ith long, restless arms; a youthful, rosy complexion and serious blue
eyes. Further back, assembling his marines in marching order, was
Lieutenant Henry Watson, a smaller man of extraordinary nervous energy.
Montgomery gave the marching order. Fife and drum struck up a lively air
and to its strains the feet of Yerba Buena's first invading army kept
uncertain step as sailors and marines toiled through the sand. Half a
thousand feet above them stood the quaint adobe customs house, its
red-tiled roof and drab adobe walls contrasting pleasantly with the
surrounding greenery of terraced hills. Below it lay the Plaza with its
flagpole, its hitching racks for horses and oxen.

Here the commander halted his men. "Lieutenant Watson," he addressed the
senior subaltern, "be so good as to request attendance by the prefect or
alcalde.... And for heaven's sake, fasten your coat, sir," he added in a
whispered aside.

Saluting with one hand, fumbling at his buttons with the other, Watson
marched into the customs house, while the populace waited agape; but he
returned very soon to report that the building was untenanted. Captain
Montgomery frowned. He had counted on the pomp and punctilio of a formal
surrender--a spectacular bit of history that would fashion gallant words
for a report. "Haul down the flag of Mexico," he said to Lieutenant
Misroon. "Run up the Stars and Stripes!"

Lieutenant Misroon gazed aloft, then down again, embarrassed. "There is
no flag, sir," he responded, and Montgomery verified his statement with
a frowning glance. "Where the devil is it, then?" he asked explosively.

A frightened clerk appeared now at the doorway of the custom house. He
bowed and scraped before the irate commander. "Pardon, Senor
Commandante," he said, quaveringly, "the flag of Mexico reposes in a
trunk with the official papers of the port. I, myself, have seen the
receiver of customs, Don Rafael Pinto, place it there."

"And where is Don Rafael?"

"Some days ago he joined the Castro forces in the South, Senor."

"Well, well!" Montgomery's tone was sharp; "there must be someone in
command. Who is he?"

"The Sub-Prefect has ridden to his rancho, Commandante."

"That disposes of the civil authorities," Montgomery reflected, "since
Port-Captain Ridley is in jail with Fremont's captives." He turned to
the clerk again. "Is there not a garrison at the Presidio?"

"They have joined the noble Castro," sighed the clerk, recovering his
equanim