by S. L. Hawke
My next move could either gain or lose his trust.
“Then your king abandoned you when he gave Mexico the rights to your land. They lost. We won.”
“Brother Sloan, your language is old. Of the court. Where did you learn such old fashioned ways, and ideas as well?” Faustino leaned back in his chair, placing his cards face down on the table. One would think he was folding his hand, unconsciously perhaps, but to me it was a giveaway. Fergus rubbed his nose, our signal to continue on with my conversation. I did not know that Fergus knew Castellano.
“Old fashioned ideas built this country.”
“You speak well, for a white man. Which country? The
Blue? Or the Grey?”
“Well, I guess this depends on whether or not you approve of slavery.”
“You are truly wanting to screw a donkey!” Vasquez added. Lorenzana flashed him an angry look. Andrew caught this exchange and crossed his legs. He asked for water with a gesture.
“You must excuse my cousin. He does not understand the subtleties of politics or the repercussions certain actions can bring.” Here Lorenzana tapped the top of his cards, lightly with each finger as he draped another over the arm of his wing chair. “Not unlike your president.”
Ah. Now we were getting somewhere. “Now let’s just assume,” I said in English, without moving, but also placing my hand face down, “that if a man were to preserve his lands hereabouts, maybe convince others of his kin to also join up, he’d have a nice bit of safety.”
The real point of this game I wasn’t afraid to show, but the mission was my ace here. It would determine the future of California in the Civil War.
Lorenzana rubbed his beard but did not take his eyes off me. I leaned back in my chair but rested my fingers on top of my cards. “I imagine the promise of safety in these times is worth more than a man’s place in society. If there is such a thing out here, society that is.” Lorenzana’s English was also flawless.
“Perhaps men have weaknesses when it comes to certain valuable items. Perhaps if one finds oneself in the possession of certain—” Here Lorenzana paused. Castellano returned, like poetry in his mouth, “—important items, necessary say, to the building of a city’s future, nay, perhaps, not the building of a city’s glory, but of a single leader’s place in history, then perhaps that can be the means to a greater and more profitable end. And isn’t that what a man truly wants, an end to war?”
“And reap the spoils therein?” I said in English, to cue Fergus. So, I thought, he has struck a deal with the Devil in Confederate Dress.
“Gentlemen. Please, let me win this hand!” Fergus interrupted in perfect Castellano. Lorenzana stared openly at him and flushed angrily.
“Shut up you little maricon—” Vasquez spat. Fergus batted his eyes. Vasquez none too politely had just called him an effeminate.
“Make me!” Fergus said, without losing that twinkling smile of his. “Or are you just a jealous boyfriend?” Vasquez snarled at the insult, stood up and pointed his revolver at Fergus’ chest. Fergus giggled again.
“Idiot. Tranquillo!” Lorenzana commanded, seating Vasquez faster than a bad meal. Lorenzana tossed a gold wafer bearing the letters K, G, and C on it into the pile. “My land is not for sale, but my skills are.”
Now Andrew rubbed his chin. This was what we were waiting for, proof that the second largest Rancho’s heir apparent was helping the men we were hunting.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, watching Lorenzana as Vasquez chewed his fingernails. I laid out my hand.
“Puto! Besame el culo!” Vasquez swore. I hoped that Andrew was keeping watch for Vasquez’ pistol again. Fergus hung his head in mock sadness. Then he sank back into his chair as if covered with a heavy weight.
“Well, show your knickers,” Lorenzana baited Fergus.
Fergus moved slowly, dramatically. Then shouted: “A straight, straight up!” Fergus laid down his hand. It was a seven high straight beating my three of a kind. Lorenzana trembled and crumpled his hand, Fergus’ playing cards, into his fist.
“Hey, those are mine and they cost a bit!” Fergus yelled at Lorenzana. Fergus leaned over to take the cards from Lorenzana’s hand when Vasquez suddenly stood, pulled, and shot Fergus straight through the heart.
Andrew tackled Vasquez but somehow missed him.
I ran to Fergus and cradled him in my arms.
Lorenzana stood up and shot at Vasquez but missed. Vasquez fled out the door, Andrew on his heels.
