ANOTHER STRANGER MAKES A VISIT
"I hear the neigh of horses and the shouts of men. Has Dario, the head
vaquero, returned from the valley of the San Joaquin? Or, perchance,
is it some messenger from him?"
"Reverend padre, you hear the work Indians returning with their farm
animals from the irrigated ground near the great spring. It is the
noon hour."
The first speaker was the friar, Lusciano Osuna, spiritual head of the
Mission San José. He was temporal head also of the Mission grounds and
buildings, together with a wide strip of country reaching over rolling
land, hills and mountains, away east to the San Joaquin River.
The padre was ill. His parched lips and flushed forehead showed him to
be in the grip of fever. Restlessly he tossed from side to side of his
bed. It was an unusual-appearing bed. Hewn redwood logs of goodly
dimension had been made in a frame held together by mortising at the
corners. Strips of rawhide ran across the frame from side to side,
another layer from end to end. A pallet of straw was the mattress; the
covering was lambskin tanned without removing the wool.
"Open the window and the door, Juan Antonio. My blood boils away in
this heat, and my strength ebbs out."
The hot north wind, which for days had been scorching the valley of
Santa Clara, rolled into the room.
"It is little avail, dear father, to seek or avoid draughts when the
San Joaquin fever possesses one. Its nature is to burn till the body
seems a crisp, then to freeze till the flesh is like damp clay."
"Juan Antonio, you are right. Still, it is a satisfaction to feel the
living air whether it touches one's ailment or not."
The light from the open window shone on the friar's face. He was
nervously pulling his heavy black beard through his fingers. The
features thus brought into relief were those of the hidalgo, bold and
strong, and were illuminated by keen intelligence within. The skin
showed another strain darker than Caucasian.
"Antonio, did all the Indians attend chapel this morning? Have you
heard of any further evidences of lapse into paganism anywhere in the
valley?"
"Our Indians, men, women and children, are faithful in their
attendance, since the day you quenched the evil spirit in them.
To-morrow we conclude the Novena--nine days' prayer--for you. All are
praying most fervently that our Lady and Saint Francis, yes, and San
José, will favor us and you with speedy and complete recovery."
"You are good, very good, my major-domo."
"To-day at morning meal were some Indians from the San Blas just in at
Monterey. At once I dispatched thither the peon, Pedro Carrasca, the
best rider in the valley. Six hours' journey it is to Monterey, six
hours' rest, and six returning, makes eighteen. Pedro Carrasca rests
not if among the ship's goods is numbered Jesuit bark, but he presses
homeward with the medicine. For each hour less than twelve that he
consumes in rounding Monterey from here I have promised him five and
twenty pesos."
"You have done well. My illness possesses me, Juan Antonio. Not that
I resist suffering. Did not my great master, Saint Francis of Assisi,
bear the sacred stigmata on side and hands and feet?"
The Indian reverently made the sign of the cross.
The padre went on:
"Antonio, you speak of the Novena. How many days have we been back?"
"Eight days."
"It has seemed longer, much longer."
"That was a hard ride for you from the river country, Señor Padre."
"Yes, it was."
"Swinging over mountain and scaling precipice, as did we, is doubly
difficult for one scarcely able to sit in the saddle."
"And what found I here? Men, and women too, whom our fathers redeemed
from savagery, dancing in pagan worship around fires which, doubtless,
shortly would have become fires of sacrifice."
"I know, holy padre; and I remember too that they followed us to the
church, consumed by that strange fury; yet you drove the blood demon
from their hearts, so that they killed not, nor destroyed, but obeyed
your commands; yes, even till now."
The Indian again made the sign of the cross.
"It is well to forget--well to forget," mused the friar. "The
children, after all, are good children."
The padre was endeavoring to hold himself against some tremendous
inward tension. He clenched his hands and shut tight his teeth.
Nature could not sustain him and his teeth began to chatter, while his
hands wrapped the closer the lambskin coverlet about his form.
The Indian major-domo closed the door. Hastening to the window he drew
the sash into place; then began chafing the padre's wrists and palms.
"Courage, good padre, courage! A little time and the blood is warm
again, the strength revives. If only Pedro Carrasca were here with the
Jesuit bark! but he comes not before nightfall, I fear."
The friar's eyes closed listlessly. His hands grew colder, despite the
vigorous treatment given by the Indian. His breath was short and weak.
"Dios y Maria!" exclaimed Juan Antonio. He took the friar's robe
hanging from a peg on the wall, and carefully spread it over the
fainting man.
"Comes now the chill and the heart weakens," muttered the faithful
major-domo. "That hurried ride from the San Joaquin, the worry over
the Mission, the drought----"
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Antonio called, then gave incisive
commands in the Indian tongue. The feet scurried away. He continued
the energetic rubbing, praying the while.
