OF PADRE VINCENTIO
A LEGEND OF SAN FRANCISCO.
by Bret Harte
One pleasant New Year's Eve, about forty years ago, Padre Vicentio was
slowly picking his way across the sand-hills from the Mission Dolores. As
he climbed the crest of the ridge beside Mission Creek, his broad, shining
face might have been easily mistaken for the beneficent image of the
rising moon, so bland was its smile and so indefinite its features. For
the Padre was a man of notable reputation and character; his ministration
at the mission of San Jose had been marked with cordiality and unction; he
was adored by the simple-minded savages, and had succeeded in impressing
his individuality so strongly upon them that the very children were said
to have miraculously resembled him in feature.
As the holy man reached the loneliest portion of the road, he naturally
put spurs to his mule as if to quicken that decorous pace which the
obedient animal had acquired through long experience of its master's
habits. The locality had an unfavorable reputation. Sailors—deserters
from whaleships—had been seen lurking about the outskirts of the
town, and low scrub oaks which everywhere beset the trail might have
easily concealed some desperate runaway. Besides these material
obstructions, the devil, whose hostility to the church was well known, was
said to sometimes haunt the vicinity in the likeness of a spectral whaler,
who had met his death in a drunken bout, from a harpoon in the hands of a
companion. The ghost of this unfortunate mariner was frequently observed
sitting on the hill toward the dusk of evening, armed with his favorite
weapon and a tub containing a coil of line, looking out for some belated
traveller on whom to exercise his professional skill. It is related that
the good Father Jose Maria of the Mission Dolores had been twice attacked
by this phantom sportsman; that once, on returning from San Francisco, and
panting with exertion from climbing the hill, he was startled by a
stentorian cry of "There she blows!" quickly followed by a hurtling
harpoon, which buried itself in the sand beside him; that on another
occasion he narrowly escaped destruction, his serapa having been
transfixed by the diabolical harpoon and dragged away in triumph. Popular
opinion seems to have been divided as to the reason for the devil's
particular attention to Father Jose, some asserting that the extreme piety
of the Padre excited the Evil One's animosity, and others that his adipose
tendency simply rendered him, from a professional view-point, a profitable
Had Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at this apparition as a
heretical innovation, there was still the story of Concepcion, the Demon
Vaquero, whose terrible riata was fully as potent as the whaler's harpoon.
Concepcion, when in the flesh, had been a celebrated herder of cattle and
wild horses, and was reported to have chased the devil in the shape of a
fleet pinto colt all the way from San Luis Obispo to San Francisco, vowing
not to give up the chase until he had overtaken the disguised Arch-Enemy.
This the devil prevented by resuming his own shape, but kept the
unfortunate vaquero to the fulfilment of his rash vow; and Concepcion
still scoured the coast on a phantom steed, beguiling the monotony of his
eternal pursuit by lassoing travellers, dragging them at the heels of his
unbroken mustang until they were eventually picked up, half-strangled, by
the roadside. The Padre listened attentively for the tramp of this
terrible rider. But no footfall broke the stillness of the night; even the
hoofs of his own mule sank noiselessly in the shifting sand. Now and then
a rabbit bounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into the bushes. The
melancholy call of plover from the adjoining marshes of Mission Creek came
to him so faintly and fitfully that it seemed almost a recollection of the
past rather than a reality of the present.
To add to his discomposure one of those heavy sea-fogs peculiar to the
locality began to drift across the hills and presently encompassed him.
While endeavoring to evade its cold embraces, Padre Vicentio incautiously
drove his heavy spurs into the flanks of his mule as that puzzled animal
was hesitating on the brink of a steep declivity. Whether the poor beast
was indignant at this novel outrage, or had been for some time reflecting
on the evils of being priest-ridden, has not transpired; enough that he
suddenly threw up his heels, pitching the reverend man over his head, and,
having accomplished this feat, coolly dropped on his knees and tumbled
after his rider.
Over and over went the Padre, closely followed by his faithless mule.
Luckily the little hollow which received the pair was of sand that yielded
to the superincumbent weight, half burying them without further injury.
For some moments the poor man lay motionless, vainly endeavoring to
collect his scattered senses. A hand irreverently laid upon his collar,
and a rough shake, assisted to recall his consciousness. As the Padre
staggered to his feet he found himself confronted by a stranger.
Seen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances that to say the least
were not prepossessing, the new-comer had an inexpressibly mysterious and
brigand-like aspect. A long boat-cloak concealed his figure, and a
slouched hat hid his features, permitting only his eyes to glisten in the
depths. With a deep groan the Padre slipped from the stranger's grasp and
subsided into the soft sand again.
"Gad's life!" said the stranger, pettishly, "hast no more bones in thy fat
carcass than a jellyfish? Lend a hand, here! Yo, heave ho!" and he dragged
the Padre into an upright position. "Now, then, who and what art thou?"
The Padre could not help thinking that the question might have more
properly been asked by himself; but with an odd mixture of dignity and
trepidation he began enumerating his different titles, which were by no
means brief, and would have been alone sufficient to strike awe in the
bosom of an ordinary adversary. The stranger irreverently broke in upon
his formal phrases, and assuring him that a priest was the very person he
was looking for, coolly replaced the old man's hat, which had tumbled off,
and bade him accompany him at once on an errand of spiritual counsel to
one who was even then lying in extremity. "To think," said the stranger,
"that I should stumble upon the very man I was seeking! Body of Bacchus!
but this is lucky! Follow me quickly, for there is no time to lose."
