The Legend of Zorro Read online

  “Padre, are you not the friend of Señor Zorro, the one to whom the tolling of that bell is entrusted?” the bolder of the women called after him.

  “Yes, who is ringing it, Felipe?” asked the other.

  Who indeed, wondered the Franciscan missionary as he scurried up the steps. His thoughts fixed on one of the biggest troublemakers he knew. Joaquin, if it is you, it will be your hide I tan next!

  He reached a landing and rushed through a busy workshop where shoes and children’s toys were being made. A cloud of sawdust flew in Felipe’s face, causing the brother to cough as the rich musk of well-tanned leather reached into his lungs. George Cook, a Native American man whose friends knew him as Laughing Coyote, grinned toothily and hummed El Cantico del Alba as Felipe bustled by. The devotional song about the Virgin Mary was sung every morning once all the people had risen, and everyone knew that was the often sleep-deprived Felipe’s least favorite time in the world.

  The bell tolled once more. That sound marked Mission life. Prayers, instruction, afternoon siestas, work, meals, and bedtime were all signaled by its ringing.

  Felipe huffed indignantly and pulled sharply at the fold of his brown wool habit, making the hood resting at the back of his neck scratch him like a spider’s fuzzy leg. He adjusted his cincture as he hurried to another set of stairs, the three knots expertly tied from decades of practice, one to remind him of his vow of poverty, the other two chastity and obedience. His rosary and cross dangled from the cincture as he picked up steam once more, the pouch he carried banging against his side, weighted by his prayer book and personal journal.

  From the distance sounded the squalling wooden wheels of a carreta—an ox-cart used by hide and tallow traders to transport their wares. Felipe was well aware that although today was indeed a momentous day for the people of California, those same people still had to make a living.

  The bell tolled again as Felipe mounted the last set of stairs, an orange-striped tabby cat brushing his leg. Cats were as plentiful in the missions as tales of hauntings. They were necessary and so too were the little access doors they had in every room. Without them, rats would overrun the place. And with the thought of rats…

  Joaquin, you little scamp, I love you as if you were my own, but if it is you again? thought Felipe, picturing the dark-haired ten-year-old hauling on the rope in the belfry. As he climbed, a little out of breath, his head now hanging low, Felipe nearly stumbled over a young neophyte in a cotton jacket sprawled on a high step, snoring blissfully, oblivious to the ringing bell a dozen feet over his head. A bowl next to the snoozing man sported the remains of an early and austere meal: fruit, soup, milk and bread. Life here was not one of sangrias and fandangos. A few marked playing cards drifted from the sleeping man’s sleeve. As the best card player in the mission, Felipe noted this man’s face well, and vowed never to play a hand against him.

  Felipe finally cleared the landing—and found himself peering at the wide-eyed, well-scrubbed face of the mission’s youngest and most skittish brother.

  “Brother Ignacio?” asked Felipe.

  The young monk spun, the bell rope flying through his twitchy pale fingers as he faced the mission’s curator. Its last toll was now a dull echo.

  “What are you doing?” questioned Felipe, struggling to keep his tone mild.

  “Five rings, Fray Felipe,” explained the short, round-faced Brother Ignacio earnestly. “To summon Zorro in case there’s trouble.”

  Fray Felipe. Not Brother Felipe, as it might be said in English, the language they had all promised to speak from now on. Ignacio was an educated man, a fresh recruit from Felipe’s alma mater on the Isle of Mallorca. Yet he could be so thick upon occasion.

  I come to serve, I come to serve, Felipe chanted in his mind, begging the Lord for patience.

  Releasing his frustration, Felipe gently patted Ignacio’s shoulder. “If I know Zorro…he’s already here.”

  Leaning closer to the campanario, Felipe peered into the sea of excited faces below. Many looked up expectantly, as if Felipe might tell them why Zorro was being summoned, if some threat they could not yet see was moving among them. Felipe shooed them back to what they had been doing. His searching gaze scoured the wide street, which swarmed with hundreds who formed long lines to cast their votes today. Red, white and blue flags decorated the plaza. Patriotic buntings flapped in the afternoon breeze near a banner that demanded, “VOTE TODAY!”

