknow."
The Padre rose to his feet.
"What mean you?" he said, sternly fixing his eyes upon the speaker.Their eyes met. The stranger's were gray and persistent, with hangingcorner lids that might have concealed even more purpose than theyshowed. The Padre's were hollow, open, and the whites slightly brown, asif with tobacco stains. Yet they were the first to turn away.
"I mean," returned the stranger, with the same practical gravity, "thatyou know it wouldn't pay me to come here, if I'd killed the baby, unlessI wanted you to fix things right with me up there," pointing skywards,"and get absolution; and I've told you THAT wasn't in my line."
"Why do you seek me, then?" demanded the Padre, suspiciously.
"Because I reckon I thought a man might be allowed to confess somethingshort of a murder. If you're going to draw the line below that--"
"This is but sacrilegious levity," interrupted Father Pedro, turning asif to go. But the stranger did not make any movement to detain him.
"Have you implored forgiveness of the father--the man youwronged--before you came here?" asked the priest, lingering.
"Not much. It wouldn't pay if he was living, and he died four yearsago."
"You are sure of that?"
"I am."
"There are other relations, perhaps?"
"None."
Father Pedro was silent. When he spoke again, it was with a changedvoice. "What is your purpose, then?" he asked, with the first indicationof priestly sympathy in his manner. "You cannot ask forgiveness of theearthly father you have injured, you refuse the intercession of holyChurch with the Heavenly Father you have disobeyed. Speak, wretched man!What is it you want?"
"I want to find the child."
"But if it were possible, if she were still living, are you fit to seekher, to even make yourself known to her, to appear before her?"
"Well, if I made it profitable to her, perhaps."
"Perhaps," echoed the priest, scornfully. "So be it. But why come here?"
"To ask your advice. To know how to begin my search. You know thiscountry. You were here when that boat drifted ashore beyond thatmountain."
"Ah, indeed. I have much to do with it. It is an affair of thealcalde--the authorities--of your--your police."
"Is it?"
The Padre again met the stranger's eyes. He stopped, with the snuff boxhe had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in hishand.
"Why is it not, Senor?" he demanded.
"If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want thedetails of her life known to any one."
"And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady?" asked FatherPedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of ababy and an adult.
"I reckon I'll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found herwouldn't be fool enough to destroy them."
"After fourteen years! Good! you have faith, Senor--"
"Cranch," supplied the stranger, consulting his watch. "But time's up.Business is business. Good-by; don't let me keep you."
He extended his hand.
The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellowas the hills. When their hands separated, the father still hesitated,looking at Cranch. If he expected further speech or entreaty from him hewas mistaken, for the American, without turning his head, walked inthe same serious, practical fashion down the avenue of fig trees, anddisappeared beyond the hedge of vines. The outlines of the mountainbeyond were already lost in the fog. Father Pedro turned into therefectory.
"Antonio."
A strong flavor of leather, onions, and stable preceded the entrance ofa short, stout vaquero from the little patio.
"Saddle Pinto and thine own mule to accompany Francisco, who willtake letters from me to the Father Superior at San Jose to-morrow atdaybreak."
"At daybreak, reverend father?"
"At daybreak. Hark ye, go by the mountain trails and avoid the highway.Stop at no posada nor fonda, but if the child is weary, rest then awhileat Don Juan Briones' or at the rancho of the Blessed Fisherman. Have noconverse with stragglers, least of all those genti
le Americanos.So . . ."
The first strokes of the Angelus came from the nearer tower. With agesture Father Pedro waved Antonio aside, and opened the door of thesacristy.
"Ad Majorem Dei Gloria."