Bride of the Baja

by Jane Toombs

  "And your message to Spanish colonies? Such as Mexico and California?"

  "I bring them the President's assurance that the United States intends to continue to recognize legitimate government, that we will give no aid or encouragement to revolutionaries. Though founded by a revolution, the United States is interested in maintaining the status quo in the Pacific."

  "Where I come from," Jordan said, "we call that being two-faced."

  "No, you're mistaken. It's known as diplomacy. Unofficially, Captain Quinn, I can tell you that I represent the traditional American policy of support for the underdog, for the downtrodden. If the Californios attempt to free themselves from Spain, I'll encourage them. If the Russians become discouraged with the fur trade and want to sell Fort Ross to Spain and sail back to St. Petersburg, I'll give them twenty excellent reasons why they shouldn't."

  Jordan snorted. "And I've been called a cynic. You, sir, are the master cynic of them all. What you're telling me is that when the time comes, you hope California will be so weak it will drop into the waiting hands of the United States like a ripe apple drops from a tree."

  "If we do inherit California," Cunningham said, "then the destiny of the United States will be fulfilled. We'll be a nation extending from coast to coast, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Can you imagine it, Quinn? We'll border both oceans--we'll need a two-ocean navy."

  "You're a dreamer as well as a cynic."

  "Perhaps so. Wouldn't you like to be part of that dream, Captain Quinn? You could be, you know. Why don't you join us? I happen to have a vacant berth for an experienced officer on the Independence."

  "I'm bound for the East Coast to see about the insurance on the Kerry Dancer. I'm afraid there'll be trouble over the payment since my ship was neither sunk nor damaged."

  "Troubles of that sort can be overcome. Have you found a ship yet to take you East?"

  "No, sir, I'm on the beach," Jordan admitted.

  "A hard berth in a foreign land."

  "I speak the language, sir. I was engaged to marry a Spanish girl."

  "Oh?" Cunningham raised his eyebrows.

  "She died," Jordan said, abruptly getting to his feet. "Thank you for your offer of a berth, Captain. Even though you won't help me bring Bouchard to justice."

  "Let me give you a word of advice from an older man to a younger. Forget Bouchard. Revenge is more harmful to the man who seeks it than to his enemy." Cunningham held out his hand across the table, and Jordan clasped it. "I still can't believe a man such as yourself would turn down an officer's berth because of an insurance policy."

  "You're right; that's not the main reason. With all due respect to you, Captain, I could never abide to serve in the navy, either as seaman or officer. I kowtow to no one. I never have and I never will."

  "So be it then."

  After Jordan left his cabin, Captain Cunningham sat thinking for a long time. Finally he knelt and unlocked the strongbox beneath his berth. He removed a pouch from the box, opened it and dumped silver coins onto the table, where they glinted in the lamplight. Yes, he told himself, my plan might work. It just might work.

  Walking boldly into Santa Barbara, Jordan headed for a spirit shop. Usually he avoided the village and its people, knowing their bitterness over Margarita's elopement and death, but today he didn't give a damn.

  He bought a bottle of aguardiente and sat outside the shop at a table sipping the brandy while ignoring the hostile stares of passersby. Captain Cunningham would never know, Jordan thought, how close he had come to accepting the offer of a berth aboard the Independence. Jordan longed to be at sea again, to feel the deck roll beneath his feet, to hear the creak of the timbers, the wind in the stays. Still he'd made the right decision--he couldn't have abided life on a navy ship. He recorked the aguardiente and, holding the bottle in one hand, strode through the village and along the track toward the Navarro casa. Eduardo Navarro, a half-breed who was as much an outcast as Jordan, had offered him a place to sleep in his small house in the hills behind the town.

  Jordan left the track to follow his usual route, a path through the woods. Thinking he heard a sound behind him, he turned, but saw nothing. As he neared a thick growth of brush bordering both sides of the path, he slowed, recognizing it as a good spot for an ambush. His hand touched the butt of the pistol in his belt. He shook his head. You're leery of phantoms, Jordan Quinn, he told himself. The boredom of six weeks ashore had made him edgy about nothing.

  "Senor Quinn."

