October 19, 1814
Gilberto
He woke feeling almost himself. It was the first decent night's sleep since they had moved back into the house on Sunday. During the day there was enough work to keep him from dwelling on thoughts of ceilings and walls crumbling. At night; though, lying still with nothing to distract him, it was unbearable. He'd spent most of the nights riding up and down the Kings Road as Zorro, not looking for anything in particular and not bothering to pester the lancers. He was just desperate to get out of his bed.
After several days with no tremors he was starting to trust the ground beneath his feet. He rose and dressed and went to breakfast. Diego was already long gone, of course: it was Wednesday.
"Are you coming in to town?" Father asked as he sat down.
"Oh, yes. I wouldn't miss it. Newspaper day."
"You've been looking a little peaked."
Gilberto snuck a glance through his eyelashes. Father's face didn't give anything away. Gilberto wondered what to say: he couldn't admit Zorro's activity...and he didn't want to admit to his own weakness. "We've been a little busy. All the excitement."
Was that flicker of eyes disappointment? "If something is bothering you, I hope you know you can talk to me."
"Father." Gilberto felt his tongue stumble slightly. "I'm fine."
"Of course you are. Still..." Father glanced casually at his breakfast and spread butter thickly on a slice of bread. "Diego mentioned you were a bit unsettled by the earthquake."
"Did he?" Dirty, interfering rat. "Don't take it too seriously. You know how he worries. About everything. No one likes tremors."
"No. But most people haven't been caught in a mine collapse."
Gilberto froze, his chocolate cup halfway to his mouth. "I...I hardly think - "
"It wouldn't be," he paused, eyed Gilberto thoughtfully, "remarkable."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. I was going to offer...If you feel uncomfortable here in adobe, I could send you out to one of the line shacks. The one on the ridge is log construction. I was planning to send Alonzo, but you could do the work as well and it would get you away from the house for a month."
Oh, wouldn't that be a disaster. Away for a month! What were the odds that an entire month would go by without the pueblo needing Zorro? "Father I admit - " he began quickly. "That is to say, the tremors do make me nervous. Certainly. But it's passing now. And I'd worry if I were gone that long."
"It's up to you. I only want you to understand..."
"You're very good to us," Gilberto said, hoping the conversation would end.
Father looked at him oddly, but turned his attention back to his breakfast.
Z
Market day was more crowded than usual, although there weren't as many merchants. The people who did man stalls and carts looked weary and nervous.
There were other signs, too, of the recent difficulties. Lancers were rebuilding one of the cuartel's outer walls. There was a huge crack, too, in the side of the smithy, and Gilberto couldn't imagine why they hadn't started repairs yet.
He and Father tied their horses and headed into the tavern, where they found Diego and Felipe. They were bedraggled and ink-stained, but that was usual for newspaper day. Diego smiled tiredly and passed them copies of The Guardian as they sat down. In a few minutes, Victoria came with orange juice.
Most of the articles were about the tremors, of course. One person had been badly injured when a grainery collapsed at the mission, but Gilberto (and everyone else) had already known that. There was a birth announcement. And a long food article on the culinary applications of different varieties of beans. It was very bluntly written, of course, and didn't use the words 'culinary' or 'varieties,' but still, it was knowledgeable. The author wasn't named, but he appeared to have given a lot of systematic thought to bean recipes.
"You're mocking me," Diego muttered.
Pretending confusion and affront, Gilberto looked up. "I'm not. I'm reading the newspaper!"
"Very carefully, considering there is nothing in it you didn't already know."
Gilberto shrugged with careful indifference. "This editorial reads like an engineering lecture - "
Diego began to sputter about shortcuts and thin adobe walls.
"It's very dull. And where is that woman who gives advice on affairs of the heart? She's amusing. You should include her every week. Also, this advertisement for the blacksmith, it has a misspelling. And why is he advertising? The only competition is at the mission, unless you want to ride to San Diego or San Juan Capistrano. Or Santa Barbara, but that one isn't any good - "
Diego growled, "He wanted an advertisement, and why shouldn't he have one? And it is not a typo, the ink has smudged."
"If you say so."
