Timewatch (7 page)

The group let out a collective gasp and edged away. The yacht was idling now, not going anywhere.

“I've told Joseph to call the police. Is it safe to stay aboard?” asked Caleb.

“I think we're okay as far as this bomb is concerned.”

“Still, it might be a good idea to get out of here and wait on the pier for the police,” said Caleb.

Shortly after, the police came with a bomb disposal expert.

When the wearisome process of having statements taken from them was finished, the Morgans didn't feel in the mood for sightseeing. At Caleb's suggestion, they went back to his mansion.

CHAPTER 8

They were a pretty subdued lot, thought Dan, looking around the library where they'd gathered after finishing the evening meal that Caleb had ordered from a nearby restaurant because no one felt like going out.

“Something to drink, sir?”

“A beer would be fine, Cummings.”

After the day's events, he could use a drink.

Dan shifted uneasily in the brown leather chair. Sitting near the fire, which was sending up showers of orange-red sparks in the huge white marble fireplace, was making him too warm, although the luxurious furnishings in the room with its maroon velvet curtains blocking out the chilly San Francisco night and hundreds of leather-bound books lining the walls—while a little too fancy for his taste—were something that he might get used to.

The others, sitting on leather chairs and a sofa, seemed to be holding up pretty well. Laney was talking to J.J., who looked more relaxed now. Dwarfed by the large armchair she was curled up in, Gerry had that faraway look on her face again. As if aware of his scrutiny, she darted a quick look at him, then turned her attention to Caleb, who had stood up and was clearing his throat.

“I've talked to the police again, but it's too soon to tell who the bomber was, or his motive for placing that bomb on my yacht. In the meantime, we'll just carry on as usual. I hope you're all comfortable and have had enough to eat and drink.”

“You've been most hospitable, Caleb,” said Marjory. “And I for one do not intend to let the events interfere with our visit here.”

A murmur of agreement went around. But was the danger really over?

“Thank you, Marjory,” said Caleb smiling, the light from an ornate standing lamp throwing his weathered face into relief. His bushy white eyebrows drew together, giving him an ominous look that must have intimidated plenty of business opponents. He stopped and again cleared his throat. For a minute there, Caleb looked downright uneasy, but he recovered himself quickly and went on. “Last year, a firm specializing in genealogical research looked up my, ah, our family tree. One of the things that came to light was a memoir, written by our ancestor, Jeremy Morgan.”

Dan groaned inwardly. Not another guy who was nuts about his family history! Personally, he didn't care where he'd come from. The important thing was where he was going next.

“You're probably all wondering what this has to do with you. I ask you to bear with me for a short time.”

Dan sat up straighter and tried to look interested as Caleb threw him a glancing look and then began reading from a battered-looking volume bound in a dark, stained leather:

San Juan Mission,

June 1683

I, Jeremy Morgan, having arrived at the age of 52 years and in rapidly failing health, do hereby set down a brief account of my life. So fantastical a journey, which led me from the civilized world to the depths of the wilderness in the New World, would scarcely be believed. If it had not been for God's grace, I should have perished after taking ship from New Amsterdam to the West Indies and from thence to a Spanish mission in the Californias.

After laboring long with the good brothers, I set out with Father Francis, who, in a dream, received a call to venture north and set up a mission. A converted Indian was our guide into the vastness of the land, on which no European had ever set eyes. We settled finally at the place that the good Father had been shown in his dream, a land of wild beauty near the sea.

My life began in a remote place by the sea in Norfolk, England, on—so I am told—a wild, wet night on the thirteenth of September in the year of our Lord 1631. The taking of my first breath was the occasion of my mother's taking her last, leaving my father and older sister, Susanna, bereft. To his credit, my father, a man of some distinction in those parts, did not blame me for this misfortune, but neither, thereafter, did I see much of him.

Caleb paused. “I'm not a man who believes in the supernatural,” he said, “but this Jeremy person appeared to me twice in visions. He even monkeyed with my elevator, making it go out of control until I promised to ask all of you to visit me in San Francisco.”

Laney and J.J. were staring openmouthed at him. Gerry was sitting up straight now and looking at Caleb with a wide-eyed interest.

“I'd like to hear you read some more from the memoir,” said Marjory, breaking the awkward silence.

Pleased with her show of interest, Caleb said, “If you insist,” and turned to the memoir again.

Between my sister and me sprang up a bond that I would have sworn was stronger than death, for she became my constant companion. Many were the long hours we spent roaming the moors, gathering the purple-headed flowers and screeching like wild young things as we raced across the cliffs rising like mighty towers above the sea.

Until I was 12, I was as thoughtless a boy as you might find anywhere, until Jacob de Ruyter literally dropped into my life. It happened in this fashion.

The day of his coming was a gloomy day in early October. I remember Will, who looked after our horses and did odd jobs of work around the estate, scowling at the leaden gray sky and predicting a rare great storm that night. And so it happened. Glad I was to be behind stout walls when the wind was keening like a soul pursued by the Furies.

Then we heard a thundering at our door and men's voices calling out. So fierce was the storm that our superstitious servants feared to open the door, thinking it was the devil himself trying to get in. My father had to go down and draw the great bolt that barred the door. A small company of men rushed in, water pouring in sheets off them, and carrying a man who looked to be more dead than alive, so still and white he was. After examining the man, my father pronounced him still to be breathing and ordered him brought into the parlor, where he was divested of his heavy clothing, rubbed with cloths to dry him, and wrapped in blankets. Some Madeira wine was administered to the poor wretch, who began coughing and heaving up a quantity of water in his lungs.

At this juncture, my father noticed my presence and ordered me to tell Molly, our elderly housekeeper, to fetch some hot soup and one of Father's nightshirts for our visitor.

