Ghosts in the Gulch

Buried Star:

Ghosts in the Gulch

{Based on True Events}  

« Evergreen Cemetery Mysteries No.1 »

 S.L. Hawke

ISBN:

For a complete historical background on AJ Sloan and his family please view Author’s Notes Page at

www.evergreencemeterymysteries.blogspot.com

or visit Evergreen Cemetery in Santa Cruz

Owned and managed by The Museum of Art and History

If you are looking for a historically accurate work of fiction, put this back on the shelf, delete it from your reader, and buy something else. BUT-if you want to be entertained by facts, be immersed in an historical world with a science fiction twist, enjoy!

Cover photo courtesy of Santa Cruz Museum of Art and History

{For Eddie}

Author’s Note   

Today A.J. Sloan is known as The Ghost of Arana Gulch. There have been many sightings of a tall thin man wearing a wide brimmed hat, and dark coat.[1] His very first ghostly appearance began in 1895[2] thirty years after his murder. Labeled as hooey history in a file in our Evergreen Cemetery Archives, the embellished story is still available as part of a larger more compelling work by the late historian Phil Reader, called Charole.[3]

AJ’s fate grew in telling, much of it not reliant on facts. Media often talks about his angry ghost, or how AJ ‘had a deep hatred for the Mexican People.’[4] For many years, during Evergreen Cemetery’s event, Spooky Tales, docents told a tale about how ‘Jack’ met his drunken fate, alone, unarmed, and in cold blood.[5]

This story did not sit right with me. A drunken, raging unarmed man pursing armed men, in a dark, bush clogged, muddy creek, made no sense. However, a confession of the murder, made by an 18 year old man who was miles away from the murder site, confirmed this event needed a second look. A small paragraph in the local newspaper, dated fourteen years after the crime, also reflected a similar idea, that there was ‘hooey’ in this happening.[6] In the interim, I had tried to engage previous historians who had worked on Sloan’s history but many had relied on the original fanciful tale of ambush and drunkenness.

Bottom line: no one wanted to mess with the Ghost of Arana Gulch.

Approaching A.J.’s murder using a crime board, taking a ‘forensic’ approach, yielded some interesting inconsistencies and a few genuine surprises. This novel, though fanciful, fun, and perhaps, yes, romantic, explores many of these funny theories. Some of my ideas came from actual arrest and court documents of the time, from Monterey, then the seat of Federal Law for this county. These documents, Marshals’ warrants and subpoenas, showed some prominent Santa Cruz business owners involved in opium smuggling.[7]

But the most interesting crime around all of this, was the slew of questionable deeds and affidavits filed two months previous to AJ’s death which state that a number of white people had lived within the village of Branciforte, near the murder site, for many years. This was impossible as Branciforte was entirely Latino. Branciforte Adobe and town, located and included the other side of what is now called Arana Gulch. Branciforte was one of the largest and oldest Adobes, the last of the large family land grants originating from Spain. Today’s Arana Gulch was referred to as Rodriguez Gulch in the early 1860s[8].

These odd affidavits were all filed in groups, several on the same day, December 21, 1864[9]. A week, sometimes two weeks later, appeals were filed by the Rodriguez/Lorenzana family contesting these claims with affidavits of residency and promises of parcel owners to convert to United States Citizenship.[10]

A week before AJ was ambushed and murdered, pistols, clothing, and a horse stolen from Branciforte, along with the deliberate felling of telegraph poles[11], is an interesting investigative side note.

Local law enforcement swept into this legally contested village the night of the murder. Using the raw power of a vigilante mob, the Sheriff arrested women, children, older folk, and burned the Adobe itself. The Sheriff immediately assumed the murderer was fugitive bandido Faustino Lorenzana, even though no one identified Lorenzana as the assailant until four days AFTER the murder itself. Under confession, a young cousin, known to have been ‘simple’, told a complex story about who shot who in plain sight of another witness who claimed not to see a thing[12].

So who was the lead witness? A man named John Towne. The last one to see AJ alive, John Towne had married AJ’s youngest sister just two years earlier. John Towne was also an active County Supervisor and met regularly with the founder of Santa Cruz, F.A. Hihn. This familial connection appeared to be a significant reason for a number of reactions, one of which was the death of the young confessor and witness, by a mob, and the release from lack of evidence, of another young man implicated by the confession, Jose Rodriguez.[13]

Andrew Sloan’s story is still being researched. What we have ascertained are the following facts: AJ served six months in the Mexican War, never saw action, and was mustered out due to illness[14]. AJ’s sisters were successful in business and community endeavors. His brother-in-law Jonathan Guild built many of our roads. I really did find and excavate that broken piece of A.J.’s headstone on a tip from an Evergreen historian, Robert Nelson, now retired.

I do volunteer at Evergreen Cemetery and help research the many interesting folk interred there. (See appendix for our Facebook page and Twitter feed links).

The story of Andrew Jackson Sloan is one to question. His ‘murder’ was as an example of the tensions people faced during these times. Unfortunately the attitude still lingers in Santa Cruz today between diverse communities.

Knowing that history repeats itself, creates, ironically, change. We can bridge the cultural gap and do what our current museum has already done: Make unexpected connections and create unique, creative, and vibrant solutions to community issues that continue to challenge us.

Enough said.

S.L. Hawke

Arana Gulch, 

October 2014

[1] Evergreen Archives, Tours file, cabinet 2

[2] SC Surf page 1, column 2, 1895 July 25th

[3] Reader, Phil Charole http://www.santacruzpl.org/history/articles/66

[4] Evergreen docent manual first edition 2002

[5] Evergreen Cemetery File, Sloan cabinet 1, drawer 4

[6] The Santa Cruz Sentinel, Column 2 paragraph 3 1879 Nov 15

[7] RG 21, boxes 1-24 National Archives, San Bruno

[8] Wright, Thomas W, surveyor, Deeds Vol 7, page 254

[9] MAH Archive, Branciforte Collection

[10] Ibid.

