by Jane Toombs
"Do you know where we are?" she asked.
"No. On the California coast, surely, but just where I can't say. Not within a hundred leagues. I thought the ship was far from shore. I was wrong."
She had never seen Malloy so humble. The loss of the ship, his ship, must have come close to destroying all his faith in himself.
"We have to join forces," she told him. "We can't afford to be enemies, not here. We'll do much better with two pairs of eyes to look for ships, with two of us instead of one to search for food and water."
"Have no fear, I'll not harm you."
For the first time he looked at her, and she followed his glance down to her bare arms and legs, to the damp chemise outlining her breasts and hips under its thin cloth. Instinctively she folded her arms over her breasts as she saw the sudden glint in his eyes. When he pushed himself to his feet, she drew back.
"I'll not harm you," he said again.
He walked from her and stood at the top of the beach looking about him.
"Can you recognize any of this from the charts?" she asked.
"No, none of it. I'd best climb one of those hills and have a look."
"I'll come with you."
"There's no need."
"I want to. You lead and I'll follow."
He shrugged and made off with his rolling sailor's gait across the rocks toward the grassy hills, with Alitha a few steps behind. She felt the wind change--a warm sun came out from behind the clouds.
After a time, without looking back at her, he said, "Why do you hate me, Miss Alitha?"
"I don't hate you. I don't hate anyone. It's not Christian to hate."
They walked on in silence. Did she hate him? Was he right? Yes, he was, admit it, she told herself. "You—you tried to force me," she said.
"I mean even before. All during the voyage from Boston. Is it my hands?"
"Of course not," she said quickly. "How can I explain? There are some men, when I first meet them I know I don't want them to touch me, ever. I can't explain why. Perhaps they remind me of someone who hurt me when I was a child. I can't give you reasons, Mr. Malloy. It has nothing to do with the man, how good a man he might be or what he does to earn his livelihood."
"You think you're too good for me." He sounded sulky, like a small boy.
"No, I don't. When I marry, it might be to a laborer or a sea captain or a farmer or a merchant. How well-to-do he is will have no bearing."
"I thought your intended was a missionary."
She stopped in confusion, realizing she had forgotten about Thomas. Of course she meant to marry Thomas. After all, she was betrothed to him.
"I was speaking in a general way," she said. "Not about myself." She looked to see if Malloy had noticed her white lie. Seemingly not, for he was walking quickly ahead toward the sheltered side of a rise of ground.
"Look you." He pointed near his feet. When she stood beside him, she saw the wet, charred remains of a fire. "We're not the only ones here," he said.
"Another shipwrecked sailor?"
He poked at the dead fire with his toe. "I don't rightly know; he's left no other signs. They do say there are savage Indians in these parts."
They resumed their climb, going more slowly now, stopping often to glance around them. When Malloy reached the top of the first of the twin hills, he looked about him and then turned to face her as she came up the last slope.
"I feared as much," he said, swinging his arm in a circle.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she gazed down and saw the sea crashing against the rocks to her right, saw a small sheltered bay ahead of them, the open sea to her left and behind her. They were on an island. This wasn't the coast of California at all but an island. Though she peered across the sea, vainly searching for the mainland, low clouds prevented her from seeing more than a few miles.
"There's isles all up and down the coast in these latitudes," Malloy said. "The Santa Barbaras, they're called." His shoulders seemed to slump.
"We'll find a way to the mainland. We'll hail a passing ship or build a boat of our own. There must be a way."
"No ships approach these shores. Unless they have a fool for a captain," he added bitterly. "And from the looks of it there's nary a tree on the island, nor food."
"We have the timbers from the Yankee. And there must be fish in the sea we could catch. And I saw pools of water left by the storm."
"I should be the one encouraging you," he said. He sighed. "We'd best find out what we're faced with."
They spent the rest of the day exploring. The island, she judged, was some seven miles long and three across, with the one bay protected by a reef. As Malloy had said, there were no trees, none at all, only the grass and a few shrubs growing in gullies. They found sand dunes on the lee side--the rest of the shoreline was black rock inhabited by thousands of birds. Other than the remains of the fire, they saw no other signs of human life.
