Surrender by Moonlight

by Foxx, Rosalind

  Dimitri had also been busy but his activities were taking him farther afield than Leonor's. He often visited the pueblo of Los Angeles and spent some time consuming locally made wine in the dim little tavern, listening to the talk. He discovered that more was happening in the region than the landowners seemed to know. Far too many of the local landowners were like Don Gilberto, too taken up with their own concerns and too isolated from their people to listen to the talk, but Dimitri made it his business to listen. When he could not ride into the pueblo, he sent Sergei and soon the stout Russian servant was a familiar figure ambling into the village on his horse, ready to spend the afternoon in the tavern talking and gambling with the men gathered there.

  On a particularly warm but cloudy afternoon, Dimitri stretched out in the well-upholstered leather chair in his grandfather's study and propped his booted feet on the matching footstool. He eyed his servant with an amused twinkle. "Just how much wine did you consume this afternoon?"

  "My lord," Sergei protested, sitting upright in a chair across from his master, "it would take more wine than they serve there to fuddle my wits!"

  Dimitri could believe it. Sergei, after so many years of drinking with the troops, could probably out drink any man in Los Angeles. "And did you learn anything?"

  Sergei shrugged. "More of the same. There is much talk still of the rebellion in Mexico and what it means here. Opinion is divided on that but, with each passing week, it sways more towards Mexico and what she is trying to do. Most seem to feel," Sergei said earnestly, "that Spain has not treated them well here. They established the settlements and left them to fend for themselves. Times have been hard here since the troubles began. First Spain was embroiled in the war against Napoleon, then with her American colonies. There is great grumbling, my lord, over the heavy taxes and the unreceptive ears of the Crown officials."

  "Nothing new?"

  "H'mm," Sergei thought back, scratching his head, then nodded. "There was talk of Mexican agents here, explaining to the peasants what they are fighting for. The people in the tavern seemed to feel these agents were sent by Iturbide, that fellow who is leading Mexico's revolution, and they are trying to sway California to their side."

  Dimitri sat bolt upright. "Agents? Is it rumor, do you think, or fact? I have heard whispered conversations here on the estate, referring to the men from the south, but I didn't think it was an organized thing."

  "Aye, I do think there is something to it. The rumor, according to a man I know who was in the tavern, is that agents are here, organizing groups of peasants to fight for independence. He was besotted enough with drink today to be indiscreet, I think. When he said that, several of his companions tried to shut him up."

  "Have you seen any evidence, Sergei, of the peasants around here being organized?"

  "None, my lord, but I have heard repeated rumors of trouble further south. Not far from here but not in our immediate district. But these men in the tavern think the trouble is about to start here and they intend to join it! They are angry at the landlords and the Crown officials who levy such heavy taxes on the people and so they are attracted to what these agents promise."

  "And you don't know what they are being promised?"

  "The men wouldn't say. I believe they realized they had said too much in public and shut up."

  Dimitri leaned back in his chair and gave it some thought. "Perhaps Cesar will know more. See if he's in his house, Sergei, and if he is, ask him to come see me."

  Cesar was out but later in the day he came to call on his master. His brown, frank eyes holding Dimitri's, Cesar admitted he did know a bit more. "These agents, señor, have been quietly moving in for months. I think we have some close about here. I have heard talk among our people of the promises that Iturbide makes."

  "Such as?"

  "Freedom," Cesar said simply. "He would break up the system of control we now have and give more land to the people. They would have some say in the running of their affairs. Oh, he offers much, a great deal of which I don't think he could give them but it seduces the ones who don't want to belong to and work for a rich landowner all their lives. These people have been working their farms for generations but the land is not theirs. They are little better than serfs. They want better conditions for their children than they have. I admit, señor, I've heard much less of the talk here, on our estate, than I have elsewhere. Don Gilberto's estate is full of such talk. His treatment of those people breeds discontent."

  "You can't, I suppose, put a name to any of those agents?"

  "No, señor, I can't. What I think they're doing is moving through the estates, helping some young hotheads organize a peasant group, then moving on to another estate."

  "What concerns me, Cesar, is the question, organize to do what?"

  Cesar shrugged. "I don't know. It would take more active support than they have to start a true revolution here."

  Dimitri had to admit to himself that Spain had not treated this colony well. And more and more he felt that they would fare better under Mexico's rule than they had under Spain's. Yet he was half Spanish and half Russian and should not be feeling any sympathy for this wild, rugged new land.

  He thanked Cesar for his information, saw him off and strolled outside to stand on the broad porch of the house and gaze into the dark night. The clouds had evaporated by sundown and it was so clear he could see the bright pattern of stars sprinkled over his head. A faint sound of a guitar reached his ears and he breathed deeply of the scented air. Although the days were hot in California, it cooled off at night. Even then it was warmer than Russia ever was. He sniffed, identifying the heady fragrance of roses growing wild along the fence. The blossoms perfumed the air and mingled with the scent of horses, dust, and cooking. To his dismay, it stirred something deep inside him, a recognition of home, a feeling he'd never had either in Spain or Russia. Perhaps it was a recognition of the love his mother had for this land. She had never stopped talking about it and longing for it. He had first felt it the night he stepped ashore on that dark beach, and breathed in the unfamiliar scents that even then smelled right. Shaking off these unsetting thoughts, he turned to go back inside when he was startled by the sudden shout that ripped the peace of the night into splintered fragments.

