for life or property. And, as you know, there are few of us here in California to defend our lands. A few missions, each with one or two padres, a scattering of ranchos along the coast and presidios manned by soldiers who haven't been paid more than a few times since the troubles began in Mexico. We're kept busy controlling the thousands of wild Indians who rob and steal from us at every opportunity. And, though the mission Indians are not wild, who knows if they would fight with us against Bouchard?" Esteban shrugged. "What is one to do?"
"You could join forces with the Americans."
"I must smile. The Americans are two thousand miles away beyond the great mountain ranges. It takes six months and more for one of your ships to sail around the Horn. No, we'll never link our destiny with the Americans. Nor with the Russians at Fort Ross in the north. Our salvation lies with the mother country, with Spain. Or if Spain is too weak to hold Mexico and the Californias, we must make our own destiny."
"Spain is of the past. She loses her colonies one by one. And, as you say, the Spanish in California are too few. The future belongs to America, to the United States."
"Not in our lifetime, Capitan. Ah, I almost forgot. When I was the guest of the Ortegas, I heard ill tidings of one of your Yankee ships. She had the misfortune to run aground in last week's great storm."
"The Kerry Dancer had to wait out the same storm in the bay on Catalina Island," Jordan said. "What was the name of this American ship?"
" The Flying Yankee ."
"Were there survivors?" Jordan belatedly realized he'd spoken in English, but Esteban answered smoothly.
"Seven men brought the ship's long boat ashore fifty leagues up the coast. They spoke of cholera aboard the ship, the captain dying, and of breaking up on a rocky shore. Only then, or so they said, did they abandon their ship. They had no notion where their ship went aground."
"Seven men." Jordan walked to the far end of the sala where three large windows came down to the floor, their green shutters closed against the sun.
"No women?" he asked.
Jordan glanced at Estaban and saw him shake his head "They spoke of none," the Californio said. "Do you know this ship, this Flying Yankee ?"
"I saw her in the harbor at Valparaiso more than two months ago as we were putting to sea. There was a young woman on deck, the captain's daughter or wife, I suppose. I saw her for no longer than five minutes."
"Many years ago," Esteban said, "in Mexico City, I watched a Spanish senorita dance la zorrita. I never spoke to her and I never saw her again. I've never forgotten her. I don't think I ever will."
The bead curtains parted and Margarita came into the sala. As she paused inside the entrance, Jordan caught his breath as he always did when he first saw her. She was so lovely, with her jet black hair falling in curls to her shoulders, her deep brown eyes, her small hands, her tiny feet just visible beneath her flowered silk gown. So lovely and so vulnerable.
She ran to Jordan, and he circled her waist with his hands, lifting her high into the air. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, Jordan thought as he let her slide down into his arms. When he embraced her, she offered her cheek for him to kiss. Though Esteban had turned away to pour more wine, Margarita's aunt, Dona Maria Mendoza, had entered the room and was standing behind her.
"I've counted the days," Margarita said, smiling up at Jordan. "As each passing day brought you closer to me, I marked my calendar with an enormous X."
"I came as quickly as the wind and the sea would let me." Jordan felt uncomfortable talking to her with her brother and aunt in the room, even though he knew it was the custom.
Margarita took his hands in hers and danced around him, making him turn in a full circle. He grinned down at her. She was so alive, her eyes shining as she smiled gaily at him. He wanted to gather her into his arms where he could hold and protect her
"You could join forces with the Americans."
"I must smile. The Americans are two thousand miles away beyond the great mountain ranges. It takes six months and more for one of your ships to sail around the Horn. No, we'll never link our destiny with the Americans. Nor with the Russians at Fort Ross in the north. Our salvation lies with the mother country, with Spain. Or if Spain is too weak to hold Mexico and the Californias, we must make our own destiny."
"Spain is of the past. She loses her colonies one by one. And, as you say, the Spanish in California are too few. The future belongs to America, to the United States."
"Not in our lifetime, Capitan. Ah, I almost forgot. When I was the guest of the Ortegas, I heard ill tidings of one of your Yankee ships. She had the misfortune to run aground in last week's great storm."
"The Kerry Dancer had to wait out the same storm in the bay on Catalina Island," Jordan said. "What was the name of this American ship?"
" The Flying Yankee ."
"Were there survivors?" Jordan belatedly realized he'd spoken in English, but Esteban answered smoothly.
"Seven men brought the ship's long boat ashore fifty leagues up the coast. They spoke of cholera aboard the ship, the captain dying, and of breaking up on a rocky shore. Only then, or so they said, did they abandon their ship. They had no notion where their ship went aground."
"Seven men." Jordan walked to the far end of the sala where three large windows came down to the floor, their green shutters closed against the sun.
"No women?" he asked.
Jordan glanced at Estaban and saw him shake his head "They spoke of none," the Californio said. "Do you know this ship, this Flying Yankee ?"
"I saw her in the harbor at Valparaiso more than two months ago as we were putting to sea. There was a young woman on deck, the captain's daughter or wife, I suppose. I saw her for no longer than five minutes."
"Many years ago," Esteban said, "in Mexico City, I watched a Spanish senorita dance la zorrita. I never spoke to her and I never saw her again. I've never forgotten her. I don't think I ever will."
The bead curtains parted and Margarita came into the sala. As she paused inside the entrance, Jordan caught his breath as he always did when he first saw her. She was so lovely, with her jet black hair falling in curls to her shoulders, her deep brown eyes, her small hands, her tiny feet just visible beneath her flowered silk gown. So lovely and so vulnerable.
She ran to Jordan, and he circled her waist with his hands, lifting her high into the air. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, Jordan thought as he let her slide down into his arms. When he embraced her, she offered her cheek for him to kiss. Though Esteban had turned away to pour more wine, Margarita's aunt, Dona Maria Mendoza, had entered the room and was standing behind her.
"I've counted the days," Margarita said, smiling up at Jordan. "As each passing day brought you closer to me, I marked my calendar with an enormous X."
"I came as quickly as the wind and the sea would let me." Jordan felt uncomfortable talking to her with her brother and aunt in the room, even though he knew it was the custom.
Margarita took his hands in hers and danced around him, making him turn in a full circle. He grinned down at her. She was so alive, her eyes shining as she smiled gaily at him. He wanted to gather her into his arms where he could hold and protect her
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