[11] Ibid.

[12] Pacific Sentinel, page 2 column 1 1865 Feb 16

[13] The Santa Cruz Sentinel page 2 column 3 1865 April 15

[14] Ancestry.com/pg 282 Mexican War Roll Call/Discharge records photo

Historical Timeline  

1848 - Santa Cruz’s first public school started by Mary Amney Case.

1850 - Formation of Santa Cruz County Evergreen’s first Burial-Julia Arcan aged 19 days. Henry Speel, the first local judge helped build a wagon road over the hill. 17 people followed, including Engineer Grove Cook, of the New Almaden Mine. Evergreen Cemetery Land belonged to Robert Kirby and Hiram Imus.

1850 - Population County 643, City unknown (noted as 100 above) – Buried at Evergreen, 28

1852 - Flooding in Sacramento Delta, Grove Cook murdered and buried at Evergreen.

1853 - Quake in San Diego, unknown magnitude, but frightens inhabitants.

1856 - Santa Cruz’s first newspaper, The Pacific Sentinel is created.

1857 - Government opens a school ‘system’.

1858 - Land sold for $1.00 to the Town Trustees to create Evergreen Cemetery. Masons then buy their plot. Dispute between an unknown man, Hiram Imus and RC Kirby was settled by this donation.

1860 - African American resident Louden (London) Nelson dies and leaves land to the county schools-

1860 - Population County 4994, City 398 – Buried at Evergreen, 117

1861 - Civil War starts, first Chinese burial recorded at Evergreen in newspaper. Flooding locally.

1862 - Earthquake wakes residents of downtown Santa Cruz at 5:30am, unknown magnitude, no one hurt, no property damage. San Lorenzo River Levee built. IOOF Santa Cruz Memorial Cemetery is built.

1863 - First Vandalism of Evergreen Cemetery Shrubbery with a reward of $25 dollars offered (about $565 dollars today 1$ + $22.79) The Pajaro Times is created by Msrs. Kearney, McQuillan and Duehow. They refer to Evergreen Cemetery as the City of the Dead.    The Methodist Church calls on their congregation to move their dead relations out of their private small cemetery to Evergreen or the City Cemetery, known as IOOF Santa Cruz Memorial.

1864 - Minor Quakes two weeks apart, Powder Mill nears completion, Chinese workers harassed by hooded men. Construction of jail approved. Confederate Thieves arrested in Corralitos.

1865 - A murder of a white man named AJ Sloan in Arana Gulch ignites racial tensions and gives government reason to shut down and seize Branciforte Pueblo, Rodriquez Rancho, and surrounding parcels. Drought begins. Two severe quakes rock downtown, damaging buildings.

1866 - Santa Cruz incorporated

Entrance, Main Gate

Space-time itself is a thing. It has its own dynamics, it bends and warps and ripples, it carries energy, so it’s a thing, alright, and it’s material just as much as the matter we see around us.

- Professor Fay Dowker,

Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics, London, England

Present Day Santa Cruz, California

Ghosts aren’t a problem, Olivia said. She smiled at the sunny real estate agent. The first time they looked out its rear bay window, the sun shone through a gigantic oak tree, sending dappled sunlight into the living room.                                                    

Well, the listing agent has this house described as. Here she paused for effect, ‘haunted by the ghost in Arana Gulch’.                 

It’s all greenspace, Peter, Olivia’s husband said, pointing to the oak heavy gulch in front of them. They should be happy to haunt here.    

Well, the agent said with a smile, disclosure is everything.       

The second time they came into the neighborhood, they walked around the house’s outside deck. A hawk cried out, then landed in the large oak branch an arm’s length away.                   

Does the ghost do patios? Peter joked. They all laughed.                              

Shall we go inside? The agent chirped.

The third time, today, their eight year old daughter Olive met the neighbors.

The downside of this house was obvious. The constant ‘rushing water’ noise was automobile traffic. It was less than half a mile from the highway, had tiny bedrooms, and rotted decking. The whole house would need some love and care. On the upside, there was a lower workshop level for Peter’s bike shop, four bedrooms instead of three; the neighborhood was an isolated cul-du-sac sharing greenspace with a hospital, an historic cemetery, and a resort.

She loved it. Peter loved it. They signed papers on the back deck.     

What day is it? Peter asked as he began to sign his share of the escrow papers.

February 11th! Olivia and the real estate agent said in unison.                      

The first neighbor Olive dragged her parents out to meet was a gregarious marine biologist. His name was Tobin. Peter shook hands warmly. They both worked at the University on the Hill, as they all called UCSC. Tobin was joined by his wife Alma, who introduced their five year old twin sons, Alistair and Aloisha.                                                                                

The second set of neighbors they met were elderly. The husband was tall and thin, with a wide brimmed straw hat that appeared to have never left his head in over a decade. His wife, confined to a wheelchair behind a slatted fence, shouted at him with a voice like a big goose: "Mikhail! Get your ass back in this yard where you belong, God Dammit!’’. Mikhail seemed to grow just about anything that had leaves. He also complained about the state of Medicare and the elderly.                         

The current events in America is crap! Mikhail shouted, then handed Olivia a huge bag of yellow plums the size of baseballs. Olive followed Mikhail and disappeared into their garden. After a few tense minutes for Peter and Olivia, Olive ran back to announce that Mikhail had an awesome koi pond.                              

