The Road to San Gabriel

 The San Gabriel mission gleamed radiantly in the morning sun, looking like a fortress, or perhaps the rectangular nave of a gothic cathedral, but without the high pointed arches and flying buttresses that gave such structures a kind of lyric grace.  Instead, its peaked roof rested on heavy timbers atop massive walls that allowed only stout rectangular slots for the windows sitting deep between the pyramid-capped square pillars that ribbed its sides.  Between two such pillars, a large rounded arch framed the doorway, shaded by an ancient oak that predated the edifice.  Its foundations, after all, had been laid only a little less than thirty years ago under the direction of Padre Antonio Cruzado.

Only twenty years before that, a dashing young officer of the King’s army had come from Mexico with Padre Junípero Serra to protect the missionaries who had set out to win new souls for God and country.  Within a few years, once the original San Gabriel mission was founded, the officer was stationed here.  A few years later, he finally sent for the wife and children he had left in Sinaloa, including his eldest son, a boy named Alejandro.

About five years before the Cruzado building’s foundations were laid, and only a few years after a handful of settlers had founded a pueblo on the west bank of the nearby Porciúncula river, the officer, then nearly fifty, was rewarded for his service to the Crown with land on which to build a house and raise his own cattle.  In that house, the year construction began on the Cruzado building, his son had married a girl from the pueblo.  Over the next fifteen years the officer had increased his herds and enlarged his house.  He had seen the birth of a grandson and the death of the pueblo girl.  And finally he had lived to see the completion of Padre Cruzado’s mission church, just in time to be laid in its graveyard—a fitting place for a man the events of whose life had so resonated with its construction, Diego mused, as he softly patted the headstone of his grandfather.

In Spain, the buildings were all much older than the people.  The different phases of their construction had marked the rise and fall of empires.  That vast perspective had taken getting used to.  Perhaps the old morenita whose burial he had come here to arrange would also have to adjust her perspective to this place in turn.  Already she seemed not to belong in a place so new.

"Diego, my son," said Padre Felipe warmly, "they told me you were here.  Please convey my deepest sympathies to your guests, and tell them that I will conduct a small service for the woman tomorrow afternoon, if they would care to have me do it."

"Gracias, Padre," Diego sighed and smiled as the old priest’s arm slipped affectionately around him.  "I am sure they will be most grateful," he said.  "She was much revered."  They walked from the stone walled graveyard through another rounded arch and down a corridor that led past a workshop and a room that served as mortuary.  Inside Diego saw two Indian craftsmen skillfully fitting together the joints of a coffin while, in the next room, Padre Lucian supervised the work of the three native women who had already begun to undress and wash the body.

Diego reached inside his jacket pocket.  "They wanted me to request that she be buried with this," he said, pulling out a delicate silver rosary and handing it to the priest.

Padre Felipe nodded. "I’ll see to it," he said.  Then he sighed deeply.  "It is good she had her faith. No doubt she is with God, mijo."

Diego tried not to wince, recalling the look of horror that had still been frozen on her face this morning when he had laid her body in the back of the buckboard.  She may as well have been on her way to hell, he thought, for all the good her faith had done her, especially if she had died, as Oreana claimed, believing she had betrayed it.

"You must have faith, too," the priest said as they continued down the corridor, "though I must admit it is harder sometimes than others to fathom God’s will.  Just yesterday we buried a young soldier who was killed the night el Zorro broke into the cárcel to free the commandante’s prisoner.  He could not have been much more than a boy, really."

"Killed?"  Instantly, Diego knew which soldier, though he looked away, trying not to let the padre see what he was feeling.  The one who had grabbed his arm.  God, how stupid had he been to think that someone among those inexperienced lancers wouldn’t fire just a little too quickly, even though he had them all pointing their rifles at each other?

"Sí, a most unfortunate accident," said the padre, "though of course Señor Zorro now stands accused of the murder."

"Did the young man have a family?"

"In Valladolid de Michoacán, I was told," said the padre.  "The commandante is writing to them.  I intend to write to them also.  No sense letting his be the last word on Zorro—not among that enclave of insurgent politicos."

"Valladolid.  The home of Hidalgo and Morelos, no?"

"And of Iturbide."  Padre Felipe nodded.  "Not that I think his provisional government could afford to get involved in such a minor incident so far away.  Besides, I am certain that what happened was unavoidable.  I have never known el Zorro to take life carelessly."

He paused, then, to inspect the buds that were starting to form on a climbing rosebush growing near an arched portal that led from a small courtyard into the chapel of the Holy Virgin.  Despite his wariness of the insurgents, he had hung in the chapel an image that had probably been as close as anything to the very symbol of the Insurgency—the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, her obviously morena features draped in a midnight blue gilt edged cloak glistening with golden stars.  No doubt he had thought that the Gabrioleños, too, would find her more comforting than her royalist counterpart, the fair skinned Virgin de los Remedios.

