by S. L. Hawke
I closed my eyes as the image of his decapitated form emerged. His life for yours, do not dishonor this gift…When would the debt to this Triad ever be paid?
The bath house again was where I could be found, only this time Andrew joined me. Lam assisted both of us with the hot water, though I was completely fine with the cold. The temperature despite it being March was dry and hot.
“So I think we are the only niggards fool enough to play cards with just the banditos tonight,” Andrew said as he poured the lukewarm water over his soapy head. “I found out those miners came in from Tres Pinos, another mine, so I don’t think they are the rebels we’re looking for.”
Of course it was too easy to have it all work out. “Thought so. This guy Poole has been running this little gang for a long time. I wouldn’t think he’d be so stupid. No, someone is getting him supplies; most likely he’s closer to the ocean.” My shoulders hurt, as did my wrist. The new sword fighting set Lam was teaching me challenged all my joints. Broadsword, he called it. A tender spot, the width of the sword’s back haft, bruised my upper bicep, turning it purple. Lam came over and dabbed an herbal astringent on it called simply: “Jow”.
“You need Chi Kung,” Lam said. I bowed my head. “Tomorrow. We begin.” Pain in my body did not make for enthusiasm. It did, however, feel good again to move like this. Broadsword movements were fluid, less static than some of the movements used with my katana. Yet, Japanese deep low knee walking had always made me feel less adrift. The Chinese “horse stance” was powerful in its stability. The sword sang in the air regardless of my roots.
“No, I think our gang is relying on outsiders to bring in what he needs.”
“Well, two years ago, a hotel stage was hit. The strong box was taken, but only after they shot the innkeeper and his wife.” Andrew hung up his towel.
“You sure it wasn’t our bandidos?” My stomach growled again. Lam gestured for us to exit the bath house. My clean clothes felt like a feather bed had embraced me. All I could think about was sleep. I headed back towards the barracks-like ‘hotel’ as Bratton called it.
“Lorenzana’s method of stealing would have involved the horses.” Andrew checked his pocket watch.
“Heard anything from Estella?”
“No.” Andrew looked ahead. “Aunt Melinda?”
The ground at my feet was dusty even for this time of year. A drought was in the making. My arm was pain-free, the bone feeling renewed somehow. Healed.
“Hey, where are you going? We’ve got a dinner to attend.” Andrew snickered at my hanging head. “Why else would you wear that old style vest? You look like an undertaker.” I was too tired to notice what Lam was dressing me with. This old waistcoat was given to me by my father-in-law, wrapped carefully in rice paper. It had belonged to a member of the Hawaiian royalty. Doggedly, I followed Andrew back towards the Bratton House. Before going inside, Andrew held me back. He pointed to my cravat.
“Looks better on you than ‘Uncle’ Miles.” Andrew winked at me, then strode ahead into the elegant foray.
The Bratton salon was again full of young people, with Fergus among the daughters. Many a blush and sigh occurred between them. When Andrew gravitated over to the group of young people, I could see that he had since forgotten Estella. Somehow I felt a great sense of relief that he was freed up and dedicated to remain a bachelor. He was too young to entertain marriage. There was still too much uncertainty ahead.
“Mr. Sloan!” A huge ham of a hand grabbed my forearm with the force of a hungry mare. The smell that followed it nearly caused me to swoon. Perfume over an unwashed body is a force to be reckoned with and Mrs. Bratton was certainly her own storm.
“Mrs. Bratton.” My elbow extended itself towards her on habit. She gripped it and, creating a sway, pulled me along with her into the dining room.
Most of the folk at the main table were from San Jose. I was grateful no other women were present to distract the other men. The burden of keeping company with the Mine Manager’s wife did not fall solely upon me. One man had come in from Tres Pinos, looking as if he had been in the wilderness all his life. His clothes were worn from countless field surveys, but the confidence with which he had crossed the valley and its roads eased my worry of thievery. Obviously, his band of explorers were not considered prey for the thieves, even though they carried valuable, sensitive surveying equipment.