  He whirled and saw a vaquero with a long-bladed knife in his right hand approaching from twenty feet away. As he advanced on Jordan, he weaved slightly as though he'd been drinking. Jordan dropped the aguardiente bottle and drew his pistol.

  "Halt," he said in Spanish but the man kept coming.

  "You murdered Senorita Margarita," the man said in a slurred voice. Was he a fool, Jordan wondered, thinking he could match his knife against a gun?

  Jordan heard a step behind him. Still holding the pistol trained on the advancing vaquero, he glanced over his shoulder. Too late. The point of a knife bit into his back.

  "If you would drop the gun, senor, por favor," a voice behind him said.

  As the knife bit deeper, Jordan let the pistol fall to the ground. A hand went to his belt, took his knife and threw it aside. The first vaquero, smiling now, came and stood a few feet in front of him. The man no longer seemed drunk. The stagger had been a ruse, Jordan realized.

  "We'll have a little sport with the murderer, eh, Juan," he said to his companion. "Take the rope and bind Senor Quinn to that tree. It makes one skillful to practice by throwing a knife at a living target."

  "Stop."

  An English voice. Startled, the two vaqueros swung about to face a blond man, obviously an American. He held a book in one hand but appeared unarmed. The first vaquero leaped at him, slashing upward with his knife. The man blocked the thrust with the book, the knife embedding itself in the thick volume.

  The American kicked the vaquero's legs from under him, sending him sprawling. Jordan at the same time threw himself to the ground, his hand closing on his pistol. He stood and aimed the pistol at the armed vaquero.

  "Drop your knife, senor," Jordan ordered. The Spaniard shrugged and let the weapon fall. "Now go," Jordan told them both. He waved his pistol, and the first man staggered to his feet and both men ran, hunching over as though fearful that Jordan might fire at them as they fled.

  When the two vaqueros were out of sight, Jordan walked to the blond stranger and extended his hand. The other man, who was trying to dislodge the knife from his book, shook hands, then twisted the knife free. He was blue-eyed, with fair though sunburned skin and an open, engaging face, not a handsome man, but his smile was easy and friendly. He gave Jordan the impression that he was a man you could trust. If you could ever trust anyone, Jordan thought wryly.

  "Do you often use your book as a shield?" Jordan asked.

  "Often? I have all my life, in a manner of speaking." He turned the book over and Jordan read Holy Bible written in worn gilt letters on the front.

  "I'm Thomas Heath," the young man said, "a minister of the Gospel."

  "And a right handy man to have on your side in a brawl," Jordan told him.

  "Because the meek are blessed doesn't mean all Christians are meek. Do you remember what Matthew tells us? 'And Jesus went into the temple and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers.' Surely not the undertaking of a meek man. But you don't want to hear my sermon on the subject."

  "A man whose life has just been spared, even a Sunday Christian such as myself, is usually willing to listen to a sermon, good or bad. At least I am. I'm Captain Jordan Quinn, by the way."

  "I know. It's not coincidence that brings me here. I asked after you at the livery stable in the village. I'm having my horse reshod. They directed me this way."

  Jordan raised his eyebrows.

  "You probably wonder," Thomas went on, "what on earth a roving preacher might want with you. Does he intend
to attempt to convert me, you're asking yourself. Or to try to sell me a Bible?" Thomas opened the book to where the vaquero's knife had pierced it. "Revelations has been somewhat damaged," he said, "but James, Peter and John seem to have escaped unscathed. To tell you the truth, I've never cared much for Revelations anyway. Raises too many questions that aren't easily answered."

  "But what do you want with me?" Jordan asked.

  Thomas's smile faded and he frowned. "A woman at the Mendoza ranch said you might be able to tell me more about what happened to Miss Alitha Bradford."

  "Alitha Bradford." As Jordan repeated the name, he pictured the golden-haired girl riding away from him into the mist. "What is she to you?" he asked sharply.

