IT TOOK THREE DAYS for the storm to work its way through, but by the end of the week, the California coast sparkled again with blue sky and calm water. The tempest had wreaked havoc on maritime schedules, and the San Diego waterfront had reverted to hustle and bustle as crewmen and longshoremen rushed to get passengers and cargo aboard ships that had been laid up in the bay waiting for the wind and rain to pass.
Among those caught up in the frenzy was Cradoc Bradshaw, standing at the top of the Pacific Coast Steamship wharf with two saddlebags (the only “luggage” he owned) and a ticket tucked into the inside pocket of a fancy overcoat, borrowed from the sartorially adept Wyatt Earp so as not to look out of place amongst the wags of San Francisco.
The marshal had booked passage on a 300-foot iron-clad steamer called the Santa Rosa, docked in deep water at the far end of the pier. Even though he had never before sailed on the ship, he knew the sleek, double-stacked profile from watching her cruise in and out of the bay from his back porch. Launched in Philadelphia in 1884, the Santa Rosa was one of the more modern ships on the California coastal route, capable of making the 500 nautical-mile-run to San Francisco in less than three days with two hundred passengers.
The steamship company provided a narrow-gauge locomotive with passenger car to transport customers and baggage to the end of the wharf. But Cradoc decided to walk, hoping the fresh air and sunshine would help him shake the cobwebs of yet another largely sleepless night. Yet the stroll proved easier said than done. Even at the best of times—with a great mound of coal running down the middle of the pier and stacks of lumber waiting to be carted ashore—the PCS wharf did not facilitate pedestrians. On this especially busy morning, the pier brimmed with freight wagons, donkey carts, buckboards, and passenger conveyance of every conceivable shape and size, from perambulators with crying infants to Wells Fargo stagecoaches.
Amongst the human boodle beside the Santa Rosa the marshal noticed a familiar face—Emma Lee Dawes. Wearing the same calico dress he had seen her in just a couple of days before at the Oyster Bar. Sans the white apron this time, but clutching a wicker picnic basket. She stood alone, casually glancing at the crowd as if looking for someone.
Cradoc did not presume that the object of her ardent searching might be himself. She must be on the lookout for one of Wyatt’s high rollers departing San Diego after the storm. But the marshal had been raised by a mother who emphasized etiquette, and he could not board the ship without at least a casual salutation to the lass.
Emma Lee smiled as the marshal approached, rocking on her heels in a chirpy manner, obviously glad to see him. “I was starting to wonder if this was the right ship,” she told him, holding out the basket.
“That’s for me?” asked the surprised marshal.
“Odds and ends from Mrs. Earp for your journey. Some sort of herb for seasickness—you’re supposed to boil it into tea. Cotton balls for your ears in case the engine noise keeps you up at night. A bottle of tequila—we weren’t sure they’d have it onboard. And a book for your reading pleasure. Mrs. Earp wanted me to tell you that she just got it on mail order from England and that you will be the first in town to read it, but please don’t leave it behind in San Francisco, because Mr. Earp would very much like to read it, too.”
Cradoc flipped up the basket lid. A Study in Scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle. He had heard of neither the book nor the author. Still, Josie had never given him a read he hadn’t enjoyed. The gift basket was totally unexpected, yet typical of the woman who had settled down with his best friend.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Emma Lee confessed, “but I read the first couple chapters while I was waiting.”
The marshal almost blurted out, “You can read?” But he caught himself just in time. “Don’t mind a bit. What’d you think?”
She perked up even more. “I love the main character, that Sherlock Holmes fellow. He’s sort of like you, a detective and all. But an Englishman. Hope I get a chance to finish it after you and Mr. Earp are done.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” This girl was full of surprises, definitely more to her than met the eye. He reached for the basket. “And thanks for bringing this down at the crack of dawn.”
“Always been an early bird,” she crooned. “Git the worm and all that.”
There followed an awkward pause, neither one of them knowing what to say as the dockside crowd swirled around them. Not an awful lot of people made Cradoc nervous—made his tongue dry and hands clammy—but this girl appeared to be one of them. He obviously had a thing for her but wasn’t quite sure what the nature of that thing might be. She was definitely a looker, and it had been quite a while since his last carnal liaison of any kind, and unlike so many women, she was easy on the ears as well as the eyes. But the marshal hardly knew her. And she worked for Josie and Wyatt. And should he really be courting someone so much younger than himself? Emma Lee seemed barely out of her teens. If afforded enough time, Cradoc probably could have summoned a hundred reasons why he should not smile, chat, or otherwise consort with the girl. Because whatever they got into would certainly end in tears for her and a nagging sense of guilt for him, a man with plenty of romantic baggage already.
“I should be boarding,” Cradoc mumbled, assuming that would be the end of this latest encounter with the girl from Missouri.
But Emma Lee was having none of it. “I ain’t never been on a steamship,” she informed him. “At least, not one that runs on the ocean.”