As the day darkened, Alitha came upon a sheltered cranny near the dunes and dropped to the sand, exhausted. She was hungry, her head ached and she was beginning to shiver from the cold. Her throat hurt when she swallowed and her bruised muscles throbbed. She watched Malloy warily. During the day she had seen him staring at her, seemingly fascinated by the way her nipples pressed against her chemise and, when she walked ahead of him, by the curve of her buttocks.
Now he came and stood over her. "I mean to have you," he said.
Alarmed, she looked up. "You agreed," she protested.
"All day you've flaunted yourself at me. It's more than a man can stand."
"Amos," she said placatingly as she got to her feet. He watched her, waiting.
She turned and ran. When she left the sand, she heard his boots pounding after her across the shingle. Pain sliced into the soles of her feet and she winced. He would be upon her in a moment--already she could imagine him grasping her by the shoulder, spinning her about and throwing her to the ground.
Malloy grunted and she heard him fall. Slowing, she looked behind her. Malloy lay sprawled on the black rock with the shaft of a spear protruding from his back.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jordan Quinn rode the bay gelding slowly up the dirt road from the beach with Senor Huerta, the Mendoza rancho overseer, riding beside him while behind them Jack McKinnon sat next to an Indian driver on the raised seat of a mule cart. Jordan envied his first mate, able to ride in comfort while he had to make the four-mile journey on horseback. Damn, he was sore already.
In the distance he saw Indian workmen carrying mortar up long ramps to one of the unfinished towers of the Santa Barbara Mission. In front of the church water spouted from the stone mouth of a statue of a bear, flowing into a basin where Indian women bent over their washing.
"Don Esteban," Huerta said, speaking in Spanish because he knew Jordan was fluent in the language, "asked me to extend a thousand pardons for his unfortunate delay. He hoped you would accept my own humble presence as a small sign of his regard for the esteemed American captain who has come from far across the oceans to marry his sister."
This was at least the fourth time Huerta had proferred Esteban's regrets for being absent when the Kerry Dancer anchored in the Santa Barbara channel. Jordan controlled his impatience.
"I appreciate Don Esteban's concern," he said, "and I know that only the most urgent business would have kept him from greeting me himself. I will not neglect to inform him that you, Senor Huerta, represented him with all the courtesy and hospitality for which the Mendoza family is so rightly renowned throughout Alta California."
In fact, Jordan thought, he'd just as soon not have to see Esteban Mendoza at all. He'd never liked the man even before he'd learned that Esteban opposed his sister's marriage to a foreigner. Jordan was here for one purpose and one only—to marry Margarita Mendoza as quickly as possible and take her with him aboard the Kerry Dancer to Monterey.
Senor Huerta smiled. "You are too kind," he said, "to a humble emissary."
Ahead of them two Califor
nia oaks flanked the roadway at the entrance to the Mendoza rancho. Jordan, who had been a guest of the Mendozas the year before, knew that their lands extended from the rancho for many miles west along the coast.
"So must the gates of Paradise seem," Jordan said as they rode under the oaks with the scent of orange blossoms in the air all around them. He could match false sentiment with false sentiment any day, he told himself.
"The orange groves are white with blooms," Huerta told him. "This year will be a good one for all of us. The cattle are branded, the sun following the rains will speed the crops, the orchards are in leaf and—a crown upon our crown of happiness—Senorita Margarita will soon wed the man of her choice, the gallant Capitan Jordan Quinn of the stout ship Kerry Dancer."
Jordan sketched a bow, reluctant to do even that for fear of losing his balance in the saddle. He made no reply, realizing when he was clearly overmatched in the contest of exchanging empty compliments.
They rounded a turn in the road and saw the two-story Mendoza casa set against the green background of the Santa Inez Mountains. A horseman, his black steed at a walk, the silver ornaments of his jacket glistening in the sun, came around one of the ranch buildings onto the road in front of the house.
