The Deliverance

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “You learn something there?” Skye asked.

  “Only that there’s nothing here. These are all peasants, Skye, with their kitchen gardens and a few kine. We won’t find any big ranches, the kind that might use Indian herders, until we approach Taos.”

  “Did you ask about workers or slaves?”

  “Sah, the only thing I inquired about was that tower.”

  Skye puzzled that, and could not explain the man’s interest in defenses.

  “Trust me, Skye, when we approach a great ranch, you will find me a bloodhound on a trail. I do so yearn, Sah, yearn to find those little red gnats.”

  Skye stared.

  “I’m a sucker for any good cause, Mistah Skye. Wherever there’s injustice, cruelty, lives ruined, death, and misery, there’s old Childress trying to make things right.”

  That afternoon they struck an icy creek that tumbled out of the Sangre de Cristos, hurrying toward the Rio Grande off to the west somewhere. Beside it was a faint road. They paused where these merry waters laughed their way west, and refreshed themselves and their horses.

  Skye thought that the Clydesdale was looking gaunt, and perhaps they should all recruit for a day on the lush grasses that grew along the banks.

  “Behold the trace, my English friend,” said Childress. “I take it that we’re near a hacienda, and we can begin our quest for the Holy Grail hereabouts.”

  “Where’s the ranch?”

  “Oh, I take it that one or two leagues will suffice.”

  “One or two leagues!”

  “Sah, you are in country so large that it dwarfs the Republic of Texas, God spare me for saying it.”

  “I thought you were aiming to get information first.”

  “My dear Mistah Skye, here we are; a road leads westward to someplace that might harbor vile slavery and cruel servitude. As for me, I will not only search for the lost tribe of Israel there, but also reconnoiter.”

  “Reconnoiter?”

  “A filibuster, my dear Sah, needs a map of the territory and its armed men burnt into his gray matter.”

  Skye laughed. “Your purposes grow clearer with every mile, Emperor. All right. We will use one another. I’m cover for you and your schemes, and you’re my translator and guide in old Mexico. I’m beginning to understand the Jolly Roger painted upon the sides of your bloodred cart.”

  Childress grinned. “You are a man to reckon with, Sah. Let us examine this rancho, if such it be.”

  The Colonel took it upon himself to explain this to Standing Alone, who brightened. At last, she would be going to a place where her children might be snared.

  They turned westward along the two-rut trail that paralleled the creek, and soon found themselves in a broad, grassy valley that could only be paradise for cattle.

  Even Victoria brightened. Skye had never seen her so dour, so distrustful, and judging from her glare at the spider monkey, she probably had slaughtered him a hundred times in her mind.

  Shine himself sensed that they were piercing toward some nearby objective, and began doing handsprings on the sweated brown back of the patient Clydesdale. The brook babbled, relieving at last the oppressive silence Skye had felt ever since he entered Mexico.

  Thus they continued, under an azure sky, until near sundown they beheld an adobe settlement, a rural fortress situated on a vast meadow that was sheltered by a long arid bluff to the north. This place, too, had an earthen tower high enough to command the surrounding fields. A great black bell hung on a frame above it; a bell that might be heard for miles.

  “Well done,” Childress said. “See that brass poking out of the tower? A field piece. Stuff it with grape and see the carnage.”

  “What might threaten them, Colonel?”

  “Utes and Comanches and Jicarillas,” the Colonel replied. “Every one of them capable of slaughtering the occupants, ravishing their women, and roasting the males over a fire until they are cooked alive.”

  By then their imminent arrival had attracted attention, and assorted Mexicans, mostly male, flooded out of the placita, and stood waiting.

  “Oh, one thing, Skye,” the Colonel said. “These hacendados play God. If they don’t like us, they can bind us up and ship us to Mexico City for a decade in a dungeon.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything, Sah. For trespassing, for trading without permission, for breathing, for being Protestant, for failure to pay import duties. Or for warring upon the Republic of Mexico.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Skye said.

  fourteen

  The patron of this great hacienda was not the sort of man Skye expected to see. He stood quietly at the tower awaiting his guests, intelligent eyes shelved under a pale dome of forehead that surrendered reluctantly to kinked coppery hair. He was accoutered in a fine frock coat of royal blue velvet with white knee breeches. At his arm was a raven-haired beauty in white cotton.