  The orange glow of the waning yet still bright sun told them that the voting would end soon, and the voice of the California people would at last be heard.

  “Freedom,” Felipe whispered, crossing himself.

  This time, Brother Ignacio gently patted Felipe’s shoulder. “Freedom.”

  Felipe turned away. Had he lingered but a moment longer, he might have seen the small, wild-haired, mischievous boy Joaquin racing around below, anxious for a chance to snatch a loaf of bread fresh from the mission’s cone-shaped wood-fired oven. He also might have seen an unusual visitor to the voting booths. For beneath a ratty sombrero worn by a seeming peasant, a man with a wily smile and sparkling eyes gazed at the ballot. There were two boxes, two choices: “IN FAVOR OF THE CONSTITUTION” or “IN OPPOSITION TO THE CONSTITUTION.”

  Rather than marking an “X” in favor of joining the union, this man scrawled a stylish “Z.”

  Smiling, Zorro adjusted his mask and whipped open the voting booth’s scarlet privacy curtain, dropping his ballot in a basket guarded by red-uniformed soldiers known as Rurales. Brother Felipe knew the disguised hero well—it was to the brother that Zorro told his tales and confided his most cherished secrets. Felipe might have seen the masked man and thought, Well done, Alejandro de la Vega. And God bless us all that you are here.

  Instead, Felipe traced his way back through the mission and was now emerging from the front arcade. He breezed past a mission worker dragging a fierce pair of kicking and spitting curly horned churro sheep on the right and a collection of flashily dressed men playing at the style of the vaquero, or Spanish cowboys on the left. One of the posers leaned against the mission wall, gazing imperiously at the younger women gathered around the voting area. Felipe tapped the gold and emerald studded shoulder of the man’s shiny jacket.

  Felipe wove further through the milling throng gathered here for Election Day, sharing their excitement. Strong perfume filled Felipe’s lungs as he eased around a clutch of well-dressed women. His world became a pastel swirl of lace and petticoats, and for an instant, Felipe recalled his life before entering the church, the bittersweet memory of standing beneath his sweetheart’s balcony to serenade her on cool summer evenings breezing through his mind. Ah, but that was a long time ago. Returning to the present, he passed by the fine ladies and encountered older, poorer women clutching their threadbare shawls, the sun beating against large combs in their hair tucked beneath their veil-like mantillas. Some of the peasant men smiling at the padre rested their rough hands on the colorful suspenders strung over their homespun shirts and buttoned to their pants, while others tipped their straw hats. The snapping of castanets assailed him from flamenco dancers, while mariachis strummed passionate refrains, filling the air with music, joy and celebration.

  His heritage called out to him and he thought…Fray Felipe. Yes, that is how it should be.

  Ahead lay a speaker’s corner, a brace of men spouting rhetoric for and against the vote. The gentleman who railed against the pledge of the United States to provide freedoms such as the people of this land had never known was an outsider, thought by many to have been hired by big business interests intent on continuing their exploitation of the people. One woman had even suggested that he might be an agent of the Pinkertons, the National Detective Agency whose first—and most notorious triumph—had been during the Homestead Strike, when they were hired as bodyguards to keep strikers and suspected unionists out of their own factories. The Pinkertons had broken up coal, iron and lumber disputes in New York and Illinois, and had become the mustache-tw
irling villains of choice in dime-store novels these days.

  The other man perched boldly atop a soapbox was another matter entirely. Crowds of supporters flocked to him as he handed out pamphlets, a few excited men and women nearly edging his opponent from his spot.

  Guillermo Cortez raised his bearded jaw and cast his fierce, determined gaze on the people. The breeze tousled his short shiny black hair and the fading sunlight added noble highlights to the ridges of his high cheekbones and the bridge of his squareset nose. In his long-sleeve linen work shirt with suspenders, he was a striking figure, a man of the people, a leader who commanded respect.

