‘A pair of potent warlords—a Hispanic general and a Suisun Indian chief—face a conflict that may alter the fate of their peoples. My tale of this day is historical fiction; it’s based on a real event.’
Like scraps of black fabric borne on a whirlwind, a small mob of ravens circled a tall valley oak before landing to curl their claws around its nodding twigs.
Echoes of their raucous calls rolled down the low hills to the long, slick, mirrored surface of the Petaluma River.
“What keen senses they have,” Narciso said. “To smell death before it occurs.”
Sem-Yeto rolled his eyes and grunted. “Their eyes are the most keen,” he said. “When they watch fighters with weapons gather? They know so well now what it can mean.” The chief of the Suisunes jerked a thumb skyward. “Condors seem wise in the same way.”
Narciso shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up. He saw the dark dashes of vulture wings cut wide circles through the pale skies of late morning.
“Do bird-people tribes hold parley with one another?” he asked. “I’ve often wondered.”
“They watch each other closely,” Sem-Yeto said. “Just as we try to keep an eye on what these Mexican-Californios attempt to do on our lands. And as they do their best to study our responses.”
“Well, on this day, I think we see those intruders much better than they can see us,” Narciso replied.
Sem-Yeto swept his gaze over the rolling, golden hills, then nodded in mute agreement. Though he knew that many thousands of warriors had answered his call to gather, their presence on this landscape was far from obvious. In fact, concealed in tree groves and behind hillcrests, hiding among the clumps of beige grass and long strips of riparian reeds, the warriors were mostly invisible. The sole braves who could be glimpsed appeared to be isolated scouts or sentries—precisely what they were.
“A future the condors and ravens predict is one we must consider,” he said. “When death arrives, how much of it shall there be, and whose share will prove the largest?”.
AN ORDER OF BATTLE
On a broad field a short way uphill from the riverbanks, they saw that the Californios had assembled their force, set up tents and commissaries. The chiefs watched a thicket of keen lance tips glitter in unison as soldiers performed a drill on an impromptu parade ground. These men were the Sodaldos de Cuera—highly trained combatants clad in pale trousers, blue coats, and thick cuirasses of boiled buckskin. A faint whiff of black powder gun smoke yet drifted in the air, from an earlier drill performed with pistols and muskets. Sem-Yeo hadn’t seen any field artillery arrive, but he had to assume that caissons and cannons had been sent for. The longer his tribes waited before mounting an attack, the more likely it was the mobile guns would appear and be deployed. They could play a decisive role.
Narciso, chief of the Wintun, turned his head to study Sem-Yeto, the man to whom he’d given his share of war-chief powers. That helped render Sem-Yeto a supreme leader for all the tribes, blending warriors from the Coast Range and the sprawling Sacramento Valley. Tribal elders had never heard of such a grand alliance happening in any time prior. Only a person with the commanding presence, the brains, the willpower and the confidence of Sem-Yeto could ever have pulled off this stunt. But such men were rare.
Well, large and unusual problems seem to demand large and unusual solutions, Narciso thought. And they did have a major problem on their hands. For decades, those implacable Californio settlers had confined themselves to the coast and regions around Ommu—or La Bahia de San Francisco, as the settlers dubbed that vast bay. Now, they’d begun to spill out to the north and east in an attempt to seize immense new swatches of tribal lands. Narciso just hoped that Sem-Yeto’s vast and vigorous, armed pushback could convince them to turn about and go home.
But far down on that broad, riparian meadow, the Californio forces had only begun to build a fallback redoubt if a local retreat became needful. Both blue-coated soldiers and vaquero volunteers in their cattle-ranch mufti swarmed together to dig shallow trenches and pile the released soil into low breastworks. Others were weaving brush into loose baskets—called fascines—that would hold gathered stones. Another uniformed brigade of mounted soldados galloped into the camp from the southwest.
“Perhaps we should have attacked General Vallejo’s troops a bit earlier,” Narciso ventured. “They seem to grow stronger by the hour.”
