The Master Of Monterey: A Novel

Chapter Two

Chapter Two How brilliant and green that October morn when Commodore Jones arose to ride over the newly conquered land, a ride that would ever be known as JONES'S PROGRESS. This was the thought that played in the mind of William Waxdeck as he awoke the morning on which Jimmy F. Bush and Jack Chase went ashore on liberty. He let a dribble of green bile into the bucket at his head, then picked up his pen to begin the description of the Democratium Ferens carrying freedom and democracy into the further reaches of the territory, stopping on the way to dispense justice, right wrongs, satisfy grievances, mend injuries, and truly take possession of the land by winning the hearts and minds of the people. Although Waxdeck knew that he was to describe events that had yet to take place, he found that all the more reason to begin early. More than anything, Waxdeck feared events that were errant in the world, events that wandered vaguely without a proper interpretation. Waxdeck knew what should happen and, more important, he knew the meanings to be drawn from what should happen. Therefore, it seemed a simple task and indeed a valuable precaution to set events down in print before they occurred, so that no matter what occurred in the present, in the future his heroic couplets will have occurred. +~ 185 -+ He thought that it was an advantage never to have seen California, or anything he wrote about. Since he already knew the end of history, it was only right that he himself was outside of the history. And he felt, not unreasonably in his opinion, that even though only a few philologists might recognize it, he was the real Master of Monterey. It was at this moment, with the description of the pristine morning and the gentle land welcoming its new leader ready in his head, that Waxdeck noticed the pages missing from around his feet. He bent up painfully to a sitting position and began to sort through the loose pages that papered his body. He knew some were missing, but he couldn't tell which ones. He tried to put the papers he had in some order, to discover what was missing, but it seemed that the missing pages were the very ones that were necessary to give order to the whole narrative, and without them it was impossible to even discover exactly what was missing. He began to sift through the papers in a frenzy, shifting piles wildly from his knees to his ankles to his thighs and back again, unable to find even the idea of order, unable to find even the beginning and the end, the first and the last indistinguishable. Waxdeck felt the webwork that connected his words to events beginning to tremble and fray, and he wondered as he spread the papers in lapped piles who could have upset his hold on things. Was it an agent of one of the imperial powers that also coveted California, the Russians, the English, the French? Was one of the midshipmen, one of those to whom he refused to dedicate a canto, the traitor? Then the ship's bell rang, and Waxdeck feared it was too +~ 186 -<~- late. Eight bells. The Commodore would be setting forth at that very moment. Commodore Jones arose that morning from his headquarters on land, one of the Presidio's blockhouses, and dressed with Hannibal's help in his finest dress blue uniform, eating and drinking nothing because he wanted to feel as pure in body and spirit as he knew Louisa Darling to be. When he stepped forth onto the parade grounds, they were waiting for him: Major McCormick and half a dozen marines mounted and ready to serve as an escort to protect his person from possible attacks from the rebel leader Bragas de Leon, and Mister Lurkin sitting a horse, again wearing a beaverskin hat low over his eyes and a thick gold ring on his right hand. Captain Rafael Rafael stood with the remaining marines in formation behind him, to hold the fort during the Commodore's progress, and a line of the leading men of Monterey had again assembled to see him off. The Commodore mounted a cream-colored horse, and Hannibal took the seat ofa gray mule with a notebook open on his lap, to record events for Waxdeck. In the back of the notebook , he had inserted his own prose narrative, in which he predicted the Commodore would be still seeking to establish possession as the National/ntention foundered. In the rear, a bugle boy rode on a pony, leading a packhorse loaded down with biscuit and jerked beef. Then, with Lurkin at one side and McCormick at the other, and Hannibal just behind his horse's left flank, the Commodore rode out, to make a progress over the land, to establish freedom and democracy. Through the presidial gate he rode, to the bugle boy's sprightly version of +~ 187 ..