“Goddam it, Valentine! Don’t you shout at me!”
“This is wartime! You forget about that?”
“Even Fremont gives receipts. He gave a bunch to Captain Sutter …”
Valentine’s laugh is forced and empty, ringing across the glade.
“Sutter says anytime you conscript animals …”
“Captain Sutter is also under house arrest, Mr. Reed! So what difference does it make?”
With an accusing eye he watches Jim, who stares back in consternation, but says nothing more. As if the skirmish they’ve all been hoping for has at last been waged and won, Valentine calls to the others, “Round ‘em up!”
Fifteen horses are added to the caballada, leaving the Californians without a weapon or a lariat or a saddle or an animal to strap a saddle to. Valentine knows this is an insult perhaps worse than hanging.
The father’s lean, weathered face strains against his anger. Do you expect us to walk? he says. Our corrals are half a day from here.
Don’t complain, says Valentine with a satisfied grin, or we will also ask for your boots and your sombreros.
The father and his sons stand in the grass, furious, humiliated. The sight titillates several Volunteers, who take sweet and secret pleasure in having someone at their mercy. As the caballada moves north again, the yearning to pillage sends five men riding off to visit a nearby rancho. Sometime later they return with cocky grins and six more horses. They brag of this adventure and laugh at the helplessness of a Californio woman and gray-bearded grandfather who tried to block their entrance to the house and barns, where bridles and saddles had been hidden away, and inside some saddlebags a pair of handsome pistols.
Jim listens to their tale of conquest, still thinking about Valentine’s outburst. He has not let the matter go. What right has Valentine to challenge his loyalty? Or was that a challenge at all? Maybe it was another scene, performed at Jim’s expense. He grows weary of the posturing. He grows weary of this vain man who lets bullying run unchecked and always seems to be onstage, prancing along now like a military hero homeward bound.
Jim is remembering Lewis Keseberg’s saddle style, prancing and disdainful, on that evening so long ago when they met beside the Platte. He was right to part ways with Keseberg in the middle of Nebraska, and he should never have let him rejoin the party. Think how differently things might have gone. Maybe the time has come to put some space between himself and Valentine. How has he ended up in this cavalcade of strangers, in hot pursuit of an enemy none of them has seen? He should be riding out of here. He should leave today. Yes, he should. But then what? Where else is there to ride to? Where else to go if Yerba Buena itself may soon be under siege? Jim has seen what lies this side of the Sierras—Johnson’s Ranch, Sutter’s Fort, abandoned missions, adobe villages, endless miles of open land, all of it wet, with winter coming on, and getting wetter, a pueblo, a presidio with cannon barrels rusted shut …
Valentine interrupts his silent debate.
“I know you’d rather be somewhere else, Mr. Reed. But don’t give up on me just yet.”
It is the mellow voice of the intimate companion, the confidant who seems once again to be reading his mind. Valentine rides next to him. Their knees almost touch. He inclines his head, speaking so softly Jim can barely hear the words.
“You are right, of course. About the receipts. In this interim time of martial law, it is the policy of the Northern Department. But it only applies to Americans and other foreigners whose possessions must be put to military use, wouldn’t you say? Among these Californians, a receipt for livestock would be meaningless, since none of them can read. They don’t deserve receipts. Their ignorance is appalling. Matched only by the vastness of their lands. They have no clear knowledge of what they own, or where it may begin or end. I imagine that fellow back there has more horses than he can count. And most are running loose. These ranches, you know, they have no boundaries. In the great valley to the east, there are horses beyond number, horses that belong to no one. They run wild by the thousands. Plucking one of these horses is like plucking a blade of grass from the floor of the valley. You and I should not be disagreeing about such trivial details.”
A slanting hat brim covers his brow. The eyelids droop with conspiracy and comradeship. Jim knows he is right about the wild horses. For the rest of it, he tells himself he’s too new in this country. In such times it’s better to be safe than sorry, and so he rides a while longer with Valentine, who led him to the orchards and now leads him back toward San Jose de Guadalupe.
