Snow Mountain Passage (26 page)

While the Volunteers were on patrol, hostile forces captured six sailors from the U.S.S.
Portsmouth
and the acting mayor of Yerba Buena, a ship’s officer named Bartlett, only recently appointed to the post. Though they were armed, and though they may have been scouting out some territory as they went, they weren’t looking for trouble. They’d set forth in search of beef cattle to feed the town and feed the personnel aboard the ships—only to be surrounded, deprived of their weapons, and abducted. A marauding band has twice been sighted in the coastal hills, a hundred riders at the least, some say two hundred, maybe more, traveling with these hostages in tow.

Tonight, at the end of a wagon road lined with oak, a meeting has been called in the home of the Alcalde, the first official of the pueblo. He comes from Massachusetts, has the beefy looks of an English country squire but the outfit of a California ranchero. He wears snug buckskin leggings with stitched edges, split almost to the knee so the white underleggings show. His ruffled shirt is so white it almost shines. Jim has not seen a shirt this white in months, the cloth pulled smooth across an ample belly, underneath a jacket a size too small, a jacket made of maroon velvet, with twin rows of silver buttons down the front and buttons along each tight-fitting sleeve.

His wife is also here, a California woman, gracious, cultivated, younger than the Alcalde. She speaks no English, or perhaps chooses not to. Though she stands apart, she presides over the arrivings, the removing of heavy coats and weathered hats. Her erect and elegant posture says, “This is my home and you are welcome.”

On her adobe walls, framed mirrors catch the light. There is an oak sideboard, highly polished, a mantelpiece above the fire, with bric-a-brac and silver candelabra, and several chairs, some with upholstered seats, some with seats of woven straw.

Jim savors what he sees. He covets it, the first true home he’s set foot in since leaving Illinois. The woman’s touch awakens old domestic hungers. He cannot keep his eyes off the Alcalde’s wife, who wears a low-cut red dress, her broad shoulders covered with a shawl, her skin deliciously smooth and white. Dark silky hair hangs in a thick braid.

She says, “Bienvenidos, Señor Reed.”

“Tengo mucho gusto, señora,” says Jim, trying out a phrase he has heard some others use. I’m pleased to meet you.

“Nuestra casa es su casa.”

Her smile is polite, yet expansive, showing healthy white teeth. He gropes for more words, hoping to keep it alive, the most generous smile he’s ever seen. Alas, it comes and goes too quickly. She steps away to welcome someone else, then she’s gone, as if called to an emergency in some other part of the house, and the Alcalde is refilling Jim’s glass, his florid brow creased and burdened.

The Alcalde is hospitable yet agitated tonight, pouring wine and liquors from his various decanters into goblets of cut glass for Jim and Valentine and three other Volunteers, for the red-bearded captain who commands the marine detachment, and for the young naval officer in charge of the launch. Like a host at a banquet, he has moved from guest to guest, pouring, nodding, sharing each man’s version of concern or alarm or outrage.

He says, “Heady times, Mr. Reed.”

“Indeed.”

“The pueblo is grateful for your help.”

“I believe in people sticking together,” Jim says, with a self-deprecating nod.

The Alcalde likes this. “I wish more of our compatriots felt that way.”

“Taking care of any town can keep you busy.”

“Do you mind if I ask where you’re staying?”

“A bunch of us bunk next to Valentine’s mill.”

“You’re welcome here, you know. It’s not lavish, but it might beat that shed.”

“Why, thank you, sir.”

“I’m sure you know we’ve heard about your people stranded in the mountains. We’re very sorry, too.”

“That’s much appreciated.”

“A terrible thing.”

“Others have made it through a winter there. Our people will make it.”

“Even so, our prayers are with you.”

The Alcalde is a softhearted man. This story, what he’s heard, as it has trickled toward him from Johnson’s and from Sutter’s Fort, has softened his heart a bit more. He wants Jim to know there will be a place for the Reeds in Santa Clara Valley.

“I may take you up on that,” Jim says. “I like it here. I like the look of things.”

“I hope you mean that.” The Alcalde’s eyes glisten with pride and fellowship. “I hope you’ll bring your family and settle down among us. You have already performed a service above and beyond the call of duty. This will not be forgotten.”

