Going Home

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “Go ahead of me. Down to the waterfront.”

  “Senor, por favor, I wish to depart your pleasant and treasured company. Consider yourself an honored guest of Méjico.”

  Skye laughed softly. “Go wake up the soldiers and let them chase me if you dare,” he said, releasing the official.

  He watched the man hasten away, downhill. Then he peered at the moon-glittered bay. It was empty.

  thirty–two

  Skye watched Amarilla hasten through the night toward a warm bed, no doubt grateful that the distinguished English visitor to Méjico hadn’t kicked his ribs in.

  The bay caught the moonlight and glittered it back at him, and he studied it. No black hulks bobbed on the waters. No black masts poked the sky. The Royal Navy squadron had sailed. The commodore had better ways to spend the king’s purse than purchasing a notorious deserter.

  But it was not the sea that caught him, but the dark sky with its pinpricks of light coming from some unimaginably distant place. He could see the whole bowl of heaven; he was free. He possessed himself and his future.

  No Name rubbed at his legs. Startled, he beheld the gaunt cur standing guard over him. He knew, intuitively, that if he turned his head just a fraction, he would behold the woman he loved, and suddenly he choked.

  “Thank you for waiting for me,” he said.

  “Goddam, Skye, I thought they take you away. I see these big houses and I think, this is a place of safety. People live behind thick walls and keep the rain and cold away. But now I see that big houses take away a man’s freedom, too. Absaroka don’t have big houses.”

  Skye had never thought of that: that white men’s structures were both refuges and prisons.

  He slipped an arm about her shoulder and drew her to him and then he kissed her, and she kissed back.

  “We should leave here,” she whispered. “This bad place.”

  “We will,” he said. “I got my money back from that pirate. Maybe we could buy horses. Maybe outfit ourselves. Five pounds isn’t much, though. Twenty-five yank dollars.”

  “How much is a rifle and bullets, Skye?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t even speak their tongue.”

  “They know finger talk?”

  “No.”

  “What you gonna do, Skye? Go to England?”

  Skye studied the dark expanse of heaven and knew that something had changed forever: he would never see England. Nothing was the same.

  “No, Victoria, we’ll go to the mountains. We’ll go home.”

  “You gonna work for Hudson Bay?”

  “They can’t employ me as a brigade leader unless I have a pardon. I could probably work for them as a trapper in some obscure post, more or less out of sight.”

  “How we gonna go from here, eh?”

  “I don’t know. I know there’s mighty mountains all around this place, and winter’s coming.”

  He felt dizzy from lack of food, and walked slowly toward the bay. That seemed the safest place until morning, when the markets opened. Victoria followed him down the slope until they stood at the edge of the sea, watching the ebb tide drain across dark sands. England seemed some impossible distance away; a world and lifetime away now. His fate lay here, in this untouched and merciful continent where hope lived. He sorrowed. He had wanted so much to see his father one last time; to be restored to the freedoms of an Englishman. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the image of his father soften and fade and then vanish.

  “You not feeling good, Skye.”

  “I was saying goodbye to my father. I’ll be all right in the morning.”

  He settled against a rocky outcrop and listened to the sea as it flooded hope in and out of the lengthy shoreline. Someplace far away lay China.

  The dog had vanished again. Who could say what the yellow cur was doing? And then, after a while, it appeared, carrying something large in its jaw. This burden it brought to Skye, who sat slumped into the hard rock, and laid it upon the sand.

  One slow slash of the cur’s tail informed Skye that this was a gift.

  “Sonofabitch,” said Victoria.

  Skye lifted up a haunch of meat, discovered that it had been well cooked and was fresh. He did not know what sort of meat, but thought it was lamb. The cur eyed him dolefully.

  “Where did you steal this, you rascal?” Skye asked.

  The dog waited.

  Skye dug into his frock coat and found the small skinning knife sheathed at his waist, his sole memento of the mountains.

  Tenderly, he sliced a piece of the cold and tender flesh and handed that first piece to the dog. It accepted gently, settled on a grassy spot, and began gnawing at the food.