Propriety getting the best of Cradoc once again, he invited her onboard for a quick look-see. What harm can it do? he told himself as they mounted the gangway.
After checking in with the white-clad purser, Cradoc followed a uniformed porter to his accommodation. Emma Lee tagged along behind, eyes flashing all around, taking in the big ship like a star-struck child.
Not the type who cherished sharing space, Cradoc had booked his own cabin on the berth deck and paid the single supplement out of his own pocket. The room was tiny—he could have easily touched both walls with outstretched fingertips—but well equipped in an efficient, modern way. Two small bunks, one above the other, plus a tiny wooden table and chair, a wall-mounted mirror, several conveniently placed clothing hooks, and a slender wardrobe outfitted with half a dozen wooden hangers. On the table rested a freshly washed towel emblazed with the PCS emblem—a red Maltese cross.
At a glance, the lodging looked a far sight above the Orizaba, the lumbering old side-wheeler that had preceded Santa Rosa on the weekly run between San Diego and points north, and the last ship that Cradoc had sailed on until today. No matter how small the digs, the marshal looked forward to the voyage, three blissful days at sea when it would be impossible for anyone to contact him about anything. The whole of San Diego could tumble into the ocean, and he wouldn’t know the difference, not until they docked in Frisco. Cradoc couldn’t recall the last time he’d had so much time to himself and his own thoughts. And it could not have come at a more opportune moment, given his state of mind and the flux that plagued his life of late.
The steamship porter, assuming by their comportment that Cradoc and Emma Lee were a couple, felt obliged to point out that both the men’s and women’s washrooms were located amidships. Emma Lee took the opportunity to excuse herself and disappeared down the hall.
“First seating or second, sir?” the porter asked Cradoc when she was out of earshot.
The marshal replied with a blank stare.
“For lunch and dinner, sir. First seating or second?”
“You need to know now?” Cradoc asked.
“It is customary, sir.”
“I suppose first seating,” he finally answered, for no other reason than maybe there was more grub if you ate early. “And one only. The young lady will be disembarking shortly.”
The porter flashed a disconsolate look, as if to say: Too bad.
Yes, indeed, thought Cradoc. And suddenly she appeared in the doorway, smiling at him again with those big, farm-girl eyes and luscious lips.
Cradoc flipped the porter an Indian head for his trouble. The young man made a point of shutting the cabin door as he departed, leaving the marshal and his companion alone in the tiny room. There followed another pregnant pause, even more noticable than before.
“It’s small,” she said nervously. “But sorta cozy.” And without gaining sanction from the cabin’s actual occupant, Emma Lee plunked herself on the bottom bunk, testing the mattress with her fingertips. “Hope you like rock hard,” she declared.
“It’s only two nights,” Cradoc responded. “Day after tomorrow, we’ll be sailing through the Golden Gate.”
“How long you gonna be gone?”
Cradoc shrugged. “It’s kind of open-ended. I don’t know how long it’ll take to locate the people I’m supposed to be questioning—assuming they agree to meet with me, rather than run and hide.”
The marshal had made telegraphic inquiries with the San Francisco police, who had put him onto the owner of a Barbary Coast saloon frequented by Asians. The proprietress had assured him that (for a price) she could hook him up with people of consequence in the Asian community who would subsequently (for a price) bring him into contact with remnants of the abalone fleet that had once fished off San Diego. It seemed a lengthy and somewhat tenuous line to hang your hopes on, and Cradoc had braced himself for nothing more than thin air at the end of his striving. But he had been commanded to venture northward, and being a good soldier, the marshal could not disobey a direct command from his superiors, no matter how blind, misguided, and self-serving their motives.
Emma Lee suddenly rose from the bunk, toe-to-toe with Cradoc in the cramped cabin, her eyes fixed on his lips. Absolutely no question in his mind what would or should or could happen next.
If not for the whistle that abruptly rattled the ship. Emma Lee flinched, and the moment passed. “What was that?” she yelped.
“First call for all those going ashore.”
“Does that mean I have to leave?”
“Unless you’d care to spend the next three days aboard this ship.”
“You bet I would!” she snapped back.
And Cradoc had no doubt it was true. To say the least, it would be highly intriguing—three days in this cabin with Emma Lee. But such was not to be, at least not on this trip.
Wending his way up to the weather deck of the Santa Rosa, the marshal watched the girl practically skip down the gangway and onto the wharf. As the steamer cast off, they waved to one another. She lingered at the end of the pier long after the ship had pulled away. Cradoc could still see her standing there, a tiny figure in a calico dress, as they rounded Dead Man’s Point and slowly turned towards the mouth of San Diego Bay.
What did she want from him? Or more importantly, what did he want from her? A one-night stand, a casual fling, or something more substantial? Questions without answers. That seemed to be his entire life these days.
Rather than rack his brain over matters that could not be resolved, Cradoc settled into a deck chair. He opened the book Josie had bequeathed him and began to read. “In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army….”