THE RIGHT EYE OF THE COMMANDER
by Bret Harte
The year of grace 1797 passed away on the coast of
California in a southwesterly gale. The little bay
of San Carlos, albeit sheltered by the headlands of
the blessed Trinity, was rough and turbulent; its
foam clung quivering to the seaward wall of the
Mission garden; the air was filled with flying sand
and spume, and as the Senor Commandante, Hermenegildo
Salvatierra, looked from the deep embrasured window
of the Presidio guardroom, he felt the salt breath
of the distant sea buffet a color into his smoke-dried
cheeks.
The Commander, I have said, was gazing thoughtfully
from the window of the guardroom. He may have been
reviewing the events of the year now about to pass
away. But, like the garrison at the Presidio, there
was little to review; the year, like its predecessors,
had been uneventful,--the days had slipped by in a
delicious monotony of simple duties, unbroken by
incident or interruption. The regularly recurring
feasts and saints' days, the half-yearly courier from
San Diego, the rare transport ship and rarer foreign
vessel, were the mere details of his patriarchal life.
If there was no achievement, there was certainly no
failure. Abundant harvests and patient industry amply
supplied the wants of Presidio and Mission. Isolated
from the family of nations, the wars which shook the
world concerned them not so much as the last earthquake;
the struggle that emancipated their sister colonies
on the other side of the continent to them had no
suggestiveness. In short, it was that glorious Indian
summer of California history, around which so much
poetical haze still lingers,--that bland, indolent
autumn of Spanish rule, so soon to be followed by the
wintry storms of Mexican independence and the reviving
spring of American conquest.
The Commander turned from the window and walked toward
the fire that burned brightly on the deep oven-like
hearth. A pile of copy-books, the work of the Presidio
school, lay on the table. As he turned over the leaves
with a paternal interest, and surveyed the fair round
Scripture text,--the first pious pot-hooks of the pupils
of San Carlos,--an audible commentary fell from his
lips: "'Abimelech took her from Abraham'--ah, little
one, excellent!--'Jacob sent to see his brother'--body
of Christ! that upstroke of thine, Paquita, is marvellous;
the Governor shall see it!" A film of honest pride
dimmed the Commander's left eye,--the right, alas! twenty
years before had been sealed by an Indian arrow. He
rubbed it softly with the sleeve of his leather jacket,
and continued: "'The Ishmaelites having arrived--'"
He stopped, for there was a step in the courtyard, a
foot upon the threshold, and a stranger entered. With
the instinct of an old soldier, the Commander, after
one glance at the intruder, turned quickly toward the
wall, where his trusty Toledo hung, or should have
been hanging. But it was not there, and as he recalled
that the last time he had seen that weapon it was being
ridden up and down the gallery by Pepito, the infant
son of Bautista, the tortilla-maker, he blushed and
then contented himself with frowning upon the intruder.
But the stranger's air, though irreverent, was decidedly
peaceful. He was unarmed, and wore the ordinary cape of
tarpaulin and sea-boots of a mariner. Except a villainous
smell of codfish, there was little about him that was
peculiar.
His name, as he informed the Commander, in Spanish that
was more fluent than elegant or precise,--his name was
Peleg Scudder. He was master of the schooner General
Court, of the port of Salem, in Massachusetts, on a
trading voyage to the South Seas, but now driven by
stress of weather into the bay of San Carlos. He begged
permission to ride out the gale under the headlands of
the blessed Trinity, and no more. Water he did not need,
having taken in a supply at Bodega. He knew the strict
surveillance of the Spanish port regulations in regard
to foreign vessels, and would do nothing against the
severe discipline and good order of the settlement. There
was a slight tinge of sarcasm in his tone as he glanced
toward the desolate parade-ground of the Presidio and
the open unguarded gate. The fact was that the sentry,
Felipe Gomez, had discreetly retired to shelter at the
beginning of the storm, and was then sound asleep in
the corridor.
The Commander hesitated. The port regulations were
severe, but he was accustomed to exercise individual
authority, and beyond an old order issued ten years
before, regarding the American ship Columbia, there
was no precedent to guide him. The storm was severe,
and a sentiment of humanity urged him to grant the
stranger's request. It is but just to the Commander
to say, that his inability to enforce a refusal did
not weigh with his decision. He would have denied
with equal disregard of consequences that right to
a seventy-four-gun ship which he now yielded so
gracefully to this Yankee trading schooner. He
stipulated only, that there should be no communication
between the ship and shore. "For yourself, Senor
Captain," he continued, "accept my hospitality. The
fort is yours as long as you shall grace it with
your distinguished presence;" and with old-fashioned
courtesy, he made the semblance of withdrawing from
the guardroom.
Master Peleg Scudder smiled as he thought of the
half-dismantled fort, the two moldy brass cannon,
cast in Manila a century previous, and the shiftless
garrison. A wild thought of accepting the Commander's
offer literally, conceived in the reckless spirit of
a man who never let slip an offer for trade, for a
moment filled his brain, but a timely reflection of
the commercial unimportance of the transaction checked
him. He only took a capacious quid of tobacco, as the
Commander gravely drew a settle before the fire, and
in honor of his guest untied the black silk handkerchief
that bound his grizzled brows.
