The Aftermath

Sergeant Garcia drained the last gulp from the bottom of his wine glass, then reached across the table as Diego offered to pour him another.  When the glass was full, he stared at it judiciously for a moment, then sipped it, pursing his lips to savor the dark fruity tang.  "I do not think that anyone in Los Angeles ever truly believed you were a heretic, Don Diego," he said.

Diego rolled his eyes.  "Gracias, Sergeant.  That is most reassuring."

"And all that talk of sorcery.  Such superstitious nonsense, eh?  Why, only illiterate savages really believe in such things."

"So does that mean you’re gonna quit wearing your suspenders crossed in front now, Sergeant?" asked Reyes idly, shooting him the most neutral of sidelong glances.  Garcia looked only mildly flustered, and, as usual, recovered manfully.

"Baboso!" he said, rolling his eyes in disdain.  "I do that only to aid the digestion.  Besides," he shrugged, eyeing Diego innocently as he patted his stomach.  "It helps to keep my pants up.  I have lost a little weight, you know, leading all those night patrols."

"What about the horseshoe you made us nail up over the cuartel gates?" Reyes muttered.

"Well, that is just for luck," Garcia protested, "and for morale.  Some of the men, you know, they are far from home, and now that I have once again been made acting commandante— "

"Well, yes, that is lucky," Diego put in.

"And is that why you started laying your knife across your fork after you eat?"

The sergeant let a chubby paw fall just a bit too quickly across the plate in front of him, slightly messing up the cross-shaped alignment of the utensils.  "I have always done that, he objected.  "It is just a habit of mine.  It makes the dishes easier to remove from the table."

And at that, they all fell silent for a moment, remembering the girl who had worked there and waited on them, clearing dishes away.  At last Garcia sighed heavily.   "Well, at least her family knows what became of her," he said.  "But it is still hard to believe that a man like Señor Endicott could do such a thing.  He seemed so friendly, so full of charm.  Like the devil himself, I suppose."

"I knew Señor Zorro couldn’t have done it," said Reyes.  Then he added wistfully, "I wish I could have seen the fight between him and Señor Endicott.  Did you get to see it, Don Diego?"

Diego shrugged, flicking his fingers at the ceiling.  "Well, actually, I don’t think there were many spectators.  But I–uh imagine that it must have been quite exciting to watch."

"Oh, if you only knew more about dueling," said Garcia, sighing again.  "We didn’t even get to see their first encounter.  Señor Endicott almost won, you know.  And now there will never be a rematch."

"Sí," Reyes explained.  "The courier from San Diego said they hung him a couple days ago.  Judge Vasca said he would have had him drawn and quartered first, except it was against the law.  He would have hung Señor Marigál, too, if he hadn’t already been dead."

"But that young man, Don Alonzo del Valle—at least now his land will be returned," Garcia added.  "And he got to visit his father’s grave before he headed back to the Mission Dolores.  And before Capitan Acevedo left for Mexico City, he even gave him back the jewelry he had stored in the cuartel strongbox for safekeeping."

Diego nodded thoughtfully.  "The capitan’s transfer was rather sudden, wasn’t it?"

Garcia frowned, running his fingers across his stubbled jowls.  "Often it is difficult to fathom how such decisions are made," he said.

"Well if you’re gonna put that much work into chasing Señor Zorro, probably you ought to catch him," Reyes put in.  "Or at least you better not ignore all the other bandidos."

Garcia nodded.  Then he brightened.  "But at least Señor Zorro did get away.  And there is still a reward for his capture.  You know, Don Diego, I just do not know how that scoundrel does it.  Time after time, surrounded by lancers, and then—poof!  He is gone.  Why, you would almost think they didn’t really want to catch him."

"Maybe they don’t," said Reyes, pursing his lips into a shrug, peering into his wine glass.  "I mean, I don’t understand why you want to catch him, Sergeant, except for the money.  And for all those times he cut Z’s in the seat of your pants, maybe."