BUT WHICH TIME IS THE RIGHT TIME
Sem-Yeto knotted his big fists and scowled. “You wish to argue strategy? Let’s talk about this. You should never have let Vallejo’s couriers get past your warriors during our first fight, at Soscol Creek. If their message didn’t get through, more troops would not have come.”
“I… They appeared to be cowards, fleeing,” Narciso muttered. “I thought, we should just let these toddlers run home to hide behind the legs of their mothers. I thought, their terror would unnerve many others.”
“Well, what’s done is done. We must deal with things as they are. Each day brings its own burden.”
“Anyway, their horses move as fast as an arrow,” Narciso said. “If our tribesmen could chase them on such animals, more battles might turn in our favor.”
“Later on today, you may indeed end up owning a few horses. But if so, never again let a precious mount get chopped up for the cooking baskets! Not like you did last year. You can’t ride upon bones.”
“We were hungry.”
“I know.”
Sem-Yeto—whose Suisun name meant, “man-with-a-strong-hand”—stood up. That was a simple act but an impressive performance, since he just seemed to keep on rising. This famed warrior, known among the Californios by his baptized name of Chief Francisco Solano, stood a few inches shy of seven feet in height. And it wasn’t a reedy height, either. His bronzed body, stripped down to a doeskin loincloth for the fight ahead, displayed a barrel chest, broad shoulders, and arms thick with muscle. He towered over the short, bandy-legged Narciso. Still, that smaller Wintun chief had earned substantial respect on his own hook. He was no slouch in a fight, and was especially good at keeping track of any order of battle. Both were fully entitled to wear black feathers of a war chief, tied by beaded thongs to strands of hair at the back of their heads.
A GATHERING OF EAGLES
“How many of the tribes have joined us?” Sem-Yeto asked.
Narciso ticked them off on his fingers. “Suyonnes, Topaytos, Chiurectos are here in force, as are the Taqualana and Ochehamnes. Others have sent runners to say they’ll arrive soon. Except for the Satiyomis. Their chief Succara says he will never rally to you.”
“Succara.” Sem-Yeto glowered and spat. “I’ll settle affairs with that craven pup. One day soon.”
“So, we are close to 8,000. We must outnumber Vallejo’s soldiers, 10-to-1.”
“We outnumbered him 20-to-1 at Soscol. We lost 200, but he lost 2.”
“All right, but look down there again. His back is almost against that river. A big push puts them right into the water. Soaked uniforms and all that metal they try to carry shall sink them.”
“The fresh troops who came from the San Francisco and Monterey presidios carried barrels of powder and shot for their muskets. You saw how happily they wasted it on mere practice? Mounting a big push against them won’t be as easy as you yapping about it makes it seem.”
Narciso gave him a sardonic look. “I’m not too worried,” he said. “Since my thirst for vengeance is far from quenched. And your savvy leadership fills me up to the brim with courage.”
Sem-Yeto grunted. “Be sure you share that spirit with everyone.” Then, he stretched and smiled. “So, I think I’ll start things off by going down there to talk to their general.”
“What?!” Narciso was shocked. “Why?”
“It’s a Christian thing to do. Vallejo will respect that.”
“You said that you’d flung all their religious crap into a deep pit after you ran off from the missions.”
“Of course. Still, it helps me understand how they think.”
“How many warriors should escort you?”
“I’ll go by myself.”
“That’s mad!”
“I won’t go armed, either. Don’t want to make them nervous.”
“What of their treachery? Something that’s cropped up so often for us in the past.”
“Good point. Look, I’ll bring a knife. If it goes bad, I’ll take one of them down with me. Hopefully, several. Maybe Vallejo too, if I can get near him.”
Narciso tugged a knife out of a sheath that hung from his cougar-hide baldric and wordlessly handed it over to Sem-Yeto. It was an obsidian blade, bound to a manzanita-root hilt by deer backstrap sinew, fish-skin glue and fire-hardened pine pitch. Sem-Yeto held Narciso’s blade up to the sun to examine it for flaws. But it had none.