+ "Yankee Doodle" and the penetrating sound of snoring emitted by those still asleep from the previous day's celebration of the conquest. Whether or not it was due to the wavering of Waxdeck's influence, the Commodore was even more pensive that morning , not entirely certain that he had taken possession of the land. The rumors that Mexico and the United States were not at war still buzzed around him, as well as the rumors of Micheltorena marching north with eight hundred troops in uniform. If both rumors proved true, the Commodore would not be defending his country from enemies; rather, he would be defending Mexico against the Mexicans. He found it all confusing , as confusing as the speech he had given, as confusing as the sign that should have assured him that his journeys were at an end, that he had come to the right place. - Hannibal, the Commodore said, did you write an account of the speech? - I wrote that the people danced with joy when you explained the goals of the National Intention. After Mister Lurkin's translation. - Indeed, Mister Lurkin added, they were very gratified when they heard my translation. - Perhaps we can send the account to the newspapers. So that one dear to me can hear how I acted in her name. - Absolutely, sir. You've done everything just as Louisa Darling would have it. The Commodore sighed. - You're a faithful man, Hannibal. - Indeed, Mister Lurkin said. Most faithful. +~ 188 -<~- Hannibal saw Mister Lurkin's shadowed face turn toward him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the Trader knew all about his own prose narrative, all about the way he undermined the Commodore with every word he wrote, even these notes for Waxdeck. He turned his eyes away from Mister Lurkin and repeated for himself the name of his lost beloved. Mister Lurkin spurred his horse ahead and informed the party that their route would take them by some of the great California ranchos, by old Carmel Mission, and into the land of the lost people of Esselen. He first took them past an oak tree whose branches touched the water at high tide, the very place where mass was first said in 1603 by Ascenci6n, and where mass was said again in 1770 by Junlpero Serra, who raised a cross and claimed the land for his God ad aeternum, until the end of time and a millennium thereafter, while Portola claimed the land for his King Felipe III by pulling up bunches of grass, and picking up stones and throwing them from one place to another, and thrusting his sword into the ground, and reading aloud the Act of Possession, which stated to the Native Californians in a Spanish that would make sense to the dullest lawyer that Jesus Christ was the master of the human lineage, and that his avatars the Popes had granted the American continent to the Spaniards, and that therefore the Native Californians would be made vassals of the Spanish king if they should accept this version of human history, and slaves of the Spanish king if they should not accept this version of human history. - Whether any Natives were present to hear the declaration does not appear in the Chronicle, Lurkin added. -Yet +~ 189 -+ when the party returned to Monterey after further explorations , they found the Cross adorned with feather-sticks, and arrows, and surrounded by offerings of clams and dried meat. The natives, it seems, reported that at night they had seen the cross shine with a light that overcame the shadows, and watched it grow so high that it touched the celestial sphere, and they brought offerings to the Spaniards' sign, which report confirmed the Spaniards in their belief that they now possessed the land ad aeternum. Commodore Jones did some quick mental calculation, and realized that ad aeternum had only lasted some fifty years. He grew more sad and pensive, wondering whether the reign of freedom and democracy, initiated only the day before yesterday , would last any longer, and whether Louisa Darling would know of it. They continued riding across the peninsula of Monterey, through the uplands used for sheep grazing, and Commodore Jones questioned Mister Lurkin on how best to win the hearts and minds of the people to the new government. He thought that the superiority of a realm of freedom and democracy was self-evident, but he was afraid that there were some who would stubbornly cling to the old ways. - I'm afraid that freedom and democracy are foreign concepts here, Lurkin said. Concrete action and concrete benefits will do more in convincing the people that becoming American is an advantage. Just then, they heard from a nearby hillside two voices, one that cried out in pain and the other that gave commands in a rough, rude voice. Commodore Jones turned his reins and +~ 190 -<~- directed his troop up the hill to where the voices came from. To his surprise and astonishment, he discovered as they approached that the voices spoke English. - This will teach you to keep your mind on your work. - I'm sorry, senor. - And this will keep you from wasting time carving flutes. - Sorry, senor, I will not lose a sheep again, I swear. Commodore Jones found a red-bearded American who had tied a boy to a tree and was beating him with a leather belt. When the American turned around, he stood petrified at seeing an American naval officer riding a horse, accompanied by a troop of fully armed marines, an African, a merchant wearing a beaver hat, and a single bugler playing "Yankee Doodle." - who is this? asked Commodore Jones of Mister Lurkin. - This is a sailor who took French leave ofa merchant ship, John Cameron by name. He married into the Asuncion family and gained a square league of their land grant. The Commodore frowned. - And what has this boy done that you beat him here, outside of all established law? - Sir, Andres