The third neighbor shared the backyard property line. She reminded Olivia of her late mother. In fact, Olivia noted eerily, she looked somewhat like her mother, shorter than Olivia was by about a foot, with a long dark braid. Like her mother, Selene, as she introduced herself, appeared quite possibly, to be Hawaiian.                                                                    

Olivia grinned. Selene was the perfect match for Olivia’s older widowed brother Randall. Peter had already decided that Randall could help them fix up the house. To Olivia’s scheming delight, and Peter’s sidelong glancing agreement, they found out that Selene did live alone, did have grown children, and was also a widow. Olivia could not contain her giggling. Peter winked at Olivia. It was set. They would play matchmaker to both.                                        

Olive played on the shared backyard tree, saw the graves of the Selene’s family pets, and ran all over the back yard as if it were her own. Selene could see slightly into Olivia’s backyard, as could Olivia see onto Selene’s new flagstone patio, but not enough to make either of them feel uncomfortable. Again, Olivia felt completely at home here.

Though Olivia had spent much of her adult life away from California, where she met Peter, then had Olive, she had always wanted to come back here. Olivia wished her father had been alive to see this house. He would have liked it.

Their title paperwork slid through processing as if it was a magic carpet. They moved in a week later. The whole place was unpacked a week after that. It would seem that they had landed in the right place for all of them. February was warm, and the apple trees in her front yard had been tricked into swelling their buds. Never mind that it had been a dry winter.

She imagined her father in his drover’s hat and long coat looking out into the canyon.

Augh, you did right, Livie, he would have said, his Aussie accent still tinging all of his words.                                                                     

They had a hectic day transferring to a new school. On accident, Olivia found a foot trail back to the neighborhood. The well-maintained trail went through the resort above the neighborhood and led them right back into the well-kept cemetery a block from the house.

It was a modern, not historic, cemetery, as the realtor had promised. Still, the day was warm and beautiful. They came home ready for a quiet evening of homework. Olivia, curious to see if there were any historic cemeteries open to the public within Santa Cruz, googled the subject and found one: Evergreen Cemetery, owned by The Museum of Art and History. In a review of her emails, she found a request from Olive’s new teacher, to be a chaperone for a school tour to the Museum and was delighted to find out that the Cemetery was included in the field trip.

Leaving the windows open to the bedroom as if it was summer, she fell right to sleep.

Something woke her. Firm footfalls on stone.                                          

Peter lay undisturbed, snoring softly. Olivia got up and went to the sliding glass door. Someone was down in the neighbor’s patio.                                 

Who can that be? She thought, annoyed. She opened the door and went out onto her deck. The sudden change in temperature made her gasp. The night air was near freezing. Her breath clouded like smoke. She huddled, shaking, shifting her feet, making the deck creak. Olivia looked down into the gulch.                                                                                                             

There was a man standing on Selene’s patio. His dark form wavered as if he were not quite present, like a photo or a projected image, unfocused, poorly lit. Silence held him steady. For a moment, Olivia wondered if she should call the police. Selene’s house was dark.                   

Maybe not. Did Selene have a visitor? Olivia didn’t see anyone else at the house that day, except Selene. Olivia tried to focus on the dark form below but he seemed unpinned, transient, and elusive. He wore a hat like her father’s and a long trench coat. A sudden yearning for her late father hit her. She leaned against the rail. The deck groaned like a ship floundering on a wave.

Dad? Olivia called out. Her voice seemed to choke. Her father had been gone for over a year. How she missed him. Is this really him, visiting me, telling me I did the right thing, coming back? Her breath plumed outward and with it, the hairs on her arms stood up. Something wasn’t right.

This tall man, in a wide brimmed hat, stopped walking when he heard her voice. He turned and looked up at Olivia. Olivia thought he looked old, and sad. He seemed to radiate loneliness. She wanted to cry from the depth of his ache. She could see his gently glowing face, pale, with black eyes, cheeks hollowed out, as if he were starved.                               

In his left hand was a coil of rope. He nodded to Olivia, then turned away, walking …Olivia saw…off the end of the patio, his form dissolving into the gulch. 

Sound came back to her ears, cars on the freeway, and an owl, hooting loudly. The warmth of summertime teased the early spring air.                             

Olivia ran back inside. She turned on all the outside lights. Grabbing a broom, she began to sweep the deck, watching the canyon as she did so. Sobs left her.                                     

Olivia? Peter’s voice made her jump. He was holding up his phone. Did you get the call too? Do you want to go up to the hospital? Randall lived and worked up in the City, San Francisco.      

What? Olivia came inside and shut the sliding glass door. . What are you talking about? She looked down at Peter’s phone. The light from its huge screen illuminated both their faces.

Peter frowned and reached out to hold her shoulders. You didn’t get the call?

My phone’s on the charger in the bookshelf. Olivia let Peter wipe her face free of tears.

Your brother’s been shot. But he’s okay. We can go see him right now if you want.

Olivia turned away from Peter and ran out the front door. Compelled by reasons she would later understand, she went next door. Peter did not follow. Olivia did not care.

The door opened before Olivia could pummel on it.

Peter just called. I’d be happy to sit with Olive while you go up to the City, Selene said calmly, placing a hand on Olivia’s bare shoulder. Selene closed her front door quietly behind her and walked Olivia back through their shared yard into Olivia’s own house.

Randall’s stable. By the time we get up there he probably can have visitors, Peter announced as he handed Olivia her coat.

I saw….I… Olivia began to weep. Someone on the patio….

Selene helped Peter put a sweater across Olivia’s shoulders.

