Bride of the Baja

by Jane Toombs

  "They are journeying from as far away as Santa Ana," Esteban went on, "the pueblo of Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo and, perhaps, from the capital at Monterey as well."

  "And after the ceremony," Margarita told Jordan breathlessly, "there will be a magnificent fandango here at the casa, with dancing and feasting for many days and a fight between a wild bear and a brave bull and the vaqueros will race their horses and draw the cock."

  Jordan nodded. He had seen them draw the cock on his last visit, the vaqueros burying a live rooster in the ground and, one at a time, riding by as fast as they could, hanging one-handed from their horses to grasp the cock's neck and try to pull him from the ground.

  "Padre Luis has given us permission to use the mission church for the ceremony," Esteban said, "even though the work on the tower isn't finished. This time they intend to build a church that will withstand the most violent of earthquakes."

  "I expected to find the church finished," Jordan said. All of the day's irritations rose to his mind--his impatience with the elaborate Spanish courtesies, having to wait another five days before he and Margarita could marry, the antagonism he suspected Esteban felt toward him. "Surely they have enough Indian slaves for the work," he said.

  There was complete silence.

  "Slaves?" Esteban asked quietly. "The Indians are not slaves. You are, perhaps, confusing California with one of your Southern states. This is not Georgia, not Virginia. The Indians are neophytes, as you know, who are being taught Christianity by the padres. They were savages when we Spanish came to California, living in the wilds, eating acorns and grass."

  "And wearing no clothing at all," Margarita broke in. Her brother glared at her and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. When Esteban looked away, she winked at Jordan.

  "They were pagans who worshipped the sun, the moon, the earth and the mountains. They had no sense of sin, they did not know the difference between right and wrong. The padres are instructing them in the meaning of sin."

  "By flogging them? Or did they get the stripes on their backs in some other way?"

  'They are like children. As a child must be punished by his parents when he disobeys, so must the Indians be punished. The padres love them as though they were the sons and daughters they themselves can never have. They feed and clothe and house them."

  "And pay them nothing for their work."

  "If the Indians were given money, they would buy aguardiente and drink and quarrel for days."

  "And be unable to carry mortar or work in the mission fields or tend the mission cattle," Jordan put in.

  "The Indians are happy living at the mission," Esteban said.

  "Is that why they come there only in the winter, sheltering from the rain and cold, and then in the spring steal whatever horses and cattle they can find and try to escape to their homes in the mountains?"

  "As I say, they are children. They think as children think and act as children act. Like a child, an Indian sees no farther than a day or two into the future. In many ways, however," Esteban said, "I agree with you, Senor Quinn. The days of the missions are nearing an end. The priests are too little concerned with Christianity. They have become too accustomed to their lands and their wealth. But remember, we are a few hundred white men living on the edge of a wilderness inhabited by thousands of savages. At times we must be cruel to survive. Otherwise we'd all be murdered in our sleep."

  Esteban put his glass on the table. "But let us speak of happier events—your marriage, your new life in California. Do you still intend to make your home in Monterey?"

  "I do. Margarita will live with the American consul while our house is being built."

  "I was surprised you chose Monterey for your home," Esteban said. "Governor Sola, as you know, has long been one of Margarita's many admirers."

  Jordan smiled despite the pang of jealousy he felt. Esteban Mendoza, he decided, could give as good as he got.

  "Governor Sola," Margarita said, "is a pig."

  "Admittedly he weighs two hundred and fifty pounds or more," Esteban said, "and is only slightly taller than you, Margarita. It's true he does eat five enormous meals of meat a day, or did when last he visited here, and his table manners have been described by some as uncouth, but he is not a pig. Pedro Sola is our governor, sent to us from Mexico City by the Spanish viceroy himself, and a man of great wealth."

  "He is a pig." Margarita faced her brother, her eyes flashing. "If a man like that, a man I didn't love, were ever to put his hands on me in lust, I would, I would—"

  "Kill him?" Esteban asked.