Excited voices were heard approaching. The door was flung open, and
instantly the room was filled with Indians. A woman brought a kettle
of hot water; another, a stone vessel. A man brought a decanter of
aguardiente. Whispering, praying Indians ran up and down the corridor.
As the women saw the padre's face, white and still, they thought life
had gone out. Grief filled their hearts, welled into their eyes and
found vent by their tongue. The loud wail of the death-bedside arose,
quavered, fell, in the old adobe house.
Juan Antonio endeavored to silence them.
"Quick, with the hot cloths for the feet, Luisa! Make ready the heated
brandy, you, Crispinilla! Quick, women, the padre's need is urgent!"
A sigh came from the priest. Then all was still. He seemed to sink
lower into his couch.
Even Juan Antonio thought that now life was gone. Instincts of
forgotten generations stirred the old man's heart. He began to intone
the death praises of the friar, as, for untold years, had his forbears
done for the great ones of their tribe.
"The mighty heart is still. The strong hand bends not the bow. The
ready feet run not. The king elk walks boldly in the open. The timid
deer fears not the arrow, because the chief man of his people hunts no
more."
The refrain of the death-wail overflowed the houses of the Mission, ran
along olive orchard and vineyard, reached the sentinels watching on the
hills. The church bell, in sorrowing tone, sounded its toll of death.
One and thirty did it strike, the total of the years the friar had
lived.
At the last stroke the padre's eyelids flickered gently. The pallor of
his cheeks decreased. Breathing, almost imperceptible, began.
Finally, he opened his eyes, and saw the weeping, gesticulating men and
women.
"Silence!" he said feebly. "What see I here?"
Again, in stronger accent, "What see I here?"
Yet again, "What see I here!"
In this third utterance the churchman spoke as might a king in presence
of his subjects. The wailing ceased.
He raised himself on elbow and pointed to the door.
"This cell is within the precinct of sacred cloister. Go, women, one
and all! Get ye gone from this holy place!"
The women fell away from the bed and seemed to melt through the door,
the men following them. Soon Juan Antonio stood alone with the padre.
"What have you done?" demanded the friar, sternly. Perspiration again
was on his forehead, while the returning fever gave color to the face
and strength to the body.
"O, Padre Lusciano, I feared you were dying. All my thoughts were for
nothing but to save you, and I called for help, come whence it might."
"Juan Antonio, around this cell, though poor and humble, has Holy
Church drawn her solemn circle of isolation. Let no woman enter
herein, even to save my life. If I die, then so I must. Did I
pronounce the curse on the luckless daughter of Eve and her male
abettors in this sacrilege, no one, save the vicar of Christ in Rome,
could banish it. See, Juan Antonio, what vast evil thy thoughtless
hand might wreak."
"O, padre," wept the Indian, "I thought thy life was struggling to free
itself of body, and my heart became water within me, for I love thee."
"Very well. Very well. But, Juan Antonio, in the future think with
thy head, not with love or fear."
Señor Mendoza appeared in the open door.
"Reverend Padre Osuna, will you pardon my coming unannounced? Each day
since you returned have my servants made inquiry, but found you too ill
to receive a visitor."
"Enter, Señor Mendoza. Please seat yourself."
"Thank you, sir Padre. I had a small quantity of Jesuit bark,
invaluable in this fever-and-ague affliction. Unfortunately, I mislaid
the bark, not finding it till to-day, and I came but now to bring it in
person."
"Very kind of you, señor."
"I heard the death-wail of the Indians; heard, also, the toll of the
bell marking the passing of an officer of the church. Your Indians
first told me you were dead, then that you had risen from the dead.
So, I congratulate you, most happy that no need exists for condolences
to anyone. Padre Osuna, here is the bark."
Juan Antonio took the bark and laid it on a table by the bed of the
friar.
"Many thanks, señor, for your goodness. As head of this Mission of San
José I accept the gift from Señor Mendoza."
Mendoza laughed pleasantly. "Then, reverend señor, as administrator of
this Mission of San José, I offer a little gift of Jesuit bark to the
spiritual leader of the vicinity."
"Señor Mendoza, I can recognize no administrator of these mission
lands, save one, and that is I, Padre Lusciano Osuna. My Franciscan
brethren rescued this country from wilderness and its people from
savagery. This Mexican government of yours then comes, takes away two
thirds of the land and its appurtenances, and gives it to you and to
others who accept it and hold it. By government sanction you
administer, Señor Mendoza; but, I hold, unjustly. Never by word or act
shall I acknowledge your authority in this valley of Santa Clara."
Señor Mendoza smiled. His equanimity was not easily upset.
"Good reverend padre, hear me. Your fathers did, indeed, redeem this
country and its savage tribes. A mighty work surely has been done.