  The hacendado’s gaze took in everything there was to see about Skye’s party, resting on the red cart with its strange insignia, then upon the trader in his broad-rimmed Panama and open white shirt, and then upon Skye, and finally, briefly, the Indian women.

  “Gentlemen?” he said, in English.

  “At your service, Sah,” Childress said, with a sweep of his Panama. “Traders. Perhaps we can supply your necessaries?”

  “Americans?”

  “I am a Texan, Jean Lafitte Childress of Galveston Bay.”

  “A rebel.”

  “Why, Sah, Lone Star Texan and proud of it, and if I give offense, it’s because I mean to. You’ll not find a more loyal Texan than the gent you see before you. We defended certain sacred and holy rights promised all Texans by the Republic of Mexico and wantonly abandoned by that scoundrel Santa Anna. If we distress you, we shall depart at once. With whom do we speak?”

  The hacendado nodded, and then focused on Skye. “And you, sir?”

  “I am Mister Skye, London born but a man without a country.”

  “Are you from Australia, then, or Van Dieman’s Land?”

  “No, sir, seven years in the Royal Navy.”

  “Ah, a surprise! And what do you do?”

  “I am in the fur trade.”

  “And why are you without a country?”

  “That is my choice, sir.”

  “And why are you here in Mexico?”

  “I am looking for two young Indians we believe are in northern Mexico.”

  “And who are these?” the man asked, waving languidly at the two women.

  “One is Victoria, my wife, of the Crow people, and the other is Standing Alone, of the Cheyenne people.”

  “And why are you stopping here, so far off the Taos Camino?”

  Childress replied: “To trade, Sah. We have a small but select number of items for your consideration.”

  “Have you the permiso from Santa Fe?”

  “We’re en route, to obtain just such a license.”

  “Then it is very indiscreet of you to offer merchandise in a nation where you have no right to do business.”

  This man with the blue velvet frock coat exuded some strange force of will that was belied by his soft attire. Skye sensed that a word from the man could decide their fate. There was the slightest pause, while the master of this fortified rancho, almost a village, came to some conclusions.

  “You will forgive me if I prefer to do business here rather than within,” he said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a conveyance with a skull and crossbones enameled on the side of it; pray thee, what means it?”

  Childress’s response astonished Skye. “I’m a privateer, Sah, once employed by the Republic of Texas to prey on Mexican shipping. Now I prey on Mexicans in another fashion. The Jolly Roger is my whimsy, and the mark of my passage. I shall extract the highest possible price for anything I part with, having piracy in my bones.”

  The response plainly nonplussed the hacendado.

  Shine leaped and chittered and danced on the back of the Clydesdale.
The gathered peons, sun-stained and worn, stared at the little creature.

  The hacendado laughed gently. “I like candor. You’re probably here for some other reason. Admit to one sin to hide a larger one.”

  This time it was Childress’s turn to laugh. The monkey chittered and jumped to the ground. Children squealed.

  “I am Gabor Rakoczi,” the master of the place said, “and this is my wife, Maria Elena Salvador y Rakoczi. I have never had the pleasure of commerce with self-confessed pirates before.”

  “You speak English fluently, Mister Rakoczi,” Skye said.

  “Three years at Cambridge does that, doesn’t it? I speak the Spanish better. Love does that. Anyone who serves the Hapsburgs, as I did for years, would know Spanish.” He smiled at his wife. “Mrs. Rakoczi is well advanced with Hungarian, which is the language of domesticity in the home.” He paused. “Well, are you going to display your wares or is there some other purpose for which you honor us with your sterling company?”

  Again, Skye sensed the iron willfulness of the man who ruled over this empire in the wilderness.

  Childress hastened off his seat on the red cart and drew back his canvas. His wares suddenly looked to be few and poor.

