Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “That is why we are thriving,” said Pietragnelli. “I have already arranged with Mrs. Curtis at Ponderosa Lodge to serve our wines exclusively. That is a good beginning, and one that benefits both of us. I have it in mind to approach other resorts and hotels, to make exclusivity agreements for our wines. I have a good range of wines—not just so-called Burgundy and Chablis—and that will stand me in good stead, if I am able to make the most of this harvest.” He was all but bouncing with excitement. “I am filled with plans.”

  “I gather so,” said Saint-Germain, and watched while Mrs. Barringstone began to pass out large sections of pugliese-loaves; he noticed that neither the boy nor Mr. Barringstone came forward to get their allocation of bread.

  “Let us all enjoy the bounty of the earth, in wine and bread, the soul of nourishment.” Pietragnelli took a large bite of the bread, chewed vigorously. “The wine of other years we will have later, when our labors are finished for the day.”

  Warton took his slab of bread and sniffed it. “Dago bread. But it’s good.”

  Rowena had only a sliver of her slice left, and she was considering if it would be polite to ask for a little more when Pietragnelli came up to her. “You must have another piece, signora. We cannot have so fine a guest go hungry.”

  “I am not going hungry,” said Rowena, “I could not do so as your guest, and the bread is superb.” She accompanied him to the plank table, where Mrs. Barringstone had set out her baskets of pugliese and tubs of butter.

  Saint-Germain moved back from the yard, and into the shade of a stand of oaks, where he knew another pair of guards was posted. “Which of you is Howe, and which is Beckworth?” he asked as he approached the two.

  “I’m Howe,” said the fair-haired man with the scar on his jaw. “He’s Beckworth.”

  “I’m—” Saint-Germain began.

  “—Ragoczy. We know who you are,” said Howe smartly. “I appreciate working for you, Mr. Ragoczy.”

  “You’re working for Mr. Pietragnelli,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Your lawyer signs the checks, on your account,” said Beckworth. “That makes you the employer, the way I see it.”

  “You still work for Mr. Pietragnelli,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Anything you say, boss,” said Howe, with a wink.

  Saint-Germain looked from Beckworth to Howe and back again. “Let me make this clear to you: your job is to guard Mr. Pietragnelli and his vineyards and his workers and his family. Their safety is your responsibility.” Although he had not raised his voice, his authority gathered around him as an all but visible presence. “I expect you to be diligent in your duty: if you want to continue to be paid.”

  Howe took a deep breath and came to attention, revealing the soldier he had once been. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain. “I want you to pay special attention to Virgil Barringstone, and to that youngster with the freckles. They’re up to something. Whatever it is, be sure it doesn’t get out of hand.”

  “Any idea what it could be?” Beckworth asked when Howe hesitated.

  “None at all, but they are planning something. They are behaving questionably.” Saint-Germain met Beckworth’s gaze. “It would be better if nothing happens than if something starts and is stopped.”

  “No more broken windows, you mean,” said Beckworth. “That is the least of it,” said Saint-Germain. “But think of that as a starting-place.”

  The guards exchanged glances. “The White Legion?”

  “I have no proof. But it wouldn’t surprise me, given all that has happened here. They’re far from gone from this area, no matter what the courts may want to think: in spite of all the mediation done, I very much doubt that all the White Legion is willing to remain peaceful. They’ve attempted to kill more than one of the growers in this region. Keep that in mind while you watch,” said Saint-Germain, then strode off back toward the winery yard, where the workers were finishing up their bread and drifting back to their labors.

  “The last shift is due in from the vineyards,” said Pietragnelli. “When you have crushed the grapes they are bringing, then we are done for the day, and we will toast the new vintage as we should.” He beamed. “Tonight we have roasted pork with herbs and sweet onions—everyone will share!”

  Rowena was sitting on the bench at the plank table; she finished her bread and stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Barringstone,” she said, “and Mr. Pietragnelli.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Barringstone, and very nearly ducked her head. She began gathering up her baskets and butter-tub in preparation for returning to the kitchen.

