The story of Bucareli’s determination to found a presidio at San
Francisco, and Anza’s march with the colonists for it from Sonora,
has already been recounted. When Serra and Galvez were making their
original plans for the establishment of the three first Missions of
Alta California, Serra expressed his disappointment that St.
Francis was neglected by asking: “And for our founder St. Francis
there is no Mission?” To which Galvez replied: “If St. Francis
desires a Mission, let him show us his harbor and he shall have
one.” It therefore seemed providential that when Portolá,
Pages, and Crespí, in 1769, saw the Bay of Monterey they did
not recognize it, and were thus led on further north, where the
great Bay of San Francisco was soon afterwards discovered and
reasonably well surveyed.
Palou eventually established the Mission October 9, 1776. None
of the Indians were present to witness the ceremony, as they had
fled, the preceding month, from the attacks of certain of their
enemies. When they returned in December they brought trouble with
them. They stole all in their reach; one party discharged arrows at
the corporal of the guard; another insulted a soldier’s wife; and
an attempt was made to kill the San Carlos neophyte who had been
brought here. The officers shut up one of these hostiles, whereat a
party of his comrades rushed to the rescue, fired their arrows at
the Mission, and were only driven back when the soldiers arrived
and fired their muskets in the air. Next day the sergeant went out
to make arrests and another struggle ensued, in which one was
killed and one wounded. All now sued for peace, which, with sundry
floggings, was granted. For three months they now kept away from
the Mission.
In 1777 they began to return, and on October 4, Padre Serra, on
his first visit, was able to say mass in the presence of seventeen
adult native converts. Then, passing over to the presidio on
October 10, as he stood gazing on the waters flowing out to the
setting sun through the purple walls of the Golden Gate, he
exclaimed with a heart too full of thanksgiving to be longer
restrained: “Thanks be to God that now our father St. Francis with
the Holy Cross of the Procession of Missions, has reached the last
limit of the Californian continent. To go farther he must have
boats.”
In 1782, April 25, the corner-stone of a new church was laid at
San Francisco. Three padres were present, together with the Mission
guard and a body of troops from the presidio. In the Mission
records it says: “There was enclosed in the cavity of said
corner-stone the image of our Holy Father St. Francis, some relics
in the form of bones of St. Pius and other holy martyrs, five
medals of various saints, and a goodly portion of silver coin.”
In 1785 Governor Pages complained to the viceroy, among other
things, that the presidio of San Francisco had been deprived of
mass for three years, notwithstanding the obligation of the friars
to serve as chaplains. Palou replied that the padres were under no
obligation to serve gratuitously, and that they were always ready
to attend the soldiers when their other duties allowed.
In November, 1787, Captain Soler, who for a brief time acted as
temporary governor and inspector, suggested that the presidio of
San Francisco be abandoned and its company transferred to Santa
Barbara. Later, as I have shown elsewhere, a proposition was again
made for the abandonment of San Francisco; so it is apparent that
Fate herself was protecting it for its future great and wonderful
history.
In 1790 San Francisco reported 551 baptisms and 205 deaths, with
a present neophyte population of 438. Large stock had increased to
2000 head and small to 1700.
Three years later, on November 14, the celebrated English
navigator, George Vancouver, in his vessel “Discovery,” sailed into
San Francisco Bay. His arrival caused quite a flutter of excitement
both at the presidio and Mission, where he was kindly entertained.
The governor was afraid of this elaborate hospitality to the hated
and feared English, and issued orders to the commandant providing
for a more frigid reception in the future, so, on Vancouver’s
second visit, he did not find matters so agreeable, and grumbled
accordingly.
Tiles were made and put on the church roofs in 1795; more houses
were built for the neophytes, and all roofed with tiles. Half a
league of ditch was also dug around the potrero (pasture ground)
and fields.
