He’d been warned that the ship wouldn’t be able to provide the many luxuries to which he was accustomed. This did not deter him in the least. He had packed extra gear and supplies. He was prepared for whatever challenges he might face.
So far, it turned out the greatest onboard hardship had been enduring obligatory conversations with the vessel’s priest.
But today, even the presence of Father Monty couldn’t sour the Baron’s mood.
As the priest yammered away about the success of the confessional booth he’d set up in the makeshift chapel, the dearth of reliable maps for this part of the world, and the main course on the night’s dinner menu, the Baron simply tuned him out.
The businessman returned his gaze to the rocky shoreline.
If everything went according to plan, by late afternoon, the ship would have found the elusive entrance to the bay.
Chapter 11
A STYLISH MATE
THE SAN CARLOS continued up the California coast, bobbing like a tiny cork in the bathtub of the Pacific. It was a blustery, unforgiving day. Bullying waves pummeled the boat’s sides and washed over the deck.
Captain Ayala muscled his weight against the steering wheel, struggling to keep the ship on course, while Isabella manned her stool, chirping advice. Ayala hated to admit it, but he was relying far more on Isabella’s instincts and guidance than that of his first mate Humphretto.
It wasn’t that the first mate wasn’t trying to be helpful; he was just ill equipped to do so.
Humphretto was a petite man, with delicate hands and a slight build. Prone to worried hovering, he lacked the most basic of nautical skills. He had yet to master even a limited understanding of the San Carlos’s complicated network of pulleys and ropes. He was utterly confounded by how to adjust the new ship’s sails to adapt to changing wind conditions.
Luckily, Humphretto was useful in other ways. He was a wiz with a pair of scissors; his haircutting expertise easily matched that of the finest fashion designers in Paris. Particularly during extended voyages, Humphretto stayed busy in his off-hours maintaining the many coifs of the crew. For this reason alone, he was a sought-after member of any sailing team. The commodore on Ayala’s previous ship had petitioned for Humphretto to stay on his galleon—to no avail.
Likely, it was the Baron’s anticipated presence on the San Carlos that had caused the commodore’s request to be denied. The man’s face had turned purple with frustration, but he had been powerless to stop the transfer. Indignant, he had insisted on one last haircut before Humphretto left for the San Carlos.
Ayala allowed himself a short smirk of triumph. Then he grimaced at the memory of a recent conversation with his first mate.
Humphretto was greatly concerned about the captain’s image, particularly his hair. He was convinced that Ayala could become a world-renowned sailor and explorer, as famous as Sir Francis Drake—if only he took a little more care to his physical appearance.
Frowning up at the captain’s head, Humphretto had posed the following question.
“You know what Sir Drake had, Captain? The thing that put him over the top?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Style, panache . . . and a traveling barber.”
—
IN ADDITION TO his hairstyling expertise, Humphretto was also an amateur tailor, a skill that came in handy on long deployments. He carried onboard a portable sewing machine capable of performing a wide range of stitches. He could mend the most severely rendered garment so that no one could determine where the hole had been.
The first mate designed his own clothes from scratch. His most recent creation was a horsehair coat whose thick waterproof fabric he hoped would shut out the cold wet weather that was anticipated for their northern excursion.
The verdict was still out on the coat’s effectiveness. With a shiver, Humphretto pulled up his collar as yet another wave splashed onto the deck.
Then there was the matter of aesthetics. Ayala thought the coat made his first mate look like a beaver—an opinion that hadn’t been well received by the coat’s wearer.
“I’m telling you, Captain, this is the latest rage in Madrid.”
Ayala had grunted his response.
“All you need is some oversized teeth.”
—
AND SO, AS Humphretto called out a warning for the treacherous rocks of Farallones, Ayala didn’t immediately veer away from the hazard.
“Better steer clear, Captain! We’ll run aground for sure!”
Isabella issued a correcting chirp, raising a front paw in the air.
Ayala whipped out his binoculars and scanned the shoreline beyond the rocks. His lips pursed together in consternation. There was no discernible disruption in the transition between water and land.
“I don’t see it, Issy,” he said, dropping the glasses.
He began to spin the wheel away from the impediment, but Isabella insisted.
“Wrao.”
With a grunt, Ayala returned his binoculars to his face. A cloud passed over the afternoon sun, shifting the shadows on the land below.
“I can’t believe it.”
He pulled his face away from the magnification, rubbed his eyes, and then returned his focus to the lenses. The brief shift in lighting had created just enough differential to reveal the anomaly in the shoreline. What had appeared to be a solid stretch of land was instead a narrow passage masked by a pair of islands—located much farther inside a protected bay.
Once he had seen through the illusion, the opening was as clear as day.
He handed the binoculars to Humphretto.
“Crikey, Captain. It was there all along. We would have sailed right past if not for . . .”
The first mate looked down at the slender cat sitting on the overturned bucket, her sleek head proudly tilted upward.
“How did she . . . ?”
Isabella provided a pert explanation.
“Mrao.”
Ayala reclaimed the binoculars and focused on the possible paths around the Farallones.
