Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 455 Ripples (Part 1)

On the morning of February 19, 1641, the sea breeze from San Diego Bay, carrying salty, damp air, swept through the wooden fence of the De Alcalá mission, swirling up the dead leaves on the ground.

In the distance, a huge cross stands in the morning mist, the paint on the pine beams long since peeled off, revealing the dark brown wood grain.

The four earthen graves next to the base of the cross have not yet been marked with tombstones; there are only four sharpened wooden sticks stuck in the soft yellow soil.

That is the final resting place of the last group of Spaniards who did not survive the smallpox outbreak last year.

“Father, they’ve already built cabins on the north bank of the river (now the San Diego River),” Theron Mil Rosta, the head of Fort San Diego, said softly from his prayer table. “The scouts have returned and reported that there are at least forty new Chinese, and a small galley is moored on the shallows. Ah, and on the bow of the boat is their very distinctive red flag!”

The candlelight in the church flickered, casting indistinct shadows on the mottled religious murals on the walls. The faces of the saints in the murals had long since blurred, with only traces of indigo paint remaining on the Virgin Mary's blue robe, like a solidified bruise.

Father Diego de la Mireles, a 47-year-old missionary, put down his Bible. His thin fingers traced faint marks on the pages, his knuckles slightly deformed from years of holding a pen, and ink stains still embedded in his fingernails.

A black priest's robe draped over his thin frame, with a few drops of candle wax staining the collar.

He gazed out the window at the misty sea, a hint of worry welling up in his cloudy eyes.

“They really came…” He sighed softly, his fingers unconsciously stroking the cross on his chest.

“They’re also carrying…weapons.” Rosta’s voice held a hint of panic. “And all of us combined are only twenty-eight people. Unless we invite those Native American tribes to come and help us defend Fort San Diego, otherwise…”

Father Ramirez remained silent.

Last year's terrible smallpox epidemic was like the devil's scythe, taking away half the population of San Diego, including Father Juan of the parish.

Otherwise, he, a monk who should have been copying scriptures in the Mexico City diocese, would not have been sent to this colonial outpost forgotten by the Viceroyalty.

“Heretics…” Antonio murmured to himself as he sat in the corner, curled up on the bench, his coarse cloth shirt patched in several places.

He gently made the sign of the cross on his chest, his fingertips turning white from the pressure: "God will not tolerate them running wild on this sacred land."

His voice was hoarse, as if it had been sanded. Last year, smallpox took away his wife and children, and now he was the only one left to eke out a living.

Father Ramirez walked to the church door and pushed open the creaking wooden door.

The morning mist had mostly dissipated, and the distant sea surface appeared as a grayish-blue, with waves crashing against the rocks and making a dull roar.

Several seagulls skimmed over the crests of the waves, emitting mournful cries, as if wailing for the fate of this land.

Looking north, there was a lush forest, and the new Chinese were probably behind it, like lurking wild beasts.

“At this time last year, there were still more than forty brothers and sisters in Fort San Diego.” Father Ramirez’s voice was filled with a sigh as his gaze swept over a graveyard outside the fence. “Smallpox took away more than half of them; even the strongest blacksmith, Diego, did not survive.”

“Last October, I was entrusted by the archbishop to bring twelve immigrants here to continue to defend this land of God. If I remember correctly, the only ones who can now take up arms are Garcia and eleven other able-bodied men. The rest are either women or children, and three patients like Antonio who have not yet recovered.”

He paused, then turned his gaze back to the sea. "The messenger ship set sail two days ago, and even with favorable winds, it will take fifteen days to reach Mexico City. Waiting for the colonial authorities to send reinforcements will take at least another month. Therefore, Mr. Rosta, I suggest we refrain from any rash actions for the time being and make the best possible defensive preparations."

Rosta walked over to the priest and nodded. "That's what I think too. Based on the information we've gathered, they don't seem to be here for trade. They started building wooden houses and driving in stakes as soon as they arrived, clearly intending to put down roots. Oh, these audacious new Chinese! Don't they know that this is an invasion of our Kingdom of Spain?"

“Yes, those greedy new Chinese!” Father Ramirez frowned. “They’ve come all the way from faraway Oregon to California, and now they’re so brazenly building their settlements right here in front of us. This is a serious offense and a despicable provocation.”

"It is said that the Chinese in New China are a group of people without faith. They have no concept of God in their hearts, nor do they show the piety that should be shown to other religions. I don't even know how to define them. Are they pagans, or unbelievers (referring to those who reject Christianity)?"

“Oh God, if they occupy San Diego, then the fruits of our church’s decades of preaching will be destroyed. Yes, the New Chinese will resist the spread of Catholicism, stifle the Gospel of God, and change the faith of believers. I hope that when the Governor learns of this, he will realize this deeply and then defend the holiness of God and expel the invasion of the New Chinese.”

