A lump rises in his
throat. His long service is over at last. He doffs his sombrero
when the guard "turns out" for him. It is the last honor.
He cannot foresee that a French frigate will soon lie in the very
bay smiling at his feet, and cover the returning foreigner with
her batteries.
In two short years, sturdy old Commodore Jones will blunder along
with the American liners, CYANE and UNITED STATES, and haul down
that proud Mexican ensign. He will hoist for the first time, on
October, 19, 1842, the stars and stripes over the town. Even though
he apologizes, the foreigners will troop back there like wolves
around the dying bison of the west. The pines on Santa Cruz whisper
of a coming day of change. The daybreak of the age of gold draws
near.
Steadily through the live-oaks and fragrant cypress the bridegroom
rides to the wedding. A few days' social rejoicings, then away to
the beautiful forests of his new ranch. It lies far in the hills
of Mariposa. There, fair as a garden of the Lord, the grassy knolls
of the foothills melt into the golden wild-oat fields of the San
Joaquin.
Behind him, to the east, the virgin forest rises to the serrated
peaks of the Nevada. He drops his bridle on his horse's neck.
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