“It’s been mostly sitting in the saddle, sir, riding along from one day to the next.”

“We’re grateful to have a man of your substance in our midst. So many loose ones around now, you know. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

The Alcalde reminds him of George Donner, a fatherly man who will keep certain confidences. Jim is moved to talk with him in a way he cannot talk with Valentine, who is like a boy, like a wayward and impetuous son.

The fleshy face is open, congenial now. Jim wants to tell him what he saw in the orchards of the Mission of St. Joseph, when leaves and limbs sent back suffused light off the waters of the bay. In memory these acres glow, the rows of limbs, where new shoots wait under crusty bark, where layers of damp mulch carpet the earth.

“We slept there. And very early I awoke and walked out among the trees. I imagined that once my family was safely across I would bring them there to camp beneath the boughs while the crop is being harvested. Someone should gather all that fruit, you know, perhaps to dry, perhaps to ship …”

The Alcalde is blinking. If he were a younger man, he says with misty eyes, he would join such a venture. This is the kind of spirit the community needs and the valley needs.

“And yet I’ve heard that no one owns the orchard now,” Jim says. “Has it truly been abandoned?”

The Alcalde shrugs. “Some say it still belongs to the Church. Some say to Mexico. Some say to the brother of the gobernador, who may have bought the land a year or so ago.”

“From whom?”

“Why, from the gobernador, of course—though both of them have now fled for Mexico City, or so I’ve heard. How strong is your interest, Mr. Reed?”

“Very strong.”

“Some say the pueblo will soon have jurisdiction over all such lands. I suspect a petition addressed to the Alcalde would get some serious consideration.”

He winks, touches Jim’s arm. “We’ll talk again, just the two of us, when we have more time. Right now …” He nods toward the men who fill his parlor.

The Alcalde moves toward his fireplace, clinking an upraised glass. In candlelight his head of abundant white hair has a glow. His voice is large and captivating, a politician’s voice.

“Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Once again, welcome. As you all know, the good captain has called us together tonight. Though we meet in secret, there is no secret about why we are here.”

He looks down at the commander of the marine detachment, who leans from his chair and scans the room with unblinking eyes. The Captain has been drinking since midafternoon. His eyes are as red as his beard. His thinning hair looks wet. The aguardiente gives his voice a ragged and persuasive edge. Everyone knows the story he’s about to tell, but something ceremonial is required here, and the red-bearded captain has a ceremonial style.

As he describes again how seven men set out in search of food to feed their comrades, an indignant murmur crosses the room. His cheeks turn a deeper red, new moisture rises to his ruby eyes. Three months ago in Los Angeles, he says, a rebellious spirit broke the truce, and now it has reached the northern towns—seven of our finest men held captive, taken unawares, without warning, in an unprovoked attack.

“Murderous bastards,” someone mutters.

“They’ll regret this day.”

“We heard they was comin’,” says a Volunteer, “everywhere we went we heard it. They must’ve landed farther north and come up from the beach.”

“We don’t know for sure yet who we’re dealing with,” the Captain says, “or how many there may be. But this is not just another phantom report. These riders have been sighted. They are roaming the peninsula between the pueblo and the port, and the time has come to take action before more damage is done!”

He stands up, his voice raw, compelling. We were sent here, he says, to defend the town. But we can’t do it alone. This will take all the troops in San Jose and Yerba Buena together, regulars and volunteers. Tomorrow a courier will ride to the port, instructing those units to head south at top speed. The San Jose units will move north, leaving the enemy nowhere to turn. Long before they reach this pueblo they will be forced out into the open.

He frames a bracket with his hands, reminding them that the peninsula is bounded on one side by San Francisco Bay, on the other by cliffs and narrow beaches facing the Pacific.

“We will flush them out, you see! Like a fox on the run!”

He turns to Valentine. “Can we count on your militia?”

The Captain’s fervor has lifted Valentine from his seat. “By God, you can, sir! Isn’t this the day we’ve waited for?”

Another murmur, a swell of agreement, from all but the Alcalde, who seems to tolerate Valentine the way you tolerate an unruly relative. He has listened with a mounting agitation, as if he did not expect this scenario. He lifts his thick and meaty hands, his face more burdened now, his wiry brows bent.