Which, as intended, offended Diego. Before he could retort, however, Father rapped his knuckles on the table. With a mutinous look, Diego subsided. Pretending to read the newspaper (shaking his head and tisking occasionally in overt disappointment) Gilberto studied his brother. He was tired and his hands were more or less black with ink, but he was breathing normally and his color was good. As hard as he worked at the newspaper, it didn't seem to be hurting his health at all.
Z
On the porch of the tavern Don Alejandro asked, "Does anyone need to do any shopping?"
Diego patted Felipe's shoulder. "This one needs a new hat. And if I'm going to drag him across the territory for the newspaper he'll need a sturdy pair of boots."
Felipe protested. Diego waved him off. "It was different when I was staying close to home. Or when you were just riding for fun around the ranch or carrying messages during the - " he broke off frowning. "You aren't a child any more. Your duties - "
He was staring at something over Felipe's head. Gilberto followed his gaze and found himself frowning, too. Sergeant Mendoza was talking to a couple of very oddly dressed people. It was a man and a women in dark clothing. The woman had a thin scarf twined around her head and shoulders. They were so unadorned - somber, even - that it seemed they might be in mourning.
Mendoza, looking confused, wandered away toward the cuartel. Father considered them for a moment, glanced at Mendoza's retreating back, and then strolled over to the couple. The wagon they stood next to was large if not particularly new. It was pulled by two good horses. A small face was peeking over the side of the wagon box.
Politely, Father said, "Good morning. Welcome to the village of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels."
The man - bearded, tall - shifted a bit uncertainly. "Good morning," he said. He spoke Spanish with a Russian accent, and the sound of it made Gilberto ache suddenly with a kind of homesickness for Madrid. Master Nurgaliyev, a botanist at the university, had been a good friend to both of the twins. Gilberto had gone gaming with him more than once, switching back and forth from English to Russian...
Father made introductions. The stranger smiled faintly. "It is my great pleasure. I am Daniil Ivanovich Nielson. My wife, Oksana Federovna; my son, Anton."
Nielson was obviously not a Russian name. German or Norwegian, probably, but Europe was much smaller than the New World, and any number of wars had pushed people back and forth for hundreds of years. "Are you in Los Angeles to trade?" Gilberto asked. The Russian fort north of San Francisco occasionally sent a boat down to trade for grain at the mission.
"No, we intend to settle in California. We have heard it is a land of freedom and opportunity."
Father was thoroughly baffled by this. "You've come to California? For freedom?"
"Compared to the Russian Empire," Diego murmured. "They may well have."
"Yes, but," Father was openly staring. He was more confused than Gilberto had ever seen him. "For a foreigner to live in Spanish Territory - "
Senor Nielson smiled at this. "The permissions were taken care of when we purchased the farm. The Luis Ramone Land Office."
Luis Ramone Land Office?
Land Office? Land Office. He was selling bits of Los Angeles to Russians. No, that made no sense. Why would Russians buy it? Russians wanted to settle higgaldy piggaldy half-way down Alta California? Since when? The colony they had was absurdly small and under-manned. Most of their women were natives, apparently, the Russian version of Neophyte. They didn't have the population to expand. Except here was Senor and Senora Nielson, buying land from the alcalde, abandoning the Russian encampments in the north and seeking "freedom?"
It was absurd. If Gilberto looked at Diego he would burst out laughing. Instead, he said tentatively, "You cannot be seeking democracy, not here - Spain also has a king. Is it religious freedom you are looking for?" That was hardly less unlikely.
Senor Nielson's eyes lit up with interest. "It is similar in many respects, but our aristocracy is much - " he began in Russian, but switched back to careful Spanish. "Forgive me." He paused, frowning. "Yes. We are seeking Religious freedom. We have been persecuted...the Orthodox authorities..."
It only got more astonishing. Who could the Orthodox authorities persecute; wasn't everyone Orthodox? Gilberto's breath caught. Could Russians be atheist? He hadn't heard of it. Or perhaps they were Protestant. Did they even have Protestants there? Or -
Schismatics. What was the word? Roskolniki? Gilberto had heard - something - about them. 'Old Believers.' It had never crossed his mind that he might meet one.
Before he could formulate another question - how did you ask what sort of heretic a person was without insulting them? And he did not want to offend these Russians - Mendoza re-appeared with the alcalde. "Ah, Señor Nielson. We have been waiting for you, you lucky man! You are to receive forty acres of rich California farmland." The smiling alcalde handed him a scroll.
