e old
feudal chieftains counted their land by leagues instead of sections. Before 1836 Vallejo had been commandant at Sonoma, where the old mission stood. Now, since the confiscation of missions Sonoma belonged to Vallejo as chief of the colonial army. It was his strong arm, more than anything else, that had seated his nephew, Alvarado, in the governor's chair at Monterey.
Vallejo's house was the finest on the coast. Eight thousand cattle bore his brand on the hills; his leagues of wheat yielded eight hundred fanegas for every eight sown. Indian serfs without number tilled his lands and toiled in his house.
Vallejo sent mounted horsemen to bring in his guests. As Dr. McLoughlin, Sir George, and Rae and Eloise galloped under the arched gateway, his retainers fired a salute under the Spanish flag. Vallejo's young brother, Don Salvador, led the way in jingling spurs and serape. The handsome general came out in his dark-blue broadcloth cloak, the senora bowed in her silken gown and spangled satin shoes, and a star like a coronet in her hair.
Everything had an old-world air, gilded mirrors, square old Spanish sofas, even the spindle-legged pianoforte, the only one in California. The carpets were made by Indians of Mexico. Vallejo, and his nephew, Alvarado, had collected the only libraries west of the Rockies. The senora sparkled at dinner, and the senora's charming daughters. Indian servants sped to and fro with frijoles and tortillas, olives, stewed beef with red pepper, and onions and native wines.
General Vallejo, of old Castilian stock, born in California, foresaw the building of a great commonwealth. All the world knew that Spanish rule was trembling in
