“Machado is a good friend to Micheltorena, the governor of California.”
“He would be.” Sean was in no mood for politeness. “Have you any more tidbits like that?”
“Only that he is no friend to Pio Pico or Alvarado.”
“They are friends of my mother and were friends of my father, but that does us no good now. Neither has the power of Micheltorena, nor of Machado, for that matter.”
He put the wheel over a few spokes, glancing at the sails. He would head more westerly, try to edge away from the sailing routes to San Diego and points north. He would head for the open sea.
All day long they scudded over the sea, a gray-green sea studded with whitecaps. Several times he sent a man aloft and at the last report the other schooner was still headed northwest. If they had been seen, the big schooner was not responding.
At supper in the cabin he sat alone with Mariana and put his worries aside. He talked quietly of California, of his brother and his mother, and of Los Angeles, the tiny pueblo toward which they were sailing. He spoke mostly of the Señora. “She rules us,” he said, smiling a little, “and she is usually right. But you will like her and you can stay with us as long as we have a roof over our heads.” He grinned wryly. “Which may not be long.”
“Hadn’t you better think about that? You’ll have more time for thinking now than when we’re ashore.”
At midnight he returned to the deck, took a sighting on a star, then turned in. Tennison sent Congo for him at four in the morning.
Tennison returned to the deck after breakfast and the sea was empty. From the masthead they could see nothing.
Chapter 3
* * *
FROM THE STARBOARD bow Captain Sean Mulkerin looked toward the California coast which lay just over the horizon. The big schooner would be over there, beating up the coast, perhaps sailing a little slower to check the coves for hiding places.
Sean knew he was postponing the inevitable. Machado was a shrewd man, and he might sail right on to San Pedro and make contact with the authorities in Los Angeles.
A cold wind was blowing on this morning, and the sea was choppy.
At twenty-two Sean Mulkerin was a veteran of several years at sea. Born on the ranch at Malibu he had grown up herding cattle, hunting and wandering in the mountains, breaking wild horses, and sailing to the Channel Islands with the Chumash.
At fourteen he made his first voyage with his father. They sailed down the coast to Mazatlán, Acapulco, and Tehuantepec. His second voyage, later the same year, was to Panama, Callao, and Valparaiso. Another six months ashore and he was back at sea again, now grown to his full height of five feet and ten inches. This voyage took him to Hawaii, Shanghai, Macao, and Taku Bar. The ship had started for home when it reached Taku Bar and word of rich cargoes in the Moluccas turned them back. From there they had sailed to Samoa and Tahiti before returning home.
At sixteen Sean weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. Between the hard work on the ranch and at sea he had grown tough and strong. And at eighteen made his first trip as mate. By that time he was a veteran of dozens of brawls in as many ports.
The frequent wars and rebellions in Latin America had spawned a number of privateers sailing under letters of marque from one country or another, most of them with European crews prepared to attack any likely looking ship, whether an enemy vessel or not.
The Lady Luck, like many another merchant vessel of the time, was armed. She carried four guns amidships and a Long Tom on the stern.
Sean’s first sea fight had occurred on his first voyage, an hour-long battle with a privateer in the Gulf of Tehuantepec. Lady Luck’s amidship guns were below deck, concealed behind ports invisible from more than a hundred and fifty feet. The privateer, a brig with sixteen guns anticipated no trouble. Ordering Lady Luck to heave to, it closed in rapidly.
Jaime Mulkerin had been master of his own ship on that voyage. He was sure that he could outrun the brig but he needed sea room.
Expecting no trouble, the privateers had not manned their guns. They could see the Long Tom astern but no gunner was near it and unless the schooner changed course that gun could not be brought to bear.
“Load with canister,” Jaime ordered. “Fire at my word and try to sweep their decks. Reload immediately and aim at their water line.” He stood at the wheel.
His crew was six men, and at least forty privateers could be seen on the brig. Slowly the brig drew abreast, and at thirty yards range, Jaime gave the order. The ports flew up, the guns ran out.
From the brig there was a shout of alarm, drowned in the boom of Lady Luck’s two starboard guns. The unexpected blast of fire swept the deck of the other ship.
Caught by surprise the brig had no chance to man her guns. The decks were bloody, littered with the dead and dying, and her one shot had whistled harmlessly between the schooner’s two masts.
The Long Tom, loaded with solid shot, struck the mainmast, ripped a chunk from it and passed on through the afterdeckhouse. Jaime Mulkerin shook out all of his ship’s canvas and the Lady Luck began to pull away. Standing in the stern Jaime gave a parting wave of his cap.
It was his mother who worried Sean now. The Señora was a strong, capable woman, even more so since the death of her husband, and her present difficulty was due more to bad luck than to mismanagement. Some of that bad luck might have been arranged by those who wanted the ranch.
