Mission San Carlos Boromeo del Carmel
1830
– A Dark Time
“It
does not appear that fortune smiles
down upon Misión
Soledad, mi marido.”
James
need not answer.
A
small temporary chapel stood at a place where temporary walls of
brush outlined what had once been the quadrangle. Like the other
structures, it was made of wattle. An area several hundred paces
downhill clearly was for making clay to turn into sun-dried bricks,
but only a paltry pile of bricks showed signs of any rebuilding
efforts.
The
second gathering of jacals
housed the families of disciples drawn to the mission. They knew from
listening to Father Prefect Sarria that drawing Gentiles had always
been a problem. The original family that had greeted the first
expedition still lived in the area, at least the grandchildren of
them.
Padre
Gonzalez met them at the small area housing the sacristy at the rear
of
the chapel
and sadly smiled at them. “The river floods and we find ourselves
rebuilding, my children.” He knew them from the time he had served
at Misión
San Carlos.
When asked, he told them Father Prefect Sarria had gone to
Misión
San Carlos
in response to an urgent call. “I do not know why, my children, as
I was attending to disciples at a rancho
where
we keep a large flock of sheep.”
The
stables were at the far back corner of the quadrangle and the friar
had one of the disciples take them there, instructing him to give
them all the assistance they needed.
In
spite of the flood damage, the mission bustled with activity,
producing many of the goods needed, not only to sustain itself but to
supply items to the Presidio
del Monte Rey.
A huge stack of hay beneath the rafters provided fodder to the horses
and another hay stack gave them a thick cushion for their sleeping
roll.
Lacking
the fancy murals and friezes of other missions, the chapel had a
small crucifix but provided room for the disciples who crowded inside
to join in for Vespers. The evening meal was primarily mutton and the
mayordomo
explained that was due to the flocks kept at to ranchos
to the west. “We have four thousand head of cattle to the west on
the other side of the river along with eight hundred horses.”
“Do
you even have Gentiles from the big valley to the east stealing your
livestock?”
The
corporal of the escolta
told them it had been a problem until a foray was made into that area
by a squad of leatherjackets from el
Presidio del Monte Rey
“They found the culprits and burned their village to the ground,
taking back the stolen livestock.”
When
Teresa asked it that raid had affected the local disciples, Padre
Gonzalez replied. “If anything, it strengthened our congregation's
belief in our power and determination to care for them.”
James
could not help himself. “How will they react if the plan to
secularize the missions is
completed?”
Both
the friar and mayordomo
showed their distress about the pending process, clearly stating they
saw it to be the end of the mission. Not only were the disciples
opposed to it but they knew of nobody qualified to take up the
administrative duties performed by the friars.
“I
do not understand, Padre.
The river does not flow rapidly or deeply here. Where do you get your
water?”
Padre
Gonzales
told them that the zanjas
carried water from an arroyo
four leagues south and east of the mission. “And, as you know, it
does not take a great deal of rain to the south to cause el
Rio Elizario
to overflow its banks. We cannot move
the mission much further away without rebuilding
the irrigation system.”
*****
The
aroma of freshly harvested onions wafted on the breeze out of the
northwest, the direction of the small pueblo
known as Salinas.
Their
first goal was Rancho
Llano de Buena Vista,
on the north side of the now-dry el
Rio Elizario.
They were quite familiar with Lieutenant José Mariano Estrada from
his time as the commandant of the artillery emplacement in Monte
Rey.
One
of the fieldworkers noted the pair riding towards the main hacienda
and ran to alert someone in the compound, a square surrounded by
brush walls. The main structure was of adobe
with the rest built of wood with thatch roofs.
A
woman came out onto the porch in response to the hand's shouts,
shading her eyes to better view the visitors. As they drew up to the
hitching rail, she gave out a shout of happiness. “Teresa
Marta! James! What brings you to our humble home?”
Teresa
leapt from her horse and skipped up the steps, entering the
outstretched arms of her friend. She quickly explained their journey
while the foreman led James to where he could water and feed the
horses. She and Maria Isabel Estrada nee Argüello had been friends
when the family had been assigned to el
Presidio del Monte Rey.
