A Veil of Fog and Flames

By Lori Hart Beninger

Heroes and scoundrels are not born – they are forged in the crucible of experience. Nothing anneals like living.

At fifteen, Guinevere Walker and Jack Moylan are not yet galvanized for the future. In the roiling cauldron that is San Francisco of 1851 – a city devastated by suspicious fires, a dangerous brand of justice imposed by vigilantes from its formidable business community, and the cloud of slavery – the two face issues and questions that thrust them into adulthood and mold their very nature. Do they conform or rebel? Do they succumb to social conventions and restrictions? Or do they pursue their dreams in defiance of the pressures?

A Veil of Fog and Flames is a tale of young lives poised on a tightrope of right and wrong, their stories woven into the fabric of a city that forges rules as it pleases – and breaks them as easily.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9780985689759

Book preview

Chapter 1

Guine: May 4, 1851

PAPA TAUGHT ME WHERE TO FIND THE PULSE on a man: the neck, the wrist, and the inside of an ankle. If I no longer hear the man breathing, I am to search for a pulse. If I cannot find that, I am to fetch Alonso.

Five blackened men lay on tarps and cots before me. They gulp for air like fish stranded on the beach, hungry to fill their scorched lungs. My task is to lift their heads and pour water between their blistered lips. Try not to drown them, Papa instructs. When I waver, he snaps: What if you were he? Guine, you are nearly fifteen years old and, as a well-bred young lady and the daughter of a doctor, surely you know by now that certain duties are expected of you. Do try to be gracious and offer the minimum of defiance. For a change.

As of late, our conversations often come to this. However, Papa has misinterpreted my hesitancy. Mine is not a reluctance to touch the charred bodies but a resistance to relinquishing hope that we can help them live, rather than watch them die.

I straighten my back and glance eastward, tensing at the sight. From here, in the northeast corner of Portsmouth Square, I can see the bay. Where once the vibrant city of San Francisco stood, now a cauterized field stretches to the churning waters of the harbor. Wooden structures are no more. Even some brick buildings like the Delmonico Restaurant have crumbled, hunched in on themselves and coughing mortar dust into the veil of smoke that hovers over the devastation. The Parker Hotel is gone and with it the Jenny Lind Theater. The brick façades of the El Dorado, the California Exchange, and the Verandah Resort are blackened, windows shattered. The adobe walls of the Customs House, on the opposite side of the square, are scorched like the rest of the city. How many times has San Francisco burned since Papa and I returned? Four? Five? Each time seems worse than the last.

Yet each time, she returns. The fires have not repressed this fledgling city or destroyed her spirit. As soon as the sea breezes dust the ashes from her undulating shoulders and the smoke from her shores, she will arise as she has before. Were I to lay my hand to the ground of Portsmouth Square, I would expect to find a stubborn pulse.

I suppose I must resign myself, however, that the firemen I comfort will not be like the city. Papa can do little except dispense laudanum for their pain. Along with water, I try to provide some kind words when they wake. They rarely wake. And if they do they seldom say much, although I suspect many thoughts wait on their tongues. I try to speak of things that will only require a nod, but sometimes I forget to be brief. Prattling keeps me from despairing.

In the fading light of our medical pavilion a sixth man, a dark-haired stranger, fervently whispers beside one of the dying, clutching his hand, crouching protectively over him. He speaks softly but freely of the plans he has for the future, plans that pretend to include the prone man. The stranger is prattling too.

Would he care for some water?

He has no further need of such things, lass, the man says, gesturing with the sign of the cross before rising to his feet. He too is blackened with soot, but is not injured. Thank you all the same.

Guine. I turn at the sound of my name. Uncle James approaches the medical tent from the road, his expression weary and worn, his clothes smudged. Guine, have you seen Alonso? He’s needed down on Montgomery Street.

He should be returning from the Hebrew Cemetery soon, I say, glad of the diversion from the dark mourner.

You’ll not be taking Jimmy to the Hebrew Cemetery, will you? the man asks. Above his grief I hear panic.

No, no, I respond, noting the crucifix resting on the blistered chest of his friend. The religious artifacts have helped us sort the dead so that Alonso can deliver them to their rightful burial places. He will be taken to Mission Dolores.

The man nods. Thanks be to God for that. I’ll tell his kin.

S-Senator, Uncle James says, stumbling over the title as he steps closer to the grieving man, reaching out his hand in greeting. Was he one of your volunteers?