In 1806 San Francisco was enlivened by the presence of the
Russian chamberlain, Rezánof, who had been on a special
voyage around the world, and was driven by scurvy and want of
provisions to the California settlements. He was accompanied by Dr.
G.H. von Langsdorff. Langsdorff’s account of the visit and
reception at several points in California is interesting. He gives
a full description of the Indians and their method of life at the
Mission; commends the zeal and self-sacrifice of the padres; speaks
of the ingenuity shown by the women in making baskets; the system
of allowing the cattle and horses to run wild, etc. Visiting the
Mission of San José by boat, he and his companions had quite
an adventurous time getting back, owing to the contrary winds.
Rezánof’s visit and its consequences have been made the
subject of much and romantic writing. Gertrude Atherton’s novel,
Rezánof, is devoted to this episode in his life. The
burden of the story is possibly true, viz., that the Russians in
their settlements to the north were suffering for want of the food
that California was producing in abundance. Yet, owing to the
absurd Spanish laws governing California, she was forbidden to sell
to or trade with any foreign peoples or powers. Rezánof, who
was well acquainted with this prohibitory law, determined upon
trying to overcome it for the immediate relief of his suffering
compatriots. He was fairly well received when he reached San
Francisco, but he could accomplish nothing in the way of trading or
the sale of the needed provisions.
Now began a campaign of strategic waiting. To complicate (or
simplify) the situation, in the bailes and festas
given to the distinguished Russian, Rezánof danced and
chatted with Concha Argüello, the daughter of the stern old
commandant of the post.
Did they fall in love with each other, or did they not? Some
writers say one thing and some another. Anyhow, the girl thought
she had received the honest love of a noble man and responded with
ardor and devotion. So sure was she of his affection that she
finally prevailed upon her father (so we are told) to sell to
Rezánof the provisions for which he had come. The vessel,
accordingly, was well and satisfactorily laden and Rezánof
sailed away. Being a Russian subject, he was not allowed to marry
the daughter of a foreigner without the consent of his sovereign,
and he was to hurry to Moscow and gain permission to return and wed
the lady of his choice.
He never returned. Hence the accusation that he acted in bad
faith to her and her father. This charge seems to be unfounded, for
it is known that he left his vessel and started overland to reach
Moscow earlier than he could have done by ship, that he was taken
seriously ill on the trip and died.
But Concha did not know of this. No one informed her of the
death of her lover, and her weary waiting for his return is what
has given the touch of keenest pathos to the romantic story. Bret
Harte, in his inimitable style, has put into exquisite verse, the
story of the waiting of this true-hearted Spanish maiden1:
“He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate
On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state;
He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart
With the Comandante’s daughter on the questions of the heart,
Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one,
And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun;
Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar;
Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothèd bade adieu,
And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew.
Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar.
Day by day…
Week by week…
So each year the seasons shifted,—wet and warm and drear and dry;
Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky.
Still it brought no ship nor message,—brought no tidings, ill or meet,
For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet.
Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside:
‘He will come,’ the flowers whispered; ‘Come no more,’ the dry hills sighed.
Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are,
Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar;
So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt,
Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out.
Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas;
Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay,
And St. George’s cross was lifted in the port of Monterey;
And the Citadel was lighted, and the hall was gaily drest,
All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest.
The formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine,
Some one spoke of Concha’s lover,—heedless of the warning sign.
Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: ‘Speak no ill of him, Ipray!
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day.—
‘Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse.
Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course!
‘Lives she yet?’ A deathlike silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall,
And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all.
Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun’s white hood;
Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.
‘Lives she yet?’ Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew
Closer yet her nun’s attire. ‘Senyor, pardon, she died, too!’”