  "She's my fiancee. She was sailing to the Sandwich Islands, where we were to marry. I was a missionary there, but when I heard of the wreck of the Flying Yankee, I took passage as soon as I could on a packet to Yerba Buena, where I bought a horse. Not a very sound horse, I'm afraid, for I had to walk the last five miles into Santa Barbara this morning. I discovered from a Senora Maria Mendoza that Alitha survived the wreck, for which I was giving thanks to God when I was told she'd left here weeks ago for Mexico City under rather strange circumstances."

  "Reverend, I think you've stated the case rather admirably. Except I wouldn't say the circumstances of Miss Bradford's departure are particularly strange."

  "She left here with a Don Esteban Mendoza and five other men. And you say that's not odd behavior? Didn't she know she could have sailed from Santa Barbara to the islands? Or from here to San Francisco Bay and then to the islands?"

  "I'm sure she was aware of that."

  "Then why did she ride off to Mexico with strangers? Did this Don Esteban kidnap Alitha? Does he have some sort of hold over her?"

  "In a way he does, Reverend. I'm convinced Alitha thinks she's following the dictates of her heart by going to Mexico with Esteban. When a woman thinks that, more often than not the end result is folly."

  Thomas stared at him, slowly shaking his head. "I can't believe it, Quinn. The Alitha I knew in Boston would never go off with a man. Not of her own accord."

  "This isn't the Alitha you knew. She's been through a great deal, and in California she's a stranger in a strange land."

  "She can't have changed that much."

  "Perhaps," Jordan said drily, "the young lady's not interested in Don Esteban as a man but took this wonderful opportunity to accompany a knowledgeable Spaniard to Mexico so he could provide her with a firsthand account of the fascinating history of that country. I expect that at this very moment he's identifying the exotic flora and fauna along the King's Highway in Baja California for her and explaining the strange customs of our neighbor to the south."

  "I've heard enough, Quinn." All at once Thomas's body sagged. He sat on a boulder, burying his face in his hands.

  Jordan walked to him and gripped the other man's shoulder. "Women." He snorted. "You can't trust them, you can't--" He suddenly thought of Margarita, radiant in white, on their wedding day. He looked around him, thinking he smelled orange blossoms even though he knew that they had long since fallen into the dust.

  "Damn it," Jordan said, "I'm sorry, Reverend. At times I speak without thinking."

  Thomas stood up, pushing his blond hair back from his forehead and trying to smile. "Call me Thomas," he said. "Despite what you may think, I'm not afraid to face the truth about Alitha. And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." That's John. I expect she was injured in the shipwreck--perhaps she struck her head and is suffering from brain fever She was ill, Senora Mendoza told me, after she first arrived in Santa Barbara. When she recovers, she'll be the same as she always was."

  Man's capacity for deluding himself, Jordan thought, must be infinite.

  "She'll need someone in Mexico to help her after she recovers," Thomas said. "She'll be among strangers in a foreign land thousands of miles from home."

  "You aren't telling me that you intend to follow her to Mexico City, are you?"

  "I'm saying exactly that. Jordan, you're probably thinking I'm deluding myself, and perhaps I am, but one thing I know beyond all doubt." He smiled as though remembering a happier time. "I love Alitha. When you love someone, you have to believe in her--you have to have complete faith in her. So, yes, as soon as I can book passage, I'll go to Mexico. I've sent word to the bishop that I won't return to the islands until I've found Alitha."

  "I suppose I should envy you your faith," Jordan said. "You were surely ill named, for I've never seen a less doubting man." Even though your faith makes you something of a fool, he added to himself. "I fear I'm the one who sees men as they are," Jordan said, "not as I'd like them to be. I see beyond their facades to their weaknesses and their evil intentions."

  "I like to think I see men as they are, too," Thomas said. "But if you see men as weak and evil, perhaps it's because you're looking into a mirror without realizing it."

  A bit taken aback, Jordan dismissed the feeling, aware ministers thought differently than other men. ''You're tired," he said, "and I imagine hungry as well. Come with me. I'm sure Senor Navarro has enough tortillas and beans to feed a traveling missionary. And don't forget to bring the Good Book, just in case we meet some more highwaymen."

  Thomas retrieved the Bible from the ground, and the two men walked side by side up the path into the hills.

