that the Mounted Rifles,
under Lieutenant-Colonel Loring, would march overland to Oregon;
and that Brigadier-General Persifer F. Smith would come out in
chief command on the Pacific coast. It was also known that a
contract had been entered into with parties in New York and New
Orleans for a monthly line of steamers from those cities to
California, via Panama. Lieutenant-Colonel Burton had come up from
Lower California, and, as captain of the Third Artillery, he was
assigned to command Company F, Third Artillery, at Monterey.
Captain Warner remained at Sacramento, surveying; and Halleck,
Murray, Ord, and I, boarded with Dona Augustias. The season was
unusually rainy and severe, but we passed the time with the usual
round of dances and parties. The time fixed for the arrival of the
mail-steamer was understood to be about January 1, 1849, but the
day came and went without any tidings of her. Orders were given to
Captain Burton to announce her arrival by firing a national
salute, and each morning we listened for the guns from the fort.
The month of January passed, and the greater part of February, too.
As was usual, the army officers celebrated the 22d of February with
a grand ball, given in the new stone school-house, which Alcalde
Walter Colton had built. It was the largest and best hall then in
California. The ball was really a handsome affair, and we kept it
up nearly all night. The next morning we were at breakfast:
present, Dona Augustias, and Manuelita, Halleck, Murray, and
myself. We were dull and stupid enough until a gun from the fort
aroused us, then another and another. "The steamer" exclaimed all,
and, without waiting for hats or any thing, off we dashed. I
reached the wharf hatless, but the dona sent my cap after me by a
servant. The white puffs of smoke hung around the fort, mingled
with the dense fog, which hid all the water of the bay, and well
out to sea could be seen the black spars of some unknown vessel.
At the wharf I found a group of soldiers and a small row-boat,
which belonged to a brig at anchor in the bay. Hastily ordering a
couple of willing soldiers to get in and take the oars, and Mr.
Larkin and Mr. Hartnell asking to go along, we jumped in and pushed
off. Steering our boat toward the spars, which loomed up above the
fog clear and distinct, in about a mile we came to the black hull
of the strange monster, the long-expected and most welcome steamer
California. Her wheels were bar