# The Road to Monterey/Chapter 24

THERE was a gleam of yellow sunlight on Don Abrahan's gables as the party of the cannon, no longer refugees, drew up to the head of the olive lane. The stir of early morning gave a liveliness to the back portion of the premises of which the front offered no indication, for, like the houses of the great everywhere, Don Abrahan's front door was the last to open on the day.
Henderson and Helena rode in front, the artilleryman in his parrot-green uniform following with his four horses. Felipe rode the ammunition-box, ready to unlimber the piece in a moment and stand on his defense. Determination and confidence made up whatever the party might be lacking in numbers. Henderson flung the gate open; the cannon trundled under the spreading limbs of the oak where Helena had found refuge on a well-remembered night.
It was as if some monster came upon a man while he slept, the manner of that cannon's arrival in the courtyard of Don Abrahan's mansion. Don Abrahan, indeed, was asleep, far beyond his usual hour for waking. He had been on the road late last night, leading his men to surround Pablo Gonzales' house in the empty raid that came of Simon's ​spying. It was almost the dawn of day when Don Abrahan returned home, his neighbors dispersed in no fine humor over the fruitless groping after these elusive refugees in the dark.
When the cannon was wheeled to place in the courtyard, swung around with expedition by Felipe and trained on Don Abrahan's house, there was a mighty running of those who witnessed it to spread the news. Don Gabriel had come back, bringing a huge great cannon, and was that moment about to blow Don Abrahan into eternity as he lay snoring on his bed! Such a wakening of old men who were unable to toil in the fields, such a hurrying of young ones to see this triumphant return of one who had served beside them in peonage only a few days ago!
Felipe chose his place for the cannon with a view to defense as well as assault, placing it near that end of the long warehouse in which his former office was. This gave him a defense in the rear and on one flank, the other being open, but easy to' protect by a hasty barrier if need for it arose. Henderson rode into the patio and beat with his pistol on Don Abrahan's bedroom door.
Don Abrahan's wits were cloyed by the dregs of sleep, which lies heavily on a weary man or a fevered man at the hour of sunrise. He came in his nightgown to the door, opening it a little, showing his narrow face. No man is invested with dignity when standing in his nightgown with his face at the crack of a door, especially when sleep, ​alarm, and the scurrying emotions that rise and fly out of his head like startled birds, all are contending for expression in his slumber-stiffened countenance. Don Abrahan's voice was rusty in his throat.
"What is it? Who is sounding on a man's door at this hour?" the patron demanded, evidently mistaking Henderson for a messenger from his own clan.
"Open the door wide, Don Abrahan, get into your clothes and come with me," Henderson ordered him, not gently in any particular.
"It is the voice of Gabriel, my errant son," said Don Abrahan, quick to see that all was not beginning well for him that day, quick to lay the oil of his placative tongue to the trouble standing before his door.
"It is the body of Gabriel, also," Henderson replied, "and the pistol of Gabriel that you are looking into this moment. Be wise, Don Abrahan; make haste. If you lay hand to a weapon, that moment, I swear, will be your last."
"This is an unfriendly manner to call a man from his bed, Gabriel, my son," the patron rebuked him in his patriarchal fashion.
"There is no friendship between me and your kind, sir," Henderson corrected him savagely.
"But it is not well, with the gentleness I always had in my heart for you, Don Gabriel, to come to my door with a pistol."
"Not alone a pistol," said Henderson. He ​reined near, kicked the door wide open, motioned Don Abrahan outside with imperious gesture. "Look, Don Abrahan, at the animal that has come with me."
"A cannon!" Don Abrahan gasped. "God save us! Gabriel," appealing with supplicating eyes, "you would not——"
"I would," said Henderson roughly. "Now hurry."
In the door Don Abrahan twisted his neck to look back at the threatening cannon, Felipe standing ready, a growing crowd of the patron's Indians and subject countrymen gathering in wonder and admiration behind. That moment the patron's heart fell like a bucket in a well. He felt that his consequence had departed, that alien hands had laid hold of him and his at last. His limbs trembled as he drew on his pantaloons, his hands were cold when they touched his flesh. There was weakness in his legs when he came into the sun; the melancholy color of hopelessness was in his face.
"What is your pleasure, Don Gabriel?" he inquired, meek and afraid.
Henderson indicated that he was to proceed into the courtyard and make closer acquaintance with the cannon and those who stood at its breech. Helena withdrew into Don Felipe's office, as it was still called, as it would be designated during the memory of those who had known Don Felipe in it through all his faithful years.
"Felipe!" Don Abrahan was shocked out of ​his depression and fear at recognition of his former mayordomo. "So, you also return to humble me."
"Would I return to exalt you, small tyrant, slavemaker, oppressor of the poor?" Felipe asked, speaking in Castilian, that all assembed might understand.
A murmur and a movement passed through the crowd. It was as if men stretched in their bonds, lifting their heads again in hope.
"You, that came a beggar and left a thief!" Don Abrahan said, a flush of deep resentment spreading in his thin face.