  "No, I would kill myself rather than endure the shame." Suddenly she ran to Jordan and buried her face against his chest. "Take me with you," she whispered as he stroked her hair. "Take me with you now."

  He was tempted. They could, after all, be married in Monterey. He turned the idea over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. No, he finally decided, he couldn't afford to make enemies of the Mendozas.

  "We should be married here," he told her. "The great feast is planned and the guests are already on their way."

  She looked up at him, smiling though her eyes glittered with tears. "I shall count the days."

  The night before the wedding Jordan walked to a high hill overlooking the sea. He stood for a long time leaning against the trunk of an oak with the sweet scent of orange blossoms in the air all around him. Overhead, a half-moon shone in a cloudless sky, silvering the mountains, the ranch buildings, the fields and the orchards.

  To his left he saw the gray adobe walls of the mission, below him the Kerry Dancer's masts were outlined in black against the sea. The sound of singing drifted to him from the direction of the mission.

  I'm in Spanish California, he told himself, listening to mission Indians singing a French hymn in Latin. He thought of the next day, the wedding and Margarita. She was so young, so trusting. I hope to God I know what I'm about, he said to himself as he turned and walked slowly back to the rancho.

  In the morning he and Margarita rode side by side to the church, on horses covered with silks decorated with pieces of silver, iron and copper, the tinkling of the metal sounding like a hundred small echoes of the tolling mission bells. Margarita's head was crowned with a white mantilla and cascades of lace fell down to cover the rich darkness of her hair.

  Was this magnificently gowned woman the mischievous girl he'd courted? Jordan wondered. He saw gleams of lustrous white satin through the overdress of fine lace that flowed in tiers from her waist to cover her feet. "Convent lace from Spain," Margarita had said of a shawl she'd once worn. Jordan had a sudden vision of black-garbed nuns bent over flying shuttles, laboring to produce the lace for this wedding gown. Lace for a woman who was to taste what they had forsworn.

  He tried to catch Margarita's eye, to smile at her, but she stared straight ahead, unnaturally solemn. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the white skin that showed above the gown's pearl-encrusted bodice fairer than all the costly garments she wore.

  They dismounted at the foot of the steps in front of the church, where Esteban waited with Jack McKinnon. Margarita took Esteban's arm, and as they climbed the steps to the open door, the murmur of voices from inside the church was suddenly hushed.

  When he reached the top of the steps, Jordan turned and looked behind him. He saw a horseman riding toward the mission from the west. Beyond the road he caught a glimpse of the Kerry Dancer through the morning mist. As he and Jack McKinnon followed Esteban and Margarita into the church, Jordan felt a fleeting pang of sadness, remembering another foggy morning months before when, in the harbor of Valparaiso, a golden-haired girl had waved to him from the deck of the Flying Yankee.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As Jordan and Margarita knelt at the altar rail while Padre Luis Martinez intoned the words that would make them man and wife, loud voices came from the rear of the church. Frowning, the priest looked up, then went on with the ceremony. Jordan heard approaching footsteps and a swelling murmur
of surprise from the wedding guests.

  Padre Luis stopped in mid-sentence. Jordan swung around and saw a tall, mustachioed man dressed in black with silver trim, his hat in his hand and a leather pouch slung across one shoulder, come striding down the aisle. The Californios watched, whispering and shaking their heads. Jordan rose to his feet.

  "What is the meaning of this interruption of a holy sacrament?" Padre Luis demanded.

  The man genuflected before the altar, then stood to face the priest. "A thousand pardons, padre," he said. Beads of sweat covered the man's forehead and his clothes were creased and soiled. "There was no other way. I have ridden all night."

  "Explain yourself."

  "I come from his excellency, Don Pedro Sola, the governor of Alta California, with a message of great importance."

  He opened his pouch and handed the padre a folded paper sealed with red and green wax. Jordan watched Padre Luis tear open the seals and read the letter. The priest's face gave no clue to its contents.