  Pietragnelli went back to the crusher, to the end of the long trough, where the juice ran into the vat. He stuck his hand in the stream and caught a palmful of the liquid, drawing it back and sipping it. “This is going to be a good year.” Then he addressed Rowena. “You would not like to drink this. It tastes raw and bitter, and its first fermentation makes it rough. But in three years, it will be nectar, if all goes well.”

  A few of the men cheered, and one of them whooped merrily; Virgil Barringstone and the freckled young man withdrew to the winery, standing together in the shadow of the vat, their heads together, their expressions somber; Saint-Germain, watched them from his vantage-point across the yard, and his brow drew down in worry.

  Warton went to supervise the dropping of bunches of grapes into the large hopper at the top of the funnel. He looked into it, taking care not to get his hands anywhere near the mechanism. “We’re ready for the last load for the day,” he announced.

  “Good thing,” said one of the older workers.

  “Everyone will have to put in a few hours of hard work, but we’re close to the end of the harvest, and at the end of it, we’ll have something to be proud of,” said Pietragnelli. “When I was gone from this place, I fretted every day, fearing that we would have to lose the entire vintage for the year. Fortunately, that wasn’t how it turned out, and I was able to return in plenty of time to supervise the crush.”

  “And a very promising one it has been,” said Warton.

  “That it has,” said Pietragnelli, deeply satisfied. “My daughter Sophia has said the harvest is going well in Calistoga, as well, which makes this year a very fortunate one. Sophia hasn’t supervised this year, of course.” He strutted along the trough. “Her twins are doing very well; she is exhausted, but as proud as a woman can be: a girl and a strapping boy.”

  His workers were used to hearing his boast, and so they paid little attention to him, but Rowena exclaimed, “You must be thrilled. These are your first grandchildren, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” he said. “The boy—he was born second, but no matter—is named Alexander Carlo, for his grandfathers, and his sister is Louise Angelina, after her aunts. It is all to the good, all to the good.”

  “Your daughter is doing well?” Rowena asked.

  “Tired, as I said, but radiant as I have ever seen her.” Pietragnelli winked. “You know how women are when they become mothers.”

  Rowena found this remark a bit awkward, but she said, “I have seen how motherhood changes women, yes.”

  “Then you must know that my girl is flourishing.” Pietragnelli came to her side. “Someday you must see Sophia and her children. Before she has more of them.” He laughed aloud, and was about to go on when the honk of a car’s horn claimed his attention.

  Saint-Germain was already moving toward the house and the parking-circle beyond; he recognized Rogerio’s Auburn and sensed that the urgency in this summons was crucial. He lengthened his stride, rushing up to the driver’s door just as Rogerio got out. “What is it?”

  Rogerio was bothered but not panicked. “Nothing, I hope. But best to be careful. There is a large group of men gathering down near the Yoshimura farm; most of them have shotguns or rifles, and three of their vehicles, at least, have a white chess knight painted on them.”

  “Did you alert the guards at the gate?” Saint-Germain a
sked.

  “Yes. And I told them to notify the deputy sheriff in Healdsburg. They have access to a telephone just across the road at the Stackpole goat-farm—in case the men at the Yoshimura farm try to cut the lines here, or the operators don’t pick up rings from this place. It could come to that, you know.” Rogerio rubbed his hands together. “It might not be a bad idea to make sure the workers here are aware there could be trouble coming.”

  “Two of them already do, I think,” said Saint-Germain, and quickly summarized his observations to Rogerio while Pietragnelli and Warton came up to the front of the house. “Pietragnelli, I need your attention for my associate,” he said, firmly and courteously at once.

  “Good day to you, signor,” said Rogerio. “I’m sorry to arrive with ill-tidings, but I think you might want to prepare for trouble.”

  “Com’è?” asked Pietragnelli, indignation flooding through him.

  “I think you may be under attack,” said Rogerio bluntly. “More than a dozen men are gathering near here, in trucks, and I doubt it is for good.”

  Pietragnelli cursed fulsomely in Italian, then controlled himself enough to remark, “I hoped this was taken care of. I prayed your guards were unnecessary, that the settlements would hold, and finally we would have no reason to worry.”