By
the time James joined the ladies, they busily exchanged gossip and he
was seated in a chair with a big goblet of sugar sumac tea in front
of him.
“Don
José has gone into Monte
Rey
to take care of some business, Don
Jaime. I do not expect him to return until tomorrow.”
Not
a turn of their hour glass after their arrival, two riders galloped
up to the house. One was David Spencer, an ex-employee of William
Hartnell, and his wife, Maria Adelaida Altagracia Estrada, Doña
Maria's daughter.
James
knew Spencer
was now operating Rancho
Buena Vista
on the other side of the river. So, while the ladies chattered, James
and David took a walk. As he was part of the reason for James and
Teresa taking the trip in the first place, he listened intently as
James told him what they'd learned to that part of their trip.
“It
appears that nobody other than the government in Mexico and los
Rancheros
want the secularization.”
James
agreed. “It appears many more land grants will be given in the
years to come. The poor disciples will be left with nothing. Nothing
but the poorest of living as slaves.”
They
stayed for the midday meal and soon were on their way home. It had
been a long time and they looked forward to being with their loved
ones.
Instead
of following the main highway to Monte
Rey,
they turned off onto a trail leading into the hills they knew would
lead them across to Carmel Valley.
“Something
is wrong.”
Teresa
did not need to be told as she too could hear the tolling of a bell
from the mission announcing the death of someone of stature. That it
pertained to The Family was confirmed by the hasting crossings of the
people they passed. Before he could do so, Teresa kicked her horse
into a gallop, hanging tight to the reins of the pack horses. James
quickly caught up and they slid to a stop in the plaza
in front of the chapel.
Padre
Suria scurried out of the chapel and ran up to James. “My son, I am
so terribly sorry. They say he died quickly.”
The
question “Who?” came out of both mouths simultaneously.
“You
do not know?”
“Who?”
James demanded again.
“Your
father, my son. He is now with the saints.”
Numb
with disbelief, James dropped the reins of his horse and followed the
friar into the mission cemetery. A large wooden cross, lovingly
engraved by hands taught by Uncle Jaime, indicated where Timothy
Beadle had been buried. The grave was covered by flowers and Alberto
stood watch as a sign of respect.
“Father!
We did not know where to send news of grandfather's death.” He
embraced his father tightly, tears in his eyes.
“What
happened, Beto?”
“Grandfather
became bored with staying in the house working on his journals. Over
everyone's objection, he went out with the Carlita within a month of
your departure. He sometimes steered the boat, always letting Nutrio
be the captain. His favorite things was to climb to the top of the
mast to seek out shoals of fish.”
Teresa
knelt next to the grave reciting the Rosary while working her prayer
beads.
“There
were many squalls in the area the day they went out and Grandfather
would not listen when Nutrio begged him to stay on deck. The squall
came out of nowhere and Grandfather lost his grip on the shrouds.”
Alberto
sobbed and stammered the rest. “He fell atop a coil of lines in
such a way that it broke his neck. We were told he was gone before
any of the crew could reach him.”
Father
Prefect Sarria joined them. “He is with his beloved Carla, your
mother, my son. I believe they will someday sit at the feet of Our
Lord Jesus and His Holy Father. Do not grieve. He lived a full and
wonderful life.”
“When
it is time, my son, we should go gladly into the Hands of the Lord,”
Timothy had often told his son. “I grieved far too long over your
mother's death and I do not wish you or any of our family to do the
same. Promise me?”
Those
words came to James as he dropped to his knees next to Teresa,
reciting the prayers with her.
The
gate to the family compound was open, two of Guadalupe's sons waiting
the arrival of their uncle and aunt. They crossed themselves before
leading the horses to the stables. Apolonia stood on the porch
waiting to comfort her step-son and daughter-in-law.
James
was startled to see Uncle Jaime in his rocking chair. He was not
moving, just sitting there staring out at something through eyes
growing dim with the eight decades they had looked upon the world.
