* * *
In Pueblo Santa Barbara, just as the sun topped the mountains to the east, a huge man lounged in the shade of a low shrub, coal-black hair swept low across his brown eyes, covering his wide brow as he watched the scene unfolding in the road, His nut-brown skin made him almost invisible in the shadows, even as huge as he was.
If he had even a few reales or pesos in his pocket, he would have been in the cantina, but it had been a long while since he could afford a mug. He had been part of a shore crew, a hide gang, but had been on a meandering walk in the hills behind Santa Barbara when his ship returned for the hides, so he had been left behind. But he cared little. He had always been able to fend for himself. Pele, the goddess of the volcano, would watch over him, He would mind his own business and wait until another ship came along.
Still, he watched with interest as the captain and first mate of the ship that he had heard was lost to the rocks quietly crossed Calle Principal.
Captain Quade Sharpentier and his first mate Skinner carried the jug of aguardiente across the dirt road to the presidio, the military headquarters of the pueblo. They walked casually to the edge of the building and rounded the corner.
Near the rear, a thick timber door sat deep in the adobe wall. Thick iron hinges and a brass padlock, green with age, the size of a man’s palm, gave notice that whatever was inside was valued, as did the armed cholo guard who had been outside the door all night.
“That must be the armory,” Quade said quietly as they approached the man. “We’ll know soon enough. I never knew one of these cholos who would turn down a little dollop of this cactus killer,”
The guard watched warily as they approached but did not bother to pick up his musket that leaned against the door,
“You have had a long night, amigo?” Quade asked, smiling.
“Sí, amigo, a long night.”
“I guess you are about to be relieved.”
“As soon as Pablo has taken his tea.”
Skinner slapped the man on the back. “Then a little of this nectar will do you no harm,” He offered the jug of aguardiente to the man, who looked hesitant.
The guard checked over his shoulder, walked to the corner, and peered around it, making sure his commandante was not in the area, then returned and took the jug. “Just a taste, to wash the cold night away.”
“Sí, amigo, wash the cold away, then when your shift is over, join us at the cantina. There is more where this came from.”
The guard drank deeply, smiled, and belched. “Sí, the cantina. But, amigo, I prefer pulque.”
Sharpentier waved, trying to keep his smile from becoming a smirk as he retreated.
“That was too easy,” Skinner said, heading back across the road.
“Those cholos are dumb as jellyfish,” Quade said, “and as cowardly as a sardine facing a shark. We’ll know just what the alcalde’s armory holds long before we have to buy the cholo more than what this jug holds… long before.”
He chuckled to himself. This was going to be easy. He had seen only two cannons in the presidio, and one of them had been spiked, an iron nail driven into its touchhole so it could not be used. The other was hardly more than a signal piece. The whole of California was undermanned and practically unarmed. Though the officers and politicians wore uniforms that would put Napoleon’s generals to shame, none of the soldiers Sharpentier had seen had been more than a ragtag, disorganized bunch.
It would he nothing to take Alta California away from Mexico. If a rebellion would only come…