by DiAnn Mills
Armando ached with the thought of his people subjecting themselves to such a miserable life. To him, it meant enslavement to the Crown of Spain, and he despised it. His tio and tia had come from this mission. They seldom complained of life back then, for their needs were met, but they much preferred the freedom of La Flor.
Whatever happened today, the welfare of his people came above all things, even if it meant sacrificing himself.
“I don’t see any solidats,” Emilio said while they walked the circular stone path around the mission to the church. “And I didn’t see any of them earlier when Pepe and I observed the activities inside the mission.”
Armando merely nodded. Each wood and mortar dwelling they passed looked the same, one after another, and all symbolic of Spain. The doors were hand-carved cedar, and each had an iron lock and key. Various craftsmen worked on the opposite side of the mission: weavers of cloth, those who constructed saddles and bridles, leather workers, carpenters, a blacksmith, and whatever else the padre deemed necessary according to the time of the year. To Armando, it seemed depressing—the inhabitants were forced to worship Dios and give of the fruits of their toil for the betterment of the mission.
Pepe loved his son enough to consider living here if necessary, and Mexicans were always needed to perform tasks and skilled crafts. For a brief moment, Armando wondered about a child of his own, a delight he would most likely never enjoy. Could that affection be even stronger than his love for the people of La Flor? Would he, like Pepe, give up his whole life’s work for the sake of a child? Armando lifted his head proudly. He’d already committed his life for all the children of La Flor and their parents.
Armando couldn’t help but think of his own father, the Spaniard Joseph Garcia, the man who’d deserted his illegitimate son and the woman who had loved him. But Armando refused to dwell on such things when he needed to concentrate on his purpose.
The old familiar despondency settled about him. When he lived at the mission, he couldn’t put his feelings into words, but now he acknowledged the problem. His body and spirit had craved peace. Padre Bernardino Vallyo had sensed his need and urged him to pray and fast, but those sacrifices never helped. Always the restlessness. Always the desire for something deep within the core of his soul. Would he ever find a release?
He glanced up at the Rose Window, its richly detailed stone frame resembling the petals of a perfect rose. Si, the mission was beautiful. He could not deny the excellent workmanship done by those who initially constructed the church and the fortress shielding it.
Too soon for his liking, the three men stood at the walnut double doors. Armando had forgotten the richly carved stonework framing the doorway. The awe he once felt for the beauty of the mission resurfaced again.
Respectfully, they removed their sombreros, and Emilio and Pepe crossed themselves before entering the church. At the sight of the crucifix, Armando stopped and studied the image of the suffering Salvador. He crossed himself and remembered the days when his whole life centered on the cross and all it meant. Did faith in Dios really mean nothing? He swallowed hard and glanced about him. The ornate figure of Madre Maria stood more beautiful than he remembered, especially in contrast to the bleakness of life around them. He did not remember the statues affecting him like this in the past. Denying the pull on his spirit, he decided his confusion must come from his trepidation over speaking with the padre.
The brown-robed figure of Padre Bernardino Vallyo entered the small chapel to the right of the altar. He stopped, knelt, and crossed himself before turning and making his way down the center aisle.
Armando’s heart drummed against his chest. What manner of fear overwhelmed him? Not even when he faced the tumultuous undertaking of leading his people had he experienced such cowardly reactions. It angered him, and he resolved to conquer his fainthearted response.
The padre stopped in front of Armando. The years had etched more lines into his leathered face, and his once dark hair now held many strands of gray. His eyes, the color of pecans, shone with kindness and compassion. Hard work had kept him lean and muscular, reminding Armando of how the man had toiled alongside the Mexicans, often teaching them how to perform a task. Tears filled the older man’s eyes, and Armando sensed emotion on the verge of consuming him, too.
“Mi hijo,” Padre Bernardino Vallyo reached to pull Armando close. “How very good to see you.”