Segundo Sombra is a servant of mine, in charge of a flock of sheep. And he's so careless, passing the time trying to play music on the reeds that grow here, that every day that goes by, I'm missing another sheep. Andres Segundo, whose hands were lashed together, turned his head to speak to the Commodore. - Senor, he ties me to the tree and accuses me only to avoid paying me what he owes me. - Untie the boy immediately, the Commodore ordered. +~ 191 -+ John Cameron, seeing the marines with their swords at their sides, untied him without a word. The Commodore asked Andres Segundo how much he was owed, and the boy replied nine months, at six reales per month. John Cameron swore it was not so many months, and that Andres should bear the loss of so many sheep under his care. - Let the beatings you have given his skin pay for the sheepskins he has lost you. That is just. And pay him immediately , because you are now in United States territory, the realm of freedom and democracy, and you are both now Americans. - Right you are, sir, said John Cameron. As I was born there, I know that now that we're in the United States, you are in the right, and I'm in the wrong. And may I thank God that I'm once again in the United States, and not in the backward land where I've lived these past ten years. But I don't have any reales with me, and so Andres will have to come with me to my house to get paid. - Me go with him? jMal ano! Ya he leido esta historia. He'll beat me as soon as you're gone. - No, he won't, said the Commodore. As he was born in the United States, and understands justice and the obligations of every citizen in a democracy, and as you are both now Americans, he will do what's right. Andres Segundo didn't look confident, so the Commodore took out his sword and pointed it at the sky. - And if not, the arm of American justice will fall upon him. John Cameron looked up at the point of the sword. - God +~ 192 -<~- bless America, he said. The Commodore sheathed his sword, pleased at the response, and he turned his horse and rode back down to the river, where he and his troop continued their progress. As they went, John Cameron shouted after them, God bless America, while Andres Segundo shouted with him, Viva America, Viva el juez honrado, Long live Commodore Jones. They continued to shout until the troop was out of earshot. Then John Cameron sighed and turned to Andres. - Well, boy, as we're both now Americans, I suppose I'll have to do right by you. - Long live the United States, Andres said, if it means I'll get what I'm owed. - Indeed you will, said John Cameron. And so saying, he seized Andres and tied him to the tree again, and began to lay on with his belt with renewed fury. - There, he said as he lashed the boy. That's freedom and democracy in America. And he beat Andres until his back was scrap, telling him with each blow that he would have plenty of freedom in the future to play reed flutes, since he would never again be a shepherd in his fields, and as much democracy as he could buy with a woeful tale, although democracy was usually easier purchased with coin of the realm. He finally let Andres go, more from tiredness than from pity, and told him to go seek justice if he wished. Andres departed, crying resentfully and swearing that John Cameron would have to pay him everything he owed him and more, because this was America, while John Cameron laughed. +~ 193 -+ Meanwhile, with praise ringing in his ears, Commodore Jones signaled the bugler to playa song. The bugler obliged with a proud rendition of "Yankee Doodle." The Commodore turned to Mister Lurkin as they rode. - Concrete action and concrete benefits, he said. The people will get word of this, don't you think? And they will begin to be won over. - No doubt, Mister Lurkin said. No doubt they will get word of it. While the Commodore rode forward, Hannibal Memory heard a faint cry behind them, and he knew that Andres Segundo was enjoying freedom and democracy exactly as much as he and his people did. - I'll write this down, Hannibal said. And I'll remember it. Commodore Jones was somewhat more optimistic while they crested a hill and came down to the valley of the Carmel River, where the crumbling walls of Mission San Carlos, the very site of the eternal possession of the land by the Franciscans, sat on a bluff overlooking the river and ocean. The whitewash had scaled off the walls in the nine years since secularization, and left great patches of bare clay, which disintegrated further with every rainstorm. The two great towers of the church were shrinking and shriveling, collapsing in on themselves, and most of the roof tiles of the neophytes' quarters had been stolen long ago, to roof, among other buildings in Monterey, Mister Lurkin's trading house. As Commodore Jones led the way down to the ruined mission, a single ex-neophyte sat on the stone steps and shouted in a voice that sounded like a lament. +~ 194 -+ - jSoy libre! Viva California Libre, mete la mano onde quiere. The Commodore looked at Mister Lurkin for a translation. - He's saying, "I'm free. Long live free California." - Has news of our victory already arrived here? the Commodore asked. - No, my good Commodore. This man has