“We don’t have anything that looks useful by itself. Even the steel is too small or too oddly shaped to be of any use. Since our most prized possession is our large compass, we keep that upon our person or near our bedrolls. But even that itself could not be sold for more than a few dollars at the most.” William Brewer seemed a lively engineer. He was very interested in my journeys between the Sandwich Islands and what I referred to as the “Mainland”. An avid geologist, he asked me if I had ever seen the lava flows of Mauna Kea, or Pele’s Wrath, as the locals called it.
“And the constellations? Surely your view of them must be absolutely superb!” He poured more wine in our glasses with wilderness habituated moderation. This impressed me. Suddenly he leaned forward and in a tense whisper asked me if I had traveled the Santa Cruz way often.
“There is something in these mountains. I hear it causes magnetic disturbances. We have seen strange lights, but a distant campfire can appear as many things…” Here he paused and looked past me, “— even moving stars. Hunger and heat can do strange things to the mind.”
Immediately I thought of the lights in the sky and the dog with the strange collar. I was about to answer him with a question of my own when the mare of a wife bellowed: “Gentlemen, you must meet my daughters and dance!”
Brewer was up and into the salon, while Andrew, Fergus, and I, ushered by Bratton through a secret door, found our way into the street. Walking towards the back of the mine store, we found a makeshift bar and saloon. Already someone was face down in the dirt out in the field. Another man was tossed out, along with his companion who patted his back in commiseration with a reference to ‘payday comin’ along real soon’. Fergus sidestepped into the darkness as members of the battalion passed by.
“Come along. Let’s get this over with,” Andrew complained.
The sour smell of vomit blasted at our faces as the doors opened to let us inside. Harsh laughter, a strained fiddle, the smell of feces, body odor, and horse surrounded me like a wet cloth. I clenched my fists. One man banged heavily into my left shoulder. I caught his filthy jacket so he would not fall onto me. He breathed beer into my face as he belched a thanks. We were pushing our way towards a very tall Chinese man standing guard against a large, blacksmith-iron-mongered door with jade ceramic ‘window panels’ that were inset at irregular slots.
Whether the patrons cared or not, those ceramic ‘windows’ were for blades, at odd angles, to defend the door from being rammed. The surge of human filth pushed away as we found a free space in front of the tall guard. Fergus held up a gold piece to this Chinese man who had scars on both cheeks that, as I came closer to him, were actually deep burns. The Chinese man looked at me and stiffened, then gave Fergus his gold piece back and opened the heavy hinged door.
Sound faded as the door closed behind us. In the center of the great round room was an equally large round table. Five men, all wealthy by the diamond studs in their sleeves or the gold watch chains in the pot, were holding well-worn cards in sweaty, dirty hands. Remnants of hair were held down by sweat on a few who had no hats. The other three shaded their faces with the brims, except for one.
It was his clean, well-trimmed, narrow beard that drew my attention. His youth, another aspect out of place, made him seem like easy prey. But the pile of coin, bills, and jewels spoke otherwise. He wore the standard bolero jacket of a royal landowner’s son from the court, handed down, and richly embroidered on the shoulders and sleeves with gold-spun thread. If the men in this room knew that the gold-covered thread adorning this man’s jacket was probably worth as much as what they had already lost, th
ey would not have tried to trifle with this son of royals. This must be the legendary Faustino Lorenzana, heir to one of the oldest original Spanish-granted Ranchos, Villa de Branciforte.
The other Hispanic was not as clean, his jacket a bit more well-worn and not as fine, but of good quality and also embroidered. The buttons were solid silver from Mexico, and the tie he wore was silk. He slammed his hand down and swore. There were no winnings in front of him, just a few meager silver coins.
“That’s Vasquez,” Andrew whispered in my ear. Tiburcio Vasquez, another ‘bandito’ as the Marshal writ had described. The Castellano dialect often sounded like a ‘t’ to the untrained ear. The file explained that Vasquez’ luck with robbery was due to the occasional assistance of his cousin Faustino. Someday, someone will write a book about a smart little guy using the bigger one to get the job done. The stories I could tell about the folk we’ve arrested. Art’s voice rattled in my head, making me wish I was back in The City.
Three other men folded their hands, and the table was freed up.