The Senator nods.

I’m sorry for your loss, sir. But I fear there may be others. I’ve just come from the Cove. A half dozen men were trapped inside one of the brick buildings. The metal doors and shutters had warped and melted – we had to pry them open. I suppose the men thought the brick wouldn’t burn, but…someone recognized one of the dead as a fireman. The Senator’s face does not change. I’m sorry, Uncle James repeats. Empire Company was among the many who kept this disaster from being worse.

Thank you, the Senator whispers. He repeats the gratitude once more into space, glancing at the body of his friend before trudging toward the harbor.

Who is that?

Senator Broderick, Uncle James replies. San Francisco’s representative to the State Legislature. And foreman of the Empire Engine Company.

He is a barbarian. Papa emerges from his temporary operating room, pushing the canvas flap aside to reveal another man with a wrapped wrist and flame-red patches on his face and arms. Papa urges this patient on his way. One who desires San Francisco for a fiefdom, just as he wanted of New York. The Tammany Society transplanted. Papa thrusts slender fingers through blond hair darkened with sweat. Surgeon’s finger, Mama called them. He is pale and irritable, limping noticeably from his old wound – a dubious gift from our time in Sonora.

We need politicians like Broderick, Harold, if California is to avoid being overwhelmed by Southern interests and customs – people who would have us re-declared as a slave state. Who knows how much damage would be done without Broderick and his ilk.

He is a brute. His idea of political persuasion is to pummel his opponents if words will not do. And do you not find it strange when the ballots in certain precincts not only weigh heavily in his favor, but represent voter numbers far in excess of census counts? Papa does not wait for Uncle James’ response, gesturing instead to the Senator’s friend. Is this one of Broderick’s men? I nod. He will be to Mission Dolores then with the rest of the Irish rabble.

Uncle James sets his jaw and looks away. We have both heard words of this nature from my father before. It seems Harold was born hating the Irish, Uncle James is wont to say. He says it’s because he’s British, although I expect there is more to it than that. Although disagreement and disgust shadow Uncle James’ face, he refrains from reminding Papa that the firemen of San Francisco are predominantly Irish. Such facts are rarely persuasive with my father.

Guine, have we more laudanum? Papa asks in response to a low groan from the other side of the shelter.

No, Papa.

Papa glances at Uncle James.

I don’t know, Harold, Uncle James shakes his head in response to the question my father has not asked. The Battery warehouse is gone and everything with it. Sansome was spared. I can take a look at the ledgers to see if I might have some medical supplies there. I know there were some at Battery, but I don’t remember any in Sansome. I’ll look.

I can’t wait for that.

Harold…

Papa glances in the direction of Dupont Street. I assume Little China is still there. Nothing west of the square seems to have been touched.

It’s standing. Singed but standing. Harold, let me see what I can find at Sansome before you go.

I have ventured there before.

I know, but…

I need the opium. These men need the opium. Papa straightens his shoulders. Although accustomed to my uncle’s oft-expressed apprehension about the opium sellers in the Chinese district, he will brook no further argument. James, please escort Guine home to fetch my satchel of money. I believe I have enough coin without having to wait for the bank to open tomorrow morning. I imagine the Chinese will take advantage of this disaster to raise the prices, but that cannot be helped.

I turn my back as Papa and Uncle James argue about the dangers of a venture into Little China after dark, the question of who will help the wounded and dying while the deed is done. It is a conversation in which I have no part, although that may change soon enough. For now, I am tired and hungry and wish for the disagreement to end and the dying men cured and the city to miraculously recover. When I walk through San Francisco tomorrow, I want the familiar buildings to be in their proper places and the distant piers to stretch into the bay where now I see only blackened sticks pointing in accusation at the shore of Yerba Buena Cove.

The Cove. Where the Dunsfords live.

You said you came from the Cove, did you not? I interrupt, turning back to my uncle, away from the harbor where the shards of the wharves have thrust my thoughts toward my adoptive family. The Dunsfords. Have you seen them? Are they safe?

Uncle James shakes his head. I don’t know. I haven’t seen them. I didn’t think…

I do not wait to hear more. I run toward the Cove, one thought dominating: Please let them be safe. A plea punctuates each footfall. Please. Please. Please.

