Almost Final Epilogue

            The two old men, General Vallejo and Chief Solano, spend the afternoon in the cramped drawing room at Vallejo’s home, Lachryma Montis, in Sonoma. They review events since they last saw one another.

            “I’m confused,” says Solano, seating himself in the rocking chair that was normally Vallejo's favorite. “If you were happy that the Americans had taken California, why were you still imprisoned after the American flag was raised?”

            General Vallejo shifts uncomfortably in a straight-backed cross-stitched chair. “Another confusion, I’m afraid. Captain Fremont had given orders to our jailor that we were not to be released except upon his specific command. Fearing his reprisal, poor Officer Kern denied the requests of Consul Larkin, Commodore Sloat, and other American officials for almost a month. It was very trying.”

            “And that bear flag of theirs did not go away after the Americans took over. I saw it in the town square on my way here today, along with the red, white, and blue one.”

            “An issue on which I was outvoted in the constitutional convention. I succeeded in getting California declared a slave-free state, but I was defeated on other important matters. I had argued for women and natives to have the right to vote, but they do not. The flag rankles just as much. They kept that ridiculous, offensive bear on the state flag, ignoring my suggestion that it should be shown lassoed by a vaquero.”

            Solano frowned, puzzled. “Why was the bear such an issue for you?”

            “It caused many problems – many. The Mexicans saw it as a symbol of violence and lawlessness. They formed militias to defend themselves as soon as they saw it in Sonoma. Two young American messengers were killed after being captured by a militia near Santa Rosa. The villain, Three-fingered Jack he called himself, slit their throats.”

            “Wasn’t he the barber?  Manuel Garcia? Where did he get the name Three-fingered Jack?”

            “He had lost two fingers, and some famous pirate had that name, so he took it on himself. After the murder, he joined forces with Joaquin Murrietta down south, and was killed with him there.”

            “Wait. You say he murdered the men. Are killings in a war considered murder?”

            “Those surely were. Those young men had done nothing more than carry messages. In retaliation, Fremont captured Señor José Berryessa and the De Haro brothers and had them shot in cold blood. Some people here have never recovered from the rage that ensued.”

            Solano did not speak for a moment, considering. “And you were imprisoned at the time?”

            Vallejo shook his head. “I do not like to remember those dreadful days. The Sacramento fever almost killed me.”

            “What is that?”

            “Some call it malaria. It has a terrible effect on its victims. My good friend Bob Semple, suffered from it for a time himself.”

            “Semple. Wasn’t he one of the bears?  Did you just call a bear a good friend?”

            Vallejo smiled. “Not all of them were bad men. Semple and I became business partners. I hold him in high esteem. It is not unusual in times of conflict to misidentify the enemy. I certainly did.

            “For most of that summer I believed Captain Sutter to be my enemy, working with Fremont. I later learned that Fremont had threatened Sutter with hanging if he showed me the slightest courtesy. We were kept in separate rooms without windows or beds. We were given no silverware to eat the stew that was carried in each day.  It is a horror to remember.

            “I felt very foolish that I had rejected your offer to kill the bears in the first place – and that of Cayetano Juarez, who had come with a posse. But I knew that my family was in the hands of the bears. And I believed that Captain Fremont would put everything to rights. As it turned out, it was for the best that I did not retaliate, although I could not see it during that long, miserable summer.”

           The room filled with shadows as the sun disappeared over the hills.  “I have only one last question. I see you’re getting tired, and I don’t want to reawaken painful memories. But what happened to the Casa Grande? To the Petaluma Adobe? To the thousands of sheep, horses, and cattle that you had?”

            “You will certainly stay the night here. I have a few questions for you as well, my friend. Where have you been?