The Right Eye Of The Commander

: Selected Stories

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

Presi io 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 ovenlike hearth. A pile of copybooks, 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 pothooks 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 marvelous; 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 that 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, kickshaws, 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 SEMICUACUA, 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 though 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 copybooks under the awful supervision, and poor Paquita, the prize

pupil, failed utterly in that marvelous upstroke 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.