"Perhaps el Zorro has just been lucky," Diego said.

"Well you know what I will say to that," the priest smiled, idly plucking some of the smaller buds and tossing them into the flowerbed, then stooping down to extract a small piece of purslane that had taken root nearby.  "I believe that God has guided his sword in the past and will no doubt continue to do so."

Diego raised his eyebrows.  "This is a pretty big role you’ve assigned him to play, Padre," he said, still remembering the look of utter disbelief on the young man’s face.  "Executing the will of God?  If I were el Zorro, I am not so sure I would want to think myself infallible."

"No one should," the padre replied.  "That is why there are those of us in my occupation.  If Señor Zorro feels as you do, perhaps he should come to confession."

"Perhaps he should."

Diego followed the padre out past the vestry and into the chancel, where they both paused to kneel and cross themselves at the railing.  Big rectangular blocks of sunlight struck the pews as they walked down the pasillo central toward the main outer doors of the church.  "I would certainly not mind seeing a bit more of you either, mijo," said the priest.

Diego smiled tightly.  "I will see you tomorrow," he said.

Outside Bernardo sat waiting in the buckboard.  Already the women had neatly folded and returned the blanket in which Teresa’s body had been wrapped.  There was nothing more for him and Bernardo to do now but try to look inconspicuous as they paused to visit Manuel on their way home.  They hadn’t been too concerned about being attacked by Marigál’s men today, since they had come to help settle Don Urbino’s affairs.  But there were always the soldiers, who would still be out looking for Don Guillermo and who would, no doubt, take more than a keen interest if they found Diego de la Vega talking to him.  They might even be suspicious of Diego talking to Manuel, for that matter.

As they drove away from the mission, Diego noticed Bernardo watching him with a look of concern on his face.  He hadn’t thought his feelings were that obvious, but then Bernardo did know him about as well as any other human being.  He gave Diego the reins and, with eyebrows raised solicitously, made his sign for Oreana, a woman with a crown.  Diego smiled.  "So you’ve taken to calling her ‘Mi Reina’ as well, eh?  No, my friend, I have not changed my mind about her again.  I think we can trust her, though she is full of surprises."

Bernardo smiled, looking relieved.  And why not, Diego thought.  Clearly Bernardo was as taken with her as the rest of servants were.  He had never entirely believed she was a cold-blooded killer and had felt much relieved—if not outright vindicated—to hear about her skills as a healer, though, of course, Diego hadn’t told him all the details of that encounter.  Not that it mattered.  If he had been perceptive enough to see from the start how much she loved Teresa, then he probably didn’t have to be told anything else.

Now he simply cocked his head.  What else was the matter?

"It appears that the shoe is now on the other foot," Diego said.  "Now it is Zorro who stands accused of murder."  Then, seeing Bernardo’s reaction, he went on.  "Apparently one of the lancers was killed the other night trying to stop Zorro from taking Don Guillermo."  Then, responding to each of Bernardo’s reactions in turn, he added, "Yes, I know it was an accident.  And yes, I realize that this is a risk all soldiers run.  But this one was just a boy, Bernardo."  A tone of bitterness had crept into his voice by the time he handed over the reins again.

After a moment, Bernardo gave Diego another significant look.

"Yes, I know you think it could not have been helped," Diego replied.  "I just wish I were so certain."

Not long after they turned off the mission highway, they arrived at the path that led up to Manuel’s house, but Diego told Bernardo to keep going.  Then, a little farther down the road, they pulled off under a stand of big willows, and the two of them set about loosening the left rear wheel of the wagon from its axle.  Once it was loose enough to look like a legitimate problem, he left Bernardo with the wagon and hiked back up the road on foot.

The sun had started to get hot, and he took off his jacket, but the exercise did make him feel at least a little bit better by the time he came across two of Manuel’s young daughters busily pulling weeds from the small vegetable garden that lay up against a gentle slope.  He waved to them and smiled, but they took to their heels, like a couple of young deer, he thought, calling for their mother.  She came down the path toward him a moment later, without the girls, a scruffy dog barking at her heels.  "Señora," he began, "I understand you have a guest who has expressed an interest in talking to me?"

In broad daylight the woman’s eyes still looked dark and somewhat defiant over her wide features, her long loose hair held back from her face by a woven band.  Iridescent shell earrings dangled from her ears.  At her waist, a brown sash kept the white homespun blouse tucked neatly inside the long skirt that fell almost down to her bare feet.