But, because of freeing the natives from paganism, should you hold this
vast province in fee simple? Is it right that a score of monks should
own the land from San Diego to Yerba Buena? The friars still possess
more land than they can either occupy or cultivate--but I ask your
pardon for talking thus long when you are ill. I trust the Jesuit bark
will not fail of its customary happy effect."
"Your wish is generous, Señor Mendoza."
"Just one short word more. I would like to thank you deeply, in the
name of my neighbors and myself, for your work in quieting the Indians
the day of your return from San Joaquin valley. I doubt not your
coming meant more than many of us realize."
"I simply fulfilled the duties of my position. Nothing more."
"Good-day, Padre Lusciano. I hope your good health will soon return."
The Administrator departed.
"Shut the door, Juan. I feel I may sleep. Go forth to your duties.
When I awake I will call you. Go, now, while sleep is heavy on my
eyelids."
Juan Antonio went to the door. Hesitating a moment he turned, with:
"Reverend father, shall I not prepare a draught of the bark which Señor
Mendoza left for you?"
"Go forth to your duties, man. I can accept no gift from Señor Mendoza
if the acceptance implies acknowledgment of his administratorship. I
will return him his Jesuit bark. The call of principle is higher than
the claim of bodily health."
The major-domo closed the door. Sleep came to the friar.
The Mission buildings were constructed in accordance with the
architecture in vogue in California at that time. Buildings formed
three sides of an inclosure, a courtyard gate and wall the fourth. On
one side were housed the unmarried Indian women. Across the deep
courtyard lived the single men. The third row of structures gave home
to the major-domo, the chief vaquero, or herdsman, and the families of
each. Under the same roof with these latter were the shops of the
carpenters, the blacksmiths, and the various other artisans of the
Mission. This side of the square opened into the freedom of the
courtyard.
A man came to the carpenter shop and stepped within. "Is the padre
here?" he inquired.
The master carpenter replied, "Our padre is ill."
"I have most important letters which should be delivered to him in
person."
"Go then, to the major-domo."
The newcomer walked toward Juan Antonio. In his dress the man was the
ordinary traveler of the day. Tanned-skin shirt and trousers, shaggy
leggings and wide hat, distinguished him in no manner from a dozen
other wayfarers who, between dawn and night, might come on some quest
to the Mission.
The deep-set, gleaming eyes of the old Indian surveyed him from foot to
crown. He saw a man in the prime of life, his face parched by tropical
sun to the color of leather. A military mustache was on his lip.
"You wish to see me?" asked Juan Antonio.
"I wish to see Padre Lusciano. I have letters introducing me to him."
"The padre is firmly held by fever-and-ague. Little strength is left
to him. If you will, I'll carry your letters to him. I'm going to see
him now. You rest, while I'm gone, in the porter's lodge; or, if you
like, go over to Señor Mendoza's property across the way."
"Thanks, many. I'll wait in the lodge. Here are the letters."
The major-domo disappeared into the padre's quarters. Soon he was
again at the stranger's side.
"Padre Lusciano says come."
He followed the Indian through alcove and corridor to the friar's
bedroom.
"Your name is Captain Farquharson, I learn. Juan Antonio, a chair for
this brother. Seat yourself, good sir. Now," to the Indian, "close
the door and stay not far away. I'll call you when I want you."
They were a short time in earnest conversation.
The stranger opened the door to leave.
"Antonio," called the padre. The Indian came quickly. "Conduct my
visitor outside, then return."
Major-domo and caller passed through the courtyard.
"Amar Dios!" the Indian said at parting.
"Many thanks for your attention," from the other.
Juan Antonio returned to the friar's room.
"Take these letters and lock them in my desk there. Bring me the key.
Good. Now, attend carefully to what I say."
"Yes, Señor Padre."
"Tell no one the name of the man whom you have just escorted out."
"It shall be as you say, Reverend Padre."
"It is well. The giant, ambition, stirs in his sleep. Soon he awakes
and moves to action." Then, in half aside: "Mexico has wrought the
undoing of our missions. If a chance of retrieval comes why should I
not--but Misericordia!"
A great cheering was heard in the courtyard.
"Go, see the cause, and come and tell me, Antonio."
"Glorious news!" the Indian hastening back. "Pedro Carrasca returns
from Monterey two hours before the time, and has an abundance of Jesuit
bark in his saddlebags. More yet, good padre. A messenger from Dario.
He is the third messenger sent--Yoscolo and Stanislaus must have
captured the others. Dario has driven our herds far into the valley of
the San Joaquin River; and, the man says, soon will they fat for the
matanza" (the killing).
"'Tis well, Juan. Bring me a portion of the bark, then I'll rest a
little. In the chapel to-night pray fervently for rain, and thank God
for his mercies; and ask him to avert war and bloodshed from our
province here, and from the whole world. Shut the door now. Carry my
blessing to the children when they are assembled for evening prayer."
The door closed and the major-domo went about his many tasks.