been saying the same thing since 1833. Such was the case. When the mission system fell, and the reins of government were taken over by the enlightened men of European descent, the mission Indians were told that they were finally free of living in a priest-ridden society. Then they discovered that they were free to make over the mission land reserved for them to the enlightened men of European descent, and free to do most of the labor on that land, just as they had done for the Franciscans. Soylibre, for so the man on the stone steps was called, had been the personal cook for the Father President of the missions at the time of secularization. When he discovered after his former employer had sailed for San Bias that the only positions open to him were gardener, fat-boiler, or vaquero, so beneath the dignity of one who had as good a hand at salting pinole as anyone in California, he began to repeat the words soy fibre, soy fibre to himself in pure rage, determined to let himself die on the steps of the church. He announced to all that he would not leave the mission, that he had decided to die right there. And perhaps he would have if he could have stopped himself from eating. The Native Californians who worked in the former mission lands left him offerings of food, as though he were a holy anchorite, and so +~ 195 -+ rather than dying, the martyr of secularization grew fat and sleek in the decaying church. The former cook had found a new position for himself. Some considered him mentecato, but Mister Lurkin claimed that, far from being crazy, Soylibre was the most intelligent of the Native Californians. The band of horsemen galloped down to the weed-choked earth in front of the old mission, and Lurkin addressed Soylibre in Spanish. - Have you heard of the change of government in California? This is no Chico for PIO Pico, or something of that nature. No, this time California will become a part of America. Soylibre knew Lurkin, but the rest of the troop, from the fantastically curve-backed Commodore sitting high on a horse with his gold epaulettes hanging over his knees, to the turnipfaced McCormick pulling on his crotch, to the round-bellied African on the gray mule, to the single bugler they had brought along who even now was playing a sotto voce version of "Yankee Doodle" at this important point in Jones's Progress, seemed to him scarcely of this world. He looked long and hard at the Commodore, then spoke to Lurkin. - I'm sure I can be as free under these as I have been free under the Mexicans. Mister Lurkin translated for the Commodore, who then walked his horse up and down in front of Soylibre, gazing at the sleek old man with compassion. - Tell him, the Commodore said, that we come not as others have come in the past. Rather, we come to bring this land into the realm of freedom and democracy. He is now an American. Tell him that California is entering into the great +~ 196 -<~- history of America, which is the inevitable progress of those ideals across the continent. Mister Lurkin translated for Soylibre, who looked up at the Commodore in astonishment. - Does he believe all that he has just said? he asked Mister Lurkin in Spanish. - It appears so, Mister Lurkin said. - And does he expect me to believe it? - Without a doubt. - Then he is crazier than I am, Soylibre said. - What does he say? the Commodore asked impatiently. - He's overcome by the news, Mister Lurkin said. And to certify this report of his speech, Soylibre began to dance on the steps as though in celebration. - Soy libre, soy libre, soy libre. Viva California libre, mete la mano onde quiere. - Major, the Commodore said. Leave this man some of the beef jerky we've brought along, so that he can begin to know the fruits of liberty. With that, he spurred his horse away from the mission and continued his progress upriver, toward the site Mister Lurkin said belonged to the lost people of Esselen. Major McCormick caught up after reluctantly leaving a few pounds of jerky for Soylibre while muttering to himself that he could just as well let people know about the fruits of liberty with his gun. Hannibal recorded for Waxdeck that the Democratium Ferens had established justice where none had previously existed , and mercifully succored the needy who were clinging to the outmoded and bankrupt ways of the past. For himself, he +~ 197 -+ wrote that the masters beat the servants here just as aboard the National Intention, and that servants' blood was the same color all over the world. He wrote that the former slaves of the missionaries are no better off now, and perhaps worse off. California already seemed to be too much the same place he had wanted to leave behind, and he wondered whether the woman he had written of, who could mend his broken story, was to be found. Commodore Jones's optimism lasted only a couple of miles, and then he lapsed again into pensiveness adrift from Waxdeck's providential narrative, uncertain whether dispensing justice and helping the needy would really bring him what he sought. The troop arrived at a flattened plain by the Carmel River, well into the range of the Santa Lucias. Commodore Jones marched his horse around, and he spoke in a loud voice. He spoke, trying to