Family Matters by Margaret P.
(A big thanks to my betas, Terri Derr and Cristy Wyndham-Shaw) (2017—Words: 2,570)
Chapter Three
The following morning Scott spent an hour signing documents at the office of James McIntyre and Associates in the centre of San Francisco, and found out a little more about Katie's finances: they were going to need a lot of children.
As one of Olivia's bridesmaids, Katie was tied up all day with the wedding practice and last minute preparations. Will and Robert—as Scott now forced himself to call Katie's father—were needed too so they hurried away as soon as the legal work was done.
Scott had hoped to spend Friday with his friend, Bob, Katie's elder brother, but Lieutenant Commander Eliot hadn't shown up yet. According to Beth, orders had called him to naval headquarters almost as soon as he'd got home. No one knew why, but he was still expected to make the wedding.
In the absence of anything more important to do, Scott got roped in as escort. Julia, the elder of Katie's two younger sisters, adored Chinese silk, and Teresa had offered to introduce her to one of the better warehouses. Jake Telford, who had braved Murdoch and now officially kept company with Teresa, had agreed to see them safely to the warehouse before he went to work. Scott was to join them at twelve and take them to lunch at the Occidental.
"Shall I hail you a cab, sir?" Will McIntyre's secretary looked up from his work as Scott paused by the wall clock, pondering what to do. It was only eleven and he really didn't want to stand around a warehouse admiring fabric or drinking green tea.
"No, thanks. I think I'll walk."
He headed towards the warehouses above South Beach, but he'd not gone more than a block or two when an almighty blast sent birds flapping into the sky. He half ducked. What the…? Another blast shattered the morning air. Cannon fire—it was unmistakable— coming from the harbour. Men and women ran towards the water, and he did too.
As he crossed a square he saw men clinging to a monument. From the way they were pointing and shouting, they could see what was going on.
"Give me a hand up." Scott held his arm high and a boy in shirt sleeves and waistcoat hauled him up on top of the plinth. "What's happening?"
"The USS Liberation is firing a salute."
"Captain Driscoll is departing the ship. See there." Another man pointed just as the cannon fired again. Scott could see a naval steam frigate with three masts and two chimneys, and a smaller vessel cutting through the water towards shore.
"They piped the new commander aboard an hour ago," the boy said, scribbling something in a notebook. "Driscoll's been promoted to Rear Admiral, and he's accepted the top job at the naval academy. My colleague is doing the story, but with luck he'll include a by-line from me about the excitement it's caused ashore. See those old guys? They're war veterans. They hit the deck when the first cannon fired. Silly beggars thought they were under attack." The boy laughed. "Driscoll has commanded the USS Liberation since she was built. Fought in the Civil War."
"How long has she been in Pacific waters?" Scott shaded his eyes to get a better look at the ship.
"Only about four years, but Driscoll is well thought of in these parts."
Scott watched the USS Liberation until the salute was over. It took him that long to soak up the idea that he wasn't far off being considered old; the men the novice reporter had scoffed at looked all of thirty.
Continuing down the street, he reached the harbour as Rear Admiral Driscoll boarded a carriage a few hundred yards along the newly constructed promenade. It ran south from the main wharf overlooking the small piers and boathouses of South Beach. Driscoll, a man in his fifties, must have disembarked the skiff onto a jetty and climbed one of the steep staircases built into the cliff, but he showed no sign of being out of breath. An honour guard of about twenty sailors stood at attention, and a crowd of well-wishers, many appearing to be retired sailors, lined the route.
"Where's the USS Liberation going?" Scott asked a man sporting a Union naval jacket and a wooden leg. The frigate was heading south; somehow that seemed the wrong way.
"The dry dock at Hunter's Point." The man saluted the passing carriage, heading towards the centre of town, and watched until it turned the corner. "Now there goes a captain worth the name. I served under him at Mobile Bay. The young whippersnapper taking over has a hard act to follow."
"The navy must think he can do the job."
"Aye, but it takes more than ribbons to captain a ship like the Libby." The man raised an arm to a group of sailors, and then turned to Scott. "Are you a naval man yourself, sir?"