"Cállete, pero!" she hissed at the dog.  Then, after studying him carefully, she looked down, bowed politely and said, "Sí, Patron," and without another word, turned and headed back up the path, clearly expecting him to follow.  When they arrived at the cluster of huts atop the rise, she pointed to one of the smaller ones, then turned and walked away.  Diego stuck his head inside the doorway.

"Don Guillermo del Valle?" he said.

The man who sat just inside, cross legged on a tule mat, dressed now in traditional mission garb, looked better than he had upon his arrival, Diego thought.  Enough color had returned to his face to notice that his skin was not really so pale after all, but tanned, at least around his eyes and cheeks, though he had shaved off his beard, leaving the skin beneath it just a bit lighter than the rest.  His hair, a rich curly brown streaked with grey, had been combed straight back from a wide forehead and heavy brows that amply shaded his dark eyes.  The aquiline nose gave him a slightly Arabic look.  "You must be Diego de la Vega, he said warmly."

Diego bowed.  "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," he said.  Then, as the Don waved at another tule mat, he came in and sat down.

"I too am pleased that you were able to meet with me," Guillermo continued.  "How much of my tale did el Zorro relate to you?"

"Enough to convince me that you and I are both in danger," Diego replied as he noticed that Guillermo’s feet, as well as the last two fingers on his left hand, were thickly bandaged.  The right hand looked more or less normal, except for a couple of smaller bandages around his fingertips.  "Sí," he said gravely, holding up his hand so that Diego could wince, again, at how much remained of the fingers.  "These men are really quite insidious.  They will gain the trust of your father.  Then one day you will simply disappear.  That is what happened to my boy Alonzo.  One day, he just left on an errand and never returned.  Then the nightmare began."

"I would like you to come and stay with us, talk to my father," Diego said.  "Then, when you are well enough to travel, we will go to Monterey to speak to the governor.  Currently, we have house guests, but they plan to leave for San Diego the day after tomorrow.  Then my servant and I will come for you, and—"

"Once they leave, you must not go anywhere alone," Guillermo said.

Diego nodded.  "Yes, I believe that they may be in league with Señor Marigál.  But we will be under the protection of el Zorro, and clearly we must do something.  I only regret that I was unable come for you sooner.  Our guest had planned on leaving today, but he was delayed by the unexpected death of an old servant woman in his employ."

Guillermo’s eyes narrowed.  "An old servant woman," he said.

Diego nodded.  "I just made arrangements for her burial at the mission.  They will hold a service for her tomorrow."

"And they will leave day after tomorrow.  Very well," said Guillermo thoughtfully.  "I will be ready.  Though you should not trouble yourself about having left me here, joven.   Manuel and his family have shown me a great deal of hospitality.  They have been very kind, in fact."

"That is good to hear, though I am not at all surprised."

"I had thought these natives were all just a step away from savagery."

Diego raised his eyebrows and shrugged, but then decided to let that remark pass without comment when suddenly another thought occurred to him.  "You know," he said, "I have heard that Señor Marigál poses as an inquisitor to win cooperation from the Church and the civil authorities.  He accuses his victims of heresy, or even witchcraft."

"That is true," Guillermo nodded.  "He may not arrest you outright, but if your family refuses to pay, it will be given out that you have been detained by the Inquisition.  Then they can be forced to pay."

"Is there any way to defend oneself against such charges?  I mean, legally?  I know the whole matter is quite complicated—there are many different forms of heresy."

"You know more than most," Guillermo nodded, "but with such men, I think it is difficult not to be guilty of something."  Then he folded his arms and scrutinized Diego, chin in hand.  "Now I suppose you are wondering what charges were brought against me and my son."

"Well, I—"

"He accused us of judizante, of being marranos," Guillermo said matter-of-factly.  "Not that this is a total untruth," he added.  "We are conversos.  My ancestors were Jews, but they converted over three hundred years ago because they did not wish to leave the lives they had built in Spain.  Does this trouble you?"

"No, not at all," said Diego, now more than a bit taken with the irony he had somehow sensed hovering over this situation.  He wondered what either Manuel or Guillermo would say if each knew of the others’ fears.

"Well, perhaps it should," said Guillermo.  "For now, you see, you can easily be convicted of being in league with Jews.  Guilt by association."

"This is a chance I will take," Diego nodded as he got to his feet.  "But I must be getting back to my servant.  I left him down the road with our wagon, in case the soldiers should wonder what we were doing here."

"That was wise," said Guillermo.  "You are a very bright young man.  Via con Dios."

"And you, Señor," said Diego.  "Hasta luego."

"The day after tomorrow," Guillermo nodded.  "I shall be ready."