Chapter 1

PACIFIC NORTHWEST  COAST  1801

 

  The veiled sun grows weaker and the rain colder.  A decision must be made soon.  They are being patient with me, but the weather is no longer favorable for travel and more than my future is at stake.  What I consider the responsible choice is unacceptable to the spirits, an irrefutable point.  I still think of distant home, father, brother and sister, familiar sounds and warmth, but these images are no longer so clear.  I keep remembering a closer time, a new day.  It was early April last, of that I am sure, the Spanish are meticulous with dates.                                       

Mist rose from the clay buildings of the Mission Dolores de San Francisco that sunny morning, the day it began at Spain’s northern outpost of Alta California.  Really the adventure began a year earlier in a Boston grog house, but then all stories begin before they occur.

 

What a pleasant, rare morning without the usual chilling fog covering the great harbor, the promise of spring in the strength of the sun, new mint in the air, fine grasses rising among clumps of dark rocks.  In recent weeks the landscape had changed dramatically after the rains.  Tiny flowers burst forth in designed patches, turning the hills into colorful quilts.   Through half-closed eyes I watched a cruising hawk stalking ground squirrels that darted through vivid colors from one underground hotel to the next. 

My peace was interrupted by the distant wailings of stout Padre Urie hurrying up the hillside toward me.  “Pare!  Pare!”  Stop. Stop.  He was far below, clenching his nightclothes to keep them off the ground, the other arm swinging out from his body as if to propel him upward.  

“Come back!  Come back, Chooly.  I shall personally flay your sinful ass!”  These were the general words in Spanish, which I had become familiar enough with in the past few months that I could communicate with the missioneros. 

I saw Chooly then, running in a crouch, following the zigzag path toward the place I had been enjoying a comfortable view.  He stopped abruptly when he came abreast of where I sat near the fork in the trail.  He stared, naked as God had delivered him, a small, brown man with flat forehead and expression.  Most of the Ohlones that worked at the mission went without clothes.  I nodded my head to the left and he went that way, moving quickly up the trail toward scrubby trees clustered atop the verdant hillside. 

“I will send soldiers,” Padre shouted, but not so loud now, his words strained through short breaths as he drew nearer.

I looked up beyond the trail at an area of sage and lush new grass in time to see James’s shaggy head pop above the foliage.  He had heard Chooly and perhaps imagined the soldiers were coming for him.  I motioned him down again.

Padre stood unsteadily at the fork in the trail, glaring expectantly.  I nodded to the right.  He looked in that direction, the most direct route to Chooly’s village.  With resignation he plopped his ample posterior on a round stone worn clean by weather and generations of native travelers.  A sleeve of his nightshirt was used to mop sweat from red jowls.

“Why did you not stop him?”  Padre demanded. 

“Too quick for me, Father.  I was in the midst of meditation.  Here, share my water.”  I rose and slipped the rope tied to the gourd from my shoulder and handed it to him. 

“God has blessed us with a fine morning,” I said, gazing over the harbor.  The veil of fog around the entrance would soon be driven back by the sun.  White gulls floated above strings of mist, dark rocks of Alcatraz and other small islands, and far beyond mountainous country no civilized man knew.  Padre gulped from the gourd while water dripped from his cleft chin.

“Why are you not in the garden doing your work?”

“The sun woke me early, Father, and I came up here to pray.”

Padre Urie considered me suspiciously.  He looked up the trail.  With a sigh he rose and handed back the gourd.  “I will send Sergeant Joaquin and some boys to fetch him back.  Saving thankless souls is a weary task.”

“God has given you a difficult mission.”

Padre gave me a severe look.  I watched him lumber down the trail, back to his mission and native captives.  Of course the attending men of God at the Mission Delores did not think of them as captives but as souls to be shown the True Faith, the Spanish gift to the heathen, those who had survived the round of measles gifted them during the winter.  These natives comprised the mission’s and Presidio’s dwindling labor force and they could ill afford to lose any more.