establish again the sense of his mission, which was wavering and tenuous. - Let anyone who does not acknowledge the superiority of American arms, the goodness of freedom and democracy, the entry of this land into the great history of America, come forth. Or let it be acknowledged. Hannibal didn't want to let the National Intention go unchallenged . He was the memory missing from Waxdeck's narrative . And yet, he knew that if he made his poetic insubordination public at this point, he and his line would be crushed, just as he had been beaten aboard the Louisa Darling. In that moment, as Hannibal hesitated, a fantastical figure rode down out of the mountains on the other side of the river. +~ 198 -<~- The apparition wore a velvet cape, a leathern hood crudely shaped like a knight's helmet with a buzzard feather sticking from it as a panache, and a cowhide shield on which was scrawled Desheredado - The Disinherited. He drew a sword, pointed it at the party on the opposite shore, reined in his horse so that it reared up on its hind legs, then turned and rode back toward the mountains. - I know him, Major McCormick shouted. One of the raiders at the fiesta. Indeed, it was Sergeant Vargas, imitating Ivanhoe at the Tournament of the Queen of Love and Beauty. The sergeant stopped at the verge of the forest and wheeled his horse around. - The disinherited ones challenge you, he shouted in Spanish. uds. y la gran puta que les pario. - What does he say, Mister Lurkin? the Commodore asked. - I think he's challenging you in the manner of Chivalric Romances. - Permission to pursue, sir? asked Major McCormick. I can answer a challenge well enough with my gun, he added, pulling on his crotch. -Goon, sir. Major McCormick led his troop down to a ford across the river and then up the other bank, leaving behind the Commodore, Hannibal, Mister Lurkin, and also the bugle boy, who, truth be told, was something of a coward. When Vargas saw the troop approach, he turned and rode up into the woods, following the plan of Don Bragas de Leon, +~ 199 -+ the lionhearted one, who thought to lure the invading forces south, closer to the nine hundred crack troops that, according to rumor, were making a forced march from Los Angeles with Micheltorena at the head on a shining white stallion sixteen hands high. Vargas joined Bragas de Leon and the three Ohlone vaqueros at the first redoubt. Bragas de Leon knew himself to be outnumbered and outgunned, but he hoped to fight a series of skirmishes, holding the enemy at bay and then retreating strategically to draw the Yanquis toward the jaws of Micheltorena, who would, no doubt, be arriving at any moment . Major McCormick came upon the first redoubt, and spotted Vargas's buzzard feather poking above the breastworks. He drew his saber and shouted. - Sabers! Attack! Bragas de Leon was about to call for a withering fire to break the advance when he noticed that the three Ohlone vaqueros, who cared nothing about strategic retreats and less about glory, had already mounted up and were riding in the opposite direction. The lionhearted one saw the line of horsemarines mounting rapidly toward him. - Retreat, he called loudly, to make sure that the Ohlones understood that they had been following orders. At the second redoubt, where the Ohlones had not bothered to stop and regroup, but merely saved time and trouble by continuing to ride south, Bragas de Leon and Sergeant Vargas grew anxious and fired before McCormick's marines were in range. McCormick again pulled out his saber. +~ 200 -<~- - Attack, he called. - Retreat, Bragas de Leon answered. At the third redoubt, the lionhearted one discovered as the horse-marines approached that the vaqueros had taken the pack animals with all the powder and shot, and he and the sergeant only had one shot left apiece. - Retreat, he called. - Attack, Major McCormick answered. Constantly just out of range of each other, the two groups strayed further into the fastnesses of the Santa Lucia Mountains, where they found not the approaching forces of Micheltorena but rather brambles, stinging nettles, and mosquitoes with a taste for blood and a complete lack of discrimination concerning whether the blood came from American soldiers or the patriots of California. Commodore Jones, in the meantime, had learned from Mister Lurkin what the device on Vargas's shield declared. He grew lonely, with his horse-marines away chasing the disinherited one, and no people of California here to thank him for bringing them into the realm of freedom and democracy. He wondered if the National Intention only advanced through disinheriting those who had come before, whether he could ever take possession of the land without dispossessing those who had come before. Louisa Darling came to his mind, the first virgin land he had dreamed of settling in, and he pondered whether any land could replace that one forever closed to him. While Hannibal Memory and Mister Lurkin looked on, the Commodore dismounted from his horse. He tore up some tufts of grass, and picked up some stones and tossed them across the +~ 201 -0+ flattened plain. Then he took out his sword and thrust it into the ground. He looked around questioningly, hoping that Major McCormick