How to Catch a Cat (13 page)

Anchored off Angel Island in the San Francisco Bay

August 1775

THE CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS

CAPTAIN AYALA SAT
at a wooden desk in his quarters on the
San Carlos
, writing up his report on the events of the last twenty-four hours.

He propped his left foot on a stool in the hopes that the elevation might alleviate the intense throbbing in his injured toe. A long day of standing at the ship’s helm had left the area around the amputation swollen and sore. But he soon forgot about the foot pain as he recapped the day’s adventures.

Most of his reports were factual and to the point, but tonight’s write-up warranted a few extra flourishes. From the ship’s journey up the coast and its epic battle against the tide to the immense size of the protected inlet where the ship was now berthed, this summary was more than just routine record-keeping.

Even through the darkness, he could sense the magnitude of the newfound bay. There was no doubt about it. This port would inevitably overshadow the other established harbors along the Pacific’s west coast. It was a mariner’s dream assignment, charting virgin territory with such unmatched potential.

The captain’s quill scribbled late into the night, a constant flow of indigo ink across pages of parchment. At the corner of the desk, close to the lantern’s heat, Petey the parrot curled up on one of the captain’s shirts. Every few minutes, the bird cooed, comforted by the scratching of the stylus and the warmth of his comfy bed.

The ink-covered pages piled up as Ayala related the journey’s many ups and downs, the valiant efforts of his crew, the invaluable assistance of his first mate, Humphretto, and, of course, his own cunning and courage.

As for Isabella’s role in the sighting of the bay’s opening, he was forced to make a tactical omission. While he was grudgingly grateful for the feline’s assistance, he couldn’t credit a cat with providing insight into the bay’s hidden location. He would find himself in the same mental institution as the previous captain of the
San Carlos
.

Of course, it would have been even worse if he’d sailed past the passage and reported the negative finding back to the head of the armada.

Ayala cringed, thinking of the ridicule he would have received when the bay was later discovered.

He shook his head, imagining the Commodore’s response to such a revelation.

“I’d have lost my commission for sure.”

—

AFTER MORE THAN
an hour’s worth of diligent note-taking, Ayala pushed back from his desk and stared up at the ceiling. He often found that the act of writing down his thoughts helped him to organize and make sense of his observations. It was a process that was needed far more tonight than on any previous evening.

With a heavy
thump
, he dropped his foot from the stool.

There was one more item from the day’s travails he had yet to describe in his notes: the slaying of the deckhand minutes before the ship’s celebration feast.

Ayala scowled, rubbing his chin. The murder was a black mark against an otherwise successful journey. It was the type of event that would be followed up with scrutiny by his superiors when he returned to Mexico City.

The body of the murdered deckhand had been moved into the ship’s brig for the night. They didn’t have the resources to keep the corpse chilled for the return trip to Mexico, so the next morning the deceased would be buried on the island where they had dropped anchor.

The passengers and crew were understandably on edge.

Among the ship’s occupants, the prevailing theory was that a stowaway had sneaked on board at San Blas and that this heretofore unseen person had murdered the deckhand.

Ayala had dismissed this notion as ridiculous, but he had personally conducted a top-to-bottom search of the
San Carlos
—if for no other reason than to appease his shipmates. He’d seen no indication that the ship carried an unauthorized passenger, particularly one with such a carnal bloodthirst.

This provided no assurance to his sailing comrades.

Cabin doors were now securely locked. The men who slept in the boat’s long bunkroom had assigned shifts to keep watch through the night.

Humphretto had posted himself outside the captain’s quarters. The tiny lieutenant wouldn’t be much of a deterrent against a murderous attack, but he had insisted on protecting the captain as a matter of duty.

Ayala glanced across the room and smiled. Humphretto’s boots were visible in the wide crack beneath the door. The little man’s snores drifted through the wood barrier.

The captain wasn’t worried about a surprise attack. He was a light sleeper, and Petey could be trusted to squawk out a warning if an intruder slipped into the room.

