I almost feel as if I were lamenting the
passing away of something loved and dear, - the boats, the Kanakas,
the hides, my old shipmates. Death, change, distance, lend them
a character which makes them quite another thing from the vulgar,
wearisome toil of uninteresting, forced manual labour.
The breeze freshened as we stood out to sea, and the wild waves
rolled over the red sun, on the broad horizon of the Pacific;
but it is summer, and in summer there can be no bad weather in
California. Every day is pleasant. Nature forbids a drop of
rain to fall by day or night, or a wind to excite itself beyond
a fresh summer breeze.
The next morning we found ourselves at anchor in the Bay of
San Pedro. Here was this hated, this thoroughly detested spot.
Although we lay near, I could scarce recognize the hill up which
we rolled and dragged and pushed and carried our heavy loads,
and down which we pitched the hides, to carry them barefooted
over the rocks to the floating long-boat. It was no longer
the landing-place. One had been made at the head of the creek,
and boats discharged and took off cargoes from a mole or wharf,
in a quiet place, safe from southeasters. A tug ran to take off
passengers from the steamer to the wharf, - for the trade of Los
Angeles is sufficient to support such a vessel. I got the captain
to land me privately, in a small boat, at the old place by the hill.
I dismissed the boat, and, alone, found my way to the high ground.
I say found my way, for neglect and weather had left but few
traces of the steep road the hide-vessels had built to the top.
The cliff off which we used to throw the hides, and where I spent
nights watching them, was more easily found. The population was
doubled, that is to say, there were two houses, instead of one,
on the hill. I stood on the brow and looked out toward the offing,
the Santa Catalina Island, and, nearer, the melancholy Dead Man's
Island, with its painful tradition, and recalled the gloomy days
that followed the flogging, and fancied the Pilgrim at anchor in
the offing. But the tug is going toward our steamer, and I must
awake and be off. I walked along the shore to the new landing-place,
where were two or three store-houses and other buildings, forming a
small depot; and a stage-coach, I found, went daily between this place
and the Pueblo. I got a seat on the top of the coach, to which were
tackled six little less than wild California horses. Each horse had
a man at his head, and when the driver had got his reins in hand he
gave the word, all the horses were let go at once, and away they
went on a spring, tearing over the ground, the driver only keeping
them from going the wrong way, for they had a wide, level pampa
to run over the whole thirty miles to the Pueblo. This plain is
almost treeless, with no grass, at least none now in the drought
of mid-summer, and is filled with squirrel-holes, and alive with
squirrels. As we changed horses twice, we did not slacken our
speed until we turned into the streets of the Pueblo.
The Pueblo de los Angeles I found a large and flourishing town of
about twenty thousand inhabitants, with brick sidewalks, and blocks
of stone or brick houses. The three principal traders when we
were here for hides in the Pilgrim and Alert are still among the
chief traders of the place, - Stearns, Temple, and Warner, the two
former being reputed very rich. I dined with Mr. Stearns, now a
very old man, and met there Don Juan Bandini, to whom I had given
a good deal of notice in my book. From him, as indeed from every
one in this town, I met with the kindest attentions. The wife of
Don Juan, who was a beautiful young girl when we were on the coast,
Doña Refugio, daughter of Don Santiago Argüello, the commandante
of San Diego, was with him, and still handsome. This is one of
several instances I have noticed of the preserving quality of the
California climate. Here, too, was Henry Mellus, who came out with
me before the mast in the Pilgrim, and left the brig to be agent's
clerk on shore. He had experienced varying fortunes here, and was
now married to a Mexican lady, and had a family. I dined with
him, and in the afternoon he drove me round to see the vineyards,
the chief objects in this region. The vintage of last year was
estimated at half a million of gallons. Every year new square
miles of ground are laid down to vineyards, and the Pueblo promises
to be the centre of one of the largest wine-producing regions in
the world. Grapes are a drug here, and I found a great abundance
of figs, olives, peaches, pears, and melons. The climate is well
suited to these fruits, but is too hot and dry for successful
wheat crops.
Towards evening, we started off in the stage coach, with again
our relays of six mad horses, and reached the creek before dark,
though it was late at night before we got on board the steamer,
which was slowly moving her wheels, under way for San Diego.
As we skirted along the coast, Wilson and I recognized, or thought
we did, in the clear moonlight, the rude white Mission of San Juan
Capistrano, and its cliff, from which I had swung down by a pair of
halyards to save a few hides, - a boy who could not be prudential,
and who caught at every chance for adventure.
As we made the high point off San Diego, Point Loma, we were
greeted by the cheering presence of a light-house.
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