  Casting her proud gaze at her beloved husband, Blanca Cortez patted her round and very pregnant stomach. She nodded vigorously when her husband stamped his pointed-toe boots, and, in quieter moments, her hand sometimes trailed to the final heirlooms left to her by her once wealthy family: a turtle-shell comb, a signet ring with her family’s now retired coat of arms. As he neared the end of his speech, the beautiful, voluptuous woman pulled her tattered black lace shawl tight, and smiled to the watching Fray Felipe as her husband’s voice burst above the friendly roar of the crowd.

  “Vote ‘yes’ to statehood!” cried Cortez. “This is our day of independence! Our day of revolution!”

  “Libertad!” cried Cortez’s rapt audience. “Viva California! Viva America!”

  Fray Felipe added his booming voice to that of his people. “Freedom!”

  Standing before the window of a seedy hotel room, looking down at the bustling square where the election was in full swing, a man cast in darkness glared at Cortez and the swelling crowd of voters. The scene below him made him feel as ill as the first time he’d looked into a ship’s hold and met the thousand red eyes of a swarming mass of vermin.

  You want to be free, you ignorant blight on the face of righteousness? wondered Jacob McGivens. I’ll see that you’re free…free to meet the Lord and complain to Him directly about your problems, hombre…

  The watcher thought of himself as an American through and through, and a man dedicated to the Lord. He wore a long black coat and a white shirt with a high collar so that those who came upon him would know that they were dealing with a man sent by God to be their judge. The only company that the strongly built, forty-year-old gunman might have liked even less than that of the greasy peasants below were those now meeting in a cluster at the other side of the room. To show just what he thought of the trio of fat, cowardly millionaires who had just promised him a fortune, Jacob McGivens delivered the greatest insult he knew:

  He showed them his back.

  Even if he hadn’t been loading twin Colt revolvers with the most magnificent blue steel barrels and well oiled chambers, he would have been hard-pressed to view these idiots as threats. His thumb moved over the polished dark wood handle of the first gun, which bore a silver plate into which the word “salvation” was inscribed, while “damnation” adorned the silver plate on the handle of its twin. With these guns, McGivens was ready to deliver the mighty voice of the Lord. He just hadn’t yet decided if he would take these jackanapes’ lives along with their money.

  He stared at the mass of people below, his brain suddenly bursting into flames of pure hatred.

  Filthy scum polluting this land just by being here. Hell, I’d do this job for free, if it came to it!

  Behind McGivens, one of the self-important “railroad barons” was at it again. McGivens glanced at the group’s reflection in the barrel of his nearest gun. All three men wore brand-new hats without a speck of dust on them and finely tailored dark suits that servants or slaves probably helped them put on. They even smelled the same, having sprinkled perfumed macassar oil on their hair to keep it tidy in the California heat. It was their leader, Cornelius Tweed, who had raised an imploring hand.

  “If California becomes a state, we lose millions,” murmured Tweed, a white-bearded man wearing an asymmetrically tied cravat.

  Daniel Marcy, whose starched high white collar rubbed against the bottom of his round heavily whiskered face, tugged on his dark brown velvet waistcoat and made its shining silver buttons glimmer. “Minimum wage, workers’ rights…”

  The last man, Jay Fisk, frowned as he thumbed his golden pocketwatch chain. His drooping, walrus-like mustache quivered as his eyes shot open wide and his hands fluttered up in frustration. “Time was, a Mexican wasn’t worth more’n a shot of tequila!”

  The men chuckled. All three were highly placed members of New York’s infamous Tammany Hall, and they sought to extend their powerful reach from coast to coast.

  To McGivens, these puffed-up idjits had no idea about the true meaning of power—and that made them all the easier to manipulate and despise. Then again, Jacob McGivens really didn’t need an excuse to hate his fellow men. He just did what came naturally.

  “Your service with the railroad’s been exemplary, Mr. McGivens,” said Tweed. He tossed a bag bursting with gold dust onto the table.

  “We’re hoping you can do your part to…’’ Marcy faltered, groping for the polite way to get his point across. His eyes fixed on McGivens’s scar, reflected in the full-length mirror in a nearby corner, and the answer came. “Spread the fear of God.”

  Jacob smiled. His guest had said the magic words.