  "His excellency, the governor," the padre said at last, pitching his voice so all could hear, "has ordered that the marriage uniting Margarita Mendoza and Senor Jordan Quinn not take place because Senor Quinn has violated the laws of New Spain."

  Ignoring the babble of questioning voices, the priest turned and looked up at the statue of the Virgin Mary in the niche at the side of the church. "Under the circumstances," he said, "I cannot go on with the ceremony."

  "What right has the governor to interfere?" Jordan demanded. "What law have I broken?"

  "Wait." Esteban was at his side. "Permit me to speak to Padre Luis."

  "Don Esteban," the priest said placatingly, his voice pitched so only the group at the altar could hear. "What can I say? I am as appalled as you must be. I would have done anything to prevent you from suffering this embarrassment in the presence of your family and guests."

  "Does our esteemed governor have the right to order the marriage stopped?"

  "Under the circumstances, yes, he does. Senor Quinn is, after all, a foreigner, and if he has violated the law…”

  "What law has he broken?"

  "The governor states that he is accused of using his ship to smuggle goods to California."

  "Padre Luis, as you are aware, all American sea captains who trade with California must of necessity be smugglers in the strict interpretation of the law. This is no crime. Why, I have even heard that members of the clergy have been known to visit their ships and bargain for goods from the United States."

  The priest shrugged and raised his hands, palms up. "Because a thing is done by the clergy or by yourself or by others does not make it legal."

  "Padre, the happiness of my sister means more to me than anything else in the world. This is the man she has chosen. A foreigner, yes. A criminal? Who are we to say? You and I know there are ways to accomplish what is in the best interests of both of us. We need one another, you and I. Your mission and the Mendoza rancho are only a few leagues apart, while Governor Sola and Monterey are many leagues to the north. Help me, padre. Tell me what I can do."

  "There is much truth in what you say, Don Esteban. However, I must first write to Prefect Garcia Diego of the Santa Clara Mission for instructions. I will do so at once. I can do no more now."

  "We must be patient," Esteban said to Jordan. "Padre Luis will do all he can."

  "How long must we wait?"

  "Quien sabe? Who knows? Perhaps it will take two weeks, perhaps two months. You must realize that the workings of the church and the government are slow and ponderous. The prefect may have to seek advice from Mexico City. We must wait to hear if you don’t want your sister to be forced to hide her face in shame for the rest of her life."

  Margarita took her brother's arm. "I've waited a year, Esteban," she told him. "I can wait no longer. "

  "We cannot risk disgrace. We shall wait until permission is given.” Estanban said. “After that you will be honored, you will be a woman of renown for the wait. You may even become a legend."

  "I don't want to be a legend, I want to be a wife. The wife of Jordan Quinn."

  "And you shall. Be patient." Esteban looked about the church and found his overseer sitting in the last row of benches. "Senor Huerta," he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "there has been an unfortunate, although temporary, delay. How long we must wait, no one yet knows. In the meantime, I wish the fandango to begin."

  Jordan heard the whine of a mosquito. Damn, he thought. He snuffed his bedroom candles. Damn the mosquitoes, damn the governor, damn Padre Luis, damn Esteban.

  He walked onto his balcony, abandoning his journal for the time being. The night was dark, with the moon hidden by high clouds. From a distance he heard guitars and the sounds of singing and laughing. Jordan smiled grimly. A wedding feast without a wedding. A fandango without the bride and groom. When Don Esteban had asked them to come, Jordan had cursed and Margarita had fled to her room in tears.

  Looking down from the balcony, Jordan saw, in the faint glow from the lanterns, two men walking unsteadily toward the house. Linking their arms, they began to sing a sad, rambling ballad about la paloma, the dove. Suddenly one of the men stopped and stretched full-length on the ground. Failing to rouse him from his drunken stupor, his companion went on into the house, his voice raised again in song.

  This is the time to act, Jordan told himself. He crossed his room and walked along the gallery. When he came to McKinnon's room, he knocked, slipped inside and whispered a few words to the mate. McKinnon nodded, walked quickly to the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.

