The Indian Lover

Book by Murphy Garth

Chapter One: La Playa

Bill awoke to a still and silent ship, not even a sail flapping. The sky was slate gray, solid overcast from horizon to horizon with no breath of wind. The sea was flat as the whole earth used to be, and black as night. Here and there, silver streaks of jumping fish cut through the endless glassy surface, trailing foam like shooting stars, to be swallowed by watery darkness.

As the sun rose, the sea stayed black. The Hopewell was surrounded by a thirty-mile-wide shoal of sardines, tightly packed. Swordfish, tuna, mackerel, barracuda and sharks carved joyfully through this endless meal. Bill lowered a small net and the men breakfasted on the bounty. The crisp fish, rolled in flour and fried in fresh whale oil, were devoured whole, head to tail. The gut of the sardine contains vegetable food, sorely craved by the sailor's body.

The day before, the Hopewell had been making good time in the breezy Santa Barbara Channel, where half a dozen blue-green chunks of the tumbling California coastal range jutted majestically from a frothy sea. The crew had harpooned a breaching gray whale and spent the day stripping it of blubber and cooking it down to oil. At sunset they had roasted the tender bits of heart and liver -- then fallen asleep full and tired, after toasting a toddy of rum to 1845, the new year.

Pablo had slept late and disdained to partake in another fishy meal. With their goal in sight, he spoke longingly of a real Californio breakfast: "Steak and eggs and chorizo and tortillas with spicy salsa and a big cup of lemonade."

He paced the motionless deck, scuffing the oak planks, praying to the dormant sky. "Arise," he shouted. "Awake, four winds. How dare you sleep when I am so near my home -- now our sails need your cool breath for just another push. Do not forsake me. I am High Cloud Comes, your friend. I ask but for one final ride, then I will trouble you no more."

His impatient plea met only sulky silence, without a ruffle of the silken sea.

Coming on the Hopewell had been Bill's idea.

He had first shipped on a whaler at age fourteen, as a cabin boy. This apprenticeship at sea had begun as a banishment of sorts. He had offended his parents' notion of onshore behavior -- for a Puritan farm boy -- for a Marshall. To everyone's surprise, Bill had enjoyed living on the ocean. He loved the boundless freedom of an endless horizon, and the cramped, self-contained, disciplined hive of activity -- the whale-hunting ship -- from which they pursued that horizon.

He was not to be a cabin boy for long. His restless hands and tactile feet were perfectly suited for the endless tasks of a sailor. Bill effortlessly became a seasoned deckhand and expert whaleboat crewman. For four years the ship had been his only home. That was how he wished to go to California: aboard this floating, rocking cradle. To walk would have been too much work, with dangerous distractions along the way. On a ship, you were safe in your own bunk until you disembarked.

Pablo had agreed to journey with Bill by sail. He was greatly curious about the world and wished to see as much of it as possible. They would meet up with John Warner at the end of his long walk.

Mid-morning, the breeze finally snapped the limp sails to attention and the Hopewell ran on the backs of sardines all the way to Point Loma, the headland at the entrance to San Diego Harbor. The sky never gave one glimpse of blue, but Pablo and Bill were undaunted, joyful at the prospect of landing, bursting with restrained anticipation, for Bill too planned to leave the ship.

This was a serious offense. He had signed on for a two-year whaling voyage, they were thirteen months into the trip. The ship was just entering the most lucrative phase of the hunt, the slaughter of calving gray whales in the lagoons of the lower California coast. Every hand was needed to process the whale blubber and help sail the Hopewell back to Rhode Island before the Straits of Magellan closed for the southern winter in June.

Desertion was punishable by the absolute authority of the captain. Even if he managed to escape, foreigners like Bill were not allowed to stay in California. They were allowed to stop for supplies, and rest, but the sailors could not venture from port. And all hands were required to leave with the ship. This was the official position. Unofficially, what harm could one young American do in this endless land?

The Hopewell rounded Point Loma, skirting the huge kelp bed that streamed to the south, tacked into a lighter breeze that wrapped inland around the point where it flattened into the San Diego River's estuary, found the channel and headed for La Playa -- a collection of hide huts and warehouses that comprised the barren port, tucked in the shelter of the great headland. There were no trees at San Diego's bayside. The ground was sandy tidal scrubland. The looming bulk of Point Loma held only a light cover of brush and sage; a gray-green background for the handful of hide huts, which displayed the varying deep browns of their weathered wood and cattle skin covers. It was a desolate sight -- to anyone but a land-starved sailor.