“Father, should we send someone to monitor them?” Rosta subconsciously looked north.

Father Ramirez thought for a moment and shook his head: "Let Martha deliver some tortillas, saying it's a neighbor's greeting. A woman won't arouse their suspicion. Let her take a closer look at how many people are in their camp and what their real purpose is."

Martha is a baptized Native American girl who just turned fifteen. Her mother died last winter from a smallpox epidemic, and she now helps Father Ramirez at the church with chores like pounding corn and mending clothes.
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At three o'clock in the afternoon, sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting dappled patterns of light on the sandy road.

Martha walked along the sandy shore, carrying a wicker basket filled with steaming cornbread covered by a coarse cloth with simple cross patterns embroidered on the corners. The hem of her coarse cloth skirt was covered with grit, and her bare feet left shallow footprints on the cool sand with each step.

The sea breeze lifted her headscarf, revealing a scar on her forehead—a mark left after she was roughly pushed and hit a stone by a Spanish immigrant before her baptism.

At this moment, her scars were slightly red from nervousness.

When she was more than 100 meters away from the camp of the new Chinese, two young men carrying muskets stopped her.

They wore gray cloth short jackets with tightly bound cuffs and trouser legs, and a cowhide belt around their waist with a short knife and a gunpowder pouch hanging from it.

One of the tall, thin, new Chinese men had bright eyes and was clearly surprised and curious about her arrival. He looked Martha up and down in her wicker basket and asked her a question in a language he had never heard before, his tone short and clear.

Martha's heart pounded, her fingers gripping the basket handle turned white, and her knuckles trembled.

She stammered in Spanish, “Excuse me, gentlemen… I’ve come to deliver some biscuits to… to the neighbors.”

She tried to keep her voice steady, but her gaze couldn't help but drift towards the distant camp, scanning it quickly like a startled deer.

Four or five wooden houses have been built, with thatched roofs that are neatly tied together with thin vines.

Several men were nailing down the support frame, and the sound of hammers striking the wooden stakes was particularly clear in the quiet afternoon.

They also erected a simple watchtower, supported by four thick wooden beams, where an armed guard with a musket was watching.

In the open space in the center of the camp, an iron pot was cooking something, emitting wisps of white smoke.

The two new Chinese looked at each other and exchanged a glance.

Then the tall, thin man carefully walked over and peered into her wicker basket.

Martha quickly lifted the coarse cloth covering the tortillas, revealing the still-warm cornbread inside.

“Wait a minute!” They gestured for Martha to stop there, and one of the shorter Chinese men ran toward the camp.

A moment later, he led over a young man with a Spanish appearance.

The young man wore the same gray cloth shirt as the new Chinese, except he had a leather notebook around his waist. His hair was short and neatly combed, unlike the messy hair of the Spaniards in San Diego.

“We are an exploration team from the Yongning Colonization Area of ​​the Republic of China in New Zealand, here to investigate ocean currents and the coastal environment.” Eric, the Spanish translator for the exploration team, gave Martha a friendly smile. “Our ship has malfunctioned and is leaking at the bottom. We will need to stay here for a while, but we will not disturb your normal life.”

"Are you... going to stay here for a long time?" Martha asked softly, her toes unconsciously rubbing against the dirt.

While asking questions, she also took the opportunity to count the people in the camp. There were no women or children, only young and strong men, roughly forty to forty-five people.

Their muskets were neatly arranged against the wall of the cabin, ensuring they could access their weapons immediately in case of an emergency. The brass ornaments on the musket shafts gleamed in the sunlight, far more exquisite than the rusty muskets of Fort San Diego.

A man wearing a straw hat stood at the entrance of the camp, writing something in a notebook. He would occasionally look up and glance in this direction, his gaze calm yet sharp.

Eric smiled, revealing his white teeth: "We'll see. The bay here is nice, the sand is clean, and the water is deep, perfect for mooring boats. We'll be your neighbors and get along well with you."

As he spoke, he took two sugar cubes out of his pocket and handed them to Martha: "However, all of this is on the condition that you Spaniards do not make any threatening moves against us. Otherwise, it would be very dangerous for both of us."

Martha took the sugar cube; it was sparkling and more transparent than any candy she had ever seen.

In Fort San Diego, she had eaten the white sugar given to her by the priest. It was pale yellow with a faint caramel flavor, and the two pieces of sugar shimmered like ice cubes in the sunlight.

She couldn't help but take a closer look at these new Chinese immigrants. They had similar appearances to their own people: flat faces, wide cheekbones, straight black hair, and gentle expressions.

They seemed quite different from the high-nosed, deep-eyed Spaniards, and their attitude was very gentle, showing none of the viciousness the priest had described.

On the contrary, there is a subtle sense of closeness, as if seeing a distant clansman.
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(End of this chapter)