James raised his head again and I motioned all was clear.  Since our escape from the Lucky Wind James had made the most of our servitude at the mission and everyone was taken with his excitable charm.  He and the girl, Non, came and sat near me.  A short grass skirt was her only clothing.  Her sparse necklace carried a few beads and tiny carvings partly covered by woven dark hair that hung in dirty ropes.  She began picking at scabs around her nose, the flakes falling between small breasts.  Her husband had died soon after James and my arrival and she was now in a kind of limbo, able to move about freely instead of being confined with other unattached women in their compound behind the church.  She seldom had specific duties, as if the padres expected her to soon join her husband.

James indicated she should go and she moved off in the sluggish amble common to these Ohlones, angling downhill through the grass away from the mission where another trail lead to a low damp place full of vegetation.  She would probably dig a few roots, take a nap, and return to the mission as if she had been out gathering all morning. 

“You really should give her a try,” James said, stretching.  “She’s not so bad, and she seems to enjoy it.”

 “You’ll both be flogged if you’re caught.”   I took a mouthful of cool water from the gourd.  “Don’t think I could get past the flies that follow her around.”

“Hell, mate, they’re the same flies we sleep with.”

Something there.  In billowy fog around the entrance to the harbor.  I squinted past the Presidio, partly visible from where we were on the hillside.  There it was again, a shadow, dreamy apparition, then only whiteness.

“What’n hell you looking at?” James asked.

I tensed and stood.  A ship appeared from the fog with tops’l filling and her lead jibs white in the sun.  “Now I do feel like I’ve been praying this morning.”

James sprang to his feet.  “God help us, is she American do you think?  Or just another Spanish packet boat?”

“Can’t be sure.”  Two puffs of smoke to her port side, then the roll of cannon in salute as she entered the harbor.

“Sounds like American armory to me,” James said. 

“Cannon is cannon.”  I squinted to make out some detail.  “But her rigging doesn’t look Spanish.  Whoever she may be, she’s got either a very smart cap’n or a dumb one, making the harbor through that curtain.  Ample sheet, no holding back.”

The Presidio replied to the ship, a pathetic little boom compared to the ship’s cannon.   Two musket rounds followed the small cannon’s report, mere pops.  James and I looked at each other and laughed. 

“A real Spanish salute and show of force,” he said, blue eyes flashing.  “She’s American, Aidan, I know it.  I see red and white on her flag.  Let’s go give them a welcome.”

The ship was a considerable distance from us, but it did appear James was correct.  “Let’s see where they drop the hook,” I said. 

The ship sailed past the Presidio, above and barely visible from the water.  They seemed to be following the current line and headed between the land and Alcatraz Island.  From our vantage on the hillside we watched as she began pulling sheet and coming to, positioning to anchor in Yerba Buena Cove right off the village below the mission.  A good place out of strong tidal currents, but it had its disadvantages.

“He’s picked a fine place to put in,” James said.  “And a convenience for us too.”

“I’d bet he has Vancouver’s maps,” I said.

“And what American trader would venture to this coast without them?”

We started down the hillside with some casualness, but soon cut from the switchback trail and began running straight down through startled sheep and dodging squat cattle grazing on new grass.  I had the longer gait though James was not to be outdone – sliding in a cow pie barely slowed him.  We passed groups of natives tending stock and tilling the gardens for new plantings, ran through the mission courtyard as bells atop the church began clanging, rushed between rows of conical huts in los Rancherios causing dogs to bark,  children’s excited squeals, crying babies, natives flowing into our wake like backwash. 

We reached the shore breathless, waving our arms even as crew were playing out anchor line. Up the beach natives slid several small craft into the water, odd little boats made of twisted grass and rushes lashed together.  The natives waved a few furs and baskets, eager to trade.

We paced as a small boat was lowered and four oarsmen and two others headed for shore.  With shouts and waves we guided them away from the mud bank and over to solid footing.  James began yelling greetings when they were still well out.  Some padres arrived, but we ignored their orders to stand back.

“Where be you out of?” James yelled.

“We’re the New World out of New York.”

James grabbed my arm and began shaking it.  “You hear, Aidan?  New York, it’s New York boys come to get us out of this Spanish slave camp.  You hear?  They’ll take us, I know they will, be needin’ some able seamen.  We’re done’a this place, finished our penance, God is merciful in the end.”