By late afternoon they are heading for the courthouse moat. The Volunteers are boisterous with shouts and rearing horses. Townspeople appear cautiously, one by one, to see the source of such commotion. Women leave their cooking fires. Men step out of the cantinas. A priest stands in the door of the church, and children gaze at the ragtag band of mounted men led by Valentine, with Carlos at his side in flat-top bill cap and leather jacket, while behind them and around them men wear greatcoats, carry powder horns and Bowie knives, their trousers made of buckskin or homespun or military wool, some with hats, some longhaired and hatless, wearing rolled bandannas, Apache-style. As if they might be in the mood to attack this island stronghold, the dusty, bearded riders and their frothing herd make a full turn around the courthouse and its bemused guard of curious marines.
Ahead of them, on the far side of the plaza, a gang of young men on horseback seem to take no interest in this display. Their eyes follow one of their own number, who comes galloping out of an alleyway at full speed, as if in a race, though he is alone. He swings his body down until his hand nearly touches the earth. A live rooster has been buried to its neck in the spongy dirt. Without slowing, he grabs the rooster’s head. As the body pops free, the liberated wings flap frantically. The lad’s excited yank has nearly torn the head loose, but tendons still connect it. He swings the bird like a lariat, as he hurtles toward the Volunteers.
Shouting “Bienvenidos, mi capitano!” he snaps his wrist, so that the body flies free over ducking heads. A few coats and shirts are spattered red before the bloody carcass meets the upthrust hand of Carlos, who rises in his saddle to make an astonishing midair catch.
The young rider has crossed the plaza, picking up speed as he sprints along the King’s Highway. His laughing allies scatter, disappearing among the sheds and heaps of cattle bones. With a battle cry, Carlos whirls in galloping pursuit, hunched over the mane, until he is close enough to hurl the rooster. It strikes the young vaquero squarely between the shoulders, a perfect shot that propels him toward the edge of town. The Volunteers are cheering, all but Valentine, who brushes at his hat and spotted waistcoat.
“Sonofabitch will pay for that,” he mutters. “They will all pay dearly.”
In a corner of the plaza the rooster flops and squirms, then lies still. Townspeople drift away, and the scouting party drifts toward the cantina. Having seen nothing, they nonetheless have much to report, already telling one another stories that will swell into the saga of their fruitless expedition.
“Ol’ Valentine, he cracks the whip. He worked us day and night. But by God we stayed the course …”
“Never seen fog so thick as what rolled in at Monterey. Might as well had your head inside a gunnysack. For all we know, them Mexican ships snuck right by us in the night …”
“I know they’re out there. We flushed up a gang of greasers runnin’ horses for the army. You think they wasn’t scared? I had me a bead on one of ‘em. If he’d a moved a muscle … ka-pow!”
A Call to Arms
LATE DECEMBER NOW in Santa Clara Valley, getting close to Christmas, when dark falls early and the evening air is cold, drawing forth a steamy ground fog from flat pasturelands where the longhorns have grazed all autumn. Low ranges east and west are black lines against a blue-black sky, while to the north a faint light, the memory of afterglow, still hangs above the vast waters of the bay.
Smooth, unruffled water stretches past the long peninsula,
where deer will gather at the shoreline to lick at patches of salty residue. The water stretches north to Yerba Buena, where the U.S. fleet waits just inside the channel John Fremont named “the Golden Gate,” and stretches farther north, past seal pods fishing for dinner off Alcatraz and Angel Island, to the village of Sonoma, beyond the water’s northern edge, where thirty men overran the garrison last June, raised the image of a grizzly bear above the plaza and launched the season of turmoil that now is nearly done.
In Sonoma Bill McCutcheon, still sweating in the night, waits for some word, any word, having found two men who might—just might, if the price is right—ride with them back into the mountains to help bring out their wives and children … Mac at one end of the bay, Jim at the other, and they’ll both have to wait a while longer, since the returning Volunteers have been greeted with a fresh report, delivered today by yet another launch sailing up the river that winds inland from the bay.