I clutched Fergus, feeling his life ebb away. Soldiers crashed through the door, but not before Lorenzana, smiling like a cat at me, took back his gold wafer. I could not let go of Fergus. The sergeant pried him from me. Lorenzana watched me, smiling, amused as he was arrested and cuffed.
“He was going to betray you,” Lorenzana snarled in Castellano, as they hoisted and fought to hold on to him. “I can help you…” They were dragging him away as Fergus went limp in my arms. “I know what you are looking for!” he cried as he was taken away.
“Sir, you have to let him go.” English intruded like a bullet. The soldier was prying Fergus’ body out of my arms. I let him. Shaking, standing seemed herculean and my legs would not work. Then I pushed myself out the door, through another, past white blurred faces, until I found the outside and retched.
Beautiful Lies
New Almaden Township
The light had changed color. Faustino knew in his bones that it was daylight outside. The windows of the prison cell were small and shuttered, but the tiny slivers of light between the slats could be seen upon the wall. He had dreamt of his sister again, and of that night when their father had sent him away to make a man of him. Bring me something worthy of a Rodríguez. You spend too much time in your sisters’ skirts and that is why you found your way into another man’s hands. Get you away from me, and I will forgive your sodomy…Faustino trembled then and vowed that his father would know he was tougher than any man. He would avenge his sister’s beating for ‘teaching’ Faustino to be like a woman. He would show them all that a ‘sodomite’ was more courageous than those who sobbed between a woman’s legs for comfort.
Faustino found his way to his aunt’s farm and his cousin Tiburcio, who wooed women like honey to a bee. It befuddled Faustino how this stupid, bumbling, stinky cousin could make women wet and eager. He even (at Tiburcio’s encouragement) watched the act between man and woman, but felt nothing. When he saw Tiburcio naked, his own member rose, and try as he might, he felt love, and knew with bitterness that it could never be returned. Tiburcio never questioned him on why Faustino never ‘wet his dog’ anytime they passed a whore house. Faustino continually distracted Tiburcio by talking about gold, robbing, and saving their Ranchos. Tiburcio never pursued this, just simply slapped Faustino on the back in a brotherly manner, saying a jumble of words on how needs would overcome fear in the end and after that, he would want nothing else, not even food.
Needs overcoming fear. Yes, this is true, Faustino comforted himself. My need to prove myself will get me through this.
“Tiburcio and Faustino” became a newspaper story from Sacramento to San Bernardino. A pair of ‘dangerous outlaws’, the papers had claimed. Tiburcio was so impressed by the front page newspaper stories that he and Faustino had spawned, that much of Faustino’s fastidious habits, his ‘girly walk’ were forgiven by Tiburcio. Faustino knew this forgiveness was due to his ability to find willing women in any farm or any town, married or not, to bed Tiburcio.
Women trusted Faustino, his gentleness, his sweet words. Writing flowery notes, Faustino would cautiously sign Tiburcio’s name to them. Tiburcio would laugh and memorize what to say should they ask about the notes, just long enough for Tiburcio to be able to crawl in, hump fervently, and then leave them replete by the rise of the morning star. Once, Faustino counted Tiburcio releasing himself at least three times in a given evening.
Weeping in his own bedroll, Faustino would recall the moaning, the crying out of Tiburcio as h
e came inside the chosen woman of that night, and ached to know that kind of love, that passion for another made flesh. He would then soil himself with his own seed, without even a caress. Faustino had given up on ever knowing another other than himself, until three days ago.
A white man named Andrew Jackson Sloan had come to play poker. He’d come with two younger men, one an officer in the American Infantry, and another who could have been his son. Word around the camp, especially from the mining office, was that he was a Marshal, looking for rebels.
As soon as Sloan had swept into the room, Faustino could see that he was different from any other man he had ever met. But it was the affection, the quiet understanding he saw in Sloan’s eyes that told Faustino he had at last found true love. He was certain. I will find him again, Faustino told himself. He imagined helping this Marshal, helping him and getting his father’s land grant restored. The Marshal would have the power to do that, he told himself.