Garcia took an indignant breath, glaring at the corporal for a moment.  Then he sighed and shrugged.  "I don’t really want any harm to come to him.  I just wish he would surrender himself to me long enough to let me claim the reward before he escaped again.  I would probably even help him," he confided in a wistful tone.

Diego smiled and shook his head, studying his wine glass.  "Well, I would guess that if el Zorro ever did want to surrender, you would be the one he would surrender to, Sergeant," he said.  "You certainly have chased him far enough."

"Gracias, Don Diego."  Garcia shrugged doubtfully.  "Perhaps one day, eh?"

"Perhaps."

"But not too soon," said Reyes.  "I mean, without Señor Zorro, you wouldn’t have anything to look forward to.  What would we do for excitement?  If we caught all the outlaws, what would any of us have to do except sit in the tavern all day?"

"Sí . . . ."  Garcia let himself smile a little, though it wasn’t clear whether he was smiling at the thought of having nothing to do but sit in the tavern or remembering some of Zorro’s exploits.  Then he shrugged and added, "That rascal does liven up the place."

"Everybody needs a little excitement sometimes," said Reyes.  "Maybe even Señor Zorro."

Diego pursed his lips as he idly arranged his fingers around the rim of his wine glass.  He had always known Reyes was the smarter of the two.  "Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven, eh?" (1) he said almost to himself.  Garcia gave him a puzzled look.

"Is that more philosophy, Don Diego?"

Diego shook his head dismissively and shrugged.  "Oh, it’s just a line from a book I’ve been reading.  Padre Luis gave it to me before he left."

"Ah," Garcia nodded as if that explained everything.  "I suppose he will return to Spain now."

"He said he would stay with the Venancios a while longer.  Until they are certain the señorita will make a complete recovery, but then— "

"A long journey," said Garcia, for lack of anything else to say.  Diego knew that neither man would ever dare ask him the one thing they both wanted most to know—nor would they expect him to tell them anything, though undoubtedly they both had at least some ideas about whether or not he really had been in love with the girl, and whether or not he still meant to court her.  Perhaps they might even have heard the shocking rumor that her parents hadn’t approved of him, in which case they would be dying to know why.

Sooner or later, everyone in town would have a favorite theory.  Many, of course, would conclude, as they already had, that he was simply too much a dandy, too preoccupied with books.  Others would imagine that although he was from a proud old Spanish family, the Venancios might still have thought that a mere Californiano wasn’t worthy of their Spanish born daughter.

That was, in fact, what Don Alejandro had assumed when he was told there wouldn’t be a wedding, and he had almost been angry enough to defend the family honor at the point of a sword until his son had reminded him, privately, that the girl did know everything about him, after all, and that she had confided the truth in her mother.  Abruptly if not entirely mollified, the old man had then arrived at the far more reasonable conclusion that they didn’t want their daughter to marry an outlaw.

And that, Diego knew, was as close to the truth as he would ever be able to let his father get—though, as usual, it wasn’t very close at all.  Being an outlaw was the least of his problems.  And after the long chat he had had with Padre Luis, he didn’t think his religion was really that big a problem either, or at least not as big as Oreana had thought.

The real problem was convincing her parents that he wouldn’t become another Eusepio Magaña—that his newfound knowledge of sorcery wouldn’t corrupt him, tempting him to re-make the world in his own image.  But now, not only did he have to prove himself to them.  He also had to convince his father that this seemingly innocent, helpless girl really could be Zorro’s true partner in crime.

He knew his work was cut out for him, on both fronts.  So he had tried to be patient when they hadn’t let him see her again privately after she awoke in his arms—even though he was the one who had brought her back to life.  And he had tried to be philosophical when they had sailed for home—almost before she was well enough to travel, taking Marbella with them, leaving him, his father and Bernardo to make the long four-day journey back to Los Angeles alone.

