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 equanimity.  “There is only the commander Sanchez, Senor.  He is also at his rancho.”

Despite his irritation, Captain Montgomery could not miss the humor of the situation.  A dry chuckle escaped him.  “Run up the flag,” he said to Lieutenant Misroon, and the latter hastened to comply.  An instant later the starry banner floated high above their heads.  A cheer broke out.  Hats flew into the air and from the ship’s band came the stirring strains of America’s national air.  Then, deep and thunderous, a gun spoke on the Portsmouth.  Another and another.

Captain Montgomery, stiff and dignified, lifted his hand and amid an impressive silence read the proclamation of Commodore Sloat, in which all citizens of captured ports were assured of fair and friendly treatment and invited to become subjects of the United States.  He suggested the immediate formation of a town militia.  Leidesdorff came bustling forward.

“My house is at your service, gentlemen,” he said.  “And tonight,” he removed his hat and bowed toward the ladies, “tonight I bid you all to be my guests and give our new friends welcome.”  He saluted Montgomery and his aids, who, somewhat nonplussed, returned the greeting.