The Deliverance

by Richard S. Wheeler

  Skye sagged into the wall.

  The prefect had one further instruction.

  “You will please to pull off that habit of the Franciscan, which so fraudulently covers you.”

  Skye could not bring himself to do it, or to face what was to come, so he stared.

  But the sharp scrape of a sword pulled from its scabbard changed his mind, and moments later he stood naked.

  twenty-seven

  His camouflage had never failed him. The world saw a giant gaudy grandee telling impossible stories, calling attention to himself in every possible way, and dismissed him as a man demented.

  And so it was this time: he had spun stories, each more improbable than the one before, some of them even true, and he and his monkey and bloodred cart had caught the eye of everyone, and soon these people had taken the measure of him and dismissed him, just as he intended.

  The man called Childress settled in the sunny plaza, and soon enough a crowd collected around him to watch Shine, who was even then swinging from the vigas, dropping to the clay, pilfering everything in sight, much to the delight of grinning children and smiling adults and nervous mothers. Shine was an accomplished thief and considered theft to be his mission in life.

  He sprang toward the cart of a tamale vendor, scooped up two of the corn-husked meals, and retreated to a rooftop, where he chittered happily. The vendor pretended to be vexed, but was laughing at all this. Shine pitched one tamale to Childress, who discreetly hid it in his wagon. In time that heap would grow and include whatever the little monkey could lay his hands on. He was especially adept at collecting small tools, such as knives and spoons, right before the very eyes of the victims, who actually enjoyed the broad daylight robbery.

  Shine pulled corn husks away and wolfed down the tamale, smacked his hairy dark lips, and then vanished into a mercantile, while the Mexicans strained to see inside and discover what act of piracy the little monkey would commit next. They were not disappointed. Shine emerged with a remnant of blue fabric, and dropped it into the cart, while the owner fumed and smiled, uncertain whether to laugh or wax indignant. Childress wisely returned the merchandise.

  Next, Shine plucked Childress’s Panama from his head and wandered through the crowd, holding it by its rim and collecting reales and pesos and candy. If anyone failed to donate, he scolded angrily, dancing from one foot to the other, his tail lashing dangerously, until the victim surrendered. People were delighted. All of Taos was seeing not merely a monkey, but a piratical, demanding, crafty one was well.

  When had Taos received such an entertainment? A great sigh of appreciation went through them, children squealed, mothers clucked and herded the children away from such a hairy menace to good order, and meanwhile, the heap in the red cart grew.

  Shine returned, handed the Panama to Childress, whose quick and furtive glance suggested to him that he had acquired a dollar or two of Mexican coin, a great deal, actually, coming out of an impoverished frontier town. It would buy food.

  Shine rested a while on Childress’s ample shoulder, and then plunged anew into the crowd, entertaining them as a trapeze artist might, swinging from roof to roof, viga to viga, while the crowd craned its necks to watch this novelty. Childress furtively counted: he now had somewhere around three American dollars, mostly in reales and centavos. Not enough to outfit, but it would spare him immediate embarrassments. There would not be more. Shine had pushed these people to the limits of their tolerance.

  Childress enjoyed Taos, which baked in a morning sun, its people bright and happy, its views majestic, its air cool and sweet. It would soon become a part of the Republic of Texas; everything east of the Rio Grande would become a part of Texas. He might be a mercenary, but he was other things as well, and this foray had acquainted him with certain things that he would include in his reports.

  In any case, he was temporarily Texan also, though he had no great loyalty to the new nation. Lamar had sent him, the eyes and ears of the strong army advancing behind him. Houston had been elected but did not recall this robust corps of Texas filibusters rolling west, all of whom bragged they could lick any ten Mexicans they encountered. Childress’s price had been a thousand Republic of Texas dollars—in gold. He had brought none of that with him. He eyed the happy crowd, counting men of military age while the good burghers of Taos gawked.

  But he was also looking for slaves, and found none.

  All this sunny sport was interrupted by the rattle of a drum from the shadowed northeast corner of the plaza, and there Childress beheld an awful spectacle. The drummer, a soldier dressed in the blue and white of the republic, snare-drummed his way through the sunlight, calling attention to what followed, and that turned out to be poor Skye, his flesh white and naked and hairy, his arms tied behind him so he could not even supply himself the modesty of his hands. Prodding him along were two more blue-coated soldados, and finally the prefect.

  A sudden hush descended, and this martial party emerged from the deep shade into bright sun. Women gasped. Who had ever seen such a thing? Most of them intuitively gathered their children and turned away, or fled into the alleys. Some girls stared; old women in black calmly settled in to watch, licensed by age. And men drew to attention.

  Now the awful parade marched slowly around the plaza. Skye’s efforts to hasten his ordeal to its end were thwarted by a rope that stretched around his neck and back to one of the soldiers.

  Skye knew not where to look, and stared rigidly ahead, his mortification apparent in his stiff posture. But then he saw Childress and stared, his gaze so relentless that not even a lifetime devoted to persiflage could help. Childress averted his eyes, knowing he could never meet Skye’s piercing stare. Closer Skye came, the rattle of the drum shattering composure.