  “If you mean your out-of-court agreement,” said Saint-Germain, “it may be that not everyone is satisfied with it.”

  “Then they are fools, for this action will bring the full weight of the courts down on them.” He swung around to face his workers who were straggling up behind him. “It has happened. We are going to have to defend this vineyard, this winery, from arrogant fools!” He held out his arms as he turned to address Saint-Germain. “The rest of my men will be in from the fields shortly. They will have the last of the grapes for the crusher. We must work quickly or lose much of the harvest. How can we crush and fight?”

  “That may be the very thing they are counting on,” said Saint-Germain. “Let me talk to the guards, to see what can be done.” He tugged at Pietragnelli’s sleeve, pulling him a few steps to the side and lowering his voice. “Be careful of Virgil Barringstone and that freckle-faced boy: they know more about this than they should.”

  “Are you certain?” Pietragnelli asked, astonished.

  “Certain enough to mention it to you,” said Saint-Germain.

  Pietragnelli nodded. “Yes. Yes. Capisco.” He swung back to speak to his workers. “Most of the men coming in from the fields will be here shortly. Two of you here will keep on with the crush, helping the workers who bring the grapes; the rest will come with me, and we will prepare to face whatever it is we must.”

  The men seemed confused, and Warton finally spoke up for all of them. “Which of us should do what?”

  “Ah!” Pietragnelli burst out “Sta’ bene! You—Barringstone and Gibbs stay with the crush, and make sure it is done. Keep at your tasks. The rest of you, go to the guards, and do as they tell you.” He glanced at Saint-Germain. “What do you think?”

  “It seems sensible to me,” said Saint-Germain, who could see how anxious the workers were becoming. He saw Virgil Barringstone shy a rock at the nearest guard. “Better to do something than nothing.”

  “È vero,” said Pietragnelli. “It is fitting that we make ready.” He raised his voice. “Mrs. Barringstone! Take the women and children into the house, into the parlor.” He motioned to Rowena, saying grandly, “You go with them, signora. It will give them courage to have you with them.”

  “Let me have a gun, Mr. Pietragnelli. I know how to shoot, and I won’t waste bullets on shadows,” said Rowena.

  “She can be trusted with a gun,” said Saint-Germain. “As can I, and Mr. Rogers.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Pietragnelli.

  “But I want to,” said Rowena with heat “I want to do something more than huddle in a shuttered room. I am not so lacking in moral fiber.”

  “I would not think so, ever, signora,” said Pietragnelli. “All right. I have a shotgun I can give you. It is loaded with grapeshot.” If he found any humor in this, he did not betray it, but addressed his men. “Come! Make ready! Barringstone, Gibbs, go back to the crusher at once. The last of the harvest for today will arrive shortly. Keep on with your work as long as you can. I don’t want to ruin this crush. Don’t interrupt your work unless you are directly attacked. The rest of you, come with me to the barn. I’ll hand out weapons.” As he prepared to bustle away, he turned back to Saint-Germain. “I thought I managed that well.”

  “It was adept,” said Saint-Germain. “What about the workers coming in? The men outside may be waiting for them to come, so you will be distracted.”

  “They will be wrong, if they suppose so,” said Pietragnelli as he broke into an energetic jog.

  Saint-Germain signaled to Rogerio. “Have we weapons?”

  “Your sportsman’s case has two revolvers, .38s. I chose them because they’re small. They’re in their holsters.”

  “Good,” said Saint-Germain. “Fetch them.”

  “Do you want to fight with Pietragnelli?” Rogerio asked, a bit surprised.

  “If I must, I will. But I want you to drive into Healdsburg and be sure the deputy is bringing men to stop this. If you cannot find him, search him out. You will do more good that way than with a gun.” Saint-Germain managed a hard smile.

  “Do you think they’ll let me go?” Rogerio asked, cocking his head in the direction of the front gate. “They’re very near already.”

  “Use the south gate,” Saint-Germain recommended. “Go out that way, the same way the harvesters will come. I doubt anyone will pay much attention to you.”

  Rogerio ducked his head. “As you say. How soon?”