There had always been fires along the California coast. The chaparral that cloaked the hills of the southern coast was a thick growth of evergreen shrubs that grew from three to twelve feet tall, with small, stiff leaves and crooked branches closely intertwined to form an almost impenetrable thicket. There was also a variety of scrub oak, manzanita, chamisal, yucca, and mountain mahogany, all highly inflammable. In the hot, dry months of late summer and fall it was a dangerous combination.
Yet scattered among these chaparral-covered hills there were occasional canyons with running streams, their shores lined with valley sycamore, cottonwood, willow and other trees. There were also lovely green meadows, excellent for farming or grazing. The Señora had planted some of these meadows with wheat and corn. Her crops were growing spendidly when the fires came, wiping them out. The fires might have been accidental, or they might not.
Sean wondered if there could be a way out. For him, of course, there was the schooner. For his brother there was the Church. But what about the Señora? Since his father’s death the ranch had become her life, perhaps all that was left of her life. At all costs, the Malibu must not be lost.
Tennison came forward. “Cap’n? How do we go in?”
Sean thought for a moment, although his mind had been made up hours ago. He just wanted to review his plan before acting upon it.
“We’ll go inside San Nicolas Island,” he said, “and outside of Santa Barbara Island. When we come around Santa Barbara we’ll head right for the coast. I want to drop anchor off the kelp and get the canvas off her at once.”
“At night?”
“If it works out that way, and I believe it will. If the weather holds we can make it easily, and we’ll just lie up behind Santa Barbara until dark. No lights after that.”
When Mariana came on deck the sky was gray and overcast, the sea choppy with a few whitecaps. “What will your mother think of me?” she asked suddenly.
“She will love you.”
“How can she? When I bring you only trouble?”
He shrugged. “There is always trouble. One learns to live with it. A man grows through enduring.”
“Is that why you go to sea?”
He chuckled. “Of course not. I go to sea because it is a means to a living. Nobody in his right mind invites difficulties, you simply cope with those that do arise. But you don’t try to avoid your duties. As far as the sea is concerned, you learn to live with the sea or you don’t last. You simply try to conform.”
“What about people? Do you conform there, too?”
“Whenever I can, of co
urse. Why not? Most rules whether of law or good breeding are simply made to enable men to live together with less friction. If one lives with people he must always conform, to a degree. I see no harm in that, and lose nothing by it.”
He paused, staring off to sea. San Nicolas Island was ahead and somewhat to the west. He looked at it a moment, studying it thoughtfully. These outer islands had a pattern, and if one learned about them, navigation in the channels was much simpler. The Chumash had told him that the slightest change in color could mean a change of wind, often of current.
Yet he was scarcely thinking of them as he looked, for he was thinking of Mariana.
For two weeks they had eaten every meal together, had stood watches together, walked the decks together. Was he falling in love? That was ridiculous, and yet—
The Lady Luck was an honest ship, answering easily to the helm and carrying her canvas well.
It had never ceased to amaze him how men with good tools were able to shape timber and create something as splendid as a ship. And how a ship, once built, could take on a life and character of its own. How it leaves the land behind, gives itself to the sea, and how the rough timbers become translated into a kind of poetry.
Sean said as much to Mariana, and she listened more to the man than to the words. He felt it and was disturbed. He was not quite sure what was the right thing, and he wanted to do the right thing. His years at sea had not made him a cynic, nor had they hardened him, and he knew what proximity on shipboard could do to people and how quickly it could disappear once they were on the beach again.
“We’ll be going in,” he said, “as soon as it is dark.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not for us. We’ve sailed this coast many times, and I’d rather they not see us until we’ve met and talked to my family. I want them to have a chance to meet you and understand what has happened.” He hesitated for a moment. “We may have to leave then. Have you any friends up this way? Any relatives?”
“No.”
He hunched his shoulders inside his coat, staring at the rough shoulder of Santa Barbara Island.
“Why not let me take you back to your uncle?”
She turned to stare at him. “Do you want me to go back?”
Uncomfortably, he avoided her eyes. “No. Whatever is best for you.”
“If I went back to him he would simply hold me for Andres. They made an arrangement.”
He turned away from the subject, thinking about what Machado might do. Would he sail up the coast? More likely, he would come overland to the ranch, and that could mean a fight.
What was Sean doing to the Señora, anyway?
Maybe they should run for it, up the coast to Monterey, and go to Alvarado. He was no longer in power but he had influence, and even the governor would hesitate to invite trouble with him.
The schooner moved out from behind the island, caught the wind, and began a run for the coast. Behind them the sun declined, the peaks on the island took on a reddish glow, and the sea grew darker.