The underground planks that supported Clay Street have burned away, and I navigate the smoldering ruts on my tiptoes, stepping in time with my mantra: please help them, please let them be alive, please do not let me fall. Please. Acrid smoke hovers over the embers, burning my nose and eyes as I sprint toward the bay. I pass Montgomery, then Sansome where the blackened hulk of the landlocked Niantic crouches amidst other wreckage. The Niantic was a real ship once, like the Pelican. Then it was a hotel, until last night’s blaze.

At Battery Street, I realize that another of the old converted ships, the General Harrison, has fared worse than Niantic. I am unable to distinguish the profile of the corner store from the rest of the ruins, guessing at its location only by the charred crossroads where it had stood. My hope had been that buildings furthest from Portsmouth Square, where the fire began, would fare better than those nearer the bay. But they have not.

From the intersection, I turn toward the spot where the Pelican should be, landlocked like her sister ships. My breath is ragged as I run, my corset pinching. My plea intensifies. Please. Please. Please.

I stop at the place where once the Washington Street wharf had stretched. The cinders of the pier crunch beneath my boots as ash puffs from the shards.

The Pelican is no more. I had walked her decks not two days ago in joyful celebration with the family that called her home. Now, the main cabin smolders somewhere in the depths of her hold, two levels below my feet.

***

I should have been dancing. A birthday gala for 17-year-old twins Matthew and Lizzie had brought me to the Pelican with the promise of food and music and laughter. Instead, however, I volunteered to relieve Mrs. Dunsford of her usual duties at the pie shop so that she could enjoy her children and the 2-year-old grandson she had never before met. Where I might otherwise have been laughing with my friends and enjoying tasty treats, instead I was cooking in the heat of the ship’s tiny galley along with dozens of pie wedges.

The Dunsfords and I had sailed to San Francisco from New York on the Pelican nearly three years ago in 1848, braving the treacherous route around Cape Horn to arrive just as news of California’s abundant gold was spreading across the globe, addling brains and turning the city into a madhouse. A few fellow sailing vessels had already been abandoned in the harbor, deserted in haste by crews in search of riches. The number of these forlorn ships grew into the hundreds before the year was out.

Originally bound for a missionary post in China, the Dunsfords had been stranded as a result of the desertions. With resourceful determination, Mrs. Dunsford had turned the old ship into a home for her family. Without hope of a pulpit for the Reverend, from the galley came their only income in the form of pies, both sweet and savory. The business soon thrived.

Volunteering to help with that business today, however, had been foolish. Juggling hot pans and hot pies and gold coins proved to be more than I expected.

Collecting money and making proper change should have been the easiest of my tasks. However it was not, for I was occasionally called upon to weigh gold dust and certain coins, per Mrs. Dunsford’s strict orders. Weighing of the dust was expected, but woe to the hapless buyer with a five or ten-dollar coin minted by the Pacific Company. Those coins did not contain the requisite amount of gold to correspond to their face value, and even the credentials of Senator David Broderick, original minter of the coins and part owner of the now-defunct Pacific Company, were not enough to convince Mrs. Dunsford to accept them without weighing. Not surprisingly, customers with Pacific Company coins were seldom happy when their money was found wanting.

I dropped a steaming pot of newly baked pies onto the stove top, stifling a squeal as it brushed my arm. Perspiration trickled down my back, soaking into my chemise, exacerbating the chafe of my corset. In silence I vowed that once my duties were complete, I would rip the annoying corset from my body and tear it apart, reveling in the sound of fabric screaming in protest. Setting it ablaze was tempting, but the thought of the heat that would be required to burn the dreadful thing extinguished that idea in short order. I was hot enough already. Both doors of the galley were open to let the breeze through, but that did little to stem my melting.

I glanced outside where customers hovered in a queue that stretched from the galley door, across the deck, and down the gangway into the street. Only a dozen or so pies were left, including the ones I had just pulled from the oven.

You need help, Matthew said as he slipped into the galley, his face flushed and his light hair tousled. This was the second time he had come to my aid today.

What if we run out of pies?

Don’t fear. It happens all the time, he said, then turned to the first customer. What can I get for you, sir?

Clearing the deck did not take long. There was grumbling from those who wanted rabbit pie but had to settle for pork, and from the final customer who wanted five when only three of the steaming wedges were left. The remaining stragglers stamped their feet in frustration as they retreated down the gangway empty handed. But Matthew remained pleasant, and I followed his example, recommending to any disappointed patron to return tomorrow, preferably at an earlier hour.