As Senor Nielson unrolled it, Diego leaned sideways to see over his shoulder. "'Table of the Rocks,'" he announced.
This was nasty, even for Ramone. Table of Rocks was north and slightly west of the Macias place, but not nearly as well endowed. It was flat, but barren. It had no water, and while only a mile from a good creek on de le Vega land, it was well uphill of it. The Martinez family, unable to raise enough of a crop to put food on the table, let alone pay their taxes, had abandoned it before Gilberto had returned from Madrid.
Father turned on the alcalde. "You can't be serious," he said.
Ramone smiled blandly. "The sale is quite legal, I assure you."
"It is a desert. Even in the winter nothing grows there."
The Russian only nodded thoughtfully. "Nothing grows without hard work."
"Ah, how very true, Señor Nielson," Ramone answered. "Forty acres and no other guarantees implied or inferred. Notice clause seven: no refunds. Welcome to Los Angeles." He nodded and turned on his heel.
Senor Nielson opened his mouth and then shut it. "Ah. I would ask - where to find it..." The alcalde was already gone, but Mendoza - looking both embarrassed and sympathetic - cleared his throat. "We have not sent a patrol that way in a while. I suppose I could send a couple of men...after all..."
Father scowled at him, although it wouldn't be Mendoza he was annoyed with. "Never mind, Sergeant. They are our neighbors, more or less. I will ride out with them."
"Certainly," Diego said.
"Not you. I know how late you came in last night. Order Felipe's boots and then head home."
Gilberto leaned over to whisper into his ear, "Don't pout, Diego. It's not becoming. I will tell you all about it. Later."
Coolly, Diego turned his head. "And perhaps you'll tell me why you've been a twit all morning."
"I doubt it. I'll probably be over it by then. I may be moody and afraid of earthquakes, but at least I don't hold grudges."
Diego blinked. "You do hold grudges," he answered calmly. "And you had been acting oddly for days. More oddly than usual. I needed to tell Father something. There was no harm in the truth."
Gilberto gave him a dark look: there was, in fact, great harm in the truth. That was why they kept so much of it to themselves.
Diego rolled his eyes, answering the unspoken observation. "But not this one. Father was very reasonable about it." As though having this discussed wasn't thoroughly humiliating. As though it were nothing.
While Gilberto was still deciding what to answer, Father thumped him casually across the shoulder, "If you are done with whatever you're fighting about this time, I'd like to get a move on. I'm sure the Nielson's will want as much time as possible to set up camp before the sun sets."
Composing his expression to the model of reasonableness, Gilberto turned his back on Diego and followed Father to the horses.
Felipe
Diego had waited until Felipe was in a public place (and couldn't argue) to mention the boots. He'd been right in thinking Felipe wouldn't want them: at the very least boots would be hot and heavy and they might pinch, too. They would surely be stiff until they were broken in. Felipe wasn't a vaquero or a gentlemen; what did he need boots for? Even the town boys his own age didn't have boots -
Actually...that was an interesting thought. Eugenio didn't have boots. Or the blacksmith's son. Or even Pablo and Bernardo (their family ran the drayage out of San Pedro, and they were quite wealthy), only their older brother Manuel, who enjoyed being so grown up and showing off...
Well. Felipe had serious responsibilities now, didn't he? Looking after Diego was important, and he'd been very satisfied with that. The other boys thought Felipe very well treated - almost spoiled, even - by the de le Vegas, considering that he was, after all, a nobody with no family of his own. It was easy enough to ignore Eugenio being obnoxious when there was nothing else to do about it.
But in the last month or so things had changed. Helping collect information for the newspaper, that was man's work, adult responsibility (even if no one had ever heard of it before). It was more interesting than sweeping out the store and making change all day. Or carrying errands while waiting to be big enough to work the smithy. Or even training horses for harness.
Following Diego across the plaza, Felipe, distracted, bumped into a fruit cart. He waved an apology and hurried to catch up. He lifted his chin and made a point of looking casual. Being fitted for boots was...just a necessity. Oh, yes. After all, while he wasn't a fine gentleman or a cowboy, he also wasn't a laborer or a peasant. He was - actually, that wasn't clear. What was he?