Armando almost refused the padre’s embrace, but he reconsidered, for it might hinder the chances of getting his help. But no sooner had the deliberations plagued his mind than he realized the padre’s friendship had been greatly missed. The calming voice and the smell of his robe, a mixture of earth and soap, filled Armando’s nostrils and returned him to another time. This man had been a teacher and a true father to him when his whole world collapsed.
But Armando, on the brink of manhood, had refused the love and kindness. He associated it with a trickery of Dios to enslave him within the walls of the mission.
The two men parted and Armando contained himself enough to speak. “You look well, Padre. It’s good to see you.”
“Too many years have passed between us, and not a day has gone by that I have not prayed for you.” Tears flowed unashamedly down his cheeks. “Dios has answered my prayers.”
“I think not.” Armando refused to give the padre any false illusions. He gazed deeply into his eyes. “My presence today is to discuss a grave matter.”
“Do you desire confession?”
Armando forced a light smile. “No, this is about La Flor.”
The padre nodded and extended his hand in the direction of the rear door. “Let us walk in the garden and talk about your valley. Will Emilio and Pepe accompany us?”
“Padre, we’ll wait here and pray.” Emilio’s wide-set eyes revealed his great love for the padre. “I would like you to hear my confession before we leave.”
“Of course,” Bernadino said. “You also, Pepe?”
“Si. It’s been a long time.”
“Dios is always ready to hear the confession of a man’s heart.” The padre placed his hand on Pepe’s shoulder. “I see the grief in your eyes for Dorothea. Dios will help you. And Rico? Is he well and growing?”
“Si, Padre, mi hijo is my life. I would like for you to see him one day.” Pepe’s words were gentle and affirming while his hand clutched blue-and-white rosary beads.
“I’ve been in prayer about visiting La Flor.” The padre’s gaze rested on Armando. “It’s not good for a shepherd to leave his flock unattended.” He nodded at Armando. “Come, let’s discuss the problem in the valley. I pray I can help.”
As the two men strolled outside the church to the garden Armando had once tended, pleasant memories washed over him. He remembered the satisfaction of watching young, tender shoots burst from the fertile soil and eagerly anticipating their growth. Knowing he’d assisted in the process had always filled him with satisfaction. The morning sun warmed his back, and the songs of birds rang melodious in his ears, just like the ones in his treasured La Flor.
“Padre.” Armando’s rehearsed words had left him. “You know how I love the valley and the people living there.”
“It is your home, Armando.”
“As it is for so many others…but our happiness is threatened. Señor Weston Phillips wants our valley to graze his cattle.”
The padre stared at the ground where the grass had been trodden until it refused to grow. “He’s a rich man with much power. It must be that agua is the problema. I know the Phillips Hacienda borders on the Medina River. Could he irrigate as we have done at the missions?”
“Possibly, but Señor Phillips is a greedy man, and La Flor is kept fertile by underground springs. Grazing his cattle in our valley means he doesn’t have any worries about agua.”
“I understand.” Bernardino Vallyo took a labored breath and placed his arms behind him. He continued to walk in silence. “Tell me more.” He glanced up at Armando and smiled. “With you, there’s
always more to tell.”
Armando knew his former actions invited reproof, but in order for the padre to speak with the governor in San Antonio de Bejar on their behalf, the religious man must hear the truth. “When we refused to leave, he said he would force us out.”
“Has anything else happened?”
Armando hesitated. “He or his foreman have visited the valley twice a week since then. Each time, Señor Phillips becomes more forceful. Once he shot one of our horses and another time his foreman, Clay Wharton, destroyed some of our gardens. The villagers were frightened and wanted someone to lead them.”
The padre sighed. “And they elected you.”
“Si, Padre. Several months ago I rode to see Governor Juan Bautistade Elguezábel, but the solidats would not permit me entrance into his palace.” Armando stopped along the path and faced the padre squarely. “I stole cattle from the Phillips Hacienda to feed my people and a few horses to breed our own.”