would at that moment ride from the hills with the disinherited one, not held a prisoner but rather riding at his side, as brothers. But nobody appeared. He withdrew his sword from the ground, disappointed. Mister Lurkin addressed the Commodore as though the Commodore 's mind were clear as a pane of glass. - Here also was home to some, he said, pointing at the ground. - Here? the Commodore asked. - This is a village site of the lost people of Esselen, Lurkin said. Hannibal had been surreptitiously writing in his prose narrative that the horse-marines would find themselves bewildered in the mountains, but Lurkin's words caught his attention , and he paused, pencil over paper, ready to write down what was said. - How were they lost? the Commodore asked. Mister Lurkin explained that the missionaries and soldiers had saved the people of Esselen little by little, first by convincing some to attach themselves to the mission, and then by kidnapping a few children for the good of their souls, to persuade the parents to come in for the good of their souls. The rest had straggled in to be saved during years when food was scarce, even though they had to suffer through Latin and smallpox. After some decades, they were saved so thoroughly that they were utterly lost. - While some lived, they would return here for the World +~ 202 -<~- Renewal Ritual, Mister Lurkin said. An old man would flee the mission once a year to perform the ritual in the sweat lodge, to keep the world from decaying, and he would be put into the stocks when he returned. - How long has it been since an Indian has been back? the Commodore asked. Although the world's decay had yet to manifest itself in his account books, Mister Lurkin said it had been many years. Then Hannibal began to write furiously. That the horsemarines would remain in the mountains. That the Commodore would investigate the sweat lodge, but never truly possess the land. That he, Hannibal, would escape as the National Intention foundered, to author his own line. California was not outside of history, he decided, but several histories seemed to be in contention here; his own line might find a place from which to struggle. He looked at Mister Lurkin, to judge what kind of impediment he might be to escape. But he found Mister Lurkin already studying him from beneath the shadowy brim of his hat. - Sir, Hannibal said. This is another opportunity for you to make history. The Commodore looked at him uncertainly. - Do you truly think so? - You've taken possession of California and brought it into American history. Now you can take possession of the prehistory as well. The Commodore wondered about the old men who came to this place to renew the world, knowing that they would be beaten and put in the stocks. +~ 203 -0+ - It would be the highest service you could render Louisa Darling, Hannibal continued. To make history out of something that is now barely a memory. - Where is the sweat lodge? the Commodore asked. The lodge had been dug into the side of the riverbank, and then a mounded roof of willow poles covered with tule brush and sealed with earth had been shaped over it. Now the mound was overgrown with wild grasses and the smoke hole at the center was only a depression, but the low entryway beside the river was still open behind some shrubs. Commodore Jones peered into the darkness, while Mister Lurkin warned him to be cautious. - The central post not only holds up the roof of the sweat lodge, but some believe it also holds up the sky. The Commodore had already decided to take possession of this last place. He hoped he could capture something that the old men knew, something that would make him feel less lonely . He hoped to find the true sign, the one that would tell him that his journeys were at an end, that he had come to the right place, that he was meant to be here. He had roamed the world in service of freedom and democracy, but now, even as Master of Monterey, he had not found what he sought. He had brought ideas to the land, but he had not found love. - Hannibal, he said to his faithful Memory. You'll be certain to record what I've undertaken, so that it arrives at the ears of the one most precious to me. -Aye, sir. Commodore Jones slashed with his sword at the shrubs covering the entrance, which noise caused a number of crows to +~ 204 -<~- empty out of the old lodge. But the Commodore paid no attention to such ill auguries. He bent forward, a question mark entering into the most sacred space of the lost people of Esselen, while Hannibal urged him on with paeans to his courage, promising him that the very soul of freedom and democracy, the pure and chaste Louisa Darling, would hear of his exploit in carrying American history and ideals to the most dangerous and unknown reaches of the land. The bugler played a heroic rendition of "Yankee Doodle." Then the Commodore disappeared completely into the darkness of the lodge, and nothing more was heard. At the end of five minutes, Hannibal shouted into the lodge, but there was no answer. At the end of ten minutes, there was no answer, and at the end of half an hour there was no answer. Whenever Hannibal looked over at Mister Lurkin, he found that Lurkin was already watching