  “Thank you, No Name,” Skye said, sudden feeling blooming in him. This dog was not a pet nor a son nor a child; this dog was his New World father, looking after his son and daughter. The dog looked very old and wise, and much smarter than any mere mortal.

  Then Skye cut thin slices for Victoria, who ate each one with relish, licking her fingers and clucking with sheer joy. When it came to good meat, no one was more appreciative than an Absaroka Indian.

  Finally he himself ate one piece and then another, and then he fed the dog again and Victoria, and they ate thin, sweet slices of lamb until the moon slid down the bowl of the sky and the eastern sky began to lighten. It was very cold, and they had only the clothing they wore. They huddled together, and then the dog crawled across their laps, warming them a little with his body.

  They watched the dark bay of Monterey begin to blue as the sun crept over the distant mountains south and east. The bay looked so empty. Had great events occurred on these serene waters just one day before? Had armed might, a hundred and fifty cannon, anchored there? Had the Union Jack flown there, along with the Hudson’s Bay standard?

  The sun climbed and no one stirred, and Skye suspected that the Californios lived on a leisurely plan and did not rise early if they could help it. Skye ached, and he knew Victoria did, too. They had suffered much in the past hours.

  He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. His few pounds might buy an ancient flintlock, but maybe not. The cash would not equip him and his loved ones for a long hard journey to the Stony Mountains, in the middle of winter.

  He knew of two men here who spoke English well enough. One was the fur trader, Don Emilio Baromillo, and the other was the customs man, Esteban Larocha. Of these, Skye preferred to deal with Baromillo. He was not keen on seeing an official, with an official’s attitude toward foreigners in California without the permission of the governor.

  He would try to find Baromillo, if only to obtain some advice. How did one leave California for the interior? And what equipment would the don recommend?

  No Name slept the sleep of the innocent. Skye felt less innocent and buried the remains of the haunch deep in sand. Around them now, people stirred. An ancient woman in black combed the shore, eyeing the visitors sharply. A group of fishermen gathered about a beached boat and dragged it into the bay. Then they boarded, loaded some supplies, pushed free of land, and raised a venerable sail.

  Children flocked by, and the Skyes found themselves objects of curiosity, but when Skye tried to speak to them, they stared solemnly or giggled, and vanished along the strand. Skye was weary: he hadn’t slept and he had endured one of the most harrowing nights in years. But he didn’t want to move, or wander the town, risking attention. So they watched the turquoise bay, watched puffball clouds float over, watched gulls wheel, and watched Monterey brighten into a bold city with red-tiled roofs, rioting flowers, and whitewashed adobe buildings.

  Then Skye saw someone stirring at Baromillo’s warehouse, the very place where he had been discovered while conversing with Simpson and the Mexicans. He rose stiffly, and Victoria rose as well. But No Name raised one eyebrow, closed it, and dozed on. Skye brushed sand off his begrimed frock coat and britches, repaired to the warehouse, and found a slender young man there.

  “Do you speak English?”

  The m
an shook his head.

  “Could you direct me to Don Emilio?”

  “Don Emilio? Ah …” the man fought for words. “Una hora?”

  “One hour.” Skye pointed at himself. “Senor Barnaby Skye. Senora Victoria Skye.”

  “Skye?” Some knowingness lit the man’s face. “Ah, si.”

  “Una hora,” Skye said.

  They strolled Monterey, aching in every joint. Skye examined a village tinted with primary colors, cleansed by fresh sea breezes and populated by the most colorfully dressed people he had ever seen. To his eye, the women wore very little; their golden arms were bared to the blessings of the sun, and their bosoms were barely covered. They were mostly jet-haired, and had glowing brown eyes that raked his person as he strolled by.

  The caballeros, on the other hand, vied with the ladies to be noticed, wearing short coats, red sashes, and gleaming white shirts festooned with lace. They were, to a man, possessors of proud steeds, which they corvetted and paraded. Victoria could barely contain herself, and gasped at every new sight.