But this was the type of event that could quickly erode morale.

The sooner the culprit was identified, the better.

—

CAPTAIN AYALA RETURNED
his attention to the pile of parchment on his desk. He picked up a sheet written in a slightly different color of ink. This page represented his private notes on the killing. It was a less organized writing, one that he would burn at the end of the trip. Here he had summarized a few pieces of information that he had decided not to share on the official record.

The top of the page contained the bullet points he had gleaned from the ship’s chef earlier that evening.

This was presumably the source of the stowaway rumor.

Oscar had told the captain he’d caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the hallway outside the galley kitchen, right before the start of the dinner service.

Not much help in terms of identification
, Ayala mused. He would have disregarded the chef’s testimony altogether, if not for the second part of his statement.

The nebulous presence had been accompanied by a distinctive scent—that of a lemony-sweet perfume.

Perplexed, Ayala shifted his thoughts to the last item on his unofficial list of observations.

Taking care not to disturb the parrot, he reached across his desk and picked up the bloody knitting needle that had been left at the scene of the crime.

During their earlier visit, the captain had asked Oscar to opine on the deckhand’s wounds. Given his culinary skills, he was the closest they had to a knife expert.

Oscar had examined the weapon, curiously turning it over in his hands. After several minutes of silent observation and a few speculative air jabs, he’d concurred that it was the likely cause of the man’s injuries.

Gingerly, Ayala held the knitting needle up to the lantern’s light. Oscar thought he might have seen similar weaponry in an antique shop down south, but the captain had never come across anything like it.

A cap had been removed from the needle’s curved end, exposing a razor-sharp blade.

Sniffing the needle, Ayala thought he detected the faintest trace of a lemony perfume.

UNQUALIFIED

THE NEXT MORNING
dawned clear and bright, sending a waking warmth through the ship’s wooden walls. Captain Ayala jumped out of bed and threw open a window. He poked his head outside, eager for the first daylight view of his surroundings.

He could see only a narrow angle of the bay, but even the limited scene exceeded his expectations. He leaned farther and farther out the hole, marveling at the breadth and beauty of the boat’s surroundings—until he nearly slipped and fell through.

Dragging his body back inside, Ayala hurriedly dressed and crossed the room to unbolt the door. Wincing at the pain in his foot, the captain stepped over Humphretto, who’d fallen asleep at his post, and hobbled down the hallway to the main deck.

Ayala whipped out his binoculars and scanned the shoreline, slowly pivoting to capture the full extent of the bay. Rolling hills cupped the harbor like a giant green hand, sealing it off from the beastly Pacific. It was just as he had suspected the night before. Despite the difficulties the
San Carlos
had encountered navigating the entrance, once the tides and currents were properly mapped, the area would become a haven of first resort for every ship passing along the continent’s west coast.

The binoculars remained plastered to Ayala’s face as he admired the scene.

The captain shook his head in disbelief. None of the previous maps or reports had come close to suggesting the size of the bay. Even Portola and his bumbling overland crew had failed to convey the importance of this find in their descriptions. They must have been in a hurry to get back to Monterey before they ran out of provisions.

It was a wonder the bay had gone undiscovered all these years. If he himself hadn’t had such a difficult time both identifying the opening and navigating through its mouth, he wouldn’t have understood how so many of his predecessors could have missed it.

Finally, Ayala dropped the binoculars. Hands on his hips, he gazed out at the panoramic vista.

“Amazing.”

—

CAPTAIN AYALA WAS
itching to begin exploring the area, but first, he had to attend to the serious matter of the deckhand’s burial.

Groggy crew members and passengers soon joined him on the ship’s main deck. Many reported hearing suspicious bumps and noises in the night, but Ayala chalked this up to overwrought nerves. No new victims had been identified. He hoped that with the burial, they could put the unfortunate incident of the deckhand’s death behind them and move on with the ship’s mission.