  ''FIRE!"

  Dimitri ran down the steps and looked around. Off to the east, almost at the horizon, was a growing glow of red and gold. With a muttered curse, he ran for the stable, shouting for the head groom. Men spilled out of buildings, shouted to their comrades and ran for the barns and stables. The stable was dark and Dimitri fumbled with the lantern, lighting it from the outside torch, before hurrying back in, nearly colliding with Cesar.

  "What is it?" Dimitri demanded.

  "The grain barns in the eastern pasture, senor."

  "I'll join you there. Are the men alerted?"

  "They are saddling their horses now."

  In grim silence, Cesar and Dimitri, joined by the panting Sergei, frantically saddled their horses and led them out into the night.

  The barn was a blazing shell by the time Dimitri and Cesar reached it. Men rushed around, filling buckets from the nearby creek, trying vainly to douse the flames. Dimitri looked around, saw Andres and joined him. "Where are the men who were guarding this barn?" he demanded.

  Andres pointed to a cluster of men well back from the heat of the fire. "There. Two are dead, one badly injured. I got here while he was still conscious, sir, and he said they were attacked by several men, five or six he said, and he was knocked out. Before he lost consciousness, he saw them pour oil over the grain and light it. He has a head injury and I don't think he will live. It is a wonder," Andres added, his voice hard and bitter, "that he has lived this long and was able to tell us anything."

  Dimitri went toward the group of men and knelt by the injured man. A grim-faced peasant shook his head and drew the man's cloak over his face. "Is he dead?"

  "Yes, senor."

  Dimitri rose, his anger blazing as hot as the fire
in the barn. "Take him and the others back to the house. Have someone go for a priest. I will be over to see the families shortly."

  The man looked both surprised and pleased. "They would appreciate that, señor. I'll see to it."

  Cesar approached. "There is nothing we can do to save the barn, senor. The men have wet down the nearest fields so a spark won't fire them, and I'm leaving several men on duty here to make sure the fire doesn't spread. There is no trace of the men who did this."

  "Where was the patrol riding this sector?" Dimitri demanded.

  "At the far end of the sector," Cesar admitted. The orange glow of the fire bathed his tight face in radiant light. "The timing of the raid was well planned, Don Dimitri. Very well planned."

  "Which means that the patrol was carefully watched," Dimitri muttered. "The men who attacked and burned this barn were very sure that the patrol was not within reach."

  Cesar nodded unhappily. "It seems so, señor."

  Dimitri rode home in a furious anger. If his surmise was right, the score with Don Gilberto and Don Carlos was growing longer!

  But by the end of the week, he was none too sure his surmise was correct. During the week, a second barn was burned on his estate, with no clue as to the men responsible. The local tax collector's house was looted, then torched, leaving the man and his family without shelter. A barn was struck on the next estate, owned by Don Rafael Cervera, and three pastures worth of fencing was ripped out on the estate of Don Diego de Clemente. Was this the work of men sent by Don Carlos and Don Gilberto? Or was this the opening gun in the rebellion the peasants were beginning? Would this land, too, soon be aflame with war?

  Towards the end of that same week, a dusty, tired horseman arrived at the Hacienda Azahar. Sergei, barely able to contain his curiosity, sent for Dimitri, who was out surveying the new planting in the fields. Dimitri walked into the study, shaking the clinging dust from his hat and looked the man over. Obviously he had done some hard riding in the heat, but he was refreshing himself with gusto from the tankard of chilled ale that Sergei had brought him, and conversing with Sergei in Russian. He glanced up, saw Dimitri and hastily rose. "Captain Pokovich sent me, my lord," he stammered, putting aside the tankard. Dimitri sank down in the broad leather covered armchair and waved the man back to his seat.

  "Is Captain Pokovich here?"

  "No, my lord, he is anchored in the cove. He sent me to ask you to come to a meeting with him. He will be at the tavern tomorrow night, in that small village near the cove where he landed you. I am to ride directly back and tell him if you can come. He asks," the man added uneasily, "if you can come quietly, without telling anyone he is there."

  Belatedly, Dimitri had recognized the man as a sailor from Captain Pokovich's ship. He studied the man for a long moment. "Did your captain say anything further? Why he wanted me to come?"

  "No, my lord, only what I told you."

  "Tell him I will be there. Sergei will show you a room where you can rest for a few hours before your return journey and he will make sure you have a fresh horse."