As the Hopewell skimmed up the channel, the shore sprang to life. People ran out of La Playa's low huts like castaways, waving and yelling to stop the boat. Three miles inland, at the pueblo of San Diego, a dust cloud pointed its finger at the bay -- the townsfolk racing on horse and wagon to greet the ship. A couple of guns discharged.

La Playa was San Diego's official holding camp for unauthorized non-Mexicans who happened to somehow end up upon these shores. The society was unruly, with Kanakas, as the Hawaiians were called, English, French and Russian sailors, Indian women from various tribes, as well as kids, pigs, chickens and dogs. All the men had arrived by sea -- marooned for bad behavior, missing at sailing time or deserting a cruel captain or leaky hull. They were not allowed to leave the immediate area. They worked at the hide-curing vats and acted as a labor pool for undermanned ships. The captain could easily replace Pablo and Bill.

The La Playa residents plunged into the winter-cold sea, swam out to the ship and scrambled up lines to board. Pandemonium reigned on deck. Anchor dropped and the Hopewell swung to, a few yards from shore. Then everyone began leaping into the water. Bill jumped in, breaststroked to the beach and ripped off his foul clothes. A native woman threw him a big bar of tallow soap. He rolled in the shallows and scrubbed himself with his soapy shirt, releasing a dark cloud of grime.

Naked, rubbed pink, Bill scrambled back on board to dry and put on the clean clothes he had carefully kept wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom of his footlocker. They seemed to have escaped the rank smell of the ship and himself. He splashed cologne everywhere to be sure.

A whaler has a stench that precedes and follows it for miles. It is as foul as a full latrine, or a four-day-dead cow, and almost impossible to erase. The combination of sea water, cooked whale blubber, rancid whale oil in the hold, whale blood and guts, rotting meat, slime, mashed barnacles, bile, seagull and pelican droppings and unwashed sick men permeates the air, wood, clothing, sails, ropes, even brass and iron on a whaler. It will not wash off and you never get used to it. When you leave a whaling ship you have to burn your clothes, shave your hair and scrape off a layer of skin to escape the smell.

Pablo was the cleanest, best-groomed sailor on the Hopewell, including the captain. At sea, he bathed at least twice a day, no matter how cold, by dragging a bucket over the side and dousing himself over and over until he was satisfied. Indians must bathe every day, he informed his rank shipmates. At La Playa, he scoured himself with soap and sand until his skin was bright red. But even he couldn't keep the stink off his clothes. As clean as he could get, he still wore the stench of dead whale.

The people of La Playa didn't mind. They lived in their own stink, not as varied or disgusting as a whaler's, but equally strong. Their bayside village was the storage and loading facility for San Diego's only export commodities: tanned cattle hides and tallow. Hides were first field-stripped at the ranches from throat-cut beasts, crudely scraped and dried, then trundled by oxcart to La Playa, where they were tanned and finished, sorted, stacked and stored by the motley residents, to await the next clipper ship, bound for the Boston shoe trade.

The smell of the port was the smell of rotting cattle, wet hides, curing hides, molding hides and animal fat boiling to rancid tallow -- further spiced by the usual odors of a fishing village with no sanitary facility save the open ground and hide-flapped privies. It was a unique perfume, intensified by the stillness of the sheltered bay.

Bill had rushed to get clean for the official greeting by the respectable townsfolk of San Diego, who now raced to meet the ship. He was one of the first crewmen ready. Back on deck, sandy hair pulled into a dripping ponytail, he took a deep breath. He looked the Hopewell over carefully, silently saying goodbye to each of his favorite places. He blessed the sturdy timbers that had served so faithfully. He prayed for her safe journey home.

Aboard ship, on the limitless, ever changing expanse of ocean, Bill had found an outlet for all of his physical talent and youthful energy. There was only one great flaw to life at sea: women were not allowed on board. For Bill, life without women was achingly incomplete. He had grown up with three older and two younger sisters. He enjoyed their homey company, their fairness -- their gentleness. Womanly sweetness, romance and cheerful work habits made life lighter, less serious and dreadful. He had learned to sleep in the arms of a girl -- and that was how he liked to sleep. Bill missed women too much to live at sea forever.

The men assembled, the mate called for order and gave the rules.

"We'll be here a few days to take on water and stores for our trip south. This is our last taste of civilization for a couple of months, so make the most of it. We'll have eight-hour anchor watches. Those of you not on duty may have shore leave. No one but the crew comes aboard. No drinking, fighting or stealing and don't go any further than the town. Come now, man the boats...let's take our captain in to greet the mayor."

