The Presidio

The Presidio of San Diego sat majestically on a hill overlooking the valley to the east and the bay to the south.  On the flat plain directly to the west lay the site of the first settlement where, just under fifty-three years ago, Gaspar de Portolá, the first Spanish governor of California, and Padre Junípero Serra had arrived to found the first of a chain of twenty missions (1) that now stretched as far north as San Rafael. They had dedicated the San Diego mission and the presidio on a warm day in mid July. On the slopes of the hill, beside the road that led up to the main gates, you could still see the two palm trees the padre had planted—the first in all California. Diego remembered them as much from his grandfather’s stories as from visits to the area with his father years later.

His grandfather, already a seasoned army officer, had arrived about two months before the dedication, and even a month or so ahead of the good padre.  Lieutenant de la Vega had been one of seventy men led by Capitan Fernando Rivera.  They had come overland to the northern shore of the bay in hopes of meeting up with a naval expedition that had set sail from La Paz the first of that year.

The sailors had intended to land at Punta Loma, the rugged shoulder of stone that hunched against the Pacific, protecting the bay.  This point was visible for many leagues out to sea, yet the first of the three ships had apparently sailed right past it.  The second ship found the point, dropped anchor just inside the bay, then waited two full weeks for the first ship to arrive.  By the time it finally found its way back to the point, over a third of its crew were dead of scurvy, and the rest were dying.  Only four men could even get to their feet.  The third ship never came at all.

Capitan Rivera had found the surviving sailors camped along the northern shore of the bay and had quickly moved them inland, onto the plain, where he had set up a makeshift hospital and a few brush huts to serve as his headquarters.  By the time the governor and the priest arrived, the sailors were recovering, and the soldiers were hard at work on the nearby hill constructing palisades atop the earthworks that would serve as the foundations for the whitewashed adobe walls that gleamed now in the afternoon sun.

Originally, they had enclosed both the presidio and the mission.  But after five years, the padres had elected to move outside the walls, hoping to find better farmland—and to attract more converts—since the natives feared and mistrusted the soldiers.  Not that they welcomed the priests either.  Though Lieutenant de la Vega had already gone north with Padre Serra to found San Gabriel, he recalled hearing that the Indians had burned the new San Diego mission to the ground.  And while he had, by then, decided to stay in California, he had also decided to wait another year before bringing his family to join him.  The San Gabriel mission had also been attacked the year it was founded, thanks to a few stupid soldiers who had raped an Indian girl.

Ultimately, of course, both missions had not only survived but prospered, due largely to the efforts of the priests, one of whom was martyred in the process.  Ten years later, the civilian settlers who had built their pueblito de Los Angeles on the site of an Indian village just south of the San Gabriel mission felt safe enough with no more than the soldiers from the cuartel to guard them—a mere company of men at best.

And now, some forty years after that, it looked as if a few intrepid souls from the San Diego presidio, probably soldiers with families, had finally decided to build houses outside its walls as well, just down the hill on the plain where the first settlers had camped, and where people still tried to grow gardens in the relatively poor soil.  On one plot of ground nearby, rows of adobe bricks had recently been spread in wooden frames to dry, and stone foundations were being laid, though, at the moment, the workers appeared to have gone inside for their midday meal.

Diego held out little hope of even getting a midday meal, since, thus far today, neither he nor the girl had been offered so much as a drink of water.  Not that he felt hungry, or thirsty for that matter.  At the moment he was far too preoccupied with the bricks.  He knew they couldn’t have been there for more than a few days by the looks of them.  Yet he had the disquieting feeling that he had seen them before—or if not them, then at least this scene, as if he had somehow been here just a few days ago, after the ground had been cleared but before the mud had been mixed.  Nor was it like deja vu, really, since he didn’t seem to be reliving the past so much as remembering it.

He looked hard at Oreana until he caught her eye, then glanced at the construction site, but she didn’t seem to be able to figure out what he was asking, since, at the moment, she was far too preoccupied with the fact that, rather than stopping at the river, their company had started to make its way up the hill toward the big wooden gates that faced out over the bay.  In another few moments, Esquivel handed his orders to one of the sentries, who waved them all inside.

Though this wasn’t the first time Diego had seen the inside of this fortress, he was still struck by the sheer size of it.  Compared to the cuartel in Los Angeles, the Presidio of San Diego was a small city in itself, with about the same number of people, but many fewer civilians.  The main headquarters building looked much more imposing than Capitan Acevedo’s office—a little more like some of the grand architecture he had seen in Spain—though Diego still wasn’t quite used to seeing the red, white and green flag now hanging, in duplicate, on either side of the entrance.

It almost made him feel as though he were no longer in California, but in some foreign land surrounded by strangers whose rules and customs differed greatly from his own, and where, at any moment, he could be accused of committing some crime even more obscure and inconceivable than the one of which he now stood accused.

He tried to think if he had heard or could recall the name of the current commandante.  Perhaps it was someone who knew his father, or was at least familiar with the de la Vega name.  But within minutes of their arrival, he realized that neither he nor the girl were going to be allowed to see anyone—or much of anything—besides the inside of the cárcel.  Esquivel simply got off his horse and tied it to the hitching post, motioning the two privates and Endicott toward the jail cells on the other side of the plaza as he slipped into the commandante’s office.