Don Alejandro listed his position in the ledger as 'companion,' not 'houseboy.' Diego thought of him as his child. What Felipe did for the paper, laying out type and riding up and down the valley so Diego could talk to people for stories, that would be apprentice work...if Diego had known enough about the job to have 'apprentices.' And the other, looking after Diego at home and watching to make sure he was keeping proper and safe count of the medicine, that was nurse's work...
Well, no, Felipe had no idea what he was, really, or where he fit either in town or at home. But he would take the boots and wear them sometimes. Eugenio would have a fit and the other boys, well, they would know that Felipe wasn't quite a child like them any more.
He sat still while his feet were measured and then didn't give Diego a hard time about the new hat.
"You're very quiet," Diego said when they'd left Los Angeles behind them.
Felipe shrugged, because that was true.
"Are you going to make me suffer for it later?"
Felipe considered that. In fact, it might be fun to tease Diego later. Innocently, he asked, "For what?"
Diego sighed. "I realize it was heavy handed - "
If Diego was going to be reasonable, there was no way to tease him. "It was very thoughtful," Felipe said. "You are very generous."
Diego snorted. "I am very selfish. I never asked if you wanted to work on the newspaper."
Felipe had to laugh at that. "No one asked you, either."
"Strictly speaking...that's true. But..."
"It needs to be done, and you are the best man to do it." Felipe shrugged. "I was thinking that responsibility isn't so bad."
Diego was silent for a moment. "Responsibility." He rolled the word over his tongue, as though he were saying it for the first time. "I think it was a good issue this time."
Felipe wrinkled his nose. "People seem to like talking about the earthquake. I would rather not think about it."
"Ha. Well. Hopefully next week we will have to search very diligently to even find a story."
"What about the newcomers? What is the word - aliens?"
"Immigrants. I wonder if they are the first of many. Heaven knows, Spaniards aren't lined up to come here. Father expected a much larger colony by now... The United States is very diverse - many different nationalities and religions. I wonder if it would work for us. Can you really run a country with many nations together? I just don't know. As far as the paper is concerned, I'm sure the Nielsens are very interesting...but I don't think I'll bother them yet."
When they got home, Diego went to lie down. They hadn't gotten home until after supper the night before, and they'd had to open the newspaper office before dawn for the print run.
Alejandro
Gilberto, riding beside the wagon, seemed completely absorbed by his conversation with the Russians. He alternated descriptions of the local geography and history with eager questions about Russia and the Fort Ross colony. It was a good thing he was holding up the conversation, because Alejandro was too busy cataloging the alcalde's crimes and personality defects to hold a polite conversation. Swindling foreigners - what? By mail? Some odd advertisement? - was a new low for him. There was no dignity in this petty crime.
Not that there was dignity in his sadism. Or his exploitation of the poor. Or his incompetent leadership of the garrison. Or his pathetic social climbing. Or his assault on civil liberties.
Luis Ramone gave greed and ambition a bad name on his best day. But today...
Alejandro found he was actually embarrassed on behalf of Los Angeles. Or perhaps on behalf of Spain herself.
But detailing the scale of the crime before they could see the 'farm' for themselves wouldn't do the Nielson's any kindness, so he kept his mouth shut as they rode: first north on the kings road (within sight of his own home) until they came to a wagon track that served as the boundary between De le Vega farmland and the San Gabriel mission. After a couple of miles more, the wagon track crossed a little stony creek, flush and full this time of year. The west bank was mission land, the east bank was De le Vega land - specifically Diego's. Felicidad had bought the parcel years ago and planted it in olive trees. There was a small walnut orchard half-way up a mountain that belonged to Gilberto which had come in the same way. Neither was bearing, yet, and wouldn't for several more years.
The wagon track veered to the east and then rose sharply to a large, flat bench. This was Table of Rocks. It was stark; the soil was thin and stony and cut with shallow ruts where the winter rains quickly washed away. If anything, it was worse than Alejandro remembered. He bit back a tirade about Ramone's perfidy.
There were only a few improvements to the property: A barn, the roof fallen in. The tiny house, only two rooms and one of the walls cracked, possibly from the earthquake. While Alejandro counted up the problems in his head, though, the Russians had climbed down from the wagon and started dancing around celebrating. They were laughing and shouting in Russian.
"This land isn't suitable for raising chickens, much less farming," Gilberto protested.