“Worry about that later. First we’ve got to get the ship through without sinking on the rocks.”
Chapter 12
THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE
THE PASSENGERS AND crew of the San Carlos thought they were alone during their windblown journey up the Northern California coast, but throughout the day, the ship’s progress had been monitored from above—far, far above.
The moon’s glowing orb spent her daytime hours sleepily tucked into the blanket folds of the deep blue sky. But even as she snoozed, she kept a close watch on her beloved bay and the turbulent waters surrounding its entrance.
From her lofty perch, the moon watched with at first casual interest and then increasing concern as the San Carlos neared the Farallones and, just beyond, the Golden Gate.
She held her breath, waiting for the vessel to continue up the shoreline—and then gasped with alarm when the boat turned inland toward the opening that had been missed by all of the mariners who had come before.
“No,” she cried, swooping down through the atmosphere. “It can’t be.”
For hundreds of years, she had successfully kept the Europeans out of the enormous estuary. She wasn’t yet ready to share her pristine playground with such heathens. Hadn’t those pale-faced polluters fouled enough of the earth already?
“No,” she repeated. “I won’t allow it.” She eyed the tiny craft. She had sunk far bigger ships in her day. This one, she could easily wreck on the rocks, delaying the discovery a little bit longer.
Mankind had created sails to harness the wind—a crafty invention, she had to admit, but she controlled the tide. And that, she knew from previous experience, gave her the upper hand.
The moon surged at the thought, pulling the current like a loose tablecloth beneath the ship’s hull, yanking it backward.
Captain Ayala hollered to his crew, sending men scurrying about the deck and up the masts.
Sails were hoisted,
turned, and lowered in rapid succession, an attempt to break free of the tide’s viselike grip.
But every forward motion was matched by a slip of equal or greater length, dragging the boat farther and farther west, dangerously close to the rocky Farallones.
The captain wrapped his hands around the ship’s steering wheel, tensely gripping its rim. Never in his life had he encountered conditions this challenging. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, determined to see the ship through the distant passage.
The moon leered down at the captain. The steely expression on his face only riled her temper.
If this mortal man intended to breach the bay’s liquid barrier, he would have to summon his sharpest sailing skills.
With every uptick in lunar rage, the tide’s strength increased. Ayala grumbled in frustration, finally conceding to the insurmountable force. They would have to turn back and try again tomorrow.
Silly little captain, the moon beamed triumphantly, sensing she had him beat. She had no intention of letting him escape.
But just as she was about to inflict a final swamping blow, she detected a presence on the boat that caused her to reconsider.
A slender white cat stood defiantly on the deck, her claws digging into the slick wooden floorboards. Her blue eyes sparkled up at the moon, issuing a mental command.
You will let this ship through.
The moon rolled back on her hips, taken aback by the cat’s brazen demand. She was unaccustomed to direct communications with the beings that lived on the ground below. Certainly, it was the first time she’d been so boldly addressed by a cat.
The globe flickered in the darkening sky as she considered the request.
Why?
Isabella transmitted her reply, her expression stern and unflinching.
It is time.
The moon stroked her round chin, puzzled by the audacity of this tiny creature. The cat possessed a bewitching presence almost as powerful as her own.
While still hesitant to share her precious jewel with the rest of the world, the moon’s wrath began to dissipate. With a last look down at the persistent cat, she decided to bless the ship’s passing.
The moon released the ship, and the San Carlos popped through the Golden Gate as if attached to a rubber band that had been tethered to the opposite shore.
A sudden whoosh of wind propelled the ship into the bay’s wide middle.
The moon gazed down at the tired little vessel, with its human, feline, and avian occupants—and then drew in her breath, aghast.
Her glowing tendrils reached out, trying to claw the boat back, but it had traveled beyond her grasp.
Too late, the moon had glimpsed the evil that lurked beneath the deck.
Chapter 13
ANGEL ISLAND
CAPTAIN AYALA STOOD at the helm of the San Carlos, warily surveying the bay’s dark water. The moonlight provided a dim outline of the surrounding shore, but he was wary of getting too close.
After the grueling fight to gain entrance to the bay, it would be a shame to wreck the boat now. Better to wait until morning, when he could devise a safe approach to land.
An eerie quiet settled in around the ship. The encircling hills blocked the Pacific’s fierce winds. The water glistened with a deceptive calm.
The captain nodded to his second in command.
“Humphretto, let’s see if we can drop anchor here.”
As the first mate supervised the lowering of a heavy metal hook, the passengers who had taken shelter belowdecks slowly began to emerge.
Father Monty staggered up the stairs from the second level looking green around the gills.
A crew member dipped a bucket of water from the bay and set it beside the priest.
Monty splashed a handful onto his face. “No offense, Captain, but for a while there, I didn’t think we were going to make it.”
Just then the ship lurched.
The priest fell face-forward into the bucket.
The bay was much deeper than Ayala had anticipated, and the anchor had failed to hit bottom. The current had snagged the hull and jerked the boat back toward the opening it had fought so hard to clear.
They had reached their destination, but the voyage wasn’t quite finished.