"Here is the judge, here he stands!" said Felipe, laying his hand on the cannon.
Again the movement; again the murmur, that seemed now almost a cry. Don Abrahan gathered dignity out of his wrath, turned his back on Felipe as on one unworthy and low.
"Don Gabriel, what is your pleasure with me?" he asked.
"Send to the pueblo, or where he is to be found, for your son," Henderson said. "If soldiers or others accompany him, they must not approach within a mile of this place. Give him to understand that plainly. The moment this particular of my orders is ignored, I'll fire on your house. More than that, you, personally, will be held responsible."
"I cannot answer for him, Don Gabriel. He may refuse to parley, he may ignore a command ​issuing from no higher authority than an individual who is proscribed by the laws of this land, if you will forgive me."
"Tell him I am acting for the United States government, in whose name I have seized this country."
There was a great deal of hope, not a little contempt, in Don Abrahan's face as he looked around, plainly for the army that was to enforce the demands of this self-appointed commander. The gleam like the reflection of firelight, of laughter that was not yet mirth, stood again in Don Abrahan's eyes. He was recovering himself, now that he saw through the mighty bombast, as he believed, of this simple sailor from a Yankee ship.
"I will send a messenger to General Garvanza and deliver to him your desires," he said with false complaisance, false respect.
"Not my desires, sir; my commands," Henderson corrected, the sternness of his voice like a stone against Don Abrahan's ear.
"I will send him the word, Don Gabriel."
"In the meantime, it will be necessary to re strain you," Henderson announced. There is a compartment here, "indicating the warehouse, 'that I have occupied——"
"I give you my word that I will not attempt to leave this place," Don Abrahan hastily pledged.
"You could not be blamed, under the conditions, if you failed to keep it," Henderson replied, inflexible as Don Abrahan's own whipping-post.
​That was the way it came about that Don Abrahan occupied his own prison, with its cross-barred door of iron, its thick outer door of oak, both of which were locked securely upon him. His keeper was an ancient Indian, called forward by Felipe, a man whose proud spirit had remained unbroken through more than fifty years of injustice at the hands of Don Abrahan's father and Don Abrahan after him. This man had suffered hunger and thirst in the narrow cell; he had felt the bite of the lash at the whipping-post. It was not a merciful jailer that was set over Don Abrahan Garvanza. In all his years Don Abrahan had not been keeping an account that would credit mercy due him at the end.
Helena came from her retirement in Don Felipe's office when Don Abrahan had been taken away. There had been great wonder, great admiration, expressed concerning this handsome caballero among the simple people. It was fitting, they said, that such as this one, and Don Gabriel with his laughing eyes, should bring liberty to the oppressed who labored their lives away to pay their endless debts to Don Abrahan. For was it not well understood that when the Americans came, all men were to own land and be free?
"My general," said Helena, approaching softly behind Henderson, speaking over his shoulder.
He turned with such eagerness that many guessed the truth hidden by Helena's long cloak and broad sombrero. They were almost confirmed ​in it when he smiled, and the light of his eyes grew happier.
"There is another order that I ask you to give," Helena said. "Please send to the house and direct Doña Carlota to bring my dresses."
"Why not go yourself? She can't lock you up again."
"It is a treacherous house, I'll not enter it again, Gabriel. My place is in the field, besides. I am a soldier, I fare as soldiers fare—only I want my dresses."
So it was ordered, and Doña Carlota came, not stooping to a maid's service, certainly, but followed by women who carried Helena's wardrobe overflowing in their arms.
"Where is my dove?" Doña Carlota demanded, full of terror for the cannon, giving it wide room in passing.
She stopped near the door where Helena waited her, a black mantilla over her sleek hair. She was afraid of the idle people who had given themselves a holiday without so much as a look toward Don Abrahan for permission. Simon, the temporary overseer—there being no new mayordomo appointed yet in Don Felipe's place—being away on greater affairs, and not likely in the present state of things to be especially anxious to return. Doña Carlota was afraid, above all things, of Don Felipe, whom she had not recognized in his grim black smear of beard, his dusty clothing and fierce, keen fighting air.
​"Oh, my little dove! save me from these savages!" she appealed, turning her fat eyes around in quaking fright.
"Inside with you now, old lady," Felipe commanded.
Doña Carlota, not yet recognizing him, was almost dissolved in fright. Her knees were melting under her fat body, she was about to bend in supplication to this fierce, black man when Henderson, having regard for her sex, if no pity for her panic, directed her to Helena's retreat.
Felipe had found a ready response to his call for volunteers. Many of the men on Don Abrahan's plantation, like himself, had borne arms, even if they had not done much fighting, in the rebellion. Their hope of freedom and equality before the law had vanished with the establishment of the new regime. No man's debt had been cancelled by the shift from one rule to another, it appeared; the peon had remained a peon, and such was his sad condition still.
Now the Americans were coming, said Don Felipe; the dust of their approach was on the horizon. It was very likely that all of them would be American citizens or outlaws against American authority before the sun set twice. To such as came forward like good and valiant men at this time, rewards would be forthcoming.
