His real discovery was deemed of no
practical value. The robust Indians swarmed in thousands, living
by the watersides in huts, wearing deerskin cloaks and garments
of rushes. Hunters and fishers were they. They entertained the
freebooter, and like him have long since mouldered to ashes. Along
the Pacific Coast great mounds of shells, marking their tribal
seaside feasts, are now frequently unearthed. Their humble history
is shadowed by the passing centuries. They are only a memory,
a shadow on Time's stream. Good Queen Bess sleeps in the stately
fane of Westminster. Sir Francis's sword is rusted. The "brazen
plate" recording that date and year is of a legendary existence only.
"Drake's Bay" alone keeps green the memory of the daring cruiser.
Even in one century the Spanish, Russian, Mexican, and American
flags successively floated over the unfrequented cliffs of California.
Two hundred years before, the English ensign kissed the air in
pride, unchallenged by the haughty Spaniard.
Miguel Peralta was happy. He had invited all the officials to attend
the nuptials by the Golden Gate. Venus was in the ascendant. The
red planet of Mars had set, he hoped, forever. The officers and
gentry contemplated a frolicsome ride around the Salinas bend, over
the beautiful passes to Santa Clara valley and the town of Yerba
Buena.
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