—
IT TOOK ANOTHER two hours for the captain to find a location shallow enough to anchor that was safely beyond the direct pull of the tide.
Ayala tried several lodgings in the open water, but each time, the vessel failed to hold in place. He finally circled to the far side of the bay’s largest island and edged the ship into a small cove.
There was a collective sigh of relief as the anchor hit bottom—none issued more vehemently than by Father Monty, who collapsed into a deck chair and dramatically flung his arms up over his head.
“Sweet heavens to Betsy! Thank the Lord that’s over!”
Noting the stares from his fellow shipmates, he switched to a more reverent tone.
“I mean, thank you, our heavenly father. I never doubted your wisdom and providence throughout that entire turbulent episode.”
Isabella’s pert comment reflected the sentiments of the surrounding humans.
“Mrao.”
—
CAPTAIN AYALA FOCUSED his attention on the shadowed island lying just off the ship’s bow.
Touching a hand to the gold cross that hung around his neck, he called out solemnly, “I hereby christen thee Isla Santa Maria de Los Angelos.”
Translated, the title read, roughly, St. Mary Island of the Angels. The title followed the Spanish tradition of naming newly discovered landmarks in honor of the nearest religious holiday, in this case, the Catholic festival in August celebrating the Assumption of Mary.
In any event, Angel Island seemed like a suitable nickname for the safe harbor that had allowed the passengers and crew aboard the San Carlos to sit down for their long-delayed dinner.
Even seasick Father Monty felt a rumbling in his stomach as he performed the ritual blessing the new island.
With the formalities completed, Captain Ayala made the much-anticipated announcement:
“Tell Oscar to get a move on. I’m ready to eat!”
Chapter 14
STOWAWAY
AS SOON AS the San Carlos dropped anchor off Angel Island and the ship was at last truly stabilized, Oscar swung into high gear finishing up the night’s dinner.
While the christening ceremony commenced on deck, the kitchen below was transformed into a blur of sizzling pans, boiling pots, and flour-coated cutting boards.
The menu included lumpy mashed potatoes loaded with butter and cream, fresh green beans picked up during the stop at Monterey, and thick gravy simmered to golden brown perfection. The headliner, of course, was Oscar’s signature dish: crispy fried chicken, Captain Ayala’s favorite meal and a much-anticipated treat for the crew.
The niece maneuvered deftly around her uncle, stacking plates and silverware and carrying them up to the long table on the top deck, where the dinner would be served.
The pair had worked together through several of Oscar’s naval cooking assignments. Even in the kitchen’s narrow galley, they generally avoided running into each other. Isabella sat on a stool, supervising the action, chirping out a warning if it looked like the two were about to collide.
Rupert sat on the floor beneath the stool, huffing and puffing as his pink nose sucked in the scents of the sizzling fried chicken. He could hardly wait for dinner to begin and—most important—for the cats to be served. Given the nearness of the meal, he didn’t dare risk hopping on the counter (for fear he might get into trouble and be banished from the feast), but he wasn’t letting the chicken serving bowl out of his sight.
As the niece sped out of the galley with yet another load of dishes, Oscar stepped back from the stove. Surveying the spread, he ran through his mental meal checklist.
“I think we’ve got everything covered . . .” he said, glancing down at Isabella. She tilted her head, as if cond
ucting her own review, and then confirmed his assumption.
“Mrao.”
“Well, that settles it, then.”
Oscar picked up the tongs and lifted the last piece of chicken out of the skillet. As he placed the crispy leg into the bowl, he felt the slightest twinge of unease.
He was alone in the kitchen with the two cats—or so he thought.
Turning toward the hallway, he spied a shadow in the space just beyond the door.
There was a strange scent in the air. It took him a moment to separate the foreign smell from that of the cooking food.
It was a sweet, lemony perfume.
He held the tongs out like a weapon, a defensive posture that had nothing to do with the ship being docked near an unknown land.
Isabella’s growling hiss confirmed his suspicions. Rupert’s sniffing terminated in a startled snork, and he flattened his body against the floor.
Somewhere along the way, they had picked up a stowaway.
Or perhaps, Oscar thought with a start, she had been with them since San Blas.
Chapter 15
THE CONFESSION
ACROSS THE HALLWAY from the ship’s kitchen, Father Monty sat behind the confessional curtain, waiting for a last-minute appointment that had been penciled into his schedule book during the perilous passage into the bay.
The priest had been incapacitated throughout much of the ordeal, lying on a cot on the side of the room with a blanket pulled over his head, wishing he’d never left the firm comfort of land.
Given his distraught condition, he hadn’t noticed the person who had inscribed the entry in the logbook. Of course, the process was intended to be anonymous, but Father Monty frequently found himself challenged to uphold that ethical standard.
He peered down at the writing, scrutinizing the script. Whoever his stealthy confessor was, he or she had impeccable handwriting. The appointment had been scrawled in near-perfect penmanship, despite the ship’s violent rolling.
Who could it be? he wondered with increasing interest. Oscar’s niece was the only female on board. Had she finally decided to divulge her secrets? He tapped the toe of his shoe, anticipating the information that might be revealed. He could hardly contain his excitement.
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