"Bueno," Huerta said. "Good, Don Esteban has returned."
As Esteban approached, Huerta raised his hand to his wide-brimmed hat while Jordan clumsily shifted the reins to his left hand. He'd be damned if he'd salute the man. Should he offer to shake hands? On horseback he'd be risking life and limb if he did.
Esteban reined in beside Jordan, leaned from his horse and clasped the sea captain to him, then guided his black stallion a few paces to one side, rider and horse moving as one. The man can certainly sit a horse, Jordan thought with reluctant admiration. He'd like to see him, though, on the deck of the Dancer for a few days--he'd be sick as a dog. Jordan smiled at the thought.
Esteban smiled back, his white teeth flashing. He's a handsome devil, Jordan admitted to himself.
"I welcome you as brother greets brother," Esteban said, "not with great ceremony but with pleasure and in the spirit of comradeship. My people are your people. My home is your home."
"Don Esteban, whatever pleasure you have in welcoming me only equals half the joy I feel in being at last at the home of my betrothed and her gracious family."
"Well said. Already you speak like a Californio. In truth, soon you will become one."
"Never. I'm a sailor. I've been a sailor all my life and I intend to remain one."
"As for myself," Esteban said, "I love the sea. I have sailed to Spain, to Acapulco, San Diego and Yerba Buena many times. Never have I suffered from the mal de mer. Forgive me, I did not intend to appear boastful--I only wished to state a fact."
"De nada. It is nothing."
How I'd like to take you down a peg or two, Don Esteban Mendoza, Jordan thought. Why did Margarita's older brother always have this effect on him? Each time he met Esteban, Jordan's intentions were of the best. I'll make a friend of the man, he'd assure himself, and each time, after a few minutes, he found himself gritting his teeth.
Could he be envious of Esteban, Jordan wondered. Though he was not as tall as Jordan, the Spaniard who, at thirty, was Jordan's age, was muscular and lithe and sat his horse as though the animal were an extension of himself. The man had charm, too, Jordan admitted, or at least women seemed to think so. Perhaps he was put off by Esteban's small black mustache. Jordan distrusted men with mustaches even though he himself wore a beard. There was something almost effeminate about a mustache, he thought.
"Senor Huerta will escort Senor McKinnon to his room," Esteban said as they dismounted in the courtyard in the center of the Mendoza casa.
"I'm anxious to see Margarita," Jordan told him, glancing up at the gallery in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of her. "It's been almost two years."
"A lengthy absence kindles the flames of love. Be patient--she will come to us soon. I can attest that her impatience is the equal of your own."
The casa appeared little changed, Jordan thought, with the living quarters for the Indian house servants, the bathing rooms and the offices on the lower floor. The two men climbed the stairs to the gallery, which ran completely around the inside of the house and overlooked the courtyard in the center. Esteban pulled aside a beaded curtain and they entered the sala, a dark, cool apartment furnished with tables, two chaise lounges and armchairs made of cane. Candles flamed in brass and iron sconces on the walls.
Esteban went to a side table and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. He handed a glass to Jordan and poured the wine.
"To the marriage of Jordan Quinn and Margarita Mendoza," he said, raising the glass. "May their union be blessed with every happiness known to God and man."
They sipped the wine in silence.
"I deeply regret that I was unable to meet your ship," Esteban said after a time.
"Your emissary, Senor Huerta, was most profuse in expressing your apologies."
"Three days ago I and others were summoned to the rancho of Don Jose Ortega at Refugio Bay. He had received a report that Monsieur Bouchard and his men were about to mount an attack. Fortunately the report proved false."
"The pirate Bouchard? Then there actually are pirates in these waters."