As you may have guessed, I was aflame with curiosity to know the identity of our visitor. Later, I discovered that the Dutchman Jacob de Ruyter—for so he was named—had grown weary of his country's incessant warfare with Catholic Spain, which had been fighting to take over the Protestant United Provinces. (The southern provinces, the Spanish Netherlands, were already under Spanish rule.)

In addition, Jacob's parents and two sisters had died of the plague, which had killed about 20 percent of his countrymen in Amsterdam. Longing to leave the scene of so much heartbreak and see something of the world, he had resolved to visit London.

In the course of his journey, his ship had been blown off course in a great storm. Foundering off our inhospitable coast, the ship had gone down with all hands lost, except for him. At this point, my father, seeing the man's labored breathing and unhealthy pallor, forbade any further questioning, thanked the men for their part in the rescue, and sent them home after giving each one a coin.

In the morning, I was up early, surprising Molly, who usually had to shake me awake before I would get up for my lessons, which I took with the village lads in the local school. I rushed into the parlor, where I found Jacob de Ruyter sitting in my father's heavy oak chair, his broken leg swathed in bandages.

The barber-surgeon, a portly man with greasy, thinning hair and displaying that air of authority that all medical men seemed to exude, was just finishing packing his bag of instruments and saying to Father, “I have splinted your guest's leg and bandaged it. It should heal in six weeks or so. For relief of pain, I will leave some wintergreen. Tell your cook to brew a potion with it for your guest to drink.”

Father thanked him for coming and escorted him out of the room. I was left alone with Jacob. I had not been shy the previous night about looking at his corpse-like figure—in those parts death was accepted with a certain phlegmatic stoicism—but I was not prepared to greet a gentleman only a few years my senior who, apart from a certain pallor, seemed none the worse for his misadventures.

Up to that time, I had lived a rather secluded and uneventful existence. When school finished each day, it was still early enough to go roaming the hills with Susanna or, more rarely, play with one of my schoolmates. But my father did not encourage “mixing with the lower classes.” He was keenly aware of his position as a Morgan, a family who, in preceding generations, had elevated themselves to a position of some wealth and prestige. Now, however, we had fallen on hard times.

Father had invested heavily in buying tulip stocks. When the stocks crashed in February in the year of our Lord 1637, my father lost a great deal of his fortune. He had little money left to keep the estate in good repair.

This was the state of affairs when Jacob came into our midst. He smiled kindly at me and said, “You must be Master Jeremy. Your father has spoken of you with great pride.”

My father? I thought he was scarcely aware of my existence. He spent most of his time reading in his library or out riding the one horse left in the stables, which had once housed a dozen.

“Your father has kindly asked me to stay on here until my broken leg has mended. In return for his hospitality, I have offered my services as a tutor—such as they are—for I have not been so trained in this occupation, but have been well-educated in the things that gentlemen should know—so there will be no necessity for you to attend the village school, which your father thinks that you have outgrown. I hope this meets with your approval?”

He was asking for my consent, although we both knew that it mattered not a whit now that Father had made his decision. I supposed that under Jacob's supervision I would no longer have to work very hard at my studies. Although I did not know it then, my days as a heedless youth were over. Under the guidance of Jacob, I would be initiated into the mysteries of Greek, Latin, and other studies befitting the education of a young gentleman. Susanna, too, was allowed to partake in these studies and proved to be superior to me in her grasp of them.

Around this time in Father's library, I chanced upon a manuscript dealing with alchemical studies. I was dazzled by the prospect of learning from the manuscript how to turn base metals into gold. After much discussion, I persuaded Father to allow me to buy the flasks, stirring rods, a mortar and pestle, charcoal, and various other materials needful for conducting alchemical experiments.

Jacob was loath to see me begin these experiments, warning that few—if any—had ever been successful in turning base metals into gold.

“But the great Paracelsus did agree that it was possible to make gold,” I argued.

“But of an inferior sort,” Jacob was quick to reply. “He tried through his experiments to discover cures for illnesses.”

“If I am not to repair my family's fortunes by making gold, what is the use of alchemy?” I asked. “I have little interest in finding cures.”

Jacob laughed and then turned serious. “What the true alchemist seeks is to discover the secrets of the universe by delving into his soul, where hidden abilities lie. The transmutation of the baser elements in one's self is what mystical alchemy is all about.”

When my tutor's leg was pronounced healed, my father prevailed upon him to stay an indefinite time with us, for by this time Father had found in him so congenial a companion that he was loath to see him go. It mattered little to my father that Jacob was a Protestant, for Father—whatever his faults—was of the opinion that each man should make up his own mind as to how he should worship. Our family had been Catholic for generations and still was, although it was growing very risky to practice one's faith. In secret we attended mass, celebrated by the priest who had lived in our house. He had a special room—a “priest's hole,” as it was known—but because of the perilous times for those of the true faith he had taken leave of us a month ago and gone to a monastery in France.

Oliver Cromwell, a militant Puritan and the general of Parliament's New Model Army, for years had been whipping up sentiment against the king, who had been raising taxes without the consent of Parliament, until the whole country was divided. Generally, we Catholics supported the king, while Protestants supported Parliament.

Cromwell's army had soundly defeated the Royalist forces and was keeping the king a prisoner on the Isle of Wight. Would we have a monarchy still under Charles Stuart, or perhaps a republic, or—an even worse fate—would Cromwell proclaim himself king?

Many were the evenings that Jacob and my father sat by a crackling fire and discussed these and other matters of great import. Sometimes they argued: Father staunchly upholding the divine right of kings to govern as they pleased—in his estimation, Charles I was within his God-given rights to raise taxes without the consent of Parliament for as long as he pleased—while Jacob argued for the right of men to put checks on the power of kings.