The kitchen gong sounded, a makeshift announcement that the funeral was about to commence.

Petey swooped down from the mast and settled on Ayala’s shoulder as the captain turned to watch the solemn procession carrying the body out of the brig.

The corpse had been wrapped in a shroud of white linen and laid on a long board, which was then hefted on the shoulders of designated crew members.

Little was known about Alberto. A quiet fellow of Indian descent, he’d been a diligent worker who kept mostly to himself.

He had been the last to sign on to the newly constituted crew at San Blas, and there hadn’t been time for him to bond with his fellow shipmates during the short voyage up the coast.

Nevertheless, the crew was shaken by his death. Such a gruesome murder, however anonymous the victim, reminded the men of the many perils they risked at sea.

It was a sailor’s grim reality. At death, he would likely be buried in an unmarked grave, thousands of miles from home, at a site his family and loved ones would never reach to mourn. In the worst-case scenario, his body might be dumped in the ocean to be consumed by fishes.

Even the most hardened crew member had moments of lonesomeness and regret, never more so than when faced with a stark reminder of his own mortality.

It was a situation that called for a leader who could provide calming reassurance, solid emotional guidance, and a grounding of place and purpose.

Into this fraught atmosphere stepped the ship’s designated religious counselor, Father Monty.

—

AYALA COULDN’T IMAGINE
a clergyman less qualified for the job.

He had attended dozens of Catholic funerals in his lifetime, many of them conducted out of necessity on ships.

Never had he seen one performed so ineptly.

How Father Monty could have completed his liturgical training without mastering this critical skill was a mystery to the captain. Perhaps, he reasoned with a shrug, that was why they’d been able to secure a last-minute priest for the journey—the sole available candidate had flunked out of seminary.

Ayala frowned at the robe Monty had donned for the ceremony. It was made of a glimmering gold fabric—more like something you would see at a carnival than in a church. The garment’s loose sleeves dangled dangerously close to the incense ball Monty had started to swing awkwardly back and forth.

While no expert in the ritual, the captain had the distinct impression that the incense had been heated to too high of a temperature. Smoke billowed out of the ball’s metal chamber, clogging the air and making it difficult for Monty to see the area around his feet.

The priest stepped clumsily onto the gangplank, tapping the toes of his shoes as if trying to feel his way forward. He turned sideways, aiming the smoking incense ball at the corpse’s head. The crew members carrying the body followed a short distance behind, warily eyeing the swinging ball.

Anticipating disaster, Ayala glanced at the observers lined up beside him. He wasn’t the only one who sensed a pending calamity.

The chef’s niece winced at Father Monty’s unsteady footing. On the ground at her person’s feet, Isabella stood alert, her blue eyes sharply concerned. Rupert hid behind the woman’s legs, afraid to watch.

Two steps down the gangplank, Monty’s heel caught on the walkway’s ridged footholds, and he stumbled toward the pallbearers.

Trying to avoid a collision with the priest, the crew members carrying the front end of the body board jerked sideways. The sudden movement upset the board’s center of balance, and the dead cargo slid off its platform.

The linen shroud unraveled as the corpse plunged headfirst into the water.

Monty lurched backward, overcorrecting in his attempt to regain his footing. He wobbled back and forth for several seconds, his arms helplessly flailing the air.

The gold chain slipped from his grasp, and the incense ball soared in a perfect arc before landing with a steaming
plink
in the water.

A meek “oops” signaled Monty had lost his battle with gravity. He tumbled over the side of the gangplank and hit the water with a splash.

The niece and her two cats peeked over the railing. (At this point, even Rupert couldn’t suppress his curiosity.)

Monty soon surfaced, the gold robe billowing around him as he struggled to tread water.

“I wonder if he knows how to swim,” the niece said, furrowing her brow.

Isabella warbled out a dubious reply.

“Wrao-wra-wra-mrao.”

Ayala crossed his arms and grunted.

“Guess we’ll find out.”