“Shut it,” I said, “or He’ll be laughing at you.”

           “James Gregory O’Connell, at your service, sir,” James declared.  “And this be Aidan Ephraim Martin.  Our pleasure to board your fine ship.  We been waiting for a righteous ship like this to come so we could offer our services.”  James kept talking while the captain studied me, seeming to ignore James’s praising speech.

“Lucky Wind, you say?  Where’s she out of?”  Captain directed this question to me. 

“Don’t know her origin, sir.  She flew Portuguese or American colors, depending on location, but we were never told where she hailed from.  When you get bonked and thrown into slaves quarters they don’t show the log.”  I held the captain’s gaze, a man solid and craggy as an old tree, gray streaks through his beard, firm mouth and brows you could gain shade under, eyes of burnt iron.  He was the sort of hard man to inspire confidence enough for an owner to give him a ship to sail into hostile waters, and a fine ship she appeared to be; only two main masts, but stout and high enough for frigate class, three ample square rigs on each.  The crew looked a cut above, and acted like civilized men.

“I’m a New York lad myself,” James said, fidgeting.  He was not one to sit still even when the atmosphere was calm, and in this situation it gave the impression he was fearful.  “A bit north of that fine city.  Came to town for supplies and got waylaid.”  To James’s right a seaman sat straight in a sturdy chair, thick arms crossed.  James glanced several times at the man who simply stared at him.

Captain Stark shifted his gaze to James.  “Got waylaid where?  In a grog house no doubt.  And what’s your seaman experience?”

“Sir, I’d never sailed out’a the harbor before, but we been nine months at sea on the Wind, and we learned plenty.  Eleven days off Cape Horn.  Eleven days and nights working frozen lines and slammed from post to bunk.  Lost a man there, we did, turned around and he was gone.  Lucky Wind she was called, but barely seaworthy compared to this vessel.  We had plenty’a hard times.  And Aidan, he’s a fisherman up in Boston, and a fine navigator too.  We’d be a credit to your mission, sir, whatever that might be.”

Captain leaned back and appraised us from a little more distance.  “Jumped ship did you?”

“Yes, sir,” James replied.  “Cap and his main ones was drunk and we made off with a skiff.  Only pay we received, to be sure.  Gave our little freedom boat up to the Mission for board.  ‘Course, they put us to husbandry chores too.”

Captain looked at me.  “You don’t talk so much.  Fisherman, eh, and a slim one at that, though tall enough.  Shallow water don’t teach you much about navigation in the real sea.”

“Teaches you shoals and currents, where food’s likely to be,” I said evenly.  “Teaches you depth by color without dropping a line.  ‘Course, seeing you come into port through fog and riding the currents, choosing your anchorage, guess you’ve already got a good harbor man.”

“That I do, and you see him before you.  So how would you have stood in?”

I noted the captain’s large hand extended on the table, fingers hard as the miles of rope that had passed through them.  This man was not highborn.  “Well, sir, the current favorable and the fog not being too thick, I’d have a man forward at the sprit, and put up enough sheet for good steerage, as you did.  And having knowledge of the entrance, I’d come along the south side, as you did, and I’d be listening to surf on the rocks to maintain the proper distance.”

Captain’s mouth twitched as he studied the table next to his hand. 

“Then again,” I continued, “seeing as how I have some knowledge of this harbor, I’d a chosen other than where there’s a big mud bank showing at low tide.  Not so convenient for those assigned to bring supplies aboard.”

“Yes,” Captain said, “I do recall that now.  Haven’t been here since ninety-two.  Where would you have dropped hooks?” 

“The anchorage off the Presidio has the better shoreline.  Mind, there’s some current, but you wouldn’t be so bothered with natives trying to trade their ragged skins.  The soldiers and padres grab up the best ones as they acquire them.  Decent fur’s in short supply here.”  Captain’s cabin was nicely laid out with what appeared to be the latest navigation instruments, and Captain himself was well dressed in tailored woolens and fine boots, a stylish leather hat trimmed with dark velvet.  His garments were soiled, but of a high style, which made me aware of my poor clothes.  Can’t say I liked him at that moment, but I thought he must be competent, and perhaps fair.