Felipe took that assurance on himself, knowing the reluctance of men to risk even the smallest thing without the hope or promise of reward. The ​artilleryman taken with the cannon had laid aside his green uniform, and now appeared in a workman's dress. He was active in his assistance to Felipe, whom he called colonel, knowing very well what his payment would be if he ever was so unlucky as to fall into General Garvanza's hands.
Don Abrahan had several guns of assorted kind, the accumulation of years, and powder in great store, laid by for trading purposes in the warehouse. A few additional guns, hidden by the laborers on the ranch, were produced, making sufficient to arm twelve men.
Out of this number guards were set, Felipe himself keeping charge of the cannon. Privately he told Henderson that it was a little early yet to rely on the valor or loyalty of his recruits.
"A man who has been a slave a long time has little fire in him," he said. "There is nothing like a taste of liberty to put courage in a man's blood. But let the news get abroad that we are up, and three hundred men will join us before night. If the Americans do not come then, we will have a revolution, at least. We will overthrow the tyrants ourselves."
Then, if the Americans did not come? That was a question that began to rise before Henderson at every turn. Here they were, two men and one woman, in the midst of a vast country, by the authority of which they stood outlawed. Let it turn out that the story from Monterey was but a frightened rumor, that the Americans had not ​taken that place, and what would their situation be?
He began to regret the impulse that had carried him into that adventure, tempting as the way of it had been. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have gone on as he had planned in case of encountering soldiers in the pass, around to the mouth of San Fernando valley, risking the perils of the longer journey, rather than to have made this bold step. It would be impossible to hold out indefinitely there; fatigue would overwhelm them in the end, though Roberto Garvanza might fail. But it was said that soldiers were on the march from San Diego. The fact that General Garvanza had sent his only cannon to hold the pass would seem proof that they were coming in force, well armed.
And, on the other hand, there was argument in Roberto's act of defense that seemed evidence that the Americans were on their way. Roberto would not have sent the cannon for any other purpose than to check their advance. No, it was not to stop three refugees that Roberto had dispatched his one little field-piece to that vantage-place in the road. The Americans were coming; the news was true.
Still, it was a long distance from Monterey to Los Angeles; two or three important towns which must be subdued lay between. It might take ten days, it might take longer, for the forces to come. Meantime, how long could they hold their ad​vantage over Roberto? How long could they apart from any question of force, endure?
Don Abrahan's life was in his hands, but, vindictive as he had felt toward him when he had vowed to avenge John Toberman's death, Henderson was not savage enough to consider any extreme measure in the old man's case. Only in the event that Roberto would not grant terms, and give guaranty that such terms would be respected, would he hang Don Abrahan to his own oak, as he deserved, for his cowardly crime against Toberman.
This whole exploit seemed an empty thing now to have undertaken. The higher the sun mounted, the clearer this view of it grew. Day makes wreckage of so many defenses that men build in the night, as the illuminating beam of reason discovers the fatuity of so much that is prideful and vain.
There was very little hope of escape from the shores of that country by ship. The Boston ships would have sailed clear of those hostile waters on the first news of war; the ships of other nations seldom came there to risk the contraband trade which the Americans had pushed so boldly. Commerce always had been discouraged on that coast, even prohibited, under the Spanish rule, with little more encouragement under the Mexican government. No more Boston ships would round the Horn until peace came, and no man could tell when that would be.
What, then, would be the situation of these beleaguered three in a few days, perhaps a few hours, ​more? Henderson now felt that he had added desperation to desperation by his wild charge on the cannon, his rash decision in coming there to compel Roberto Garvanza's leniency, even to granting freedom to them all, by striking through Don Abrahan. It had appeared a simple solution of their troubles at first; now it seemed only a destructive blunder. What would he not give that hour, indeed, to know whether the Americans had come.
One thing was apparent, to a grave certainty: now that he had made this spectacular dash, he must maintain his position. There must be no weakening, no soft yielding to importunity or appeal. He was dealing with treacherous, unfeeling, unsympathetic people, cruel to their inmost fiber. He must make his heart as hard as an armadillo. If necessary to hang Don Abrahan, then Don Abrahan must hang with no more grace for his pleading or his prayers than he had granted to John Toberman in his somber extremity.
"Felipe, we must have a flag," he said, firm now in his resolution to carry his head high and hold his hand firm to the end.
"I have had that thought, Gabriel."
"Helena must contrive one for us; I'll speak to her. How long ought it to take Don Abrahan's messenger to reach Roberto, how soon may we expect to hear from him?"
"The messenger will be two hours on the way to the pueblo, counting for gossip by the side of ​the road. An hour more for Roberto, who must not seem in a hurry in order to save his dignity and his pride; another hour for him to make the passage from the pueblo to this place. It will be past noon, Gabriel."
"Have them piece out a pole of some kind, and nail it to the whipping-post, Felipe. We'll put it to an honorable use for once, at least. We'll have the United States flag up when General Garvanza comes. It will be equal to another cannon."