“Nice,” he said. “Thanks.”
Over his own shoulder, Sem-Yeto slung a fur-trapper’s “possibles” bag—a leather satchel suspended by a broad strap—that he’d decorated with that hapless Brit trapper’s own dangling, blond scalp. Within the bag he’d tucked the slain man’s white linen shirt, freckled with old, brown bloodstains. He pulled that out now.
A WHITE FLAG, NOT A WHITE FEATHER
“I need to wave this around as I approach them,” he said. “According to their custom. Which signifies that I come in peace, and to parley. However, if you see me swing the shirt above my head twice, to you the message shall be, ‘attack.’”
Sem-Yeto tucked Narciso’s naked blade into a belt woven of milkweed fibers that made several turns around his belly to hold up the loincloth.
“But should everything go poorly and I drop quickly, go on to launch your push without any signal from me. Make your first thrust only a deception. Charge, then halt out of effective musket range. Force them to burn powder. Your second wave has to be the real one, the quick one, as they reload. Drive them into the river, as you said. Their guns won’t fire when they’re wet. And I don’t think many of them swim very well. That should be interesting for you to find out.”
Narciso nodded. “Anything else?”
“On the other hand, if our parley happens to go well, it might prove useful to show them how many we are, how much high ground we occupy. So, if you see me lift both my arms up in a circle like this, ask everyone to emerge from hiding and move to stand in plain sight.”
“It is well, War Chief Strong-Hand. I sense that the Great Mystery’s power lodges within you, growing as high and broad and strong as the antlers of a bull elk. And so, I shall perform as you have asked.”
Sem-Yeto clapped him on the shoulder and turned to stride down the hill. He held the white shirt high with an outstretched arm. It fluttered in a mild breeze flowing up the river valley from the bay.
ONCE WITHIN THE ENEMY CAMP
Of course, the Californios saw him coming. Many pointed their weapons at him. Yet they also saw that white cloth, and they noted Sem-Yeto’s impressive size. Those who had only heard rumors of him gaped as an incredible legend took shape before their very eyes. None desired to draw near, either to deliver a first blow, or—more to the point—to possibly receive one from him.
Sem-Yeto saw soldiers cluster around a pale canvas canopy hung between branches of a particularly large oak. Under that canopy stood a folding field desk and a set of camp stools, as well as a wooden chair on which lounged a portly man wearing a Garrick coat with goldwork embroidery wreathing its high collar. However, the most impressive aspect of this individual happened to be fluffy mutton-chop whiskers, which curled down his cheeks to nearly meet at his chin.
It was Vallejo, sure enough. Sem-Yeto remembered seeing him as a junior officer back when he himself was just a poor Indio convert, snatched up after a soldado raid on his home village. Vallejo, in uniform, had ridden a prancing steed from the San Francisco Presidio down to the Mission Dolores to attend a High Mass. He certainly appeared to have been dining and drinking rather well in all the intervening years. Vallejo fixed Sem-Yeto with a steely, dark-eyed stare as he approached. Soldiers massed to block his path, but Vallejo ordered them to part with a firm, one-word command.
Vallejo then pushed himself up from his chair and stretched out a hand. “Buenos días,” he enthused. “Jefe Solano, puedo llamarle Francisco?” Meaning, “Chief Solano, may I address you as Francis?”
Sem-Yeto looked around to see the soldiers hadn’t moved off very far. They surrounded him on three sides, kept their lances pointed at him in a menacing way, and their faces glowered at him from beneath the brims of their black sombreros. Sem-Yeto bowed, took Vallejo’s hand, and gave it a curt, brief shake.
“Cierto. Solamente, si yo puedo llamarte Mariano.” Meaning, “Sure, buddy. Long as I can call you Mariano.”
The general chuckled. “Chief Francis, come and walk by my side for a minute, if you please.” He brushed the lancers further back with a wave of his hand, and led Sem-Yeto to the far side of the oak, out of earshot of anyone else.
LET’S GET DOWN TO BRASS TACKS
“This is a delicate situation we both face, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is delicate. And yet, it might also prove coarse,” Sem-Yeto said.