What passed between Salvatierra and his guest that
night it becomes me not, as a grave chronicler of the
salient points of history, to relate. I have said that
Master Peleg Scudder was a fluent talker, and under the
influence of divers strong waters, furnished by his host,
he became still more loquacious. And think of a man with
a twenty years' budget of gossip! The Commander learned,
for the first time, how Great Britain lost her colonies;
of the French Revolution; of the great Napoleon, whose
achievements, perhaps, Peleg colored more highly than
the Commander's superiors would have liked. And when
Peleg turned questioner, the Commander was at his mercy.
He gradually made himself master of the gossip of the
Mission and Presidio, the "small-beer" chronicles of
the pastoral age, the conversion of the heathen, the
Presidio schools, and even asked the Commander how he
had lost his eye! It is said that at this point of the
conversation Master Peleg produced from about his
person divers small trinkets, kick-shaws, and newfangled
trifles, and even forced some of them upon his host. It
is further alleged that under the malign influence of
Peleg and several glasses of aguardiente, the Commander
lost somewhat of his decorum, and behaved in a manner
unseemly for one in his position, reciting high-flown
Spanish poetry, and even piping in a thin, high voice,
divers madrigals and heathen canzonets of an amorous
complexion; chiefly in regard to a "little one" who was
his, the Commander's, "soul!" These allegations, perhaps
unworthy the notice of a serious chronicler, should be
received with great caution, and are introduced here as
simple hearsay. That the Commander, however, took a
handkerchief and attempted to show his guest the mysteries
of the sembi cuacua, capering in an agile but indecorous
manner about the apartment, has been denied. Enough for
the purposes of this narrative, that at midnight Peleg
assisted his host to bed with many protestations of
undying friendship, and then, as the gale had abated,
took his leave of the Presidio and hurried aboard the
General Court. When the day broke the ship was gone.
I know not if Peleg kept his word with his host. It
is said that the holy fathers at the Mission that
night heard a loud chanting in the plaza, as of the
heathens singing psalms through their noses; that for
many days after an odor of salt codfish prevailed in
the settlement; that a dozen hard nutmegs, which were
unfit for spice or seed, were found in the possession
of the wife of the baker, and that several bushels of
shoe-pegs, which bore a pleasing resemblance to oats,
but were quite inadequate to the purposes of provender,
were discovered in the stable of the blacksmith. But
when the reader reflects upon the sacredness of a
Yankee trader's word, the stringent discipline of
the Spanish port regulations, and the proverbial
indisposition of my countrymen to impose upon the
confidence of a simple people, he will at once reject
this part of the story.
A roll of drums, ushering in the year 1798, awoke the
Commander. The sun was shining brightly, and the storm
had ceased. He sat up in bed, and through the force of
habit rubbed his left eye. As the remembrance of the
previous night came back to him, he jumped from his
couch and ran to the window. There was no ship in the
bay. A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he
rubbed both of his eyes. Not content with this, he
consulted the metallic mirror which hung beside his
crucifix. There was no mistake; the Commander had a
visible second eye,--a right one,--as good, save for
the purposes of vision, as the left.
Whatever might have been the true secret of this
transformation, but one opinion prevailed at San
Carlos. It was one of those rare miracles vouchsafed
a pious Catholic community as an evidence to the
heathen, through the intercession of the blessed
San Carlos himself. That their beloved Commander,
the temporal defender of the Faith, should be the
recipient of this miraculous manifestation was most
fit and seemly. The Commander himself was reticent;
he could not tell a falsehood,--he dared not tell the
truth. After all, if the good folk of San Carlos
believed that the powers of his right eye were
actually restored, was it wise and discreet for him
to undeceive them? For the first time in his life
the Commander thought of policy,--for the first time
he quoted that text which has been the lure of so
many well-meaning but easy Christians, of being "all
things to all men." Infeliz Hermenegildo Salvatierra!
For by degrees an ominous whisper crept through the
little settlement. The Right Eye of the Commander,
although miraculous, seemed to exercise a baleful
effect upon the beholder. No one could look at it
without winking. It was cold, hard, relentless, and
unflinching. More than that, it seemed to be endowed
with a dreadful prescience,--a faculty of seeing through
and into the inarticulate thoughts of those it looked
upon. The soldiers of the garrison obeyed the eye
rather than the voice of their commander, and answered
his glance rather than his lips in questioning. The
servants could not evade the ever watchful but cold
attention that seemed to pursue them. The children of
the Presidio School smirched their copy-books under the
awful supervision, and poor Paquita, the prize pupil,
failed utterly in that marvellous up-stroke when her
patron stood beside her. Gradually distrust, suspicion,
self-accusation, and timidity took the place of trust,
confidence, and security throughout San Carlos. Whenever
the Right Eye of the Commander fell, a shadow fell with
it.
Nor was Salvatierra entirely free from the baleful
influence of his miraculous acquisition. Unconscious
of its effect upon others, he only saw in their actions
evidence of certain things that the crafty Peleg had
hinted on that eventful New Year's eve. His most trusty
retainers stammered, blushed, and faltered before him.