And, when Aunt Yellow Butterfly came onto the veranda,
she walked with the aid of a walking stick and the shoulder of one of
her great grandchildren. In a very un-Indian like gesture, she opened
her arms to bid James to enter her embrace.
“Your
father, my brother, went as he would wish to go. He loved the sea and
could not accept that he no longer contributed as he had for so
long.”
“How
are you and Uncle Jaime doing, Tia?”
“Do
not worry about us, nephew. We are doing as The Lord wills us.”
Seeing
that his uncle had not moved since their arrival, James went and
knelt next to him, taking his hand. The
years of working wood have taken their toll. These hands are no
longer supple and strong.
“Uncle. It is James. Are you well?”
Slowly,
as if awaking from a dream, Jaimenacho the Carpenter, slowly turned
his head to look at the younger man kneeling next to him. “Timoteo,
my brother. Is that you?”
“No,
uncle. It is I, James.”
“I
have not seen your father for some time, Little Jimmy. Do you know
where he is?”
“Our
brother has gone on a long voyage, my husband. He may not return for
some time.”
James
appreciated Aunt Butterfly answering the question as he could not
find the words to explain his father's death.
There
was no time for grieving. As the eldest literate member of The
Family, James had the responsibility of going through his father's
papers to ensure everything was in order. As his father had shared
everything with him for many years, there were no surprises. The one
thing James had forgotten, was the account in a bank in England. He
made a note that a letter to the banker and solicitor was in order.
An
unusual event occurred within two days of their return to Carmel. A
group of soldiers rode into the valley and directly to The Family's
compound. It was led by Governor Echeandia who had finally come to
Monte
Rey
for a Diputacíon
he had called to deal with important territorial business.
“I
did not have the opportunity to become acquainted with your esteemed
father, James. But, I have read many of the reports of the Portolá
Expedition and am aware of what an important part he played.”
James
listened to the words, somehow sounding hollow to him. He was well
aware that Echeandia was a snob and had little desire to deal with
half-breeds and Indians. The lack of a title of respect when
addressing him was not unexpected.
“I
appreciate the honor you show my father, governor. I do have a
question of you.” When the governor indicated he would listen,
James brought up the grants. “Will there be any problems due to the
death of my father?”
“Of
course not, James,” the governor heartily said. “It was legally
done and there are no questions as to the authenticity.” He then
surprised James with the question, “Would you care to share with me
what you will report to the Father Prefect about your journey?”
“And
what report might that be, governor? My wife and I but decided it was
time to explore the land we were born in. It is everything we have
been told. A most rich and wondrous land.”
Echeandia
realized he was not going to get anything more out of James and
simply excused himself, almost ignoring the ladies as he left.
“Insufferable
snob,” James grunted as the governor rode back to Monte
Rey.
“How a man like that could be governor of this land is beyond my
ken.”
Teresa
squeezed his hand in agreement. As she was as literate as James, she
helped him go through the various journals and papers Timothy had
stored in the large chest made of red wood. Certain they had
discovered all there was to know, they decided it was time to
continue their journey.
“Are
you certain you wish to do this?”
Both
responded positively to Padre
Suria's question. “It is very important to our family to get an
idea of what lies in store for us. And, we set out to perform a duty
for the father prefect. As my father taught me, one must always carry
out a promise.”
A
gathering was called for the following Sabbath after Mass. Everyone
living in the area attended. Even Uncle Jaime and Aunt Butterfly were
there,
although Jaime sat in his favorite rocker, this time slowly moving
back and forth,
a smile on his face as the little children played around him.
The
adults listened intently as James
and Teresa Marta
explained what they had seen and heard, keeping it brief but doing
their best to give a clear picture.
“So,
what does this mean for us, father?” Lupe Felix asked.
“I
do not yet know. Our hold upon the land and the boats seems to be
clear and without dispute. We have a safety to fall back upon if
necessary. Our main goal will be to remain clear of any problems now
and in the future.”
“We
must align ourselves with nobody at this time,” Teresa added. “We
will, of course, continue our allegiance to the church and the
friars. But, we will also not seek to hinder in any way the
government's aims and goals.”
All
knew that would not be easy to do.
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