  “Now, if you would; as soon as you’ve got my revolvers. Take one for yourself; give one to me.” He saw Mrs. Barringstone crossing the yard, four women and eleven children gathered around her. “She’s an admirable woman. A pity her husband isn’t her equal.”

  “You seem convinced that he is with the opposition,” said Rogerio as he pulled his keyring from his trouser-pocket.

  “I think it’s likely,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “Deal with the deputy as you think best, but make sure he comes out here, and that he doesn’t come alone.”

  “All right,” said Rogerio, opening the trunk of the Duesenberg and pulling out an oblong leather duffel. “Your revolver,” he said as he opened the case and drew out two holstered .38s.

  “Thank you,” said Saint-Germain, taking one from him. “Cartridges?”

  Rogerio pulled out a small box of them. “Here. You may need these more than I.”

  A shout from the knoll beyond the winery yard brought both Saint-Germain and Rogerio into the yard. “The pickers are coming!”

  Howe emerged from the trees. “Six men, in a single truck.”

  “Let them come,” said Saint-Germain. “But watch the gate. One of us is going out.” He gestured to Rogerio. “Opportunity knocks, old friend.”

  Rogerio managed an encouraging look. “I won’t be long.”

  “Very good,” said Saint-Germain, and moved away as Rogerio got into his Auburn and started the engine. As soon as Rogerio had pulled away, Saint-Germain hurried to join Pietragnelli, and found him in the barn, handing out the last of his shotguns and rifles. “The workers are coming in with the last of the day’s picking.”

  “Then we must prepare,” said Pietragnelli. “Come, my men. Tonight you fight for your dinner. If you succeed you will have more than the harvest to celebrate. We go to join the guards. Let them order you.” He paused to look at Rowena. “Are you sure you want that shotgun, signora?”

  “Much more than I want to be without it,” she said, hefting the weapon.

  “Then God protect you, and the Saints preserve you from harm,” said Pietragnelli with an expression of concern.

  “And you, Signor Pietragnelli,” said Rowena before she turned and started back for the house.

  “
Nothing must happen to her,” Pietragnelli declared softly. Then he shook off his mood, and motioned to those around him to follow him. “We go toward the front of the vineyard, the main gate. That is the way they must come.”

  The men formed a ragged line behind Pietragnelli and trudged out along the drive, many of them sweating, and not entirely from heat. As they came over the rise, the two guards from the front of the property rushed up to them. “There are seventeen men at the Yoshimura farm, and they’ve started this way in four trucks.”

  “How do we deploy?” asked Warton. “Where do you want us to stand, or lie?”

  “There are three clusters of brush,” said Pietragnelli. “We can hide in them.”

  “Brush can’t stop many bullets,” the guard warned. “I could go get Howe and Beckworth, and a truck.”

  “No time,” said Saint-Germain, shading his eyes and pointing in the direction of the Yoshimura farm to the rising dust. “They’re coming.”

  “Get behind something—anything. They mustn’t see us,” said Pietragnelli, choosing a clump of berry vines near the fence and bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. “Don’t shoot until I tell you to.”

  The workers scrambled to obey him, but the guards hesitated. “Where’s Beckworth and Howe?” one asked.

  “On duty. Watching the side gate,” said Saint-Germain. “As they should be. There could be a second attack coming. If this is a diversionary tactic, we must be prepared to fight a second skirmish.”

  “Right,” said the guard, and went back to his post.

  Saint-Germain dropped down behind a tussock, thinking of the many times over the centuries that he had faced enemy forces; from the days of his living youth to the Medes and Hitties, to the Greeks, the Huns, the Moors, the Mongols, the Turks, the Germans. More recently he had faced the Russian Army and the army in Spain; for the last thirty-five-hundred years he had striven to end the conflicts around him, abashed by what he had done in the first five centuries of vampiric life. This encounter struck him as no stranger than most of the battles he had survived, and he feared it would not be the last one he would fight. He held his revolver at the ready and watched as the line of trucks turned onto the county road and headed for the gate to the Pietragnelli Winery, the men in the trucks already brandishing their weapons as the first of the four trucks roared onto the entry road.