For a brief moment, I was stuck in place. My bowels decided it was time to move. Andrew tapped me on the elbow, then pushed me to move forward.
We were carefully introduced by the servant at the door.
“Three gringos wanting to suffer,” Faustino said calmly with a slight smile. Taking a deep breath through my nose I sat down at the table. My hat stayed on my head.
“Cavallers.” I nodded to both Lorenzana and Vasquez.
“Eh?” Vasquez leaned across the table and sneered at us as we sat. But he looked warily at me. Lorenzana leaned back in his chair and studied me. He had all of his teeth.
He was also about Andrew’s age. His dark eyes held a meticulous intelligence edged with disdain of anyone else. He challenged me to look away first. I didn’t. Instead, I took the cards from Fergus and slid them with quiet precision towards Lorenzana, forcing him to look down at what was in front of him.
“Se pueden consultar les cartes. Vostè los encontrará completamente ordinario.” My Castellano was rusty but made the impression I had hoped. Vasquez leaned over and smiled widely. He understood me just fine. Lorenzana, giving a harsh glance at Vasquez, held his hand up to prevent Vasquez from touching the cards. Vasquez quickly sat back, teeth clenching. He looked like a man who knew he could have ruined whatever plan may have been in the works but did not, thanks to his cousin Faustino. Well, that shows us who’s boss, Andrew seemed to say with a raising of an eyebrow.
“French. Quite beautiful.” Lorenzana picked up the cards and examined them closely for marks, unevenness, anything that would threaten his already skilled position as a card player. There were none. Fergus was not stupid.
“The only language I know,” Fergus said as he placed five small gold bars with the US Union Army eagle stamped on them. Lorenzana quickly studied the young captain and narrowed his eyes. He looked away from him to me, suddenly locking eyes. For a very small instance I was reminded of Miles. And yet, from the hairs sprouting fully from the young Hispanic’s chin, this was a young man, not a woman in disguise. This reminded me of something that Miles had shown in class. As if deducing my conclusions, Lorenzana looked quickly away. He slightly tensed, like an animal sensing it could be caught if it moved. Any reaction from me that gave away my understanding about his ‘womanly ways’ would be disastrous.
It was a long shot, I could be wrong, but trusting something, my instinct, the moment, my training, I mimicked Lorenzana’s movement, leaning against Fergus. Not missing a beat, Fergus blazed on ahead, reading my play, making this call, as if he and I had been in espionage all our lives. He leaned back against me. The gesture of manly affectation was completely obvious, causing Vasquez to snort and sneer. Lorenzana also tried to look disgusted, but his eyes regarded me with something akin to pain. Time to show our hand.
Fate’s already dealt me these three aces, I recited over and over in my mind, in a vain attempt to calm myself. Andrew Jackson Sweeney, my young namesake, Quartermaster Captain Fergus McRee of our Union Cavalry, and the third, and by far best ace, my eight-year-old son, Hiru. I drew a breath, confident I would see him again, that I would return for him when I was done here.
“Let’s just get this done,” I sighed. Lorenzana’s eyes sharpened, and his body straightened. A very small smile directed itself to me. I nodded, tapping the brim of my hat. Lorenzana seemed to turn a very unmanly shade of pink. Vasquez suddenly expectorated and with a sharp ping! hit the spittoon.
Lorenzana rolled his eyes upward then handed the cards to Vasquez, after all of us declined the honor of dealing.
The game was five card.
Vasquez fluttered the cards in his raw hands as if they had wings. All of us kept our eyes on the cards as they fluttered and whispered. We counted the cards’ placement as they flew expertly into place, stopping just short of our stakes.
Now we were all seated at the table, Faustino Lorenzana from Santa Cruz, Fergus, Faustino’s cousin Tiburcio Vasquez of Hollister, my namesake and partner Andrew, and myself. Vasquez caressed the cards as if the women on their backs were in his hands. That was why Faustino kept him at the table. He was deft. He dealt with equal speed and grace. We did this for five games.