  The Mexicans whispered: what was this? Who was this? A man from Tejas! Ah, see what happens to spies and provocateurs! A few spat. Skye passed; around the plaza he went, and passed again, and still he stared at Childress. But what did Skye know? Childress could do or say nothing. Not yet. In time, Skye’s stare might be altogether different from what it was just then.

  At last, after three times around the plaza, they stopped Skye and Archuleta read a proclamation: Be it known to the good citizens of Taos, that this man of Tejas, a spy and enemy of the republic, would be marched to Santa Fe to meet his fate, in the company of soldiers. Let it be a lesson to all.

  An impressive display, Childress thought. He examined the equipment of the soldiers. They lacked muskets, but had broadswords and lances, and he didn’t doubt they knew well how to use them. Skye had never stopped staring at Childress, and the last he saw of Skye, the naked man was still staring at him.

  Childress felt momentary discomfort, but set it aside. He rarely felt any emotion and considered it a liability to his professional conduct. His storefront operation on the Arkansas gave him all the cover he would ever need.

  They were hauling Skye away now; he watched sharply, intending to find out whether Skye would be marched, barefoot and naked, to Santa Fe, or whether they would toss him in a cart, a veritable tumbril. If they did not protect him from the sun he would surely die of burn.

  He had little time. He summoned Shine, who had been bounding along beside Skye for a few moments, and the monkey landed on the seat beside him. The crowd was slowly dispersing; there would be no more shenanigans to entertain them this bright day.

  “Señor,” he said to an older man, “por favor, could you direct me to the residence of Padre Martinez?”

  “Si, Señor Monkey Hombre, it is thus,” the old man said, gesticulating. “He has a young woman who helps him keep house,” the man said, with a certain wryness.

  The Calf had a mistress. That intelligence was not new to Childress, and no remonstrations from the bishop had compelled the priest to surrender his woman. On the contrary, the priest openly declared that celibacy was unnatural and ought not to be required of any clergyman.

  Childress found the Calle Rondo and proceeded up it, until he
reached the place, a blank-walled adobe structure with only a door to signify a dwelling. It was not a rectory. Within, he knew, there would be a small, richly planted patio with the house opening around it. The wall looked to be eight or nine feet, nothing he could look over. From his vantage point on the street, he could see nothing of what transpired within.

  Victoria Skye and her friend, Standing Alone, would be somewhere within, probably doing domestic chores. Padre Martinez maintained no small establishment. Childress doffed his Panama, handed it to Shine, and pointed. The monkey peered at him, uncertain of his intent, but then leaped gracefully to the parapet, and vanished. The few people on this shady lane eyed him curiously but did not question him. They had all seen him in the plaza; perhaps he would be visiting the padre.

  Childress sat and sweated, the sun being high now, but all he encountered was profound silence. He feared that his monkey might have been captured, though no mortal could hold it for long by ordinary means. But at last he saw the familiar little body perched high above, still carrying the Panama. Then Shine leaped gracefully into the cart, and in one more bound, onto the seat beside Childress. Within the hat lay some round loaves, a little succor for the hard times ahead.

  Victoria Skye’s medicine bundle, which always hung from her neck, lay on top.

  They were waiting.

  twenty-eight

  Nothing in Skye’s previous life had prepared him for the mortification of being marched naked through a public place. To strip away his clothes was to strip away his mortality, reduce him to an animal.

  Some of those who first saw him turned away, and he was grateful to them. But others stared, rapt, at the sight of him, and he had no defense against it. He finally stared back, eye for eye, one by one, and many of those who watched found themselves facing an intense stare, until they too fell away, embarrassed.

  But then he had come to Childress, perched on his red cart, the author of his troubles, and so he stared at Childress too, a gaze so relentless that not even that fat fraud could endure it. And so it had passed, and the harm that came to him was not to his body, but to his spirit. The guard took him back to the room from whence he had emerged, and they untied his hands. His aching arms fell to his side and he massaged them.

  Larrimer was still there, compelled to translate, and Archuleta stood by, a certain amused look in his dark eyes.

  “You’re to put on the duds,” Larrimer said.

  They handed Skye some pantalones of coarse hard cloth, and a shirt of the same material. He donned them gratefully, feeling himself a human being once again.

  Archuleta murmured other things, and Larrimer translated.

  “You’re going to Santa Fe now for a trial. Governor Armijo will preside.”

  “I want my wife with me.”

  Larrimer consulted. “He says that’s not possible.”

  “A man on trial is entitled to see his family.”

  “He says fate has decreed otherwise. Spies do not receive such blessings.”

  Skye started to protest his innocence, recite his intentions in coming here, but he held his peace. That litany would get him nowhere.

  “Where is she now?” he asked.

  This time Archuleta was more specific. “In the care of Padre Martinez,” Larrimer said. “She will be employed, and her friend as well, in peaceful labor suitable for an Indian woman.”

  “What if she wants to go home?”

  That produced a long exchange, and then Larrimer said, “She cannot, for her own good. The republic and the church must look after her body and soul, and put her to productive labor, so that she might see God.”

  “Slavery.”