Bernardino Vallyo frowned, his brows knitted together.
“I know stealing is wrong,” Armando said, determined to finish his speech. “But I have more to tell you. When he threatened to kill me and anyone else who opposed his taking over the valley, I gathered men together to unite against his efforts. We were and are prepared to fight for our land. It is all we have. In my plan to bargain with Señor Phillips, I did nothing while a few of my men broke into his casa and kidnapped his daughter. They also stole horses, muskets, swords, and daggers.”
The padre’s eyes grew wide. “No, Armando. Surely you didn’t do such a terrible thing. Did you harm the señorita?”
Armando shook his head. “No, I could not. Killing her meant we were no better than the enemy. She has been returned to her home. But we kept the other things.”
“Bueno.” They walked a little further. “Surely Señor Phillips has reported this to the governor. He will have the solidats after you. Weston Phillips will demand justice.”
“I know, and if a man took my daughter, I would want him dead too. I’m not afraid for me, but for the fate of my people and their valley.”
“How can I possibly help you?”
Armando felt courage surge through him. “Take my appeal to the governor so the people can live in La Flor.”
“I can talk to him, but what of the crimes you’ve committed?”
Armando nodded. “I’ve thought of little else since yesterday. I can return the stolen weapons, the cattle, and the horses, but Phillips will want revenge for my kidnapping his daughter.”
“I know this man,” the padre said, “Like you, I’m afraid he’ll want you dead.”
Armando paused. Memories of Marianne tore at his heart. “I believe he would trade me for La Flor.”
Bernardino Vallyo grabbed Armando’s shoulders. “You don’t need to die for your crimes. There must be another way.” His voice rippled with emotion. “A trial, perhaps. One that revealed to Governor Elguezábel why you did these things.”
“My people cannot lose their homes,” Armando said. “I see no other way to appease Phillips or the governor.”
The padre stared at him while the sounds of nature echoed around them. Armando stared up at the moss-covered trees, hoping Bernardino understood.
“Do Emilio and Pepe know what you are proposing?”
“No, they would attempt to dissuade me.”
“I want to fast and pray about this. The ways of Dios are not as ours, and He may have a different solution. Por favor, stay here for the night while I seek His will. Even if the solidats come looking for you, they’ll not find you here.”
Armando considered the request. “One night,” he said.
Padre Bernardino Vallyo placed his hands on Armando’s shoulders. “To die for a worthy cause is good, but I pray Dios can solve our problema without your death.”
Chapter 15
After Bernardino and Armando made their way back inside the church, the padre offered a morning meal. Although Bernardino refrained from eating due to beginning his fast, he did ask questions about their families and friends.
“I must plan to visit La Flor. I know there are baptisms, marriages, and religious instruction to be done there. God forgive me for neglecting your valley.”
“We will greet you with open arms,” Emilio said.
Emilio and Pepe talked freely and inquired about the activities in and around the mission. Armando listened but offered little to the conversation. Discussing church life and kindred affairs held little appeal for him. Instead, his mind spun with questions of how the padre might be able to help the village. Without his old friend’s help, La Flor might be lost. The villagers would be forced to live at the mission or at a hacienda where the owner would demand payment or work in exchange.
When Bernardino excused himself for the remainder of the day to pray about the dilemma with Señor Phillips, Emilio and Pepe decided to spend the morning in prayerful observance of what lay ahead. Armando left them and stepped outside. With the burden of his destiny weighing upon his shoulders, he walked to the north gate and examined the grape arbor. As he expected, it looked well cultivated, and the granary was in good repair with plenty of corn available until harvest. Under Bernardino’s frugal leadership, Armando did not expect anything less.
Armando paced the perimeter of the mission and stopped in front of the church. A sculpture of Saint Anne holding the infant Mary, Jesus’ mother, captured his eye. He recalled when the mission and church served his every need, or rather when he thought the church met his needs. He didn’t like being here. The constant reminder of the Dios he’d forsaken seemed to needle at his heart and mind. Had he realized that there was no God when he’d left the mission or had he just been rebellious? The unrest in his spirit added to his troubles.