  The sky was beginning to darken when Jordan came down the hill from the Navarro casa, leaving Thomas asleep. He skirted far around the village and made his way to the beach, where he walked along the ocean listening to the surf and letting the salt air fill his lungs.

  He had gone only a short distance when he sensed someone behind him. Looking back, he saw the black shapes of three men in the growing darkness. He immediately increased his pace, but when he glanced back again, he saw that the men had also increased theirs. Damn, he thought, he wasn't about to run from a fight. One hand went to his gun, the other to his knife. He turned and waited, wishing Thomas were with him. The three men drew nearer, separating as they approached. Jordan took the pistol from his belt and braced himself for their attack.

  "Put aside your weapon, Captain Quinn," a voice out of the darkness told him. Jordan recognized the Southern drawl of Captain Cunningham. He thrust his pistol back into his belt.

  "I'd like to have a word or two with the captain," Cunningham said, and the other two men, both naval officers, walked ahead.

  "I apologize for this rather unusual meeting place," Cunningham said. "But I thought it best that we not be seen together again."

  "Is my reputation that bad?"

  Cunningham ignored Jordan's remark. "I have an offer to make you," he said.

  "As I told you earlier, I'm not interested in the navy."

  "Not the navy, sir—a special assignment." He paused. "I want you to sail to Acapulco, make your way from there to Mexico City and, while you are in the capital, do all in your power to prevent the Spaniards from fortifying California. I've learned that a Don Esteban Mendoza left here some weeks ago to plead for more troops and more arms. We can't afford to have him succeed, and you're the man to stop him. You know Spanish, you're enterprising and you're not afraid of a fight."

  "You're suggesting I become a spy?"

  "I'd prefer to call you a confidential agent of the United States government. Your insurance matter, by the way, would be taken care of, and—" he reached into his pocket— "you'll be paid five hundred dollars in silver now and more when you reach Mexico City."

  Taking a leather pouch from his pocket, Cunningham slapped it against his open palm. The coins clinked invitingly.

  If he accepted Cunningham offer, Jordan thought, he'd be on the move again and, in time, he'd have enough money for another ship of his own. Besides which, he wouldn't mind the chance to take that arrogant bastard Don Esteban down a peg or two if the opportunity offered itself.

  And Alitha would be in Mexico City. Thomas Heath or no, he wanted to see her again. />
  "What do you say, Captain Quinn?" Cunningham asked. "Yea or nay?"

  "I say aye aye, sir."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Baja is nothing but poor shrubs, useless thorn bushes and bare rocks," Esteban said.

  "But it has a certain beauty." Alitha said no more, knowing that Esteban soon became impatient when she disagreed with him. She liked Baja California—the dry clear days, the plains strewn with boulders and black lava rock, the impenetrable thickets of thorny shrubs and the small oases where date palms grew.

  She was awed by the huge cardones, cactus with upsweeping ribbed arms extending more than thirty feet above her head. She'd seen the thick, swordlike leaves of the yucca before in the north, but here it had surprised her by sending up blooms of small, cream-colored flowers. Without the ocean, though, she might have agreed with Esteban, but the blue water was never far away on this narrow, fingerlike peninsula.

  At first they had traveled along cliffs with the Pacific below them--days later, the Sea of Cortes was to their left, its shoreline indented by turquoise bays and coves whose beaches of white sand dazzled Alitha's eyes.

  They camped near one of the bays beside a spring whose water trickled from between rocks to form a quiet pool under overreaching palms. That night Alitha lay with her hands behind her head, staring up at the vault of the starry sky.

  "Last night I had a dream," she said to Esteban, who lay beside her on his petate. "I dreamed my father was waiting for me in a park of some great city, a park with green slopes and streams and willow trees whose branches trailed in the water. I wandered from place to place searching for him. At last I found him sitting alone on a bench, ramrod straight, with his hands clasped over the handle of his walking stick. I ran to him, and when he stood up to take me in his arms. I realized it wasn't my father after all. It was you, Esteban. Before either of us could speak, I woke up."

  "Am I like your father, then?"

  "No, not at all. He was such a stern, forbidding man while you, you're—well, you're different." She stopped, at a loss, realizing that at least in some ways Esteban was like her father. Demanding. Impatient.