And he had tried not to sound sarcastic when he thanked them for giving him permission, and indeed one might even have said encouragement, to call on her if he still wanted to, once she had fully recovered from her ordeal—probably in about a year.

But now there really wasn’t much he could have told Garcia and Reyes, even if he had felt like confiding in them.  And his father, who knew all too well how it felt to lose someone, had already been able to shower him with just about as much sympathy as he thought he could stomach.  In fact, Garcia and Reyes were probably also dying to know why he was getting along so well with the old man all of a sudden.

"Yes, Sergeant," he said.  "It is a long journey between the Old World and the New—in more ways than one.  Though I suspect that Padre Luis will probably spend a little time in Mexico City before he returns to Spain.  Apparently, the situation there is getting worse by the day."

"Sí, Don Diego," Garcia nodded.  "The governor has said he will go there too—to represent us in the Mexican congress.  He was elected just a week or so ago by a group of diputados from all over California.  Some of the rancheros from around here—they met and decided to elect Don José Palomares as a diputado from Los Angeles."  Garcia heaved his shoulders into another mighty shrug and emitted something between a chuckle and a sigh.  "All this voting, all these elections and representatives.  It is a different way of doing things, eh?  Not like the army.  Why, if the men got to vote every time a decision had to be made, we would never get anything done."

"And you wouldn’t be a sergeant," Reyes muttered.

"Well, how can you expect the rank and file to recognize quality in their leaders if they have never had to experience the burdens of leadership for themselves?" Garcia huffed.  Then at Diego’s amused chuckle, he remembered who his audience was and added, "The rancheros probably would have sent your father, except that, well—"  And breaking off abruptly, he studied his fingers.

"Probably they didn’t know where he was, maybe," Reyes opined.  "Or when he would be back."

Diego gracefully ignored their awkwardness, deciding to change the subject.  "But at least under this new system of government, the soldiers will start getting paid again, no?" he said.  "Now that the rancheros and the padres can sell their hides openly to foreign traders, surely there will be enough cash to go around."

"Oh, sì, Don Diego," said Garcia.  "Already there is talk of taxing the missions to raise money for the soldiers.  After all, it is our duty to protect the padres, too."

"They aren’t gonna like it," Reyes nodded.  "And if they go back to Spain, who’s gonna keep all the Indians under control?"

Garcia rolled his eyes as if to acknowledge the rhetorical nature of the question.  "I am afraid I know the answer to that, Corporal," he sighed.  "Swearing allegiance to Mexico may not be the end of all of California’s problems—or ours."

As Diego filled the two soldiers’ glasses again, he reflected that Garcia was probably right.  No, he thought as he finally allowed himself another sip of wine as well, this was hardly the time for Zorro to be thinking of retiring.  And a year from now things might be even worse.  "Well, cheer up, Sergeant," he said.  "At least we can enjoy ourselves now, eh?  Carpe deim?  You know, seize the day," he added, seeing the sergeant’s puzzled frown.  "Make the most of what little time we have."  But his own words sounded hollow—to him, if not to the lancers, who had realized that the literal translation meant, let’s have another bottle of wine.  And suddenly he was tempted to order two—or maybe something stronger.  Who was he kidding?  He didn’t want to seize anything.  He wanted this day to be over, and the next and the next.  Already he was counting them.

As the new bottle arrived, he drained his glass and would have refilled it at once, had not Bernardo come bursting in through the tavern door at exactly that moment, looking just short of frantic.  But to Diego’s surprise, it was Sergeant Garcia whose arm he grabbed as he pointed back in the direction he had come.

"What is it, little one?" Garcia got to his feet, looking helplessly at Diego, who had trouble even getting Bernardo’s attention through all the hurried gestures and pantomimes.  But neither of them had to wait long.  A moment later, the door erupted again and Don Alejandro came striding through.  "Sergeant," he said, "sound the alarm.  A messenger from San Pedro has just arrived with news that a pirate ship has been sighted off the coast."