CHAPTER 18: "A Letter and San Diego"
"Well, Diego, we have entered California." Señor Spencer sighed with satisfaction.
Don Diego gazed at San Diego in the distance and smiled. "What a relief! It's been such a long journey."
Jonathan nodded agreement. "It certainly has." He drew his linen handkerchief out of his vest pocket and wiped his face. "After a full month of traveling up here from Guadalajara, it feels great to be back in our own territory, does it not?"
Don Diego leaned against the boulder he was using as a backrest. It certainly did! They had been away from Los Angeles since spring, and now Diego was eager to get home. But first, he and the others had a responsibility to fulfill.
Felipe leaned against the caballero's side, sucking his index finger. Shaking his head, Diego gently grasped the boy's hand as he had done many times during their journey. From the day they had left the refugee camp, the young don had been trying hard to break Felipe of the habit.
Reluctantly and sullenly, Felipe complied. It was evident that he did not understand why Don Diego and Señor Spencer did not approve and would not let him suck his fingers as he had done all his life.
"Only babies and little children suck their fingers and thumbs," Don Diego told the boy, as he had done repeatedly. "You're getting to be a big, grown-up boy, now." He ruffled the boy's hair and smiled.
He wrapped his arm around Felipe's shoulders and hugged him to his side. As Felipe gazed down at his hands, Don Diego, in turn, gazed down at him. Now that they had reached California, they would have to start looking for someone to take him in.
If Señor Spencer's right, it's going to take a long time, Don Diego thought. My father will become worried that we're taking so long to return. It's September, now, and we've been gone since spring.
Frowning, he pondered that. Diego did not want to worry his father if he could help it. Somehow, he had to let Don Alejandro know what had happened and what they were in the process of doing, so the aged don would know why they were taking so long to return home.
I'll just have to write Father a letter, Don Diego thought. I'll post it in San Diego.
"Jose," he said, aloud, "bring me some writing materials. I've got to write a letter to my father."
"Si, señor."
Diego told Felipe to get up, because he had to write a letter. By then, the little boy had developed adequate lip-reading and sign language skills, so he understood Don Diego immediately. He scrambled to his feet and ambled toward the horses. Don Diego chuckled. Every chance he had, Felipe petted the horses. Sometimes, Jose would let him groom one of them, under his own supervision. Felipe had yet to ride one of the horses, though.
Don Diego frowned, puzzled. For a boy who so loved to spend time with their horses, Felipe had yet to ask to be allowed to ride one. Their size scared him away from the idea, no doubt.
Jose opened one of the crates and drew out a solid-gold inkpot, a collection of quill pens, and a sheaf of blank parchment. He grasped Diego's laptop desk and set the writing materials on it. Carefully, he lifted the desk up and carried it to his patrón.
"Gracias." Don Diego smiled. He dipped one of the quill pens into the India ink. Furrowing his eyebrows in concentration, he wrote the salutation.
"Dear Father,
"At this moment, it is early September, and we are in sight of San Diego. We are all well, and Señor Spencer sends you his regards. My uncle died peacefully in his bed, with all his loved ones gathered around him. My cousin Rafael stayed there to help his brother and their mother sort out the inheritances and other legal matters. He will return to Santa Barbara later. However, it's entirely possible that he will arrive home before we will, Father.
"A week after we left Guadalajara, we ran into a revolutionary battle. It was a terrible sight, Father; I'm glad you were not there to see it. All the revolutionary soldiers were killed, and so were all the residents of that village and many of the refugees who had gone there from other pueblos. On top of all that, the village itself was set on fire and totally destroyed. We were not hurt, fortunately--we were too far out of the way--but one of the cannon shells exploded so close to our location, it broke one of the wagon wheels. We had to send for a wheelwright to replace the wheel before we could continue our journey, so we were stranded there for three days.
"When, at last, we were able to leave, we found a little boy lost on the desert, six miles from the site of the battle. He's only seven years old, and he cannot speak or hear. We're calling him Felipe, and we have reason to suspect that is his legal name. His parents were killed in the battle, and he appears to have no living relatives in that vicinity. All we were able to learn was that his late father was a peon--a tenant farmer--who resided south of that area. His parents owned a burro and two goats, we learned, and they lived in a wattle-and-daub hut. We have brought him with us to California, and we're going to try to find him a home before we return to Los Angeles.
"The poor boy has been quite traumatized by his ordeal. He has nightmares about the battle at night and flashbacks by day, and he grieves and cries for his dead parents. He was half-starved and sick when we found him, and he's still frail, though much stronger now than he was at first. He is slowly learning to communicate with sign language and lip-reading. He has nothing in the world but the clothes on his back and a rosary which his mother seems to have bequeathed him. He prays with it daily, and without being told to do so. His sandals fell apart weeks ago, so he's been going barefoot since. We will have to get him a new pair in San Diego.