Go. Don’t worry. I’ll stay here until you return and if you can’t make it back by morning, I’ll take Olive to school. No worries. Let me know how things turn out.

Olivia watched as Selene waved to them from the door of their new home. It was as if her mother had come back to help her. Olivia wept with gratitude. Yes, she’d finally come home.

PROLOGUE

Ohio, 1841

Thunder began. The rain came. It followed the preacher’s last words. Then the funeral service was done. The rain fell thick, but it moved no one. The fugitive slave’s hands slipped on the casket’s slick support rope. The pine box fell flat into the deep hole, landing with an ominous crack.

Andrew had never seen his mother cry. As he watched his father’s white pine casket fall into the damp ground, his mother began to cough, deeply and without pause. He wanted to comfort her, but his sister Cynthia held him back.

Let her cry Jack, Cynthia said softly. She’s just sobbing from the deep places of her soul, Her husband Jonathan said, just as his father would have done, on a day like this, in front of the fire.

How Andrew loved his father’s fireside storytelling. Andrew’s own grief welled up into his throat. He wanted to vomit. He could hear his father’s voice now, as if he were standing beside him.

Never forget that the African is like the Scots in America, like the Catholic Jacobites and us Presbyterians, they were too poor to stand against the English who killed any, even women and children, who so much as sniffled in their presence. - (Here Pah would pinch his sister Elizabeth’s usually runny nose.) - Your Great grandfather Roy stood against these wealthy aristocrats, exclaimed that Robert the Bruce was his true king, and ran into the hills and heather,- (Andrew loved the way he rolled his ‘r’s when he said this word) - and drove them from our village. No more would they do terrible hurtful things to our children and their mothers, no more would they force them to labor and serve against their will because they were the English. And so must we remember that no man has the power over another. May we always fight for those who cannot defend themselves, (Pah said this last part with a grand gesture of uplifted arms like the preacher in the pulpit, to save the Africans from these New English Plantation owners in the South.)

Andrew studied what remained of his family. His eldest sister Sophia and her husband Henry stood arm in arm by the graveside, his baby sister Elizabeth, clinging to Sophia like a vine. Cynthia, two years younger than Sophia, held his baby brother Uriah, who blessedly slept upon her shoulder, while Cynthia’s husband Jonathan spoke to the fugitive slaves. Margaret, his favorite sister, two years younger than Andrew, held Andrew’s hand. And then, his mother, leaning between his older sisters Cynthia and Sophia, was sobbing without sound. Margaret clenched Andrew’s hand. Elizabeth, his baby sister cried relentlessly. Andrew noticed how tall Elizabeth had gotten, almost as tall as Sophia, who at her best posture came only to Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew himself had just grown again, this summer of his fourteenth year.

The fugitive slaves they had been sheltering only days ago, quickly grabbed the handles of waiting shovels. Anxious, looking up at the dark clouds, their foreman held up his hand in pause, waiting for the lightening to strike.

Isaac Sloan had just died in the barn, collapsing as a Southern bounty hunter tried to beat the truth out of him. But even if he had been hale, and not heart sick, the passion Isaac Sloan had held for helping the runaway slaves gave him strength enough to endure several blows to his face and several kicks to his gut.

Isaac Sloan’s belief that his own life was worth the freedom of those who suffered had infected all of them. For years, they sheltered, fed, and protected runaway slaves, helping them find the same freedom Isaac, himself had searched for, and found, in America. But now, Andrew saw, with Pah and the Southern policemen both dead, their work was finished.

They were all fugitives on the run now. Black and White.

We need to get to Fort Wayne, Jonathan Guild, his brother-in-law said under his breath.

We need to do a lot of things, Cynthia answered her husband sharply.

California is the only place for us to go to now, Henry, Andrew’s other brother-in-law stated quietly. I hear there are mountains of gold there.

Henry, more would go every day, including the Union Army if that were true, Sophia chided.

I simply think we should join the wagon train to San Bernadino, or at least to El Dorado, Henry added, urgently, and quietly.

First let‘s get to Fort Wayne, Jonathan said, looking at his wife for permission.

Andrew saw that Cynthia didn’t want her new husband to go to the Gold Country, but what else could any of them do? They could not stay here. More Southerners crossed the River every day looking for runaway slaves and the folk who gave them refuge.

I will miss him, Margaret whispered and clutched Andrew’s hand. Andrew merely nodded, closing his eyes, willing the voice of his father to be in his mind.

’You see ma bairns, the Africans are our cousins, in shame and tyranny of the English.’

It’s our duty to help all those under the thumb of English rule. Andrew found the words leave his own mouth. Margaret rested her head on his shoulder and wept silently. Andrew was the man in the family now.                                   

I’m so sorry, Missus, said Josiah, who was large and strong, and African. Andrew had learned horse riding from him between the times of helping the runaways. It’s our fault. We should have never let him shelter us so long.

Nonsense. His mother, though breathless, pulled herself up to her full height, equal to that of the former plantation groomsman. Slavery killed Isaac. The animals who hunt men for bounty killed him. Get going on to Illinois or Michigan. Get free. War is coming over this. Don’t make Isaac’s death meaningless, here she paused. The rain fell harder, hiding the tears on all their faces. Don’t you dare give up your God given right to live as a free human being, Elizabeth Sloan pronounced the words with strength, then toppled, coughing, sobbing, and groaning. Josiah bowed his head and came over to Andrew.

Keep what I taught you, AJ, Josiah said to Andrew. He embraced the large man warmly. Josiah’s fate was sealed. He had put bullets in the two men who tried to harm Andrew’s mother and youngest sister. By the time, Josiah was free to help Father…

Andrew did not see what had happened to him. Josiah told Andrew to carry his father’s body back into the house, in a soft-spoken voice that meant, Andrew could feel, certain destruction for the bleeding, beaten Southern man at Josiah’s feet.