him, as though he knew exactly what Hannibal planned. There were just the two of them there, along with the bugler, who was beginning to complain that his lips hurt from playing the same song over and over again. Hannibal thought of simply mounting his gray mule and riding off, but he wasn't sure what Lurkin would do ifhe did, and he still wasn't certain, even though events had so far followed his narrative, that the National Intention was indeed foundering. If California were to become part of America, he would be thrown into chains as a deserter, for he knew that a round African man in California would not be hard to find. Then, as though he had been waiting for this moment, Lurkin pointed to the crest of a hill. - Look there, he said. +~ 205 -0+ A large woman in a white muslin blouse and black skirt was walking through the fresh grasses, surrounded by a bleating team of goats. The younger goats bumped their heads against her knees as she walked, or put their front hooves on her fleshy hips, as though reaching up with their tender and sensitive lips for her two breasts, which swung enormously from side to side with every step, promising nourishment and relief to half a world. She brushed the goats off laughingly as she led them up the hill to pastureland too steep for cattle. - Is she of the people of Esselen? Hannibal asked. - She is a desterrada, Lurkin replied. She doesn't own the goats she herds, or the land she pastures them on, or the shack she sleeps in at night. She owns nothing of value in the world. - Nothing of value? - Nothing you could exchange, the Trader replied. Hannibal watched the woman bring the goats with her to where the grass was fresh and untrammeled. The goats followed along without dogs or sticks to guide them, as the woman laughed and lovingly cuffed the flanks of the ones closest to her. And Hannibal understood that she was the end of his writing. He had written of her, both as a way to mend his broken story and as a being in the world. But her overwhelming presence now was far beyond anything he had been able to express in words. Lurkin's voice continued, low and insistent. - If you followed her, you would own nothing for the rest of your life. You could dance on holy days, and every other day of the year you could sweat building the wealth and property of somebody else. You would eat only at another's pleasure, and sleep +~ 206 -<~- at another's permission. Is that really better than being a part of the National Intention? Hannibal looked at the shadowy face of Lurkin, then back up at the woman on the ridge. - And at your death, Lurkin continued, you would leave your children naked and homeless. - No, Hannibal said. I would leave them with life, and with memory. - Oh, that woman might own her own memory. And you too might own your own memory. So might your children. But don't expect memory ever to make you Master of Monterey. Only writing can do that. Hannibal kicked his gray ass in the flanks and turned toward the hill, away from Lurkin, away from the sweat lodge where Commodore Jones even then was seeking to take possession of the lost memory of Esselen to feel finally at home. He had gone a dozen paces when he heard Lurkin's voice tell him to wait. He turned around and saw the Trader with a two-shot derringer in his hand, pointed at him. - If you're deserting, you'll have to leave the notebook. Hannibal stared down the double barrels, round and open mouths. - Not forty-four guns, Mister Lurkin said. But sometimes one is enough. - The guns don't make the story, Hannibal said. It's the story that makes the guns. - Oh, I know that well enough. And yet, a gun can determine which story gets told at anyone time. +~ 207 -+ Hannibal looked up at the woman on the ridge. He understood he would never completely mend his broken story because of the unerasable intervening years. But he would love now, love what there is, and he would trust in his memory and the memory of his children to continue the story among other stories. It was the best he could do. He threw the book at Mister Lurkin. It twisted in the air and knocked off the hat of the bugler, who had settled on a rock to nurse his sore lips. Hannibal turned toward the hill again and urged the mule up the hill toward the woman, who was disappearing over the ridge with her goats. When he caught up with her, she stood with her hands on her hips as though she had been waiting for him, as though he had arrived late. Hannibal was shy and did not know what to say, as he had not been alone with a woman for twenty years. The woman laughed and asked him if he were one of those from the ship, who were going to take over everything. Hannibal answered that he wasn't going to take over anything, and in fact had already given away everything except his memory . She laughed again and said she was certain he hadn't given away everything, because he had something to give to her. And she put her hand on what he had to give, which soon grew gift-like and pleased her so much that she shoved aside her sharp-odored goats to make room for the both of them to roll in. Together they engendered a new line of generations and enduring memory while they flattened half an acre of grass. +~ 208 -<~- ...