Sloan was tall, handsome in a deep, dangerous, and powerful way, as if he could command the darkness. From the way he held the young army officer, there had been more between them than friendship. Sloan was like Faustino, tortured and alone, unable to express what he truly was, and who he really was.
Faustino had made his decision, and as his Papi knew, he could not be broken.
There was a sound behind the door.
Suddenly the door to the cell opened wide. A burst of bright light blinded him. It was followed by a set of rough hands. A chair was placed amid the fetid mess of the prison cell. Faustino found himself sitting upon it. His hands were bound behind his back to the chair.
“Where are they?” The voice was pure Castellano, and familiar, but Faustino could not be sure. It was as if the young, pretty army officer, Sloan’s companion, were alive again. Faustino laughed back at this melodious voice. He was slapped. A blow to his face made no difference to him. The pain of never being able to be free with his love, his feelings, and his life was deeper and worse. The other side of his face was hit. Then his shins were kicked. At least he wasn’t spitting out teeth. And they didn’t break his fingers, unlike the Confederates.
Captain Ingram had broken Faustino’s fingers. It was done to force him to lead them across another Rancho. Ingram wanted a canyon deep in the mountains near the gringo town of Watsonville. The cover of the Rancho could hide them easily, Captain Ingram had said, with disgust at what he thought was Faustino’s lack of intelligence, but Faustino knew the real reason. They could watch the main stage road for gold transports. No one would suspect anyone else but a Don because the land belonged to a Californio. What they did not know was that the land had already been taken, as all Rancho land seemed to be, by a greedy American with a false deed.
After the Captain left Faustino, a kind white woman came and set Faustino’s fingers. She painted them too. Faustino forced himself to think of the time the woman had tried to suck his member, but he did not swell underneath her deft mouth. Then she cradled him and set his hand, painted his nails, cooed over him like a newborn.
When he had healed, they made a pact to steal a strong box from her brother. The woman, whose name was Sally, shared secrets with him. They were secrets of incest and torture that Sally had endured at the hands of her brother. She planned to kill him with the aid of Tom, her lover, who had taught her to rise above pain and anguish and seek true freedom in his cause.
Faustino had never known Poole, the partner to Captain Ingram, but Sally had convinced Faustino that this Poole could bring down the America that had taken so much from his family, and so much from others, like himself, royals who lived in the South, who had vast wealth and land, now taken away in war, just like his own people. We are the same, Sally had said with a tear streaked face. Help me, Tino, help me end this. My brother has secret ciphers and letters in a box he keeps in his study, out by the gulch, near where your villa is. He is never home; he spends his nights in town. Please Tino, take the box, but don’t open it, and bring it to me. You can meet Tom. He will save us all.
Faustino did so, but despite his promise to Sally, he opened the box and found letters and a small book that looked like a code key. He spent the next night working the code out. And then he removed the letters, copied them, returned the newer copies to the strong box, and the box to Sally. He placed the originals in a water tight box inside the well on his father’s neighbor’s land up near the top of Rodríguez Creek.
“Leave us,” the same voice said in English. Faustino could almost imagine the officer with the French playing cards. What was his name? McRee?
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Leave a guard at the door. Open when I say the password.”
The bright light changed to one belonging to a lamp, set far away on the wall. Faustino could see the military officer’s shadow but little else. Something about him seemed so familiar. I must be dead, thought Faustino. This is hell and he is the devil. Faustino smiled. He had read once in an obscure book he had found off a dead Mason that there was no devil, just human beings wanting to appear to be so. Yes, Faustino thought. I am being fooled. But why? Intrigue bolstered Faustino.
The game can go both ways – Faustino smiled.
The man lit a thin cigar, then offered it to Faustino who took a few deep drags. The officer’s face was covered, and his eyes wore dark spectacles. No eyes, the mark of a diablo. He offered Faustino a wineskin of deeply cold water. Faustino drank greedily. The remaining contents were poured gently over his head as a gesture of comfort, rather than torture. The water washed away the biting lice. Its coolness soothed him.
“You know this man?” A picture was shown to Faustino. It was an elegant, expensive picture of a white man in a pale uniform. It was Captain Rufus Ingram, the man who broke his fingers.