Captain laughed, gave the table a heavy slap.  “All right, boys, I do need some hands.  Lost three men, God bless.”  He produced a crock from under the table and addressed the man in the chair, Mr. Kirn, who turned out to be his first mate.  The mate brought cups, sat down and poured the rum.  Mr. Kirn shook our hands.  We drank.

“Listen, lads, you better know what you’re in for,” Captain Stark said.  “We’re headed north to the big channel, de Fuca’s Strait of Anian to the Great Lakes, which don’t exist as any sensible man knows and this is no fool’s mission.  We’re going into Puget’s Sound, Whulge the natives call the harbor, to find a good place for a post, a settlement.  Something permanent.  We’ll be mixing pretty close with the natives in that area.  There’s conflicting reports about them and we’ll be needing to find a place where the local people are well disposed to our intentions.”

“Would that be fur?” I asked.

“A bold question,” Captain said sharply. “Fur’s only part of it.  There’s a number of things I must ascertain.  The men who commissioned me have eyes on the future.  They have resources to proceed in any way that shows promise.”

“Sir,” I said, “can you tell me how long before you make home port?”

“We plan to winter in Puget’s Sound.  We hope to make New York sixteen months from now.  Could be a bit longer.”

Another sixteen months.  James and I looked at each other.  Yet what other choice was there?  More months of drudgery and disease at the mission?  Wait for the chance of a ship stopping off here that was headed for home sooner?  This was a solid ship, well equipped and armed.  The crew looked fed and healthy. 

“May I ask, sir,” I said.  “How did you lose three men?”

“Fair enough.” Captain motioned Mr. Kirn to replenish our cups and then tested his well.  “Two got the fever in the lower continent.  I sent them ashore to bargain for fresh fruit for our stores – I apply Captain Cook’s recipe for my men.  Anyway, some jungle creature may have given them a bite, or they got too close to one of those festering natives.  And the other fool, Jacob, good hand he was, took some men in to fetch fresh water at the first port after the Horn.  We had already established relations, but Jacob couldn’t leave the native women alone.  One of the chief’s men cut his dong off with one of those big knives they use to remove your head if you’re not careful.  Bled out before we could get to him.  ‘Course we shot a few, including the chief, one extreme deserves another.  We brought poor Jacob aboard and gave him a decent sea burial.  So there it was.”

Captain showed us a map of Puget’s Sound depicting a huge inland harbor and waterway, larger even than the Port de San Francisco.  He had copies of all of Vancouver’s maps and several Spanish maps.  It seemed he had every scrap of information anyone had ever recorded about the remote Northwest Coast.  Then he told us he’d been with Captain Gray in ninety-two when the famous Boston trader had discovered the great river to the north and named it after his ship, the Colombia.  Now he was back as master of this fine ship, and why not?  His employers had chosen someone who had sailed with the best trader we had, the first American to sail around the entire world.  They wanted to build a real post, perhaps a series of post forts.  After a bit more rum Captain Stark told us there was a geologist on board, a man expert in assessing minerals.  They were looking for any way to exploit this wild land, no stone left unturned – might be something precious under it. 

             Another year and a half.  James and I were surviving here, rooting in the dirt for a few vegetables and a little meat, praying morning, noon and night, mainly that we wouldn’t catch one of the ever-present diseases.  They’d quartered us in a lower mission building twenty steps from the nearest native dwellings, the los rancherios of Yerba Buena, laid out in rows toward the water.  We were in the path of the prevailing breezes rising from their filthy huts.

             So there it was.
       Captain said he must prepare to go ashore to take a repast in the Presidio at the home of the temporary commandante, Alfe’rez Don Luis Antonio, the son of the commandante permanente, Don Jose Dario Arquello, who I had heard was in Monterey on some business with the commandante of that port. 

On leaving, I volunteered James and my services the next day for whatever duties he wished to assign us.
“I will send a boat,” Captain said.  He shook our hands, James pumping Captain’s vigorously.  Much as I wanted to leave this place, I could not match his enthusiasm.  Yet signing on this fine ship seemed an answer to our prayers.