Fergus gave some away, got some back with such ease, I wasn’t sure if he were simply skilled or lucky. Andrew lost more and more, then would win back under his original amount. Lorenzana and Fergus seemed well matched as they lost and gained at equal amounts. Lorenzana’s young face flushed whenever he caught me watching him. Like me, he was keeping track of the card count, but unlike him, I could not keep up as quickly. I simply held on to whatever I bet and won one hand out of the five. Now we were on the last hand, we all seemed to know, though nothing was said. Yet, carefully we examined our hands, each in their own way.
My way was to peel the cards up, together, then fan them out slightly, barely uncovering the card’s valuator on the corner.
I did all my sighing, tics, or scratching before I looked at my cards. As I slid the cards slowly apart, a Five of Diamonds appeared. The next card was a Two of Hearts, the next, another Five belonging to Hearts, then the Queen of Spades, followed by...another Five of Clubs.
Shit. Three of a kind. No swallowing. None, I cursed myself. Just look at everyone else.
Andrew was chewing something, sunflower seeds, I think. He spat on the floor. As silently as humanly possible, a small Chinese boy scurried beside him on hand and knees so he could not be accused of seeing the cards and cleaned up the spittle, leaving a can in its wake, I assumed, because though I could hear the boy and the metallic rattle of the can, I couldn’t see him.
Fergus was extremely quiet. He was remarkably dry for someone with such a heavy coat. But the collar around his neck was soaked. Lorenzana was chewing on a toothpick, running it from one side of his mouth to the other. He smiled at me, but I could tell it was bravado. I half smiled, making him look away and scowl.
Vasquez was making all manner of whistles, sounds, and swear words. Suddenly he farted. Faustino rolled his eyes again and shook his head. These two were a team, the fool and the freak. But I could see that Vasquez was armed, and from what I remembered about the report on these two, Vasquez was the better shot. They cut a swath from Sacramento to San Bernadino. Were these bandidos the link we needed in order to find the Confederate Camp? What benefit could these ties to the nearby Spanish Rancho have for the thieves other than supplies? What had Poole, the Confederate Leader, promised these sons of the past Spanish Empire?
At this point if I weren’t under direct Presidential order, if I were free of the debt I owed Tomiko’s father, would I still work so hard to stop the illegal shipments of ammunition out of Santa Cruz Harbor? Why was I now rethinking my role, my patriotism, my ability to gain the trust of this fervent, if not passionate young man? Weren’t we all doing stupid things for the wrong reasons when we were young men? Considering Fergus’ diatribe on the rights of Californios, which both these men were, weren’t these
rights to be respected? Even defended?
The thinking on this kept me calm. Andrew’s young face showed that he knew I held a good hand, regardless. Fergus cuddled his cards close to his buttons, making his pile of coins, gold nibs, pocket watches, and silver bars look huge. We hung on, in silence, to this last bet of the hand.
“Gentlemen it will cost you 20 dollars to see my cards.” Fergus plopped a gold piece on the rich pot.
Lorenzana’s partner Vasquez let out a cry and slammed his cards down. For a brief moment Lorenzana glanced at Vasquez in disgust, or was it disappointment?
“You know, I want to go visit a very special lady this evening, so I’ll keep my shirt on,” Andrew said as he, too, folded. Lorenzana again looked me in the eye. His cheeks flushed pink. What’s he seeing?
“Well, el gilipollas, call.” Faustino Lorenzana just called me an asshole without emotion, emphasizing his meticulously trimmed mustache, his pristine jacket pressed, and clean. Even the nails on his fingers shone. But his cards were damp, their naked lady images wilting underneath his grip.
“Name’s Andrew Jackson Sloan, hermano!” I said as I threw a gold piece on the pot. He watched me but the disdain seemed to dissipate. His eyes narrowed. He knew. He had to. He was keeping track of the count. Now I needed to stall the moment. After all this time, we still didn’t really know who these men were, or really, why they were here.
My Castellano was the only card I had left.
“The Ranchos are still prosperous I am told.” My voice tried to sound offhand, informal.
“We own this land; you are trespassers here,” Vasquez growled. “If I had my way, I would chase all of you away. The King, God Bless his Immortal Soul, granted his cousin, my grandfather, these lands. Not your silly little President who cannot even keep his country in one piece.” Fergus giggled like a little boy. Lorenzana never took his eyes off me.