“We are given to understand, Captain, that the men who did the kidnapping were not soldiers or Mexican regulars. They were ranchers from up that way.”

“It happened on a ranch, that’s true. As to who were involved …”

“If they have taken hostages, my guess is they want something. They want to negotiate.”

Valentine interrupts. “It’s too late to bargain!”

The Alcalde ignores him. “Before we rush into battle, the prudent move would be to make contact with their leaders, find out what they want. I’d do that first.”

The Captain’s face is fixed in a drinker’s smile of elaborate courtesy. “Perhaps you can tell us, sir, what it is they want.”

Unsure of his ground, the Alcalde hesitates, intimidated by the ruddy marine. “Ranchers around here … have all lost stock. Fremont’s men took everything that walked. I myself gave up dozens of horses, though not as many as some.”

“There were orders for that,” says Valentine with loud impatience, “directly from the Northern Department.”

“Who had orders to strip the ranches?”

Valentine sighs, as if they’ve already gone through this too many times. “There was authorization from the Commandant himself.”

“Yes,” the Alcalde says. “And that gentleman has now sailed away. Am I correct?”

“Many have sailed for the fighting farther south.”

The Alcalde’s voice is trembling with anger, his frail composure broken. “How long must we endure this? These officers arrive, drop anchor and sign edicts that shape our fate, then sail again before the costs are known! Families come to me, law-abiding families who have been treated like animals!”

“Some will whimper,” Valentine says, “but troops need horses.”

The Alcalde glares at him, shakes his head. “With all due respect for the good captain, the threat of Mexican regulars landing this far north is just another fantasy. You navy men don’t know our region. You don’t know these people. Nor do you speak the language they speak …”

The Captain has unrolled a long page of heavy paper and rattles it dramatically.

“According to our intelligence the enemy was two days ago assembled in force at Point San Pedro, a dozen miles below the entrance to the bay. I repeat
in force,
sir! Does that sound like disgruntled ranchers? We may well be facing a full-scale invasion!”

The Alcalde looks trapped. His eyes search the room. The Captain seizes his advantage.

“They’ve taken the mayor of Yerba Buena. Who do you think will be next? Every official in this region is now at risk.”

The older man’s uncertain silence seems to be a form of surrender.

Valentine chimes in, grinning with confidence. “We’ll set out in the morning.” He stands beside the Captain as if together they have hatched this campaign. “A scouting party will ride ahead, a dozen men, to find out where they are, which way they move. Then we mobilize. We strike. We bring them to their knees!”

A Volunteer speaks up, an Indiana man who recently settled in the pueblo. “Some of us got families and need a day or two to take care of things. We been riding for more’n a week. Some are about give out, you want to know the truth, and might not ride at all if we got to start again first thing …”

Valentine looks offended. “You think the greasers are going to rest up? We don’t have time to wait, wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

“Not when American lives are in grave jeopardy.”

Alarmed, overwhelmed, the Alcalde says, “Hold on! Hold on! You cannot simply sally forth and leave this pueblo undefended. That is your solemn duty, Valentine. Why else were you appointed to the post? For weeks on end we do not see you …”

“I defer to the Captain, sir, a man of wide experience in the art of war. Oftentimes the best defense is to go on the offensive. We can sit here and wait to be attacked, or we can move with speed and gain the upper hand.”

“We have an agreement,” the Alcalde urges them, “to treat all citizens with respect.”

Valentine has been flexing his fingers as if preparing for a fistfight. Compulsively he grabs one wrist, pressing, massaging. “Respect, you say! Perhaps you can teach that lesson to the California horse gangs who strip their own ranchos when it suits them. What difference does it make who gets there first?”

Again the Alcalde tries to speak, one arm raised, like a preacher in a pulpit with a warning for his congregation. But Valentine has ignited the room. Now all talk at once, on their feet, pouring their own drinks, animated, planning and protesting, agreeing and lecturing one another. Glasses are raised again, and Jim’s is among them, his voice as loud as anyone’s, though he has his doubts. For all the stories he has heard, for all his riding up and down the trails of Alta California, he has yet to see with his own eyes one Mexican ship or the uniform of any nation but the United States.