Again I remembered those long plains over which we had passed, the great tower and broken battlements of El Morro, the magnificent vistas of plain, mountain, and forest Whatever else my father had given me, he had given me a chance to see these, to know them, to live with them.
I thought of Francisco. Who had been his Homer? What stories had he heard beside the campfire when the winter winds chilled the flesh? For it was in the winter the Indians told their stories.
Over the fire that night, Jacob warned me, “Don’t you be expectin’ too much. It will remind you some’at of Santa Fe, but Miss Nesselrode, she says we shouldn’t be fooled by it. She says Los Angeles will be a great city, an’ the best thing ever happened to it was when those beaver pelts fell in price. She told me one time, she said, ‘Mr. Finney, it will be silk hats that build Los Angeles, because when over in Europe they stopped wearing beaver hats and switched to silk, it started all of those very wise, very bold mountain men looking for new ways to get rich.’”
He added sticks to the fire. “Now, don’t you be judgin’ all Californios by your grandpa. By an’ large, there aren’t any finer folks livin’. Generous to a fault, give you the shirt off their backs, and do it graciously and with an air. “There’s another thing. They’re proud of bein’ Californios. They don’t consider themselves Spanish, nor do they think of themselves as Mexicans, although there’s plenty of those, too. They call themselves Californios, and although Los Angeles ain’t much, right now it is the biggest town in California, and you’ll see why they love it.
“But she’s rough! I mean, almighty rough! There’s good folks aplenty, but there’s some of the meanest people unhung. Kill you soon as look at you. “Pistol or knife, but mostly it’s knives in Sonora Town. Back to the east, when a man wants to do you harm, he takes up a shootin’ iron of some land, but out here it can be a shootin’ iron or it can be a knife or anything handy. You got to remember that folks were killin’ each other with rocks and clubs for a million years before anybody invented a pistol. So be careful. Learn to handle yourself and to handle weapons, but mostly you just learn to guard your tongue. A man out here who speaks careless of others will soon only have a marker in the graveyard.”
We had been lying in our blankets, and the last coals were smoldering when suddenly Jacob raised up on his elbow, knowing I was awake. “You listen to Miss Nesselrode, boy. She ain’t no mountain man, but she’s one of those who will make the wheels turn. I seen that right off. “You just set back an’ watch that woman operate. Ever’ time she flutters her lashes or turns her parasol, she’s figured out some new way to make a dollar!” But I was not thinking of Miss Nesselrode, nor of my father; I was just thinking of how wonderful it was to be riding west into a new land, and to be sleeping under the stars.
My last thought was not of that warm and sunny place called Los Angeles, it was of my grandfather, the one who had my father killed and who created the fear with which I lived.
Eighteen
The night was clear and cold, with many stars. The wind off the sea was fresh when we rode down to the water’s edge. Out upon the water we could see lights from a dark hulk beneath bare poles, a ship at anchor. “Brought you roundabout, Hannes. We’re ridin’ into town like I met you here as you come off the boat. We’ll stay the night down here at the harbor.” He turned his horse and rode toward a shack that stood back from the water’s edge near a small dock where two boats were tied up. There was a corral beside the house, with two horses already there.
A single light was burning in the shack, and Jacob rapped on the door without dismounting.
“Who’s there?”
“Jacob. It’s Jake Finney, Cap.”
The door opened and a square-shouldered old man stared from him to me. “Is this the young rascal who sailed around from Bedford with me?” “Yes, sir,” I said, “and a fine voyage it was, too, except for that bit of rough weather off the Horn.”
The old man stared at me, and then he smiled, “Well! He’s got a quick tongue, Jacob. Let’s hope he has the brain to go with it.” “I liked stopping at the Galapagos,” I said, enjoying it, “and the turtles we took aboard there.”
The captain glared at me. “Who did you say this lad was, Jacob?”
“Zachary Verne’s boy. Grandson of old Adam Verne, if you remember.” “Remember? How could I forget him? My first two voyages to the Pacific were made with him. Adam Verne’s grandson, eh? Well, I’ll be damned!” He took his pipe from his mouth. “Where’s your pa, boy? I knew him well.”
“He’s gone, sir. Passed away. Murdered, actually.” “That’s why the trickery, Cap. The lad’s in danger. They believed they’d done for him, too.”
“Then why risk it, lad? Come aboard my ship and you can sail to China. I’ll sign you on as cabin boy, and before long you’ll learn to navigate and be a ship’s master like your grandpa.”
“Thank you, sir, but I am expected in Los Angeles.” “Miss Nesselrode will see to his education, Cap. She promised Zack Verne she’d do that.”
“Nesselrode, eh? Well, I’d not say it of another woman I know, but if she intends to see after the lad, it will be done. If there’s ever a woman should wear pants, it’s she.”
“It would be a pity, sir, lovely as she is.”
“Eh? Oh, yes, of course. She’s a handsome woman. That’s the trouble, Jacob, dealing with a handsome woman is unsettling to a man. When he should have his mind on business, he’s thinkin’ of other things.” He stepped back. “Come in, lad. You an’ me can talk some while Jacob puts up the horses.”
It was a long, low room with tiers of bunks along one side, all neatly made up. Directly ahead was a table and two benches, and on the left side a fireplace with a small fire going.
“The bunks are clean. No bugs, I mean. You pick whichever suits you and dump your gear.” He seated himself at the table and reached down to the hearth for the coffeepot. “You drink coffee, lad? I don’t think much of it for young folks, but there’s nothing else hot.”
“I’ll have a bit, sir. Just a bit.”
The captain knocked the ash from his pipe on the edge of the hearth and began to stoke it anew. “Knew your pa, but your grandpa better. They were good men, good men.” He struck a match and sucked on the pipe. “Your pa was killed? Must have taken some doin’, as I remember him. He was a fightin’ man when need be.”
“There were several of them, sir, and he took time to push me out of the way. He got at least one of them, wounded another, I think.” “That’s like him. There was no quit to him, but always a thoughtful man.” The captain puffed at his pipe and glanced at me from quizzical blue eyes. “If you an’ Miss Nesselrode don’t hit it off, lad, you just be on the beach next time I come to port. You’ll be welcome aboard. You’ve the sea in your blood, and I’ll see you’ve a chance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That Miss Nesselrode, now. Jacob tells me you came west on the wagon with her.
She get a case on your pa?”
“I don’t think so, sir. I think she liked him, maybe felt sorry for him. He was very sick, you know.”
“A takin’ woman. Make some man a fine wife if he was up to it. It would take a strong man, a man sure of himself to cope with her. “She’s a pretty woman, lad, and pretty women sometimes can do things no man would attempt. Mighty few men will say no to a pretty woman, no matter what she’s after.
“Talked with her some. She come aboard, maybe two years or more ago, said she wanted to talk. Well, now, that old ship of mine is no lady’s boudoir. She’s a workin’ vessel, shipshape an’ neat, but no comforts, mind you. “No matter. She come aboard, drank coffee with me, and asked if I was sailin’ to China.
“To China? No such idea entered my head. I was buying cargo, selling what I brought, and contemplating another voyage to Hawaii, maybe. “China, she says, so I ask her why I should go to China. She smiles very nice—she’s got a lovely smile, that lady-and says to sell furs. That it is the best market for otter.