"No, but tomorrow morning I'm expecting to see an old friend who is."
"Well, I hope for your sake, he's an officer. Every ordinary seaman in town, serving or retired, will be helping the crew of the Libby celebrate their freedom tonight. They won't be fit to be seen before noon."
"Will there be a lot of men on shore leave?"
"Most tonight and all at some stage while the lady's being scraped and refitted. Take my advice, mister: keep your womenfolk at home. There'll be more hot blood than the bawdyhouses can handle for the next few days." The old sailor slapped Scott on the back and limped, chortling, towards the Seashell bar.
Scott checked his watch. Speaking of ladies it was already five past twelve. He'd better get going.
Ten minutes later he gazed upon bolts of cloth stacked high on sturdy shelves lining walls or standing either side of cutting tables down the middle of the cavernous room. Open double doors led into an adjoining warehouse similarly arranged while the front section of the room he was in had private cubicles to one side and offices over two floors near the entrance. Customers strolled along the rows of fabric viewing what was on offer, each group attended by a silk-clad employee of the Great Orient Company. Scott had been to the warehouse with Teresa once before. Whenever a customer showed an interest, the bolt in question was hauled out of the stack. The silk was then rolled out across one of the several broad tables so it could be inspected more closely and, if suitable, cut according to the quantity required. Surely Teresa and Julia would have made their choices by now; his eyes flicked over to the cubicles where tea was offered as part of the service.
"I've come for Miss O'Brien and Miss Eliot," he said, returning the bow of the Chinese gentleman who greeted him.
"You Mr Lancer?"
"That's right."
"Young ladies go to watch salute. They ask honourable gentleman wait for them if arrive earlier than expected."
"But I'm not early. I'm late."
"Oh dear, what to say; honourable ladies not come back. They go with other honourable customers when hear cannon."
"Have those customers come back?"
"No, sir."
Scott frowned. What should he do, wait for the girls or go after them? At least they hadn't wandered off alone, but the salute ended an hour ago. "I'm going to look for them. I'll walk south along the promenade towards Hunter's Point." He reasoned they may have followed the direction of the ship, hoping to see it enter the dry dock. "If they come back, please ask them to wait. Send a boy to find me. I'll let you know if I find them."
He hurried back to the promenade, looking in every direction, hoping to spot them. Where on earth had they got to? It wasn't like Teresa to be so irresponsible. He tried to recall what she'd been wearing that morning at breakfast—a muslin dress with small blue flowers, he thought. She would almost certainly wear her blue cape and bonnet to match. He started asking passers-by if they'd seen them, but no one had. He came to the point where the promenade ended and the road turned back up into a labyrinth of streets lined with factories and warehouses. He couldn't imagine they would have gone further. He turned back. Maybe they had mistaken the street when they tried to return to the Great Orient Warehouse. He turned left into the most likely thoroughfare and went up a block to another road running parallel to the promenade. No sign, but as he was debating where to look next, he heard shouting. If they had taken the wrong turn they could have ended up on the next street; he'd better check. He quickened his pace. Then a woman screamed, and he ran.
Two naval seamen in dress uniform were brawling with four other men in the middle of the street. Teresa and Julia were pressed into a doorway, trying to stay out of harm's way.
"Thank, God, I found you!"
"Scott!" Relief washed over Teresa's face.
"Oh, no you don't." Julia jumped past him from the step and swung her parasol like club across the back of a man wearing a checked shirt and suspenders. He'd been about to put a boot into a sailor sprawled on the ground. Checked Shirt spun around, his fist raised, giving Scott no choice but to tackle him.
They rolled, and scrambled to their feet, facing each other, panting and ready to throw the next punch. The man took a swing, and Scott ducked. This was ridiculous; he didn't even know what he was fighting about, but when the man came at him again, Scott planted a right cross on his jaw and sent him reeling.
The young sailor was now on his feet. It was three against four. Scott and the sailors formed a half circle around the girls, fists raised and ready for the next attack.
"I don't know what this is about, but let's call a truce."
"Not on your life, matey. Them little birdies are ours." Pointing a calloused finger, the stocky, red-bearded man, who had been growling orders at the rest, leered at Teresa and Julia. "You and them sailor boys should stay out of things that don't concern you."