  “What a people!” she breathed, after watching a horseman dance his horse past, the equipage jingling and the tassels shivering. “Sonofabitch!”

  Skye was glad Victoria was more interested in the horses than the horsemen. And that she had not paid attention to the dazzling beauty of the senoritas, whose glowing smiles had set Skye’s heart to tripping.

  They passed open-air markets and beheld fruits and vegetables and grains in crockery bowls and baskets, sold by Indians along with rural people. They clambered up narrow and crooked streets, past houses with inner courtyards and tiled or flagstoned patios behind black ironwork, where they could glimpse the domestic life of these handsome people.

  Skye was impressed. Everywhere, the Mexicans had created their domestic and commercial life with artistry and beauty in mind. But when he had gauged an hour had passed, he steered Victoria down the long slope to the warehouses on the strand, and found the enterprise belonging to Baromillo.

  The trader welcomed them cautiously, and bade them enter a spare cubicle where the clerk huddled over a ledger.

  “Senor Skye,” he said cautiously. “I do not expect to see you any more ever.”

  “The navy didn’t want me,” Skye said without further ado. “And now we need your help.”

  Baromillo frowned.

  thirty–three

  The bleakness and impatience in Emilio Baromillo’s gaze didn’t encourage hope in Skye. Nonetheless, he plunged in.

  “I am thankful to find someone who can speak my tongue, sir. My wife and I are stranded here and need your assistance.”

  Baromillo stared, not a muscle of his face moving, not even a blink of his warm dark eyes.

  “We wish to return to our own land.”

  “You’re an Englishman. I think your navy was attempting to do just that.”

  “My wife’s land is in the Stony Mountains, as the Yanks call that country. We haven’t the means.”

  “Then you must wait here. You might earn passage on some Yankee coastal ship.”

  “How often do they come?”

  The man shrugged. “Who knows? Tomorrow? A year from now?”

  “Where do they go?”

  “Sandwich Islands, usually, and then around the Horn to Boston.”

  “Is there a route overland?”

  “A perilous trail from the village of San Diego, across deserts, to Santa Fe.”

  “What about northeast?”

  “It is late in October, senor. It is already too late, even if you were properly outfitted. The mountains are a great barrier, with no open passes except briefly in the summer.”

  “What about up the coast?”

  “A hard journey, but possible. Hudson’s Bay sends trapper brigades south, even into California.”

  “I led a fur brigade for the Yanks, and Hudson’s Bay was planning on employing me. Outfit me and I’ll bring you beaver all winter until the passes are clear.”

  Baromillo smiled thinly. “And what is to insure that I would ever see you again?”

  “My word.”

  “Your past does not suggest that it would be a wise thing for me to do.”

  Skye fought back his anger. He had always been as good as his word. “There’s profit in it.”

  “I think not. You have nothing—nada. I would even have to clothe you. Horses, traps, saddles, a rifle, camp gear, skinning knives, everything. Beaver bring but little. I buy whatever comes to me, but I get nothing. Not like the sea otter, big beautiful pelts. I could sell every sea otter in California, and for a good price to any trader who sails to our bay.”

  “I could catch sea otter, then, if you’d advance something.”

  “Ah, no, senor, that is a vocation much coveted by our own laborers. My company has certain understandings.”

  “Horses, then. Where can we got those?”

  “Ah, horses! We have horses in Méjico. Every estancia has a thousand horses and mules. But good horses are rare and command a price. Bad horses, bad mules, these are given to the Indios for meat. Every rancho has horses and saddles and leather tack. It is what we do best.”

  “I’ll give a shilling for a decent horse, and another for a decent saddle. Three horses and two or three mules.”

  “Would that remove you from Mejico, where you illegally visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “A shilling is worth about twice our real. You offer too little. Make it three shillings for a horse, four shillings for each saddle and tack, and one shilling for a mule. I will have them here manana. Do not put much faith in the horses.”

  “That’s sixteen. I will give you four more—make it almost a pound—for good sound stock, good hooves and not unruly, and for your kind service.”