Already, Faustino had been paid well as they had taken one gold stage. The gold Faustino used to pay a lawyer to file a new deed on their own land, until his father instead used the money as dowries for his two youngest sisters. The anger of having to prove the land was his family’s grew.
“Why do you care?” Faustino laughed quietly.
Here, Faustino saw a gold glint of bars on his collar. This devil was a Major. The smile of el diablo could be felt in the cell. No, Faustino could sense, he grinned. Yes, and now I will strike a deal.
“I like making trouble. You do too. We have that in common. Do what I ask, and I will make sure that your family will remain untouched.”
“Promises of a white man are nothing but ashes in the wind.” Faustino hung his head in fatigue.
The Major grabbed his chin and gently raised his face.
“I know you love the Marshal. I could see it in your eyes when you first met him.” Then the Majorgot very close to Faustino’s face. The scarf that covered it reeked with perfume. “If I were a man how would I know that?” Faustino began to shake. The room blurred and distorted. He was dead. He was truly in the possession of El Diablo. He began to weep, not from fear, but from relief.
The Devil moved close to him, now smelling of citrus. The smell came from a strange carrot-like vegetable held in the Devil’s left hand. “Don’t be afraid. You were made for a purpose. You are not evil, just different. So tell me how you can help me find the thieves who stole your land. They are the same thieves. I want you to befriend them, then take the one you love and show him where they are. Protect him at all costs, even your life. Do this and you will be set free…”
Faustino sobbed his agreement. His soul truly belonged to the Devil.
2
Santa Cruz Township
“Leave me alone.” Beth folded up her son’s clothing into a small carpetbag. The afternoon was wearing away. Cynthia was grateful the fog was starting to float in and cool off this hot day. There was so much to do, especially since Cynthia’s friend and former student, Mrs. Ava Singleton, had been threatened by Supervisor John Towne.
“This isn’t right and you know it, Beth.” Cynthia watched her youngest sister fold and refold the tiny
pantaloons. Finally, unable to stand Beth’s nervous idle attempt to be strong, Cynthia grabbed the pantaloons and crumpled them up. She threw them in the bag. Beth began to weep in earnest.
“You know this is wrong!” Cynthia scolded her sister but she knew there was no choice here.
“I married him, if I don’t try–” Beth’s sobs overtook her speech.
“I have told you many times that Jonathan and I can help you and little Frank.” Cynthia straightened and held a small shirt in her arms. What had Ava told Cynthia? That if Beth found out about John’s visits to the Red Salon, he’d make sure Ava’s husband, Walter, would never be accepted in town.
“HELP US?” Beth started to scream a bit. “Help us? Like you did with Elijah?” Beth grabbed the carpet bag and threw it on the floor. Cynthia stiffened. Elijah’s murder was the reason Cynthia was involved with the Union.
“Beth – be calm, be–”
“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME TO BE CALM?” Beth did not scream this, she shouted. Cynthia stepped back. Beth, seeing her gain some ground with her sister, advanced. She was tall, taller than Cynthia, and used this height with menace. “You and I both know that if I did not consent to this marriage, you, Sophie, and Mother would still be struggling to hold on to our land. John made this all possible. Don’t you dare say that he didn’t.”
Cynthia held her head up and looked up at her younger sister. Beth had her younger brother Jack’s height, but the temperament came from somewhere entirely different from any of them. Cynthia also noticed the signs of another child getting started beneath the folds of Beth’s apron. She’d only been married to John Towne for less than a month. Cynthia folded her arms across her body. She silently counted back five months.
They were on picnic at a beach down near a second farm Jonathan had owned. Beth had smiled for the first time since Elijah’s death and was playing with her son in the waves. Emma was with them, encouraging the women to try the water, wearing a proper French “bathing costume”. They felt safe, as Emma was always with her Aunt’s men, who patrolled the shore in their white Austrian ponies, in their ridiculous Russian Royal Uniforms. At a distance the grey was often mistaken for rebel Confederates, until one got closer and the wide mustaches and beards of the Cossack guards were fully apparent.