We need a bigger shop, Matthew said as the last customer departed. And perhaps another oven, and more shelving. Mother should hire a cook, too. She’s had a few asking about a position, but she doesn’t know any of them and she’s certain they lie about their experience. Everybody in San Francisco lies about their experience.

How is she? I asked, believing I knew the answer already.

Mother hasn’t been this happy since we arrived in San Francisco. Seeing Lizzie again, and finally meeting little Michael were the answers to her prayers.

And Michael is the perfect grandchild, I suppose.

Of course, Matthew beamed, pride in his nephew evident on his face. Mother hasn’t put him down since he arrived. I doubt she’ll give him up at the end of today’s festivities. You know how she is about family.

Will the Reverend object to their presence?

His smile faded as he glanced toward the gangway, as if expecting to see his father walking there. I already regretted the question. "He isn’t likely to know. Father’s helping with the construction of a new building on Kearny somewhere. Afterward, he’ll probably pause for a sermon in front of one of the brothels before he returns home. Just to stay in practice, you know, anticipating that day in the very near future when the Church offers him a pulpit of his own. Against all odds. I doubt he’ll be home before dark. Lizzie and her family will have returned to your aunt and uncle’s house by then."

Surely after all this time…

Even after all this time his heart has not yielded. Matthew bowed his head. He must be right, you know. At all times he must be right, even if the facts prove otherwise. I for one can’t understand the fuss. Lizzie seems quite happy being married to Robert – not at all tainted by his evil Papist ways. I saw no evidence of horns.

When does your ship sail? I asked, intent upon steering the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

Next month. She’s being fitted out now. I saw a poster advertising passage yesterday and it read June 15th. Of course, that may change. It always does.

Harvard, Matthew. You must be very proud to have been accepted there.

Harvard wasn’t too keen on admitting me, given my dismal education the past three years. Had it not been for your uncle and his vast connections, I’m afraid I might’ve had to settle for being a pie baker the rest of my life. He laughed. Instead, thanks to Mr. James Somersworth, I shall be an engineer as I’ve always wanted. Harvard’s science school is still new, only four years old, but I’m sure its reputation will rise to the level of excellence enjoyed by the rest of the university in due time. I wasn’t accepted at any of the other engineering schools anyway. His laughter was more subdued.

I plan on returning once my schooling is complete. The East has much to offer an engineer, but the possibilities here are vast. San Francisco is like a blank canvas. He squinted past the glare of the bay waters, a smile tickling the corners of his mouth as he surveyed the canvas.

I know. You have great plans for this city. He had described most of those dreams to me on our hike last Saturday to the crag called Goat Hill that stood sentry over Yerba Buena Cove.

That day I had wisely left the hated corset at home. The climb had been arduous and I was thankful not to have whale bones digging into my sides and constricting each breath. I would have been even happier had I also been wearing trousers, as I did in Sonora. However Papa insisted that I leave my wild ways in the Sierra when we moved again to the city, so I no longer owned trousers. Instead I had to ruck my skirts as I stumbled up the rocky slope.

Once at the peak I was winded, but thrilled that we had made that journey. Downtown San Francisco lay below, huddled against the shoreline, framed by her towering hills. The Presidio, with its wind-battered cypress trees, was to the north. The rocky pile that was Alcatraz Island jutted from the dark blue waters of the bay, and the oak-strewn contra costa was a blurred milieu to the east. I might have described the view as breathtaking, but the climb itself had already claimed that title.

Gazing toward the strait of the Golden Gate beyond the Presidio, Matthew had spoken of a bridge that would span the divide one day. A bridge that remarkable hasn’t been built yet, but what’s to say it can’t be? And what’s to say that I won’t be the builder. He imagined railroads that would scale the Sierra Nevada and streets fortified to make San Francisco a great city – wonders yet-to-be designed and crafted. The brisk wind blew ideas into his head faster than he could speak, and his eyes were riveted on the visions.

Will you return to Boston? he asked, dispelling my reverie of the Goat Hill hike. Your father complains so much about San Francisco’s lack of culture, why don’t you both return to the East?

He will not venture aboard another ship for all of the gold in California. You know that. I am afraid that a journey to Boston must wait until those railroads you envision are open for business. The sea and Papa are well acquainted, but not good friends.

A chorus of whoops and laughter from the main cabin danced across the Pelican’s deck. You will make a fine engineer, Matthew, I said.