  Rakoczi dismissed them at a glance. “It is not even a good show, Mister Childress.” He grinned, displaying even white teeth. “And that brings us to purposes. What does a handful of tinker’s items conceal? A filibuster, perhaps? What a word! A coinage of Washington, District of Columbia, I think. Are you examining northern Mexico as a plum to be plucked? Are you here to assess my strength? Ah, I will show you if you wish. Behold the tower. There’s a six-pounder in it, and plenty of grapeshot and ball, and my muchachos are experienced cannoneers. Arms? I can put thirty men into the field on horse, all with good Prague steel in hand. Lances, pikes, muskets. We are a cavalry troop, in case you wonder. Good Spanish Barb stock I brought up from Vera Cruz, Toledo sabres, pikes and pistolas. Say, would you sell me your Clydesdale there? I saw them in England and thought them dumb and docile, just like the English. Yes, a sturdy animal, useful here, but not a thrifty eater. We would have to fatten him. He’s rather gaunted, wouldn’t you say? I’ll give you a piratical offer for it, or maybe just take it from you if you protest too much at the few pesos in my palm.”

  Skye stared at this hacendado who was toying with them before the gates of his rural fortress, and enjoying every moment of it. The man could do anything he threatened to do.

  Childress laughed politely.

  “The monkey’s a good touch,” Rakoczi said. “Yes! See how he entertains while you conduct your reconnaissance. Your insignia’s a fine touch, too. It starts conversations all by itself. Yes, and how much information you can fetch in a hurry, with a monkey and a crossbones.” He turned suddenly to Skye. “Now tell me about these Indians you seek.”

  Skye scarcely knew how to approach this man, but candor had always served him best. “Two Cheyenne children were abducted by the Utes four years ago and sold here in Mexico, as far as we know. This is their mother. We hope to free them.”

  “Sold? Sold? Free them, Skye? You are suggesting they are not free?”

  “It’s Mister Skye, mate.”

  “Mister Skye, is it?” Rakoczi’s teeth were showing again. “This is the Mexican Republic, and there’s not a soul here who is held in bondage, unlike the American South, or the misnamed and alleged Republic of Texas.”

  Skye ignored him. “We’re prepared to purchase the two Indian children. They’d be almost adult now, about sixteen and thirteen.”

  “Purchase, Mister Skye? Are you suggesting that mortals are bought and sold here? Are you telling me that you’re talking about slavery?”

  “Peonage, Senor Rakoczi. Binding laborers to the land with debt. Indenture. Do you have peons?”

  Rakoczi laughed softly. “Slavery! I have never heard of it. I shall tell the bishop of Durango. The church would be distressed. Come, let us talk to these slaves.”

  He drifted toward a young couple who stood nearby. “I shall translate the Spanish, and Mr. Childress can correct me if he detects the slightest flaw in my translation, yes? I take it you speak Spanish, yes?”

  He didn’t wait for a response, but questioned the couple intently, while Childress listened.

  “They say, Mister Skye, that they are glad to work for me, and are proud to be under the protection of so great a master as the owner of the Hacienda de Las Delicias, which is very like heaven to them, and the master is very like a saint who will sit at the right hand of God.”

  Skye nodded.

  Standing Alone was sitting her horse, restlessly studying the fifty or sixty people clustered there.

  “Are there any Indians here?” Skye asked, abruptly.

  “We always employ some, Mister Skye.”

  “If any of them are the children of this woman, we wish to reunite them with their mother, who grieves for them.”

  “They drift in, and who knows, sir. Some are domestics, and some are herders. Shall we seek them out?”

  Skye thought he might do just that. “They are free to leave, then?”

  “Oh, it might not be quite that simple. Perhaps they owe something. Often they have to be equipped with clothing, and tools, and of course we add their room and board.”

  Skye nodded.

  “But come in, my English friend, and see. Tell the Cheyenne woman she is free to examine my whole placita.”

  Childress translated.

  “And if the Cheyennes are hers, sir, and wish to leave your employ, then what?”