Andrew stared down at his father’s open grave. He made a silent vow to fight the English from the Southern States. He let go of Margaret’s hand and grabbed a handful of mud. He threw it onto his father’s casket. The rain washed it off. Then more mud fell, and the pelting of shovels, moved in time to the thunder, until the white pine was buried.

Never forget, he said in Gaelic.

Here here! Said Sophia as she put down Elizabeth. Elizabeth came into Andrew’s arms, shunning the open arms of Margaret.

One by one, the Sloans left the graveside of their buried patriarch, then headed to their hastily packed wagons. They made Indiana by nightfall and spent it shivering in the barn of the Germans.

The next day, they followed the long caravan of wagons to Fort Wayne. Jonathan found them a place to stay, his mother’s old farm. Henry and Sophia stayed in town, helping an elderly woman turn her house into a small hotel for those traveling on to Missouri and on to California. Andrew’s mother, Margaret, and Andrew tried to sell small things, but no one was buying handmade lace or bobbins, and horses were being stabled at big hotels or in livery stables. Andrew went out every day to work for a meager handful of pennies. Uriah had grown out of his nappies, but had to be watched constantly.

The rumor of gold grew, and Jonathan departed, but with hope and a promise to send for them when he and Henry both had made enough money. Henry reassured the women that they were to come ‘round by boat and not risk the perils of a wagon crossing.

Andrew couldn’t stand the weeping of his sisters. The house where they lived was small and crowded, a testament to the poverty that they were trying very hard to rise above.                       

His mother took in laundry, his sister Sophia rented out what rooms they did have at her husband’s family’s house, and kept a decent income from those passing thru as a wagon train. Margaret’s hands turned red and bleeding from washing dishes and floors at the boarding house, making Andrew vow to provide them with a better life even if it cost him his own. After getting a tiny pinhead nugget of gold as a tip from a boarder passing through and hearing the man’s claims that North Dakota was rich, but not as flowing as California, Andrew knew it was time for him to go.

Andrew left Indiana in the company of other young men to fight a war for a western territory. Andrew didn’t understand why the United States was fighting Mexico, but he knew that they must, and that the pay would help. The summer of 1846 was terribly hot. The Company could barely grant him a uniform that fit. Andrew did his best to stay well, despite the lack of food, poorly fitted boots, and the incessant biting of vermin. He wondered about Jonathan and Henry. They had not sent money or a letter in quite some time. Some blamed the Mexicans, some blamed the Apaches, the Sioux, the wild lands in between. Andrew walked, with the rest of his company into the wetlands, the swamps of Arkansas. He survived, remembering the tricks of the slaves he had sheltered. Others simply died, from snake bite, from fever, from heat.

Andrew sent his pay home. He caught the camp sickness and the camp fever. He made friends, and watched them fight over scraps like animals and then, when they arrived at what their leader thought was Texas, they fought another company for food. Andrew forgot what he was fighting for. He was too sick to carry his own duffle. He shot others; he saw violence. He forgot what it was like to have a dream, a belief, and a cause. He craved an end to his life. He had failed his family.

The Army discharged him and offered Andrew a boat ride back up the Mississippi home but instead Andrew, keeping company with his only best friend, wandered west, thinking to find his brother-in-laws. His best friend found love. Andrew found the sea. He did not look back.

Part One:

Knights in White Linen 

1 

Santa Cruz County, California, 1861 Rodriguez Gulch

They came in the early morning, while Emma and her servants were still keeping vigil with Liam’s body. Wearing only a plain cotton shift, Emma went to the window. She could see the intruders. They were six men on horseback; two were her neighbors.

No one touches the woman. She’s mine. McKenna’s voice was unmistakable, heavy with a Scottish accent. Emma peered through a break in the curtains and saw the glint of a gold embroidered jacket. Yes, Faustino Lorenzana, her closest neighbor was out there as well. So was John Towne. 

The outline of his bowler hat was a round darkness amid the arcs of others. Burn the barn first! Towne yelled at the rest of the men.

Three days ago, McKenna had argued with her husband Liam about his formula for gunpowder. Then they argued about Liam giving McKenna contained shells for blasting. They especially shouted when Liam refused to use mercury to leach out gold they had found in the upper creek on Rodriquez land. Do you want to kill the Rancho’s folk? It will contaminate their land!

Emma remembered McKenna’s smile in response to Liam’s compassionate plea. But they are our neighbors! Liam had shouted back, the look of horror plain on his face. Liam wanted to ‘wash’ the silt out, let the gold settle on special mats made of Tule fibers woven so tight you could not see anything but the gold as the sand and dirt washed away. Liam wanted to share the gold with his landlords, The Rodríguezes. But McKenna, he wanted to know the true location of the claim. Liam refused. Now he is dead, and only I know where the claim is, Emma thought. That’s why he’s here now. To find the map to the claim.

Emma was barely fifteen when she met her husband. His name was Liam MacAree. He was a young talented mining engineer who was visiting his brother, Seamus, the husband of Emma’s cousin, sister to the Queen of Kauai. They married quickly. Liam and Emma returned to Santa Cruz with their son, hoping to help Emma’s father, the cousin to Czar Nikolai of Russia, realize that his land was safe from American seizure. Liam could manage it with help. He could grow their holdings even more from the money he made with his machines.