  The man smiled wryly. "I had great difficulty in persuading the landlord of the tavern to loan me this horse of his and I gave him my word I would return it. I will leave as soon as the horse is rested, my lord, if that suits you? I do have to travel back on this horse."

  "As you wish. Tell the captain I will be there by dusk."

  The next evening at dusk, Dimitri and Sergei cantered into the edge of the small village and halted in front of the tavern. It was not a prepossessing sight. Its weathered boards had seen many years of scouring by the salty air and had faded into a pale silvery gray. It was a very small tavern, boasting a single large room, which was both dining room and tap room, with a kitchen on the back. As it was single-storied, it offered no accommodation and Dimitri frowned as he realized that he and Sergei would not be able to spend the night here. Well, he had suspected as much and had come prepared with bedrolls strapped to the horses but he knew he would listen to Sergei's incessant complaints when he discovered that he would, once again, have to sleep on the ground.

  Dimitri strode into the small room, his glance sweeping the few occupied tables and he smiled at the sight of the captain, sitting at the corner table nearest the door, trying to look inconspicuous. Obviously the captain had made an attempt to do so, by donning the plainest jacket and breeches he owned but his apparel, not to mention his plump, ruddy complexion, shrieking good health and ample food, were in vivid contrast to the thin, bedraggled men who sat silently at their tables, covertly eyeing the stranger in the corner. So much for blending in with the usual clientele here, Dimitri thought, as he threaded his way through the tables and joined the captain. He pulled out the bench across from the captain and sat down, nodding to Sergei.

  "Two ales, Sergei. Captain, will you have another?"

  The captain nodded. "I don't recommend the food here, my lord. It is uniformly bad. I tried some the evening we were making arrangements to borrow the landlord's horse for Peter. They only serve one meal, I gather: beans, some flat round things made of corn and some stringy beef rolled up in the peculiar corn pancake. I don't know what they call them but I hope never to eat another."

  Dimitri laughed, aware that they were now the center of attention of the cluster of local men. "Tortillas, captain. They are indeed made of corn and are the staple of these people's diet."

  "If that's all they get to eat, it's no wonder they want to kick Spain out and run things themselves," the captain said sourly, accepting the mug of ale that Sergei placed before him.

  "Thank you, Sergei. If you're hungry?"

  "I will wait and eat our food later," Sergei said hastily, sitting down on the bench by Dimitri, as he'd been ordered. "Rosa packed us enough food for tonight and tomorrow."

  "You are as bad as the captain," Dimitri said, catching the eye of the landlord and signalling him over. "You shouldn't be afraid to try new things, Sergei. Yes, landlord," he said in Spanish, "I wish food. A plate of tortillas and beans, por favor."

  "Si, senor, right away."

  "You have been well, captain?"

  Captain Pokovich grunted. "Busy, but well. I have information for you. Do you think that it is safe to talk here?"

  Dimitri smiled. "Perfectly safe. I seriously doubt if any of these local peasants speak Russian. What information do you have for me that would bring you here so soon?"

  "On my way back from Mexico," the captain began but broke off as the landlord reached the table and slid a plate heaped with tortillas and beans in front of Dimitri.

  "Gracias," Dimitri murmured and the landlord bowed and reluctantly went back to his bar.

  "You are not going to eat that, are you?" the captain demanded. "It is hot enough to take the skin off your tongue!"

  "I know. I like it. Do not worry, captain, for as Sergei will tell you, I have a stomach of iron. But what is this about Mexico? Why were you there?"

  As he spoke he picked up his fork and began to eat. The captain and Sergei eyed him with disgust and when Dimitri murmured that the food was delicious, the other two men snorted in unison.

  "As to why I was in Mexico, I'll come to that," continued the captain. "I left Mexico, having done what I was ordered to do there, and called at Fort Ross before I returned to Sitka. There was an urgent message there for you from the Czar. I collected it and brought it directly to you. I didn't know how long it would take by road or if it was safe to send it that way, so I decided I'd better bring it myself." He took a sealed envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table to Dimitri.

  Dimitri studied the red wax seal, recognizing it as the Czar's, and carefully broke it and spread out the page of parchment. He read it through and then reread it.

  "Well?" the captain asked. "What does he want? If you can tell me," he added hastily.

  "I see no reason not to tell you. He says, or his secretary says, which is more accurately the case, that the Czar wishes me to compile a report during the next mon
ths on my estimate of the temper of the people. He wishes to know first hand through me of the conditions here. There have been rumors, he says, of peasant uprisings supporting the revolution in the south and he wants a full report." Dimitri laid the paper down on the table and frowned at the captain. "You seem unsurprised."

  The captain set down his ale. "I had suspected as much, you see. His letting you come here, I mean. It's not as if he didn't have plenty of uses for a man of your skills at home or back at the European congress. So, I wondered why he chose to let you absent yourself at such a time. Coupled with what I was doing in Mexico, it wasn't hard to figure out."

  "And what were you doing in Mexico?"

  "First, how much do you know of the political situation between Russia and Spain . . . and Mexico?"