Senor Nielson turned to him. "Gospodin, nothing grows without - "
"Yes, nothing grows without hard work. So you said. But even if..." he sighed and threw up his hands. Gilberto never did have much tolerance for stupidity.
"We can get a lawyer," Alejandro said, "get your money back. Find you something better, there's no shortage of land."
He shook his head. "Thank you, but no. This is where God has led us and here we will stay."
Alejandro sighed. "You have seed, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. We are prepared to start a crop at once. We were told that this is the time of year to plant. And your son assures us that it will not snow," he chuckled. "As strange as it seems. I do - Forgive my ignorance...but I must ask, how do you build without trees? I admit..." He gestured helplessly at the doorless shell that was the little house. "It looks as though it is made of mud! And the towns and missions we have passed. Mud? It cannot be possible!"
Alejandro had to smile at that. "It really is mud, but there is a trick to it." He talked about mixing the mud and molding it and how long it had to dry, and then, once you had done all that, how to build. "All the rain we get this time of year, I'd wait for spring to try to do any major construction. You'll want to repair the roof on that barn so you'll have good shelter before February, but there is plenty of time for that. And then next year you can get the house in shape."
Except they could hardly be here next spring, could they? They had no family in the area. Who would carry them through when the first crop failed? The enterprise was doomed, and no amount of optimism and charming earnestness could change that.
As angry as he was at the blatant swindle, stubbornness and stupidity weren't commendable traits either. He found himself wanting to shake some sense into the man, but he managed to keep his mouth shut until he and Gilberto were riding away.
Then he ruminated about the blatant stupidity and pointless stubbornness in detail, only turning aside once in a while to enumerate Luis Ramone's faults. It wasn't until they had crossed the shallow stream that he paused and glanced at 'Berto, whose eyes had glazed over.
For a minute or so, the only sound was the thump of the horses hooves, and then Gilberto said distantly, "All the ruts where the water ran off go in the same direction."
It was such a (silly) non sequitur that a short, sharp laugh escaped Alejandro. Gilberto appeared not to notice. "When I was a little boy, that table was pasture land. Not the best, but grass grew there. It was only when Al Martinez plowed it that the topsoil started to wash away..."
"Yes, I suppose that's true," Alejandro conceded. "It's also too dry most of the year, and the soil is very rocky and - "
Absently, Gilberto interrupted him. "If you plowed in the other direction, it might slow down the erosion. But it's still too dry...you're right. If they could keep some of that winter rain - ditches? A pond? That might help. I don't know."
"You can't be seriously thinking of ways to make that into a real farm," Alejandro said.
Again, Gilberto didn't seem to take any notice of common sense. "The groundwater is very deep out here. It would be horrendous trying to dig a well and bring the water up everyday. You could run an irrigation ditch from the creek, but there is still the problem of getting it uphill." He sighed. "It all comes down to elevation, I suppose. Say, the wind seemed fairly steady, didn't it? You might be able to run a pump off a windmill. It isn't usually done...Diego would know. I should bring him out here and let him take a look."
There was no answer to that. Bemused, Alejandro didn't try.
It was late in the day when they finally reached home. Diego was seated on the patio with a lapdesk, carefully circling typesetting errors in the newspaper. He was smiling faintly, and watching him, Alejandro found himself smiling as well. If this was to be Diego's life...
It wasn't what any of them had expected, true. But perhaps the role of publisher suited Diego better than rancher did.
As for himself -
It occurred to Alejandro that between Diego's health problems and the stinking morass that served for pueblo politics these days, it had been literally several years since he had paid proper attention to the ranch.
But The Queen of the Angles was holding her own against Luis Ramone. And Diego was holding his own now, too. Alejandro should ride up to the vineyard; this early in the season, there shouldn't have been too much damage from the quake, but he should see for himself. That would take a day and a half. And he hadn't laid eyes on the peach orchard in over a year. In another two, those trees should be old enough to bear. And then there were the cattle he wanted to pasture out at Deer Canyon. He'd been meaning to move a herd down there for going on three weeks, but matters in town and at home always seemed to press in. Part of the problem was he'd need to hire a few more men and keep a crew of two out there to watch them. Well. He could delegate that to Gilberto.
He left Diego with his newspaper and got back to work.
~tbc