Liam had invented many wonderful machines. One separated boulders from dirt, another used water to drive a pick into the rock and break it up without the use of your arms. Some delivered oil through a small tube and made instant cooking flames appear in a ring over which you could hang your cooking pot. An engine, small but powerful, could run a flat blade into the water and push a small boat along the water or wash clothing in a tub. Others heated and stored water without the use of wood, but gas made from storing cow manure in a contained bin. He hoped to sell them to miners. Liam, his sea green eyes, wide with happiness, as he ate his pineapple. Liam, always eating whatever Emma cooked, claiming it to be of the Gods. Beloved, my Liam...

Emma looked at her servants. They were mostly Hawaiian Japanese farmers from her mother’s household and could barely speak English. She faced them. Hurry, go into the gulch. Follow it straight up to General Sweet’s land. Mrs. Sweet will help you. Tell them what has happened. Leave everything behind. She spoke rapidly in Japanese and gathered them all down into the basement. They knew of the secret tunnel that ran out into creek. They shook their heads, refusing to leave or move any farther. She found her sandals and put them on. Liam and she had planned for this moment. General Sweet, living on the ridge up top, had told them, always have a way to escape if you anger the Knights. You don’t live on top of the hill, like I do.

General Sweet had watched these attacks the Knights had made on other farmsteads with anxiety. He had told Liam and Emma that they would come eventually to any man who dared wed a woman who wasn’t white. They tried to come after him, so he took his young Ohlone wife and three daughters to Salinas, until the wagon got caught in a flash flood at the very river of his wife’s birth. Being a seer, Esperanza took charge and, (Emma remembered the story well), Esperanza said it was sign that they must turn back, and live as they were meant to, on the hill. They would simply defend it because, the future, Esperanza sang, demands it. Your name will become the road on which many living and dead will travel and experience joys, sorrows, and justice.

Emma would owe General Sweet everything after all this was over.

The barn exploded. They all screamed, including Emma. My Lady, you must come with us! Her head butler pleaded. Emma hesitated. She did not want to leave Liam behind, unburied. She crept back up the steps and went into the kitchen, compelled by the need to look at the intruder in the face, to convince herself that she could fight him, that she could stop him. How dare he enter this house! Emma shuffled across the planked, oiled, and varnished floors, and stared down the long hallway that faced her front entryway.

Boom! Something heavy slammed against the old European Oak doors. Her aunt, the Dowager Duchess Leonovna of the Russian Royal Court, had those doors made and sent from England. She could hear McKenna’s voice tell the men to hit the doors again. Faustino wouldn’t be one of them, she knew. Faustino had agreed to look like he was on McKenna’s side, to guide him away from Emma, and to keep them busy with looting, if they ever came. If I am there, run. I will distract them long enough for you to get away. If I look like I am helping them, they will stay away from our pueblo too. Trust me. Go to Don Alejandro at Carbonera. Faustino was her friend, someone she could trust despite the way he lived. His secret is safe with me, Emma thought, please let him remember that now and not betray me. Emma started to shake, in rage, fear, she couldn’t feel the difference.

CRACK!

The front door splintered. McKenna pushed through the broken timbers. His long, dark coat flared around him like wings of an evil creature. She only saw the outline of his hat, its two top bumps like horns of a demon. He hovered in the hallway, looked back and forth, and then gestured for a torch. Emma crouched down behind a sideboard.

Princess? I know you are in mourning, but ruffians have attacked. You must come with me, McKenna trilled, as if flushing out a lost family pet. You need protection. Please, come to me.

She smelled and felt fire. Emma choked, closed her eyes, and bit her knuckle as her sob threatened to expose her. She heard fire catching on her lace curtains in the drawing room.

Princess, where are you? Please, you must come with me. Let me help you. You can trust me, please, remember? Emma heard a sick thud. Something had toppled over. It was Liam in the casket. Emma recalled with fear, the first time she had met Ian McKenna.

Emma went swimming in the traditional manner, only in her shift. She came out of the waves, onto the sandbar beach near her Cousin Eliza’s home. Eliza was also there, and, like Emma, missed the warmth of the oceans of Hawai’i.

This water is too cold. How do you bear it, Hokua? Her cousin shivered and draped herself in Emma’s mink wrap, a gift from her aunt. Hokua meant star, a shortened version of Emma’s Hawaiian name.

That’s mink you know, from the court of my Uncle Czar Nikolai. Here Emma elongated and emphasized the Russian accent, bring a giggle from Eliza. Emma plopped down onto their blanket, salt water droplets spraying at her cousin Eliza. Eliza waved her hands towards Emma, exclaiming in Hawaiian how dirty Emma was.

And the Niihau shell necklaces you wear are from ours, Eliza quickly reminded Emma. Our royal connections in Kauai are just as important as your European ones.

Emma reached into their lunch basket. She found the last of the guava they had brought back from the Islands. She took a large bite, enjoying the juice as it ran down her chin. Eliza crinkled her nose in disapproval for Emma’s manners and gave Emma a kerchief to wipe her chin. Emma complied, then took some kukui nut oil and spread some across her lips. She smelled coconut in this batch of homemade emollient, Eliza’s own mixture, and now Emma’s favorite. Emma giggled her approval, bringing a satisfied smile to Eliza’s face.

The sound of harsh laughter startled them. A group of men staggered out of the bushes and onto the sandbar.

Who are they? Her cousin stood, clutching the mink. Emma also stood up and stared them down.

This is private land! She shouted.

Emma, her cousin whimpered. The men came closer, reeking of pig, horse, and alcohol. The girls didn’t know what that other smell was, but it overwhelmed them and Eliza choked on it.

Lost your way from the whorehouse? Give us a kiss? Better yet, give us some pussy! They lurched forward at Emma and Eliza. Two descended on the picnic basket, one grabbed the mink wrap away from her cousin. Emma reached down and threw a handful of sand at the eyes of her attacker.