“I agree with you. Many lives could be lost here today. But it is not required that such a tragic event occur. We can tread a quite different path.”
“Which path might that be? One that you choose for us? And one you would force us to travel?”
Vallejo stared at him. “Allow me to take a moment to compliment you on your Spanish. You speak our language well. And due to your eloquence, I can perceive your thoughts are not simple or shallow.”
“I learned this tongue from your Padre Altimira,” Sem-Yeto said. “He taught me many things. Such as, young Indians should be whipped into the arms of your loving God. And altar boys can end up with tasks that go far beyond caring for any altar. Ultimately, I returned his favors. I taught him that wooden churches burn easily. And floggings can go in more than one direction. Those who lust to give the lash should also learn to accept it, which makes their wisdom complete. I have also taught these lessons to my people. They understand them well.”
“Interesting.” Vallejo absorbed this. “I didn’t know you had a hand in these events you mention. Now I see why your Suisunes bestowed a particular name on you.”
Sem-Yeto nodded.
“But do you know about a new event?” Vallejo continued. “Last year, I was placed in charge of closing or secularizing the northern missions. And I’ve sent the religious orders packing, Franciscans or Jesuits, that entire lot.”
“What shall take their place?”
“It is my honor and duty to pass new policies to govern the former mission lands. Any new cleric who wins his appointment does so only upon my recommendation.”
“You are a man of no small importance, then,” Sem-Yeto said. “And shall such a high status continue for you in the afterlife?”
Vallejo stiffened. “What are you driving at?”
“Soon, you could find many honorable tasks to do there, too.”
The general’s gaze hardened. “I know it’s useful for you to sound confident about outcomes today. Still, you cannot be so sure.”
“Nor can you.”
“True. However, there’s one fact about which we can feel entirely certain. The river of time flows in one direction. It rarely pauses, it cannot stop, and it doesn’t reverse. Even if you love the present, it will not stay. And a past time, even if you adored to the absolute utmost, shall never be glimpsed again.”
“How poetic. But break it down for this poor, naked, ignorant savage. What’s the meaning?”
“We settlers from Mexico came to La Bahia de San Francisco just sixty years back. The Russians arrived at Fort Ross twenty years ago. Señor Jedediah Smith and his American trappers passed through ten years ago. And the British Hudson Bay Company sent a party of a hundred trappers down here just last year. Which I believe you know well, due to a tale of your violent encounter with them.”
“It is true.”
“Many large changes to come press hard upon us. The United States pushed its boundary across the Mississippi River long ago, and now has its sights set on the shore of the Pacific Sea. Right here, in other words! Given the idiocy daily inflicted on us in the guise of governance from Mexico City and Los Angeles, I don’t think of that as necessarily a bad thing. At least the U.S. has semi-coherent politics and a functioning democracy. It’s not run by looney aristocrats who mince about the halls of power, trying to run our affairs at a distance with a head full of demented fantasies about who we are and what we actually need.”
FIRST GROWL OF A BEAR REPUBLIC
“More gaudy talk. What’s your point?”
“For a second, let’s imagine that your allied tribes can carry the field and so appear to seize a victory today. Unlikely, but I’ll concede it’s possible. However, if then you refuse to accommodate any newcomers, and also refuse to adapt to the oncoming times, you’ve still lost your war.”
“And what happens to you if you win today?”
“For us, it’s exactly the same.” Vallejo stroked his mutton chops with one hand while he watched this judgment sink in. Then he spoke in a lower, more conspiratorial tone. “But if you and I call off our big fight today, if we avoid a senseless tragedy, then perhaps we can join forces. Then agree on a future. We can create good lives for our people. And we can sustain and defend our way of life a bit longer. Do so together.”
Sem-Yeto put a hand over his mouth and stared at the ground. When he raised his head, there was a different look in his eyes. A speculative gleam, an enlarged sense of varied possibilities looming just ahead.
“Just say what you want, then. Speak plainly and be clear.”