"We have no idea how long it will take to find Felipe a home. Señor Spencer and I fear it will be a long search, because the odds against finding someone who will agree to take on the responsibility are great. But we are determined to try. Please ask the good padre to pray for our success, Father. We'll come home as soon as we've completed our mission.
"With love,
Diego."
Sighing, Diego opened his laptop desk and drew out an envelope. He waited a few minutes for the ink to dry, then he folded the letter and inserted it into the envelope. He wrote the name and location on the envelope, then laid the envelope in the desk.
Señor Spencer is right, he thought. I won't rest until Felipe has a home somewhere. With someone. He smiled wryly. If my father were here, he'd be doing the same thing. He's such a kind, good, compassionate man, and he truly cares about people.
When the men had re-packed the wagon, they left the campsite. Not long afterward, they reached San Diego. As they pulled up in front of the tavern, a coach rolled into town. The coach driver stopped alongside the supply wagon.
Don Diego opened his laptop desk, pulled out his letter, and approached the driver. "Señor, are you going to Los Angeles?"
The man wiped his sunburned, leathery face. "Si, señor."
Diego glanced down at the envelope. "Would you please take this letter there? It's addressed to my father, Don Alejandro de la Vega. Please leave it in the care of the innkeeper, Señorita Victoria Escalante."
Nodding, the driver reached for the envelope. Diego handed it to him. "I will deliver the letter, señor," the man promised.
Diego turned to the others. "Well, let's see if we can find Felipe a home here, shall we?"
Over the next two days, they did just that, and they spent that night and the next in the tavern. Don Diego and Jonathan slept in one room, in a double bed; Jose and Felipe slept in another room (Jose on a single-size bed, Felipe on a reed mat spread on the floor). During their visit there, they asked the priest to get a new pair of sandals for Felipe. Diego took Felipe to farm after farm, while the other men approached the villagers who lived in town.
To Don Diego's dismay, but not his surprise, none of them succeeded in their quest. The three men enlisted the priest's help and the alcalde's, to make the process go faster. Even though they presented the boy in the best light and emphasized his good points, no one wanted the responsibility of raising Felipe. The priest argued that the mission was too full of orphaned children to hold any more; the peasants were scared off by the boy's handicap. Diego offered each family a regular stipend of money, so the cost of supporting Felipe would not hurt them financially. Not even that offer persuaded them.
"This little boy needs a home," Don Diego would explain, glancing down at Felipe, as they stood in front of an adobe hut. "His parents were killed in Mexico a month ago, and he has no other relatives that we know of."
The farmer would shake his head. "I got my own family to feed, señor. I can't afford no more."
Diego would nod. "Would you do it if I offered to pay for his expenses? My father would send you money every month, to do so."
The farmer would shake his head. "Gracias, but no. I got enough niños to look after, now."
Diego and Felipe endured that scenario as they approached farmer after farmer. After two days of searching, the three men decided it was time to move on.
"We'll go to San Ysidro and try there," Jonathan said. "If we can't find Felipe a home in any of the pueblos and missions south of Los Angeles, we'll go straight to Monterey and work south from there."
Don Diego nodded agreement. He gazed at the boy, asleep on the floor of the room the little boy was sharing with Jose, and sighed. "Felipe's such a sweet, gentle, lovable boy. It's such a shame that anybody would harden their hearts against him because of his age or his handicap."
His tutor nodded agreement. "I agree, Diego, but those things are all they can see. That and the fact that they'd be responsible for him. They just don't want that responsibility."
Don Diego sighed. "We must find him a home. Somewhere! Surely, somewhere in California resides someone who is kind and good, and who loves children. I don't see how anyone could help loving that child."
Jonathan chuckled. "Well, let's see if our own affection for the boy makes any difference in softening their hard hearts. In the meantime, we need to go to bed, Diego. We've got a long ride tomorrow." He glanced down at Felipe's new sandals. "At least, he no longer has to travel barefoot, thank goodness."
Diego nodded agreement. He had wanted to have a pair made for Felipe when the group had stopped to purchase supplies for the refugee peons, but they had been too rushed for time to do so.
Jose entered the room, and Diego and Jonathan said good-night to him. Going to their own room, the two gentlemen proceeded to get ready for bed. As he donned his linen nightshirt, Don Diego pondered their dilemma. Would their affection for Felipe soften anyone's heart?
END OF CHAPTER 18