Horse hooves crashing through water made the group of marauders freeze.

Five armed men, a private posse, in long coats and dark hats rode down upon them, one dismounting with an ease that made Emma gasp. He took his rifle and fired at the man who had taken the mink. The next one he also shot. Emma’s cousin screamed and fell to her knees, putting her hands over her ears. Emma grabbed her terrified cousin by the shoulders and moved her away from the scene as the other men on horseback grabbed the other two with lariats around the neck and dragged them off into the water.

The man who shot the two others strode forward towards Emma, and Eliza, who was now weeping and who screamed as the man came closer. He stopped walking, stood, and releasing his rifle with one hand, reached out his other in a gesture of calm, like we are animals, Emma saw with disdain.

I suppose you want your ‘reward’ too? Emma challenged, voice even, watching this man whose eyes were the color of ice. Emma released her trembling cousin, who collapsed, weeping, into the sand. Emma stood, aware that her shift was wet, that her body could be seen by this man. She didn’t care. She was married and a mother. He looked at her, his eyes following all that was visible, then for a brief moment, Emma thought the ice in his eyes melted and became cornflower blue. She felt sad for him. Emma thought he had never seen a naked human before.

I know who you are, He said softly. Her father sent us. This man inclined his head towards Eliza.

Emma’s uncle’s voice could be heard screaming for them. Emma’s cousin got up and ran towards the voice, but Emma did not move, nor did this man in front of her. Instead, without taking his eyes off of her, he knelt down and picked up the mink shawl. He placed his rifle butt up in the sand, then grabbed the shawl, strode forward, and draped the mink around her shoulders.

Emma froze as he wrapped the fur tightly around her. His face, smelling of lavender, came too near her cheek. She felt him inhale near her hair, like horses do when they want to know you. Emma pulled quickly away, but was his gloved hand caught the back of her neck. She looked deep into the cornflower blue of his eyes, seeing desperate unhappiness, anger, passion, and violence. She could not break away from his eyes, feeling devoured, until his lips touched hers. His tongue, like a serpent, flicked between her lips. She could not, and dared not, react.

McKenna!!!! Dammit man, she’s a member of the Russian Royal Court. Keep your distance.

The cornflower blue eyes went icy, his lips were slow to let go of hers. He released her neck. Emma looked away and down to the ground, feeling ashamed that she allowed him to be so intimate.

She is not Russian, he challenged. His accent was Scottish, like Liam.

She has the Royal Blood of the Islands too, you fool! Her Uncle’s breathlessness now came alongside Emma.

She should not have been left alone then, McKenna hissed. Emma’s uncle came between them, huffing and puffing from a stream of apologies, but Emma was deaf to it. Instead she watched the iced eyed, dangerous man leave, stopping only once with his back to her, looking behind him as if she had called him. Emma trembled with anger, fear, and resentment.

The next month, he visited the farmstead, following her with his eyes, still, and ice-like, as if he was waiting for the right moment to take things into his own hands. And whenever Emma was in town, he would ‘accidentally’ be nearby, helping her up into her carriage. But the worst of it happened at the summer ball, when he held her tightly to his body during a waltz, breathing deeply near the base of her neck, again, trying to kiss her in a recess of an alcove. He had no respect for Liam. It was as if he had already taken her and yet, he told no one of the beachhead, made no boast of the kiss.

Men die easily here. Should you find yourself unexpectedly widowed you can count on me to do the right thing. Emma refused to look him in the eye again, fearful that he would someday win. It was only a matter of time. The sickening sensation of helplessness drove her to learn as much as she could about him. What she found out, sickened her. He had owned slaves, and his father kept young women for his personal pleasure.

Idiot sot. You don’t deserve any of this! McKenna yelled, turning things over, breaking them. Faustino’s voice intruded: There are silver ingots in the workshop at the other end of the house, enough to buy your supplies for Poole. Faustino looked down the hallway. They saw each other. His eyes widened for a full heartbeat. Quickly he turned away, his back to Emma, blocking McKenna’s view of the hallway. He was giving her time to get away, just as he had promised.   

Forgive me Liam, Emma whispered. She scurried away through the kitchen and down into the basement. Her servants were huddling quietly around the cellar door. They saw her. One of her maids took off her own hapi to give to Emma, but Emma stopped her with a gentle hand on the maid’s own. The sounds of burning and breaking above them made Emma quickly move through the cellar door and down to its back wall. Liam had installed a false panel within the brick, hiding the secret cellar.

Emma struggled to recall the puzzle’s key. The clever levers of wood held the door unseen against the panel. Softly, like a spell, she began to recite the combination. Light as wind, she whispered, and pushed the Birchwood peg to the left.

Crash! Her servants cringed, looking upward.

Emma tried to focus on the rhyme and the lock. Dark as night, she murmured, and moved the ebony peg to the right. Voices could be heard, yelling above them. Warm as blood, the mahogany peg went in, Soft as silk. Emma heard the tumbler lift with a slight click as she slid the last peg, made of oak, into the hole. The door opened with a slight sigh.

Emma pushed her maids through its opening while the men watched from behind. One of them, she saw, had a short, half size tonto blade. She was grateful. Most likely, he had this with him regardless, a truly loyal member of her mother’s court, samurai to the last moment. Nodding to the other butler, they rolled a nearby heavy barrel of gunpowder for just this purpose, directly in front of the door. Emma blessed Liam for seeing ahead, and fled down into the tunnel.