“I wish to bring together the best of both our worlds, Indio and Californio. Right here, in the region to the north of the bay, where all land and waters yet remain unspoiled. Your tribal villages can stay as and where they are. But in other areas, let us raise good sheep, fat cattle and fine horses, let us farm and ranch, make tallow and leather, ferment wines and distill brandies. Watch the true promise of this rich land grow fulfilled. And during this special time of unity, with no arrogance, no oppression, without indolence or exploitation. Life as our Good Lord intended. Not according to all the lies and distortions we’ve heard too often for far too long.”
Sem-Yeto studied Vallejo, half-skeptical, half-trusting, seriously weighing these words and the character of the man who pronounced them.
Vallejo chose to add persuasions. “And for your tribes? I’d guess mission slaves might be the very last things you’d ever wish to be again. Too many of you have already suffered that. The rest of you have fled toward defiance.” Vallejo pointed up at the hillsides. “That’s why you’re gathered up there, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I actually don’t wish to fight you. Instead, I want to hire you all. I’ll need your labor and your skills. I’ll pay fairly and honestly, in goods, in lodging and in coin. Your people won’t be subjects but comrades. Indios, soldados y vaqueros, all on an equal footing.”
“Then why are so many of your soldiers here?”
“Why are all your warriors here?”
Sem-Yeto scratched his chin and looked dubious. “Let’s say we request that my warriors and your troops lay down their weapons, and they do. Then who is in charge?”
“As far as my troops are concerned? I am. And you can remain boss of your warriors, I don’t care. But in all other matters? We both are. Rome had two consuls, and so can this land. I see no good reason why that won’t work.”
“Don’t try to tell a silly joke,” Sem-Yeto scolded. “Once we’re vulnerable, and you order the soldiers to seize their muskets again and attack, they’ll do so swiftly, like this…” the Suisun war chief slapped his huge hands together, making a noise as sharp as a thunderclap.
“What if you stay close to me? What if I let you live right in my house, with myself and my family? Then, if anything goes wrong, you can break my spine over your knee like that!” Vallejo lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. “What if, right now, I offer myself to you as a hostage for peace?”
Sem-Yeto surprised himself with a spontaneous chuckle. “Then, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined performing the act you described.”
Vallejo barked a laugh of his own in response. “And I’ve long dreamt of seeing you hanging from a limb of an oak. However, now that I’ve met you, I’m willing to postpone the deed. Besides, after seeing you in person, I realize that selecting a proper limb, one stout enough and high enough, would be difficult for a hangman. It would take him much too long.”
SHOOTING THE MOON
Soldiers on the far side of the great tree, who’d been observing these proceedings intently, now set the butts of their lances on the ground, leaned on them, and glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.
Sem-Yeto sighed. He looked out across the writhing, gold-and-green expanse of tule reeds that bracketed both sides of the river, then up at the rolling hills with their mosaics of khaki and olive, of grasses and groves. He lifted both arms over his head to form a great circle, lowered them, then lifted them again. And human bodies, in astonishing quantity, began to raise themselves up from all their places of concealment.
The soldiers turned as one to peer out at this grand display of might in an awestruck silence. Vallejo pursed his lips. Sem-Yeto looked back at him.
“We don’t decide things in the same way that your people do, with a few leaders who claim they’ve made the only proper choice, then inform all others. Our tribes, our chiefs, our elders, our medicine women must discuss this at length around the council fires and reach a decision together. We’ll let you know of our answer.”
“When?”
“Let us say, during the full moon when the buckeyes ripen.”
“And in the meantime, peace?”
“Yes. Till then, peace.”
When they shook hands, their grip felt more firm and it went on for longer than before.
“And, another thing. Give me now the best horse you own.”
“What?” Vallejo looked startled, then annoyed. “Why? What will you do with it?”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” Sem-Yeto said. “Think of this gift as a sign of good faith. A gesture to soothe the heart and mind of another chief. One whom you should never wish to fight. See, not everybody up in those hills can be as reasonable as me.”