When Tennison came on deck to relieve him Sean said, “Nothing in sight, but keep an eye open for Indians, some of them may be running in for the coast now.”
“Cap’n?” he said suddenly. “I’ve put by a few dollars. If the Señora—”
“Thanks, Ten. We’ll make out. We need a big chunk, several thousand dollars, and that kind of money is scarce on this coast.”
“Don’t you be takin’ that Machado lightly,” Ten said. “He’s killed a half-dozen men in duels, and some of them for little or nothing.”
“Hold her steady, Ten. If the wind holds we should be up to the kelp by midnight or a little after. I’ll be up to take her in.”
The coast lay dark along the horizon now, the Santa Monicas a serrated blackness against the sky and the stars. It was warm and still in the cabin, the brass lamp turned low, swinging gently with the movement of the schooner.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly, “tomorrow we’ll be home, and I hope all’s well.”
Chapter 4
* * *
IT WAS COMPLETELY dark when Sean returned to the deck. He closed the door behind him so that no light would show, and the schooner’s lights had been extinguished. They were moving slower now under a jib and fo’c’s’le.
There was a light breeze, and the clouds were broken, allowing a glimpse of stars from time to time. Before them the shore was a black, ominous wall.
“We’re coming up to the kelp,” Tennison said. “The point is yonder.”
A light appeared suddenly atop a ridge back of the point. “There it is,” Tennison muttered. “Your man never misses.”
“I hope he never does,” Sean replied, “but tonight we could take her in, anyway.”
The light atop the ridge, as both Tennison and Sean knew, was actually in a niche in the rocks that could not be seen except from the sea, and at that only from certain angles.
Taking the wheel Sean guided the Lady Luck along the edge of the kelp. The cove was about two miles northeast of the point. There was a reef to be avoided just south of the point, and a breaking rock closer in. Where he wanted to anchor was just outside the kelp with a sand bottom at about seven fathoms.
They moved on slowly, and after a few minutes Sean said, “All right, Ten, let go the anchor.”
He listened to the anchor running out, timing the chain as it ran through the hawsehole. The crew were furling the sails, and soon the schooner lay under bare poles, her dark green hull lost against the kelp and the shoreline.
Tennison came aft again. “Dinghy’s over, Cap’n. You want we should stand by?”
“Do that. If anything develops while I am gone, use your own judgment. If they come after you by boat, take ’em through the kelp. You know where it can be done and they do not.”
Congo had dropped a rope ladder over the side. “Your rifle, sah,” Congo’s voice was soft for such a big man, carrying the warmth of the West Indies in its tone. “I thought you might be needing it, sah.”
“Thanks, Congo.”
Mariana came on deck, wrapped in her serape.
Sean Mulkerin went over swiftly, almost dropping into the bobbing boat. He held the ladder while Mariana came down, showing some caution but no hesitation. She was a girl, he decided, about whom there was very little nonsense, and she could act as swiftly on occasion as he himself.
Congo followed, and sat at the oars. He pushed off into the darkness.
The water was black, with only a few ripples from the kelp. They could hear the rustling of the surf on the sand. Congo used the oars only to give direction. There was just enough sea running to carry them in.
It was very dark and still. Looking up, Mariana saw one lone star peeping through a rift in the clouds. Congo pulled strongly and she felt the bow grate on the sand. Sean leaped over and pulled the boat higher, then extended a hand to help her ashore.
“Go back, Congo, and thanks.”
The big black man shoved the boat into the water, then stepped in. “Cap’n, if you want, I can sure come back. If there’s fightin’ to do—?”
“You’d be the first I’d call,” Sean said, “and thanks again. Take care of the Lady Luck for me.”
A cool wind blew along the sand and they stood together watching the boat, listening to the chunk of the oars in the oarlocks.
They walked along the dark beach, pausing from time to time to listen. Sean was wary. He could have chosen to anchor in Dume Cove, which was closer to the ranch house, but if Machado was already searching for them, that was where they would look to find the schooner.
“Is it far?” she asked after a minute.
“A few minutes, that is all. You will rest well tonight and the Señora will find some proper clothes for you.”
“She will hate me. I bring you trouble.”
“She will love you.” He hesitated. “Mariana, one thing you should know, and which you will see soon enough. My mother is a very beautiful woman.”
“
But of course—!”
“I do not mean she is beautiful because she is my mother, she is simply beautiful…and very Irish. She will love you, but she is strong-minded, perfectly capable of holding her own with anyone.”
“How does such a strong woman have a strong son? Often it is otherwise.”
“We had a strong father, but they never opposed each other, they worked as a team. It was a revelation to many people.”
The cart was there, with one horse. It took shape from the darkness, and then they saw Jesus Montero sitting on the sand close by, a rifle across his knees.
The Californios Page 3