Self-accusations, confessions of minor faults and
delinquencies, or extravagant excuses and apologies met
his mildest inquiries. The very children that he loved--his
pet pupil, Paquita--seemed to be conscious of some hidden
sin. The result of this constant irritation showed itself
more plainly. For the first half-year the Commander's
voice and eye were at variance. He was still kind, tender,
and thoughtful in speech. Gradually, however, his voice
took upon itself the hardness of his glance and its skeptical,
impassive quality, and as the year again neared its close
it was plain that the Commander had fitted himself to the
eye, and not the eye to the Commander.
It may be surmised that these changes did not escape
the watchful solicitude of the Fathers. Indeed, the few
who were first to ascribe the right eye of Salvatierra
to miraculous origin, and the special grace of the blessed
San Carlos, now talked openly of witchcraft and the agency
of Luzbel, the evil one. It would have fared ill with
Hermenegildo Salvatierra had he been aught but Commander
or amenable to local authority. But the reverend father,
Friar Manuel de Cortes, had no power over the political
executive, and all attempts at spiritual advice failed
signally. He retired baffled and confused from his first
interview with the Commander, who seemed now to take a
grim satisfaction in the fateful power of his glance.
The holy Father contradicted himself, exposed the fallacies
of his own arguments, and even, it is asserted, committed
himself to several undoubted heresies. When the Commander
stood up at mass, if the officiating priest caught that
skeptical and searching eye, the service was inevitably
ruined. Even the power of the Holy Church seemed to be
lost, and the last hold upon the affections of the people
and the good order of the settlement departed from San
Carlos.
As the long dry summer passed, the low hills that
surrounded the white walls of the Presidio grew more
and more to resemble in hue the leathern jacket of the
Commander, and Nature herself seemed to have borrowed
his dry, hard glare. The earth was cracked and seamed
with drought; a blight had fallen upon the orchards
and vineyards, and the rain, long-delayed and ardently
prayed for, came not. The sky was as tearless as the
right eye of the Commander. Murmurs of discontent,
insubordination, and plotting among the Indians reached
his ears; he only set his teeth the more firmly, tightened
the knot of his black silk handkerchief, and looked up
his Toledo.
The last day of the year 1798 found the Commander sitting,
at the hour of evening prayers, alone in the guardroom.
He no longer attended the services of the Holy Church,
but crept away at such times to some solitary spot, where
he spent the interval in silent meditation. The firelight
played upon the low beams and rafters, but left the bowed
figure of Salvatierra in darkness. Sitting thus, he felt
a small hand touch his arm, and, looking down, saw the
figure of Paquita, his little Indian pupil, at his knee.
"Ah, littlest of all," said the Commander, with something
of his old tenderness, lingering over the endearing
diminutives of his native speech,--"sweet one, what doest
thou here? Art thou not afraid of him whom everyone shuns
and fears?"
"No," said the little Indian, readily, "not in the dark.
I hear your voice,--the old voice; I feel your touch,--the
old touch; but I see not your eye, Senor Commandante.
That only I fear,--and that, O Senor, O my father," said
the child, lifting her little arms towards his, "that I
know is not thine own!"
The Commander shuddered and turned away. Then, recovering
himself, he kissed Paquita gravely on the forehead and
bade her retire. A few hours later, when silence had
fallen upon the Presidio, he sought his own couch and
slept peacefully.
At about the middle watch of the night a dusky figure
crept through the low embrasure of the Commander's
apartment. Other figures were flitting through the
parade-ground, which the Commander might have seen had
he not slept so quietly. The intruder stepped noiselessly
to the couch and listened to the sleeper's deep-drawn
inspiration. Something glittered in the firelight as
the savage lifted his arm; another moment and the sore
perplexities of Hermenegildo Salvatierra would have
been over, when suddenly the savage started, and fell
back in a paroxysm of terror. The Commander slept
peacefully, but his right eye, widely opened, fixed
and unaltered, glared coldly on the would-be assassin.
The man fell to the earth in a fit, and the noise awoke
the sleeper.
To rise to his feet, grasp his sword, and deal blows
thick and fast upon the mutinous savages who now
thronged the room, was the work of a moment. Help
opportunely arrived, and the undisciplined Indians
were speedily driven beyond the walls, but in the
scuffle the Commander received a blow upon his right
eye, and, lifting his hand to that mysterious organ,
it was gone. Never again was it found, and never
again, for bale or bliss, did it adorn the right
orbit of the Commander.
With it passed away the spell that had fallen upon
San Carlos. The rain returned to invigorate the
languid soil, harmony was restored between priest
and soldier, the green grass presently waved over
the sere hillsides, the children flocked again to
the side of their martial preceptor, a Te Deum was
sung in the Mission Church, and pastoral content
once more smiled upon the gentle valleys of San
Carlos. And far southward crept the General Court
with its master, Peleg Scudder, trafficking in
beads and peltries with the Indians, and offering
glass eyes, wooden legs, and other Boston notions
to the chiefs.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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