“Of a certainty. A sea captain arriving from the Sandwich Islands told of seeing Bouchard's ships anchored there and hearing that they planned to sail east to raid the coast of the Californias. These pirates are men of evil who care nothing for life or property. And, as you know, there are few of us here in California to defend our lands. A few missions, each with one or two padres, a scattering of ranchos along the coast and presidios manned by soldiers who haven't been paid more than a few times since the troubles began in Mexico. We're kept busy controlling the thousands of wild Indians who rob and steal from us at every opportunity. And, though the mission Indians are not wild, who knows if they would fight with us against Bouchard?" Esteban shrugged. "What is one to do?"
"You could join forces with the Americans."
"I must smile. The Americans are two thousand miles away beyond the great mountain ranges. It takes six months and more for one of your ships to sail around the Horn. No, we'll never link our destiny with the Americans. Nor with the Russians at Fort Ross in the north. Our salvation lies with the mother country, with Spain. Or if Spain is too weak to hold Mexico and the Californias, we must make our own destiny."
"Spain is of the past. She loses her colonies one by one. And, as you say, the Spanish in California are too few. The future belongs to America, to the United States."
"Not in our lifetime, Capitan. Ah, I almost forgot. When I was the guest of the Ortegas, I heard ill tidings of one of your Yankee ships. She had the misfortune to run aground in last week's great storm."
"The Kerry Dancer had to wait out the same storm in the bay on Catalina Island," Jordan said. "What was the name of this American ship?"
"The Flying Yankee."
"Were there survivors?" Jordan belatedly realized he'd spoken in English, but Esteban answered smoothly.
"Seven men brought the ship's long boat ashore fifty leagues up the coast. They spoke of cholera aboard the ship, the captain dying, and of breaking up on a rocky shore. Only then, or so they said, did they abandon their ship. They had no notion where their ship went aground."
"Seven men." Jordan walked to the far end of the sala where three large windows came down to the floor, their green shutters closed against the sun.
"No women?" he asked.
Jordan glanced at Estaban and saw him shake his head "They spoke of none," the Californio said. "Do you know this ship, this Flying Yankee?"
"I saw her in the harbor at Valparaiso more than two months ago as we were putting to sea. There was a young woman on deck, the captain's daughter or wife, I suppose. I saw her for no longer than five minutes."
"Many years ago," Esteban said, "in Mexico City, I watched a Spanish senorita dance
la zorrita. I never spoke to her and I never saw her again. I've never forgotten her. I don't think I ever will."
The bead curtains parted and Margarita came into the sala. As she paused inside the entrance, Jordan caught his breath as he always did when he first saw her. She was so lovely, with her jet black hair falling in curls to her shoulders, her deep brown eyes, her small hands, her tiny feet just visible beneath her flowered silk gown. So lovely and so vulnerable.
She ran to Jordan, and he circled her waist with his hands, lifting her high into the air. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, Jordan thought as he let her slide down into his arms. When he embraced her, she offered her cheek for him to kiss. Though Esteban had turned away to pour more wine, Margarita's aunt, Dona Maria Mendoza, had entered the room and was standing behind her.
"I've counted the days," Margarita said, smiling up at Jordan. "As each passing day brought you closer to me, I marked my calendar with an enormous X."
"I came as quickly as the wind and the sea would let me." Jordan felt uncomfortable talking to her with her brother and aunt in the room, even though he knew it was the custom.
Margarita took his hands in hers and danced around him, making him turn in a full circle. He grinned down at her. She was so alive, her eyes shining as she smiled gaily at him. He wanted to gather her into his arms where he could hold and protect her forever.
Esteban handed them each a glass and, the mood broken, they stood awkwardly sipping the white wine. With the first excitement of their meeting past, there seemed to be nothing to say. Esteban finally broke the silence.
"The wedding will be held in five days' time," he told Jordan. "We had to delay making our plans until we learned of your arrival."
"Guests are coming from all of California," Margarita said. "Don Francisco Ortega, Don Pablo Grijalva, Don Mario Vallejo and so many others. All with their wives, of course."
"As usual," Esteban said, "my sister is more enthusiastic than accurate." Jordan, seeing Esteban smile fondly at Margarita, felt a grudging warmth for his future brother-in-law.