Well, at least now Scott knew why he was fighting.
"Ahoy, there!" All eyes turned up the street. A six-strong shore patrol was heading their way.
"Damnation!" Spitting into the dirt, Redbeard and friends started to back away. Then they bolted.
The shore patrol ran up and grabbed the sailors. They showed no interest in chasing the ruffians.
"We were defending the ladies, Chief." The elder of the two sailors put his hands behind his head as he was pushed into line.
"Tell it to the lieutenant. You heard the Commander: anyone caught brawling gets thrown in the brig."
"But he's telling the truth." Scott glanced at Teresa and Julia, and they nodded.
"Stay out of it, sir. This is navy business. If they're lucky, they'll get out on Monday."
"Look, we'll come with you and explain what happened."
"Suit yourself."
Scott and the girls followed Petty Officer Jackson and the shore patrol to the port office where the two unfortunate sailors got locked up in a holding cell. Everyone gave statements. Jackson bundled the pages up and, at Scott's insistence, dispatched them immediately to the USS Liberation.
"There might not be any officers with the authority to release them still on board. Are you sure you want to wait?" Jackson hung the key to the cell back on its hook and showed them to a waiting room.
"Yes, we've agreed. We'd all feel happier knowing the result. As you say, the officer might want to ask us more questions so we need to be here. The ladies have had a fright though. Any chance of some refreshments?"
Jackson ordered the rest of his men back out on patrol and then went to brew some coffee, taking a message from Scott with him. He promised to find a boy to deliver it so the Great Orient Company would know their customers had been found.
"I'm so sorry, Scott." Teresa took off her bonnet and held it on her lap, fingering the ribbon. "It's all my fault; I should have taken more notice of which street we came down. We got ourselves thoroughly lost."
Julia put out a hand. "Tell the truth. I was the one who insisted we leave the warehouse to see the salute. And I was the one who wanted to see if we could watch the ship enter the dry dock after we parted company with the Robinsons."
"Could you?" Scott would have liked to have seen that too.
"We saw it manoeuvre around, but we were too far away to see much else."
"If only I hadn't asked that horrible man for directions."
"Oh, Teresa, you couldn't know he and his friends would lead us completely the wrong way and then get familiar."
"Hindsight is a wonderful thing." Scott turned his hat in his hands. He didn't have the heart to growl when they were being so hard on themselves. "It's a good thing those sailors turned up when they did." And to think when he'd been searching for the girls, he'd been worried about them being molested by sailors.
"They were wonderful. I'll tell Bob when he finally shows up. I know he'll lecture me about safety, but maybe he can get them rewarded in some way."
"I suspect they feel amply rewarded by the kisses they've already received." Scott smiled at Julia's concern. She was young and a bit flighty, but head and heart were generally in the right place. He was pretty sure he was going to like her. "For now, I think we just concentrate on trying to avoid them being locked up for the weekend." He wondered how long they would have to wait. If Petty Officer Jackson was right, they could be too late.
With only coffee to sustain them, they watched the hands of the clock edge towards three. Scott offered to send the girls home in a cab at around two thirty, but they felt so bad about the trouble they'd caused, they refused to go.
"Well, now I've seen everything." The door swung open twenty minutes later and Petty Officer Jackson entered scratching his head. "The only officer left on board was the new commander."
"So?" Scott got to his feet. Was that good or bad?
"This isn't a matter for the man in charge. Captain Driscoll wouldn't have read past the first line of my report. The lads would have had to stew until a lieutenant came back on duty."
"But the new commander?"
"Read the report, signed a release and blow me down, came himself to deliver it. He's in there now talking with Gunner Brown and Seaman Meyer. Says would you mind waiting, Mr Lancer. He wants a word."
"We wouldn't dream of leaving without thanking him. And thank you." Scott shook Petty Officer Jackson's hand, relieved that it had all worked out. Now everyone would have a good weekend.
Hearing footsteps in the hallway, he turned as a naval officer appeared in the doorway. Petty Officer Jackson saluted, and Julia gasped.
"Commander Robert McIntyre Eliot at your service."