Like most easy natures the positive assertion of the stranger, and withal
a certain authoritative air of command, overcame what slight objections
the Padre might have feebly nurtured during this remarkable interview. The
spiritual invitation was one, also, that he dared not refuse; not only
that; but it tended somewhat to remove the superstitious dread with which
he had begun to regard the mysterious stranger. But, following at a
respectful distance, the Padre could not help observing with a thrill of
horror that the stranger's footsteps made no impression on the sand, and
his figure seemed at times to blend and incorporate itself with the fog,
until the holy man was obliged to wait for its reappearance. In one of
these intervals of embarrassment he heard the ringing of the far-off
Mission bell, proclaiming the hour of midnight. Scarcely had the last
stroke died away before the announcement was taken up and repeated by a
multitude of bells of all sizes, and the air was filled with the sound of
striking clocks and the pealing of steeple chimes. The old man uttered a
cry of alarm. The stranger sharply demanded the cause. "The bells! did you
not hear them?" gasped Padre Vicentio. "Tush! tush!" answered the
stranger, "thy fall hath set triple bob-majors ringing in thine ears. Come
The Padre was only too glad to accept the explanation conveyed in this
discourteous answer. But he was destined for another singular experience.
When they had reached the summit of the eminence now known as Russian
Hill, an exclamation again burst from the Padre. The stranger turned to
his companion with an impatient gesture; but the Padre heeded him not. The
view that burst upon his sight was such as might well have engrossed the
attention of a more enthusiastic temperament. The fog had not yet reached
the hill, and the long valleys and hillsides of the embarcadero below were
glittering with the light of a populous city. "Look!" said the Padre,
stretching his hand over the spreading landscape. "Look, dost thou not see
the stately squares and brilliantly lighted avenues of a mighty
metropolis. Dost thou not see, as it were, another firmament below?"
"Avast heaving, reverend man, and quit this folly," said the strange;
dragging the bewildered Padre after him. "Behold rather the stars knocked
out of thy hollow noddle by the fall thou hast had. Prithee, get over thy
visions and rhapsodies, for the time is wearing apace."
The Padre humbly followed without another word. Descending the hill toward
the north, the stranger leading the way, in a few moments the Padre
detected the wash of waves, and presently his feet struck the firmer sand
of the beach. Here the stranger paused, and the Padre perceived a boat
lying in readiness hard by. As he stepped into the stern sheets, in
obedience to the command of his companion, he noticed that the rowers
seemed to partake of the misty incorporeal texture of his companion, a
similarity that became the more distressing when he perceived also that
their oars in pulling together made no noise. The stranger, assuming the
helm, guided the boat on quietly, while the fog, settling over the face of
the water and closing around them, seemed to interpose a muffled wall
between themselves and the rude jarring of the outer world. As they pushed
further into this penetralia, the Padre listened anxiously for the sound
of creaking blocks and the rattling of cordage, but no vibration broke the
veiled stillness or disturbed the warm breath of the fleecy fog. Only one
incident occurred to break the monotony of their mysterious journey. A
one-eyed rower, who sat in front of the Padre, catching the devout
father's eye, immediately grinned such a ghastly smile, and winked his
remaining eye with such diabolical intensity of meaning that the Padre was
constrained to utter a pious ejaculation, which had the disastrous effect
of causing the marine Cocles to "catch a crab," throwing his heels in the
air and his head into the bottom of the boat. But even this accident did
not disturb the gravity of the rest of the ghastly boat's crew.
When, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes had elapsed, the outline of a
large ship loomed up directly across their bow. Before he could utter the
cry of warning that rose to his lips, or brace himself against the
expected shock, the boat passed gently and noiselessly through the sides
of the vessel, and the holy man found himself standing on the berth deck
of what seemed to be an ancient caravel. The boat and boat's crew had
vanished. Only his mysterious friend, the stranger, remained. By the light
of a swinging lamp the Padre beheld him standing beside a hammock,
whereon, apparently, lay the dying man to whom he had been so mysteriously
summoned. As the Padre, in obedience to a sign from his companion, stepped
to the side of the sufferer, he feebly opened his eyes and thus addressed
"Thou seest before thee, reverend father, a helpless mortal, struggling
not only with the last agonies of the flesh, but beaten down and tossed
with sore anguish of the spirit. It matters little when or how I became
what thou now seest me. Enough that my life has been ungodly and sinful,
and that my only hope of absolution lies in my imparting to thee a secret
which is of vast importance to the holy Church, and affects greatly her
power, wealth, and dominion on these shores. But the terms of this secret
and the conditions of my absolution are peculiar. I have but five minutes
to live. In that time I must receive the extreme unction of the Church."
"And thy secret?" said the holy father.
"Shall be told afterwards," answered the dying man. "Come, my time is
short. Shrive me quickly."
The Padre hesitated. "Couldst thou not tell this secret first?"
"Impossible!" said the dying man, with what seemed to the Padre a
momentary gleam of triumph. Then, as his breath grew feebler, he called
impatiently, "Shrive me! shrive me!"
"Let me know at least what this secret concerns?" suggested the Padre,
"Shrive me first," said the dying man.
But the priest still hesitated, parleying with the sufferer until the
ship's bell struck, when, with a triumphant, mocking laugh from the
stranger, the vessel suddenly fell to pieces, amid the rushing of waters
which at once involved the dying man, the priest, and the mysterious
The Padre did not recover his consciousness until high noon the next day,
when he found himself lying in a little hollow between the Mission Hills,
and his faithful mule a few paces from him, cropping the sparse herbage.
The Padre made the best of his way home, but wisely abstained from
narrating the facts mentioned above, until after the discovery of gold,
when the whole of this veracious incident was related, with the assertion
of the padre that the secret which was thus mysteriously snatched from his
possession was nothing more than the discovery of gold, years since, by
the runaway sailors from the expedition of Sir Francis Drake.