"Don’t worry," Diego overheard Endicott telling Muñoz discreetly as the soldiers jockeyed their horses to keep the prisoners between them. "They lose all their power once they’re officially jailed. Oh, you shouldn’t let them touch the ground before then, or, well, you saw what can happen. You were just lucky they didn’t call down a hail storm.  But after they’re put in jail, the devil usually abandons them. Sometimes he does come back when they’re being questioned, of course; that’s why some of them feel no pain.  But otherwise—they’re pretty harmless now." (2)

Munoz nodded, his eyes widening just a bit as he absorbed this information.  Then, as they dismounted outside the cárcel, he stepped aside and quietly reiterated the whole speech to Zavala while Endicott directed the jailers to take the prisoners inside.

Inspired by his demeanor, the jailers were a bit less courteous than they might otherwise have been while helping Oreana down from her horse, and Diego found himself inadvertently testing the strength of the ropes at his wrists, though they were wet, now, and rather sticky with what he supposed was his own blood as well as sweat.  Still, he knew that anything he said would only incite Endicott to further cruelty.  So he kept his eyes down as they shoved him into a nearby cell, hoping that no one would be able to tell how much he longed to get his hands on a sword.

"Oh . . . perhaps you shouldn’t put them both in the same cell," said Endicott idly as he watched one of the men working to loosen the ropes that held the girl’s wrists at an intentionally painful angle against her back.  The jailer smiled faintly and shrugged.

"This is the only empty cell we have right now, Señor," he said. "Unless you want me to put one of them in with the banditos and the vagrants.  Then we would have a riot for sure.  Not even they wanted to be locked up with witches.  We had to crowd more prisoners into the other cells just to empty this one."

Endicott shrugged too.  "Oh, well, then," he said.  "I suppose this will have to do."

"Should I untie the hands of that one also?" the man asked, glancing at Diego as he guided the girl firmly through the cell door.

"Why bother?" said Endicott.  "Let her do it; it’ll keep them both busy for awhile."

"In that case, I should like some water, please," said Oreana, her voice quiet and meek, yet surprisingly resonant.  "His wounds need tending to."  The soldier looked startled, as if he thought her words alone might hex him.  But then, with a reassuring nod from Endicott, he picked up a nearby bucket and headed for the well across the plaza.  Endicott, meanwhile, finding himself alone with the prisoners, finally let his eyes meet hers.  But she looked away at once.

"Gracias, Señor," she said, holding the raw stripes on her own wrist as she clenched her fist and opened it again.

"It was the least I could do," he shrugged, eyeing her with the faintest trace of delight.  "The very least, actually."

She nodded.

He smiled, then added, in a rather sheepish tone, "I know you must think me a perfect cad, Señorita, I mean considering everything that’s happened.  And you probably would be right, come to think of it.  I’m not much of a gentleman.  But you know, actually, you may find you prefer my company to Padre Eusepio’s.  See—it doesn’t really matter to me if you confess or not."

"I suggest you let her be, Señor."  Diego tried hard to keep a civil tone, though he knew he wasn’t doing a very good job of swallowing his anger, for Endicott’s smile only widened a little as he put an arm against the bars to cushion his forehead, then pursed his lips into a shrug.

"Come on . . ." he said, nodding behind her toward Diego, "I know he isn’t really one of you.  God, he’s more Catholic than a box of communion wafers, eh?  We both know he’d be better off just to confess and do his penance.  But how fast do you think he’ll resign himself to that if he has to listen to you screaming?  Or maybe you think he’ll just faint."  Endicott tightened his smile to suppress the laugh that came out only through his nose.  Then he shook his head.  "Wealthy liberal intellectuals. . . .  He probably hasn’t even seen the color of his own blood before now."

Oreana stiffened and raised her arm out at her side to keep Diego behind her as Endicott whispered, "I don’t want to hurt you.  Some say it’s rather pleasant, actually.  I can send you off to Valhalla—or Elysium," he giggled.  "Wherever it is you people think you go.  But him—if he makes a false confession, say, and tries to take revenge, well, relapsed heretics don’t get second chances, do they.  And they won’t just burn him in effigy.  Thanks to you, he’ll go right to hell.  You don’t really want that, now, do you?  Why not make things easier—on him and yourself?"

By this time Diego had loosened the ropes around his wrists to where, with just a bit more wrenching, he thought he could get at least one cord over his thumb, and the pain only helped to make him angrier.  But he felt her quick glance as she measured the distance between him and Endicott, shifting her weight just a little as she said, "I am most grateful for your concern, Señor."  Then she moved closer to Endicott and, in a tone that matched his own ominous intimacy, looked up at him and said, "Unfortunately, I do not believe that the devil has entirely abandoned me as yet."

As he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the jailer who was approaching now with a bucket of water, Endicott stifled a smirk.  "Señorita," he said, "I’m counting on that."