* * *
Don Francisco, the alcalde, had avoided seeing Captain Quade Sharpentier on the day he returned, but the man was obstinate. He had heard from his clerk that the man possessed a warrant issued by the American consul Thomas Larkin, and he knew that he must at least acknowledge it if not actively pursue its intent. He held no grudge against the marinero Ryan and cared little about the problems of the Anglos. He had no wish for a hanging in Pueblo Santa Barbara. It was such a messy business.
But the captain was persistent and, again, this morning awaited him in the anteroom. The alcalde took a long look out the window to the center court, the plaza, and the presidio soldados lounging about. A few festooned lances with flapping silk banners rested against the walls of the presidio, and the guards’ heavy leather breastplates and helmets had been removed and draped across the hitching rail or rested on a trickling fountain’s low wall. He shook his head, irritated with his Capitán del guardia for the laxness of his men, but he had no time to chastise them. He had to deal with the Anglo.
Don Francisco turned away from the window and sat down at his broad carved desk. He might as well get this over with. Picking up a small bell at the edge of his desk, he rang for his clerk, who immediately stuck his head in the door. “Send Capitán Sharpentier in.”
This time the captain was dressed in a full-dress uniform almost as resplendent as the alcalde’s. His gold buttons gleamed, and gold-embroidered epaulets sparkled when he walked forward and snapped his heels smartly in front of the alcalde’s desk. Don Francisco Acaya rose politely, motioned to a chair then returned to his own as a sealed document was placed in front of him. He ran a thumbnail through its red wax seal.
“It is a warrant, Alcalde,” Sharpentier said, his tone officious and terse.
“Ah, a warrant, and for whom?”
“John Clinton Ryan, as you well know. Do you know his whereabouts?”
“The last I heard, he was in residence at the mission.” He unfolded and read the parchment.
“Then we will go there,”
“As you wish … but the marinero Ryan, if you find him, you must promise he will be hung from your yardarm, far at sea.”
“And his body offered to the sharks,” Sharpentier smiled for the first time since he had entered the alcalde’s office., “unless he tries to flee. Then we must do what we must do.”
“Captain Sharpentier,” Don Francisco stated evenly, “we want no trouble on the shores of California.” He walked around his desk. “I want your word that you will take your trouble and your punishment back aboard your ship.”
“Our yardarms will serve just as well as your oaks, Alcalde.” His lip curled into what pretended to be a smile. “We would not wish to offend your sensibilities.”
“Then I and a few of my soldados will accompany you to the mission to make sure you fulfill your promise. We would not want you or your men to get… overly enthused.”
“As you wish, Alcalde, I only want to obey the law.” The captain did not miss the alcalde’s dubious glance.
With Aston musket and cutlass in hand, Quade, Skinner, and eight men accompanied the cholos. The alcalde brought his Capitán and sixteen soldados, each with lance and musket. The marineros, except for Sharpentier, walked, and the soldados rode in full leather regalia, hard double-thick leather chest guards and leather calzonevas. Leather fenders attached to saddles from foreshoulder to hip point for the horses’ protection, and each soldado carried a festooned eight-foot lance. Dust billowed behind as they trotted into the mission courtyard where they were met by Padre Javier.
“You have a man here, Padre,” the alcalde said after dismounting with surprising grace for a man of his girth, “the Anglo, John Clinton Ryan.”
Padre Javier nervously fumbled with the string of wooden beads that hung from his waist.
“He has been here.”
“But he is no longer’?” the alcalde looked relieved.
“No, Alcalde, he has left.”
Sharpentier, who had been listening, leaped from his horse, “We will search the place, just in case.”
“No, Captain, you will take the word of the Padre,” the alcalde said with finality.
“Which room was his?” Sharpentier pressed.
“It was there.” The Padre pointed to a door across the courtyard. “And I don’t mind if they look,” he said quickly to the alcalde, not wanting a confrontation in the mission courtyard.
Sharpentier, with Skinner lumbering behind, strode across the yard and entered the room. Padre Javier and the alcalde followed but stayed outside as they searched. In a moment the captain stormed out.
“Nothing… not a damned thing.” He clamped his jaw, staring at the ground for a moment. Then he spotted something, bent, and picked up a tarnished chunk of metal. He turned it over in his hand as he walked to the Padre. “Did you have him locked up?”
“Why, no,” Padre Javier reached for the small broken object.
The alcalde grabbed it out of the captain’s hand. “It is the lock from the stocks. But how could it be here?”
The padre shrugged his shoulders, a carved wooden crucifix cradled in his hands.
“I want to search the rest of the mission and grounds,” Sharpentier said,
“No.” The alcalde’s tone was adamant. “We have already violated the sanctity of this place enough. You and your men may search elsewhere if you wish.”
Sharpentier gave the alcalde a long hard look, then turned and reluctantly mounted his horse. He reined it away, and his men followed on foot.
The alcalde turned to Padre Javier. “How did my lock get here, Fray Javier?”
Eighteen
The padre shrugged again, for he did not know from direct observance. He had heard from his neophytes about the Kanaka’s arrival, had carefully avoided lying then, and would do so now. He did not have to reveal all he knew unless specifically asked.
“The Anglo, Ryan, was he a friend of the Kanaka?”
“He knew him, I think, but everyone knows everyone in Pueblo Santa Barbara.”
“But everyone does not have the lock from my stock lying on the ground outside his door.”
“It means nothing.”
“Maybe not to you, Padre.”
The alcalde sent his men on a search for the stocks, and within a few minutes they found the drag marks leading up through the vineyards. In the brush beyond, they found the stock itself.
The alcalde returned to the mission while four soldados, laboring and puffing, dragged the stock down the hill to where it could be loaded upon a carreta and returned to the presidio.
The alcalde again confronted Padre Javier. “When and if you see Señor Ryan again, I wish to speak with him. The warrant from the Anglos is one thing, but helping my prisoner escape is another altogether.”
“As you wish, Don Francisco,” Padre Javier nodded as the alcalde walked away.
The padre expelled an exasperated sigh. This Anglo, John Clinton Ryan, seemed to have a way of getting in trouble’s path.