While the Volunteers were on patrol, hostile forces captured six sailors from the U.S.S. Portsmouth and the acting mayor of Yerba Buena, a ship’s officer named Bartlett, only recently appointed to the post. Though they were armed, and though they may have been scouting out some territory as they went, they weren’t looking for trouble. They’d set forth in search of beef cattle to feed the town and feed the personnel aboard the ships—only to be surrounded, deprived of their weapons, and abducted. A marauding band has twice been sighted in the coastal hills, a hundred riders at the least, some say two hundred, maybe more, traveling with these hostages in tow.
Tonight, at the end of a wagon road lined with oak, a meeting has been called in the home of the Alcalde, the first official of the pueblo. He comes from Massachusetts, has the beefy looks of an English country squire but the outfit of a California ranchero. He wears snug buckskin leggings with stitched edges, split almost to the knee so the white underleggings show. His ruffled shirt is so white it almost shines. Jim has not seen a shirt this white in months, the cloth pulled smooth across an ample belly, underneath a jacket a size too small, a jacket made of maroon velvet, with twin rows of silver buttons down the front and buttons along each tight-fitting sleeve.
His wife is also here, a California woman, gracious, cultivated, younger than the Alcalde. She speaks no English, or perhaps chooses not to. Though she stands apart, she presides over the arrivings, the removing of heavy coats and weathered hats. Her erect and elegant posture says, “This is my home and you are welcome.”
On her adobe walls, framed mirrors catch the light. There is an oak sideboard, highly polished, a mantelpiece above the fire, with bric-a-brac and silver candelabra, and several chairs, some with upholstered seats, some with seats of woven straw.
Jim savors what he sees. He covets it, the first true home he’s set foot in since leaving Illinois. The woman’s touch awakens old domestic hungers. He cannot keep his eyes off the Alcalde’s wife, who wears a low-cut red dress, her broad shoulders covered with a shawl, her skin deliciously smooth and white. Dark silky hair hangs in a thick braid.
She says, “Bienvenidos, Señor Reed.”
“Tengo mucho gusto, señora,” says Jim, trying out a phrase he has heard some others use. I’m pleased to meet you.
“Nuestra casa es su casa.”
Her smile is polite, yet expansive, showing healthy white teeth. He gropes for more words, hoping to keep it alive, the most generous smile he’s ever seen. Alas, it comes and goes too quickly. She steps away to welcome someone else, then she’s gone, as if called to an emergency in some other part of the house, and the Alcalde is refilling Jim’s glass, his florid brow creased and burdened.
The Alcalde is hospitable yet agitated tonight, pouring wine and liquors from his various decanters into goblets of cut glass for Jim and Valentine and three other Volunteers, for the red-bearded captain who commands the marine detachment, and for the young naval officer in charge of the launch. Like a host at a banquet, he has moved from guest to guest, pouring, nodding, sharing each man’s version of concern or alarm or outrage.
He says, “Heady times, Mr. Reed.”
“Indeed.”
“The pueblo is grateful for your help.”
“I believe in people sticking together,” Jim says, with a self-deprecating nod.
The Alcalde likes this. “I wish more of our compatriots felt that way.”
“Taking care of any town can keep you busy.”
“Do you mind if I ask where you’re staying?”
“A bunch of us bunk next to Valentine’s mill.”
“You’re welcome here, you know. It’s not lavish, but it might beat that shed.”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
“I’m sure you know we’ve heard about your people stranded in the mountains. We’re very sorry, too.”
“That’s much appreciated.”
“A terrible thing.”
“Others have made it through a winter there. Our people will make it.”
“Even so, our prayers are with you.”
The Alcalde is a softhearted man. This story, what he’s heard, as it has trickled toward him from Johnson’s and from Sutter’s Fort, has softened his heart a bit more. He wants Jim to know there will be a place for the Reeds in Santa Clara Valley.
“I may take you up on that,” Jim says. “I like it here. I like the look of things.”