After a stifling, frightening hour, they were able to come out into the Gulch. Everyone was covered in waste, as Emma thought it would be best to come out where the pipe from all the plumbing waters went. They ran gratefully, into the rushing waters of Rodriguez Creek and washed the slime from their clothes. Emma looked behind her in fear, wondering if they had figured out where she might have fled. She could hear the screaming of horses and knew that Faustino had collected his payment for silence. They were worth more than he stole all year, especially the Arabian Mare, a gift from her Russian Uncle. At least, if McKenna agreed to let Faustino have a share of the ‘spoils’.

Would McKenna kill Faustino? No, Emma thought, not yet, not while the Confederate Thieves hid out on rancho lands. Faustino was too smart to fall into that trap. Emma wished Faustino would not work for the Confederates. But he hated America, and felt it his duty to try and destroy it. Aiding the Confederate cause would create havoc, giving Spain time to retake California and restore the ranchos. He was a dreamer, Emma thought sadly. Still, his information on their movements kept all people of color safe most of the time.

Another explosion shook the ground. They all cried out, despite the danger. Emma moved up the creek as quickly as she could, stopping and listening for any sound of pursuit. It was getting near noon, but the light from the barn and house fire still illuminated the creek. Smoke drifted downward, making her eyes sting. They coughed, the servants holding the sleeves of their coats over their faces. Emma let the tears fall and her nose run. It’s all gone now, everything I have, everything Liam had, it’s all gone, and it’s my fault.

Emma led her servants up the cold, wide creek. General Sweet himself had told Emma, should anything go wrong, she was to come that way. He must be watching the creek, she thought. Sweet did not believe in the Yankee purity, as the local newspaper had called it. Yes, Paul would be on the lookout, especially after seeing the fires.

Suddenly out of the bushes, came three armed men. The servants huddled around Emma, protecting her with their bodies. Her butlers drew their tontos.

A short man with a moderately thick middle, cigar clamped to the side of his mouth, enormous Walrus (Emma had actually seen one once) whiskers, appeared out of the darkness. She relaxed.

You said ‘no’, to this suitor too, eh? General Sweet grinned but gestured to Emma to move forward. Emma hesitated. Well, com’on Your Gloriness, we can’t wait. He used both hands to move her forward, like a wayward child.

Take them, shelter them, until I can get help. Emma started to turn around.

"My Illustrious Princess, yeu are under my protection. Yeu are not to be that bugger’s concubine. Yeu are comin’ with me. And beggin’ your pardon, My Queen, but yeu are in your underthings." General Sweet’s eyeballs were bulging out of his sockets.

He can’t find me Paul. Please, I can’t risk you becoming his enemy. Please just take care of them. Emma then turned her back on her servants. She ignored the pleading, plugged up her ears and ran down the gulch as far as she could. Another explosion went off. Emma hoped wildly that McKenna would die in the house fire. She ran, through the water, stumbling on and off a trail she often used during her rides, moving towards Rodriguez land. If Faustino was anywhere nearby, she could ride to their rancho and hide, wait, create a plan…

She stopped once, to retie her sandals and rinse off the cuts on her legs from the low brambles. It seemed to be getting dark now. How long had she been wandering down this gully? Nothing looked familiar and it began to get cold. The gulch opened up into a meadow. She thought she saw lights ahead and the sounds of music and people talking. A great gregarious laugh echoed up to her. She ran towards it, but the lights seemed to wriggle and become distant, as if they were phantoms. Then all was silent.

Finally, she came upon the Soquel Road. Crossing it quickly, she found a barn. Then curling up like an abandoned kitten, she burrowed under the straw and fell into an exhausted sleep.

She dreamed of a tall man, ghost-like, in a dark cloak and wide brimmed hat.

2

Emma heard the barn door open. The rising sun spilled in, leaving her blind for a moment.

An old man cried out, then calmed when he saw Emma.

My child, what has happened? Have the bandits ravished you? Those white devils are evil. Please, do not be afraid, He spoke oddly but gently, as if to a small colt, and in old Castellano. She wracked her brain for the right words.

Don Arana? Emma recognized the old man, he mucked her stables and brought wood for Liam’s boilers and kilns. The wrinkled face crinkled with relief as he saw Emma.

Holy mother of Jesu! You are safe. The Iced Eyed Gringo is looking for you.

Has he come here? Have you been harmed? Emma shook at the thought of being caught. She was exhausted and wanted to give up, then grew angry at her lack of resolve.

He came and looked right in this barn and did not see you by the love of Jesu! Don Arana took Emma’s hands as if she were otherworldly. Emma suddenly felt self-conscious, standing half naked in a filthy shift and sandals. He wants me to go back up to your farm and put out all the smoldering wood, chop it up and make piles. The Lorenzana boy told me to listen to him and make sure the fire is completely out.

Emma started to shake and cry. It was miraculous that she was not found. She had slept through it all! How was that possible? For a moment, Emma truly believed Liam must have had some divine influence. Don Arana put his poncho over her shoulders and took her back to his home. Doña Arana had her oven stoked and was rolling out the tortillas on the stone. When she saw Emma, she cried out and took Emma to the bath house.

We have only these things for you. Esperanza Arana sadly gave Emma a set of trousers, long underwear, and a brightly colored shirt with silver buttons. There was a hat made of felt, and a bandana. They were Juan Arana the younger’s clothes, preserved tenderly on his bed. They tell us that he died of snake bite, but he was mistaken for Faustino.

They did not know that Juan Jr had been lynched by a mob in the hills, the same mob that Faustino was helping now. Faustino must have told them Juan had died of snake bite, Emma thought.

I am so sorry. Emma held Esperanza’s hand in common sorrow. She unfolded the tenderly washed and preserved garments as if they were made of the most expensive silk.

"My