  Baromillo nodded. “I arrive here with livestock when the bell tolls ten, senor, senora …”

  Skye left the warehouse, heartened.

  Weary as he was, he put the rest of the day to good use. He and No Name visited the mercados. He discovered that prices, in cash-short California, were low for anything locally manufactured. A few reales would buy amazing things. His lack of Spanish was no impediment and fingers served as well as words. The merchants eyed his coins, hard money, and smiled broadly. They were accustomed to barter.

  By the time el sol was skimming the Pacific, he had acquired an ancient longrifle of the Kentucky variety, some dubious, locally made gunpowder, powder horn, a pound of precast balls, wads, and two spare flints. He bought a few trade goods, including awls, ribbons, cloth, knives, beads, two worn but thick Mexican blankets, and used canvas ponchos. At that point his few coins were almost gone.

  He and Victoria stowed the gear in Baromillo’s warehouse. She was absorbing the world of Europeans and kept her thoughts to herself.

  His remaining coins, given him by McLoughlin, went for food: flour, dried beans, fresh loaves, coffee, all stored in coarse gunnysacks, as well as one battered tin cook pot that would suffice for them both.

  He felt rich. He and Victoria gobbled baker’s sweets. She had never tasted such things and smiled. The dog received a one-centavo bone. Then they headed for the shore again, wrapped themselves in their blankets and ponchos, and awaited the dawn.

  Late the next morning Baromillo and a pair of vaqueros showed up with the horses, mules, and tack. Baromillo stood dispassionately while Skye and Victoria examined the beasts. Two were bridled and saddled, and these at least had some passing acquaintance with a rider. The others were obviously straight out of the great herds and unfamiliar with anything other than a halter and braided leather rope.

  Risking a kick, Skye lifted hooves, discovering one that was seriously cracked. That was on the unbridled horse, and he rejected it. The mules sidled away. He climbed onto the uglier of the two saddlers. The horse humped its back and refused to move. But the other saddler seemed more obedient.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll take all but the grulla with the cracked hoof. I’ll trade that for two pac
ksaddles for the mules.”

  He ended up with one packsaddle, which the vaqueros strapped to the sullen mule after roping it down.

  It was going to take plenty of work to transform this lot of evil-minded rebels into a good saddle-and-pack string, but Skye figured he had plenty of time and trail to do it.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over. He and Victoria had an outfit of sorts. He loaded their paltry supplies onto the back of the wild-eyed mule and tied the burlap sacks down with thong. He wasn’t happy with that. The first rain would ruin much of his food and damage his tradegoods. There came over him not joy, but an ineffable sadness.

  “Senor Baromillo, I have one last thing to do,” he said. “I want to write a letter and I want you to post it on the next English vessel. It is to my father. I wish to bid him goodbye. I don’t have a centavo left, but I’ll trade you a few of these goods I bought.”

  Something softened in the don’s stern visage. “Write your letter, senor. Your story is a hard one.”

  Skye clasped the man’s hand and held it a moment.

  The words came hard, and he wrote with difficulty, forming letters and sentences out of his schoolboy learning.

  Dear Father,

  I had high hopes of returning to England to see you and my sisters. But those hopes were dashed by the Royal Navy here in Mexico, which discovered my presence and made mischief. I am unable to return to England and unable to restore my good name.

  It is painful to me that we won’t meet again in this lifetime. But I am grateful to Hudson’s Bay Company for conveying word of me to you, however late it came. Too late for my beloved mother to know. You had thought me dead when all the while I was the Crown’s miserable prisoner, unable to escape, unable to contact you.

  So, Father, I am destined to spend my days here in North America, without the solace of your company. I am grateful to you, sir, for bringing me into this world, and for your kindness, and for your nurture during my salad days in England.

  I am grateful for your love and for equipping me to face a hard world. If we don’t see each other again, be assured for the rest of your days that I honor you above all else, honor my patrimony, treasure your love and proffer my own, and I will devote myself to the good conduct you instilled in me both by instruction and example.