“I hope you mean that.” The Alcalde’s eyes glisten with pride and fellowship. “I hope you’ll bring your family and settle down among us. You have already performed a service above and beyond the call of duty. This will not be forgotten.”
“It’s been mostly sitting in the saddle, sir, riding along from one day to the next.”
“We’re grateful to have a man of your substance in our midst. So many loose ones around now, you know. Here today, gone tomorrow.”
The Alcalde reminds him of George Donner, a fatherly man who will keep certain confidences. Jim is moved to talk with him in a way he cannot talk with Valentine, who is like a boy, like a wayward and impetuous son.
The fleshy face is open, congenial now. Jim wants to tell him what he saw in the orchards of the Mission of St. Joseph, when leaves and limbs sent back suffused light off the waters of the bay. In memory these acres glow, the rows of limbs, where new shoots wait under crusty bark, where layers of damp mulch carpet the earth.
“We slept there. And very early I awoke and walked out among the trees. I imagined that once my family was safely across I would bring them there to camp beneath the boughs while the crop is being harvested. Someone should gather all that fruit, you know, perhaps to dry, perhaps to ship …”
The Alcalde is blinking. If he were a younger man, he says with misty eyes, he would join such a venture. This is the kind of spirit the community needs and the valley needs.
“And yet I’ve heard that no one owns the orchard now,” Jim says. “Has it truly been abandoned?”
The Alcalde shrugs. “Some say it still belongs to the Church. Some say to Mexico. Some say to the brother of the gobernador, who may have bought the land a year or so ago.”
“From whom?”
“Why, from the gobernador, of course—though both of them have now fled for Mexico City, or so I’ve heard. How strong is your interest, Mr. Reed?”
“Very strong.”
“Some say the pueblo will soon have jurisdiction over all such lands. I suspect a petition addressed to the Alcalde would get some serious consideration.”
He winks, touches Jim’s arm. “We’ll talk again, just the two of us, when we have more time. Right now …” He nods toward the men who fill his parlor.
The Alcalde moves toward his fireplace, clinking an upraised glass. In candlelight his head of abundant white hair has a glow. His voice is large and captivating, a politician’s voice.
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Once again, welcome. As you all know, the good captain has called us together tonight. Though we meet in secret, there is no secret about why we are here.”
He looks down
at the commander of the marine detachment, who leans from his chair and scans the room with unblinking eyes. The Captain has been drinking since midafternoon. His eyes are as red as his beard. His thinning hair looks wet. The aguardiente gives his voice a ragged and persuasive edge. Everyone knows the story he’s about to tell, but something ceremonial is required here, and the red-bearded captain has a ceremonial style.
As he describes again how seven men set out in search of food to feed their comrades, an indignant murmur crosses the room. His cheeks turn a deeper red, new moisture rises to his ruby eyes. Three months ago in Los Angeles, he says, a rebellious spirit broke the truce, and now it has reached the northern towns—seven of our finest men held captive, taken unawares, without warning, in an unprovoked attack.
“Murderous bastards,” someone mutters.
“They’ll regret this day.”
“We heard they was comin’,” says a Volunteer, “everywhere we went we heard it. They must’ve landed farther north and come up from the beach.”
“We don’t know for sure yet who we’re dealing with,” the Captain says, “or how many there may be. But this is not just another phantom report. These riders have been sighted. They are roaming the peninsula between the pueblo and the port, and the time has come to take action before more damage is done!”
He stands up, his voice raw, compelling. We were sent here, he says, to defend the town. But we can’t do it alone. This will take all the troops in San Jose and Yerba Buena together, regulars and volunteers. Tomorrow a courier will ride to the port, instructing those units to head south at top speed. The San Jose units will move north, leaving the enemy nowhere to turn. Long before they reach this pueblo they will be forced out into the open.
He frames a bracket with his hands, reminding them that the peninsula is bounded on one side by San Francisco Bay, on the other by cliffs and narrow beaches facing the Pacific.
“We will flush them out, you see! Like a fox on the run!”
He turns to Valentine. “Can we count on your militia?”
Snow Mountain Passage Page 20