Glancing about, he saw that the palmed roof of an abandoned hut needed repair. It surprised him, considering Bernardino’s meticulous care. With a shrug, he went to work. As the morning wore on, the heat intensified, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Still, the toil did not relieve his worries wavering between La Flor and Marianne, neither of which he could do anything about.
Marianne he must forget. And for La Flor, he was ready to give his life.
During the late afternoon, Emilio and Pepe approached him.
“You’ve been busy,” Emilio said. “Now someone can use the hut.”
“Maybe me,” Pepe said, “if our valley goes to Señor Phillips.”
Armando shook his head. “I will not let that happen.”
“I know Dios is on our side, but—.”
“Hush, Pepe,” Emilio said. “We will not lose our valley.”
Their voices rang with desperation, and Armando despised it all. “I should like to leave at daybreak.”
“We will be ready,” Emilio said.
“No doubt Felipe attempts to turn the others against us,” Armando said. “We must keep our peoples’ spirits high.”
“Si, amigo. You can depend on us.” Emilio lifted his chin. “For now, we will continue in prayer. For everyone involved.”
If the people of La Flor were forced from their valley, they would have to choose between living at the mission and scraping by in an existence constantly threatened by Comanche Indians.
Armando wished he knew what Padre Bernardino planned to do. In one sense, he respected the padre’s dedication to fasting and prayer, but in truth he felt it useless. The waiting simply prolonged the reality of life as dictated by the Spanish. They didn’t care about the injustices suffered by the poor, only that their empire be extended and protected from the French and the Americans.
The padre would have to use Armando as bargaining power to secure La Flor.
That evening, typical of most nights, Armando lay awake until he finally rose and walked outside under the faint light of a half moon. Tomorrow seemed like an eternity away.
When the first hints of dawn in pink and purple crested the horizon, Armando entered the church in search of Bernardino. The padre
knelt in front of the statue of Jesus, his head nearly touching the floor. No doubt he’d been there most of the night.
The robed figure rose and crossed himself. In the pale light, he turned to Armando and called from the back of the church. “You did not sleep,” he said and made his way down the aisle.
“No, Padre.”
“Some things never change. I saw you walk the mission, just as you used to do when matters worried you.”
Armando smiled. “Old habits are hard to break.”
“And did Dios tell you anything?”
“No.” Armando understood the padre wanted him to renew his faith, even above all the pertinent matters before them.
Bernardino sighed. “I hoped and prayed you would return to take your vows, but Dios has not yet answered my prayers.”
Armando stepped closer. He didn’t seek to criticize but to convey his heart. “I no longer believe,” he said. “You know my misgivings, Padre.”
Bernardino nodded in the shadows. “Si, but people do renew their faith in times of turmoil.”
“I see no purpose in trying to please a Dios who does what He wishes to a man. One can never be good enough, work hard enough, or say enough prayers to equal Him, so why try?”
“Because He is Dios. We believe in His deity, and we obey.”
The familiar surge of irritation simmered in Armando’s spirit. He bit back caustic words. “I cannot accept your faith, Padre. Por favor, let us talk of more urgent matters—the villagers of La Flor.”
“Of course. You and your amigos are anxious to hear if I can help.” He paused. “I believe Dios would want me to speak to the governor. And I believe it’s wrong for Señor Phillips to take land that does not belong to him. I grieve for those who have been threatened and fear what he could do. I will make the journey tomorrow.”
“Gracias.”
“But I wonder why you did not come to me sooner, before the situation grew so serious.”
Armando stared into the padre’s face, outlined in the early morning light. He must be truthful. “I feared Señor Phillips’s influence with the Spanish. He’s rich and powerful. And, Padre, because of our past relationship, I thought you might refuse to assist us.”