  “I am a Christian gentleman, the nephew of a cardinal bishop of Hungary, Mister Skye, and you will find me utterly opposed to your effort to surrender them to their heathen mother when I can provide them with all the civilizing virtues, as well as the True Faith, all of which is to their benefit.

  “Shall I send a young man on the brink of accepting Our Lord back to the pagan life from which he came? Never. It would be a sin. But such as you describe aren’t here; let her look among us.” He glanced at the low sun. “Come to vespers and see for yourself. And freshen yourselves with us for the night. You are guests here at the estancia of Don Gabor. I’ve never entertained a pirate before, nor a monkey, nor a rebel Texan, nor men who drown beavers for a living, and I look forward to it. Maria Elena is eager to welcome such exotic company, men of callings beyond her experience. She will be especially interested in pirates.”

  He beckoned them to enter the placita, which they did. But Skye wondered whether they would freely leave it.

  fifteen

  The adobe chapel filled slowly at sundown, while Standing Alone posted herself at its rough-planked door to observe every soul who entered there. The man who called himself Childress had advised her to examine those who came, and assured her that everyone in the hacienda would be present because the master required it. He could scarcely fathom what it was like to search in such a fashion for a lost daughter or son. She stood at the portal, resolute and silent, her gaze flicking from one to another of the Mexicans.

  He stood beside her, ready to assist. One by one the peons drifted in, their faces shy and meek and sun-stained, their cottons virtually rags of faded blue and soiled white. Most were barefoot. The women looked weathered from work in the fields, bent from scrubbing clothing in the sun, worn from herding.

  The narrow earthen chapel exuded gloom, save for a single candle upon a waxed hardwood altar. The men and women of Las Delicias settled silently on cottonwood benches to thank God for this day. A baby whimpered, but Childress felt himself wrapped in a peaceful and solemn celebration of a good day. He remembered his other mission, and counted sixty-two souls, datum to file away against the conquest of northern Mexico by Lamar’s army.

  Standing Alone saw no one who resembled her daughter or son, and when the crowd had settled she and Childress and Shine sat down at the very rear, beside Skye and Victoria.

  Don Gabor Rakoczi, attired in black, recited the vespers rite in Latin, an
d at certain ringing of an altar bell his flock responded by rote. The air was so still that the candle never guttered, and not even the mumbling of the congregation shook the flame.

  Both Victoria and Standing Alone beheld all this with unalloyed curiosity, and Childress wondered what, exactly, was passing through their minds. Here was the white men’s God. The trader had a more commercial view of things, and eyed the carved and enameled wood bultos, and the gilded altar crucifix, and found no worth in them. Shine liked the occasional summons of the bell in Rakoczi’s sure hand, and bounced happily on the bench. Childress supposed that the monkey knew about as much of what was being said in Latin as Don Gabor’s flock.

  This evening rite concluded swiftly, and the peons filed out, their gaze quick and curious upon the strangers and the monkey. The smell of mesquite woodsmoke hovered in the air.

  “We will summon you,” Rakoczi said, while escorting his wife toward their rambling adobe house. She looked particularly striking this twilit moment, with a mother-of-pearl comb pinning her raven tresses back from her aquiline face. She lifted the black mantilla from her head as she and her husband traced their way across the placita.

  That proved to be the last time the Colonel saw her. He whiled away the hour by settling himself in the barren adobe room adjacent to the stables where he had been posted by a whipcord-thin aged servant. Next to it was another, with the Skyes and Standing Alone in it.

  A bell clanged sourly, and at that time, the venerable servant collected the guests and took them to a dining commons, with two trestle tables in it. There they were served rice and beans and some beef stew by silent bronze Indian women; later the women fed themselves at a separate bench. There was no sign of the master of the Hacienda de Las Delicias or his lady.

  The majordomo arrived just when the Colonel was wondering what might happen next, and escorted the women back to their quarters. The men proceeded to the great house, where Don Gabor, now attired in a burgundy silk smoking jacket, led them into a shadowed parlor, lit by a pair of candles, and furnished mission-style, with upright chairs that would put backbone into the most slovenly posture.