  Holstering his weapons, Jacob McGivens turned to leave. The glowering rays of deep orange and amber light filtering in from outside set a flaming aura around his black, flat-brimmed hat and nightmare dark frock coat. He was a preacher ablaze. At that very moment, a shimmer of light reflected off a bronze lamp and landed squarely on the horrifying outline of a crucifix that had been branded into McGivens’s cheek, clear up to his right eye, long ago.

  He unfurled a serpentine grin. “Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen.”

  The dark-haired boy stole through the crowd, his gaze narrow and purposeful. Fray Felipe had often said there was a wildness about him, that he was like a colt ready to bolt. His name was Joaquin and today he was on a mission. The bell summoning Zorro had rung, and that meant danger was near. The ten-year-old examined the faces of every man he met because he knew Zorro was hidden somewhere among these everyday people. Joaquin could sense it. And he was ready to do his part to hold back whatever threat his hero might soon face.

  Yes, at long last, he would see the Fox in the flesh.

  “Yieee!” howled Joaquin as pain suddenly exploded in his skull. The flesh of his ear had been grabbed and twisted by a powerful hand. Wincing, Joaquin whipped his gaze up to the frowning face of Fray Felipe.

  “Niño, you should be at school!” scolded Fray Felipe.

  The boy spread his arms in perfect innocence. “But Padre, what if Zorro comes?”

  Delivering a scorching look, Fray Felipe said, “I’ll make sure he carves a ‘Z’ into your backside, how does that sound?”

  His breath charged with excitement, the boy cried, “Really?”

  “Home!” shouted Fray Felipe.

  The boy dashed off—and quickly looked back. He saw the padre shaking his head as he scooped up the basket filled with votes. Then, prowling ahead, Fray Felipe scanned the area for trouble. Joaquin knew exactly what to make of the padre’s actions: Fray Felipe had no idea what form disaster might take this day, but he was certain it would appear.

  Joaquin kept mental tabs on the holy man as he sauntered near a fruit cart, his small hand casually closing on an apple before he stole away. No one saw him take it. He wasn’t even hungry. But he knew how inflamed Fray Felipe would be if he found out, so the risk was worth it. Safely away from the fruit stand, Joaquin took a defiant chomp out of the apple.

  Fray Felipe arrived at the table where the governor’s tabulator was hard at work counting ballots and set down his basket. The thinning reddish-blond ringlets framing the tabulator’s bushy eyebrows, thinly pursed lips and jowly face caught the fading glory of the afternoon sun, providing him with a heroic and passionate gleam that was otherwise missing due to his intentness on his task.
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  Joaquin’s spine stiffened as Fray Felipe suddenly spun and stared right at him. The boy nearly choked on the juicy mouthful of apple he’d just bitten off.

  Sighing, the holy man shook his head and glanced around, ignoring the boy. The two red-uniformed Rurales standing behind the tabulator, rifles in hand, caught Fray Felipe’s furtive looks, and quickly joined him surveying the crowd.

  “The final votes, amigo,” Fray Felipe said in a tight voice, absentmindedly placing his hand on the tabulator’s shoulder.

  A sharp gasp from Joaquin’s right drew his attention from the Franciscan. Blanca Cortez had been returning from a chat with two Russians from Fort Ross, which lay north of San Francisco on Bodega Bay. Joaquin had overheard her drumming up sales for her husband, who sold custom mining equipment. The excitement of the large order these two had placed must have been too much for her, because she was sweating in the sun, holding her belly and shuddering as she made her way to a long bench.

  An oblivious couple hogged the bench, and Joaquin ran at them, waving his arms, scolding them and chasing them off. Guillermo saw his wife’s distress and leaped from his soapbox to help her sit. Joaquin took one arm and helped guide Blanca to the bench. Guillermo nodded his gratitude to Joaquin, and the boy stepped aside.

  “Are you all right, Mi Amor?” asked Guillermo.

  His beautiful wife smiled. “The baby’s kicking, that’s all. He’s a fighter, like his father.”

  “Well, tell him to slow down, I want him to be born an American…”

  Joaquin smiled. It was easy to see the love between them.

  A hush fell on the gathering as the tabulator finished marking the tally certificate and rose.