  Jordan returned to his room. Pushing the bed curtains to one side, he lay down, intending to rest for a few minutes. Instead, he fell asleep almost at once.

  Gunshots awakened him. He sat up, not sure where he was until, through the white netting, he saw the glimmering lights from the fandango. He swung from the bed and hurried to the gallery and down the steps.

  Men ran past him in the dark-- women clustered in small groups. He heard shouts and the clatter of hoofbeats. Another volley of gunshots came from beyond the corral. He smiled to himself. So far, so good.

  Jordan found Esteban standing beneath a lantern, giving instructions to men who listened, nodded and then hurried off into the night.

  "What happened?" Jordan asked.

  Esteban glanced at him impatiently. "Indians. They've stolen our best horses and made off into the mountains. We're preparing to ride after them."

  "Can I help?"

  "You?" As soon as he spoke, Esteban appeared to realize the scorn in his voice. "If some of them had taken to the sea in one of their canoes," he said in a softer voice, "you could pursue them in the Kerry Dancer. In the mountains, no, you would be of no help--we must ride far and fast. We may be gone for many days. I take only the best horsemen and those most skilled with their guns."

  Jordan nodded.

  "A thousand thanks for your offer," Esteban said.

  Without answering, Jordan walked to the courtyard and up the stairs to his room. He waited until he heard the sound of hoof beats recede in the distance before he sat on his bed and pulled off his shoes and stockings. Going to the balcony, he climbed onto the rail and grasped the tile eaves over his head, pulling himself up onto the roof where, in his bare feet, he climbed across the tiles until he saw the dark dome of the pepper tree beside the house.

  Lowering himself from the roof to the balcony nearest the tree, Jordan tapped on the half-open window. He heard a gasp and saw a shimmer of white come toward him.

  "Jordan!"

  He gently covered Margarita's mouth with the palm of his hand, knowing her aunt slept in the apartment between Margarita's room and the gallery.

  "What's happening?" she whispered.

  "Indians raided the horses and Esteban's organized a pursuit. This is our chance to escape."

  "Do you intend to carry me off on the Kerry Dancer?"

  "Yes. McKinnon's readying the ship now. We can be miles to sea by the time w
e're missed. I've had my fill of your Governor Sola." He began to marshal his arguments in his mind, wondering if he could convince her to leave her home and family.

  "Hold me," she told him.

  He enfolded her in his arms, kissing her hungrily as she clung to him. "My heart, my love," she said.

  "Will you come with me?"

  "I've already taken what I'll need from my trousseau and packed it in a small chest. All I have to do is put on my gown. I knew you would come for me."

  "You're a wonder." He remembered he hadn't thought of her luggage--all he'd need was already aboard ship. "I'll find a rope to lower the chest from the balcony."

  "There's no need. I have one hidden beneath my bed." She ran into the room and returned with the rope. "Now turn your back, Jordan. I'll be ready before you know it."

  Jordan waited on the balcony with his arms folded across his chest. When he heard the whisper of clothing behind him, he glanced over his shoulder and saw, in the soft light of a candle on the dressing table, Margarita standing in front of a pier glass, naked, her back to him, her body all golden curves and inviting shadows. Jordan stepped into the room, intending to put his arms around her with his hands covering her breasts and his lips burying themselves in her soft, flowing hair.

  Margarita put her head and arms into a silky chemise and let it fall down over her body. Clenching his hands at his sides, Jordan turned away. Later, he told himself, there'll be time enough later.

  He returned to the balcony and in a few minutes heard her blow out the candle. His gaze searched the darkness of the room without finding her. All at once he felt her arms go around him. Picking her up with his hands on her waist, he held her in front of him, then gathered her body close to his. When she tried to kiss him, he teased her, his lips and tongue touching first her cheeks, then her eyes and the tip of her nose.

  Standing on tiptoe, she clasped her hands at the back of his head, holding him while her lips captured his. As the kiss lengthened, his hands slid down her back and over her rounded buttocks, pressing her to him until he felt her breasts against his chest and her leg trapped between his.