In 1810 Moraga, the ensign at the presidio, was sent with
seventeen men to punish the gentiles of the region of the Carquines
Strait, who for several years had been harassing the neophytes at
San Francisco, and sixteen of whom they had killed. Moraga had a
hard fight against a hundred and twenty of them, and captured
eighteen, whom he soon released, “as they were all sure to die of
their wounds.” The survivors retreated to their huts and made a
desperate resistance, and were so determined not to be captured
that, when one hut was set on fire, its inmates preferred to perish
in the flames rather than to surrender. A full report of this
affair was sent to the King of Spain and as a result he promoted
Moraga and other officers, and increased the pay of some of the
soldiers. He also tendered the thanks of the nation to all the
participants.
Runaway neophytes gave considerable trouble for several years,
and in 1819 a force was sent from San Francisco to punish these
recalcitrants and their allies. A sharp fight took place near the
site of the present Stockton, in which 27 Indians were killed, 20
wounded, and 16 captured, with 49 horses.
The Mission report for 1821-1830 shows a decrease in neophyte
population from 1252 to 219, though this was largely caused by the
sending of neophytes to the newly founded Missions of San Rafael
and San Francisco Solano.
San Francisco was secularized in 1834-1835, with Joaquin
Estudillo as comisionado. The valuation in 1835 was real estate and
fixtures, $25,800; church property, $17,800; available assets in
excess of debts (chiefly live-stock), $16,400, or a total of
$60,000. If any property was ever divided among the Indians, there
is no record to show it.
On June 5, 1845, Pio Pico’s proclamation was made, requiring the
Indians of Dolores Mission to reunite and occupy it or it would be
declared abandoned and disposed of for the general good of the
department. A fraudulent title to the Mission was given, and
antedated February 10, 1845; but it was afterwards declared void,
and the building was duly returned to the custody of the
archbishop, under whose direction it still remains.
After Commodore Sloat had taken possession of Monterey for the
United States, in 1846, it was merely the work of a day or so to
get despatches to Captain Montgomery, of the ship “Portsmouth,” who
was in San Francisco bay and who immediately raised the stars and
stripes, and thus the city of the Golden Gate entered into American
possession. While the city was materially concerned in the events
immediately following the occupation, the Mission was already too
nearly dead to participate. In 1846 the bishop succeeded in finding
a curate for a short period, but nothing in the records can be
found as to the final disposition of the property belonging to the
ex-Mission. In the political caldron it had totally
disappeared.
In the early days the Mission Indians were buried in the
graveyard, then the soldiers and settlers, Spanish and Mexican, and
the priests, and, later, the Americanos. But all is
neglected and uncared for, except by Nature, and, after all,
perhaps it is better so. The kindly spirited Earth Mother has given
forth vines and myrtle and ivy and other plants in profusion, that
have hidden the old graveled walks and the broken flags. Rose
bushes grow untrimmed, untrained and frankly beautiful; while
pepper and cypress wave gracefully and poetically suggestive over
graves of high and low, historic and unknown. For here are names
carved on stone denoting that beneath lie buried those who helped
make California history. Just at the side entrance of the church is
a stone with this inscription to the first governor of California:
“Aqui yacen los restos del Capitan Don Luis Antonio Argüello,
Primer Gobernador del Alta California, Bajo el Gobierno Mejicano.
Nació en San Francisco el 21 de Junio, 1774, y murió
en el mismo lugar el 27 de Marzo, 1830.”
Farther along is a brown stone monument, erected by the members
of the famous fire company, to Casey, who was hung by the
Vigilantes—Casey, who shot James King of William. The monument,
adorned with firemen’s helmets and bugles in stone, stands under
the shadow of drooping pepper sprays, and is inscribed: “Sacred to
the memory of James P. Casey, who Departed this life May 23, 1856,
Aged 27 years. May God forgive my Persecutors. Requiescat en
pace.”
Poor, sad Dolores! How utterly lost it now looks!
During the earthquake and fire of 1906, the new church by its
side was destroyed. But the old Indian-built structure was
preserved and still stands as a grand memorial of the past.
1
From Poems by Bret Harte. By permission of the publishers, The Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, Mass.