They rowed to shore and filed past the now silent La Playans, who were dressed in every sort of rag and skin and old uniform, with hats of stiff cowhide or palm leaf. The Indian women wore long loose smocks, or grass skirts with fur capes wrapped around their shoulders.

The crew marched to the capitanÍa, or customs house, seventy yards east of the hide storage sheds and residents' shanties. It was more substantial, with thick adobe walls and a thatched roof shading a short porch. The floor was dirt. There were no windows, just a door of heavy oak planks, sagging open on leather hinges. The one room was empty.

In front of the customs house, a growing crowd awaited, horses blowing hard. Some men sat their saddles; others had dismounted. Women and children in rustic carts craned for a look at the newcomers -- who drew themselves into a ragged line, the captain in front. A small man, well dressed with a bright-buttoned fitted suit like Pablo's holding a wooden staff topped by a silver ball, rode forward, dismounting gracefully.

"Buenas tardes, señores, soy Juan MarÍa Osuna, el alcade de San Diego. Welcome. I am mayor." He smiled at the captain and bowed low.

"Buenas tardes. Captain Ian Saxon, at your service, sir."

He bowed too, but not as low.

"Your papers, please, Capitán."

The captain handed Señor Osuna his protocol from Governor Micheltorena, which he had received at Monterey, the capital of California, always the first legal port of entry.

Osuna opened the packet, closed it as quickly and handed it back.

"He can't read," whispered Pablo.

"Do you have some news or a declaration from el gobernador?" the alcalde asked with a weak smile.

There were titters from the crowd. The southern half of California was in revolt against the appointed Mexican governor. They had established their own governor, PÍo Pico, at Los Angeles.

"The governor sends his regards to all of you. And I have a letter for Anita Gale de Warner."

Osuna seemed disappointed.

The captain said, "With your permission, Señor Alcalde, we'd like to stay a few days, to take on food and water, and make some repairs to the ship."

"You are very welcome. And we will be pleased to entertain you by our fiesta. Señor Juan Bandini opens his casa. All are welcome. In good time, we shall take you to the pueblo in las carretas." He opened his hand toward a half-dozen large, two-wheeled, ox-drawn carts that were just pulling up.

Osuna shook the captain's meaty paw, then gave him an abrazo, a hug with two pats on the back. He never let go of his polished staff of office, which had a black ribbon laced through a hole just under the silver globe.

As if by signal, the townsmen descended. Introductions were made in Spanish and English. Then the trading began. Every man, woman and child wanted clothes, cloth and thread. They were well dressed in an old-fashioned way, with nary a fur or skin. The men sported either colonial Spanish waistcoats, breeches and shirts, with tricorn hats, or Mexican cowboy attire: tight flaring trousers with silver buttons, boots with large silver spurs, white shirts, colored scarves, short fitted embroidered jackets and large hats with stiff, flat brims. The women wore long dresses with full skirts, and lace shawls around their shoulders.

The Californios had few means of showing their wealth. Clothing and fine horses were at the top of their list. It was not unusual to see a mounted man and horse wearing two thousand dollars' worth of fine clothing, tack and ornamentation -- with silver and gold braid, buttons, buckles, spurs, bits, bridles and saddle tricking. The Californios tried to lead a European life amidst their untamed colony. A Spanish newspaper, a French fashion magazine, a book in any language, and clothing on their backs -- instead of skins and furs (the vestments of beasts) -- served to keep the wilderness at bay, and to soothe any savagery that may have lurked in their own breasts.

Their small European population, scattered over huge distances, supported no factories or grain mills, no cotton gins or cloth manufacture, no clothing stores, no shopping, no newpapers. Everything was imported at great expense, or homemade -- thus the fervent desire for ordinary clothes, and the great value of fine cloth, lace or anything remotely fashionable.

Bill spotted one man dressed like an English country squire, with dark green velvet breeches split at the outsides over long white socks and black boots, a green velvet waistcoat over a white shirt. His green felt hunting hat only partly shaded a mat of gray curls, a pink face and a very red nose.

Captain Edward Stokes was a Yorkshire gentleman and ex-ship captain. He had married Refugio Ortega, daughter of one of San Diego's leading Californio families, and received Rancho Santa Ysabel as a dowry -- thirty-four thousand acres of well-watered grazing land and forest, fifty miles northeast of town. He was John Warner's closest neighbor. At Pablo's suggestion, Bill aproached the captain and introduced himself.

Captain Stokes wanted to hear every detail of their voyage and anything Bill might know about events i...