  Larrimer did not translate, and Archuleta did not ask what was said. But he knew, anyway. “Slavery is forbidden in Mexico, by the republic, by the church,” he said. Larrimer translated.

  “Will she be in service at the padre’s house?”

  “No,” Larrimer said at last, “she will be placed with a hacendado as soon as she shows evidence that she accepts her new life. And the same for the other woman. They will be separated, to avoid small difficulties.”

  “And does she have a choice?”

  “No, she’s in debt for her food and shelter and some clothing that was given her. So is the Cheyenne woman. He says that in Mexico these things must be paid with labor, and it is a criminal act to run from creditors. Mexican law is strict and just and virtuous, protecting all. The alcalde says that these things will all be decided for the good of the women.”

  “Are they going to feed me?”

  Archuleta shrugged. He seemed to have understood more English than he admitted to understanding.

  “How many days to Santa Fe?” Skye asked.

  “Quatro, cinco,” the prefect said, not waiting for translation. He turned to the three soldiers, addressed them at length, in curt tones, obviously admonishing them to be on guard with this dangerous man, and then sent them off.

  They marched him south along smooth clay streets that did his feet no harm, perhaps because many hundreds of bare feet tramped them each day. Four or five days along unpaved and stony trails. Skye wondered how long his bare feet would last. Three of the soldiers were on foot, one ahead, two lancers behind. But then another, a corporal, appeared on a horse. He wore a cutlass. There would be no chance of outrunning that one. They all wore the blue and white of the republic, but not shoes or boots. These men wore sandals, as did so many in Mexico. But at least they had thick cowhide under their feet.

  The countryside immediately south of Taos took his breath away. He had not expected beauty, but there it was: the dark reaches of the Sangre de Cristos to the east, the golden plain, the bright green vegetation below, the pastures of lime-colored grasses, sheep, cattle, burros.

  They passed a few peasants, cheerful and sunny people who stared at him and whispered. Many carried enormous burdens on their backs. One lashed at a burro drawing a creaky carreta full of fragrant green hay.

  A great adobe church loomed to the southeast, its twin towers golden in the sun, its beauty utterly amazing to Skye. This lovely building had been lovingly fashioned from the very earth by these people, and Skye found himself admiring these Mexicans for their artistry and industry.

  A great peace seemed to radiate from the church, and he sensed its holiness and sacredness. Not a soul entered through its massive doors, and it seemed to slumber there in the strong light of the noonday.

  The smooth path and the church lifted him for the first time, and he began to think about things: how might he free Victoria and Standing Alone? He knew where they were—for the moment. How might he escape this escort? And if he did, how might he avoid swift recapture? The odds were terrible, and even worse for finding his wife and Cheyenne friend and spiriting them all out of Mexico, barefoot.

  Whatever else he needed to survive, shoes or sandals would be high on the list. He began to observe what lay alongside the trail, something, anything that might spare a barefooted man anguish. But there was only rock and cactus and sticks.

  The terrain changed; the soft dusty clay of the path yielded to sharp-edged rock patched with prickly pear, and his feet knew it at once. He stubbed a toe, and limped. Then he cut a sole on a tiny shard of rock projecting upward invisibly, and left blood in his steps. His left foot hurt, and he began to limp. A soldier prodded him along with the lance, enraging him. And yet … he knew he had a weapon now; his own blood.

  They saw the blood, spoke among themselves, and as they did he slowed. His first and sole defense was to slow to a crawl, go as little as possible. He winced as he walked; he didn’t need to exaggerate the pain; feet unused to being bare are easily bruised. They prodded him again, the tip of the lance poking hard into his kidney, and he hurried for a moment, and then slowed again.

  Thus by degrees he slowed them, only an hour out of Taos. The longer this walk took, the better were his chances of coming up with something, anything.

  Then they prodded him again, this time angri
ly, and he limped forward until he stepped on a thorn, which jabbed deep into the ball of his left foot, and he bellowed. He sat down, ignoring the threats. The thorn had broken off, and was not easily removed, especially without so much as a knife.

  This time the corporal shot a string of invective at him. The other two lifted him to his feet and force-marched him forward. Skye no longer had any plan at all; the pain began to rake his feet and ankles and calves, and he could scarcely imagine going through five days of this.

  Two of his wounds leaked droplets of blood; no great flow of it, but enough to speckle the trail behind him. He walked as slowly and carefully as he could, ignoring the sharpness of the soldiers, who began to harry him. He had experienced much worse pain in his life, but this was repetitive, the stabs coming again and again, each step of his left foot a torment.

  He sat down, and the prodding of the lances failed to budge him. They wouldn’t kill him; he was certain of it. They fell into a discussion that became an argument, and though he couldn’t grasp the words, he understood the gestures. The two foot soldiers wanted the corporal to dismount and put Skye on the horse, and the corporal was not about to surrender his comfortable seat and emolument.

  Skye listened to the clash of wills, rubbed his sore foot, dabbed away the blood oozing from the broken thorn, and waited, all the while wondering if he could escape once he had the horse and the soldiers were on foot.

  It was, in fact, a plan, but whether it was utterly foolhardy he didn’t really know. What would a barefoot fugitive do with a posse of the Mexican army hot on his trail?