But that makes you sad?

I was startled by his question. The conversation had left me with a sense of melancholy, but I did not expect my mood to be so obvious. Sad? No, not at all. I am happy for you.

Matthew looked doubtful. Then he crooked his arm and held it out to me. Shall we join the party? Perhaps that will cheer you.

***

Dozens of lamplights bob eerily in the dusk, as foragers poke through the ruins for surviving possessions or bounty. A rifle’s discharge punctuates the night. Looters and the militia are both afoot tonight.

By the time I return to the medical shelter, all save one of Papa’s burned charges have been removed to their respective churchyards. Politely refusing Papa’s offer of help, the cobbler Mr. Solomon lifts the body of his eldest child onto the canted slats of a handcart, hands shaking as he tucks and gentles a blanket around his son. He lifts the wagon’s handles, and I suspect the groan that escapes his lips is due more to grief than any strain on his back. His gloomy destination will be the Hebrew Cemetery at Franklin and Broadway.

Papa and Uncle James seem mindful of the Pelican’s hovering ghost as they offer words of comfort to stem my tears. Finally thwarted in his efforts to cheer me, Uncle James departs for home, and Papa and I begin the task of clearing the site, lapsing into a bruised silence.

This too will pass; they too have passed. Even this ridiculous chant cannot whirl away the images and smells and memories of the afternoon, nor dispel the specter of the black hole left by the Pelican’s demise. I fear the Dunsfords are gone, lost in the ashes of their ship, the thought tearing at my heart like some clawed beast. It is a familiar feeling. I felt much the same when Mama died, and again the day Papa left for California without me. I had come to think of the sensation as a forever wound: a hurt that never bleeds but refuses to heal. Loss of my friends and companions will be another forever wound for me.

My fingers move as if of their own volition, dutifully gathering the debris of Papa’s rescue efforts, cleaning his surgical tools, and wiping away the traces of carnage.

My thoughts stray once again to Friday’s festivities aboard the Pelican. Matthew had been right, of course. I had been sad when he spoke of the life that awaited him at Harvard, for I was jealous of his plans, the promise of new discoveries and freedom that awaited him in Massachusetts. And now I can add shame to my despair, for that jealousy feels so petty in light of today’s tragedy.

I beg your pardon? I ask, only now aware that Papa has said something.

You have a visitor, he repeats, tipping his head toward the darkness of the square.

I beg your pardon? I want to shout the question this time. What more inappropriate time could there be for a social visit? How can anyone be so insensitive as to think company would be welcomed at such a time and place as this?

Despite these irreverent thoughts, I dab my eyes and work to compose my features so that I can greet the newcomer in the manner instructed by Aunt Jessica. With grace, she always says. Your guest must feel he is the only person in the world who is of any consequence to you. The troubles of your day must never interfere with the comfort of your company. I suppose Mama would have said the same, were she here. Papa would add: You are a lady, after all, and must never forget to act like one.

My visitor is Uncle James. I pull my shoulders back as he approaches the hospital tent with his lantern high, a wide circle of light preceding him through the gloom. I smile, despite my irritation at this intrusion, for he reminds me of Mama. She was much like her older brother, with the same mischievous dark eyes and ready smile he wears now. What an exasperating countenance, given the circumstance. Why has he left the comfort of his home to return here, and why must I pose for him, of all people?

Not until he reaches the overhang of the tent do I see the reason for his cheer. Behind him walks Matthew Dunsford, smudged with soot, but whole and safe.

I can no longer hold the weight of whatever instrument is in my hand – it thuds in the plaza dirt. I surge across the short expanse of the hospital tent and fling myself at the boy, burying my face in his shirt, abandoning my reserve in defiance of my aunt’s teachings. Renewed tears sting my eyes and joyful sobs spasm from me. I cling to him without shame.

His chest rumbles as he speaks, but the words are barely audible over my snuffles: A glow like the sun…light sleeper…grabbed Anna, her strong box, and her largest cooking pot…marched us north…" I must pull away to hear the remarkable tale of how his family came to escape the deaths I was certain had taken them. I stand back, but do not turn Matthew loose from my embrace.

"We could still feel the heat from the flames on our backs as we approached Broadway. But it was clear ahead. Mother just kept walking, leading us and herding us in turn like sheep until late morning when we reached your uncle’s house. I thought the climb would kill us all.

"Your aunt and uncle have asked us to stay with them, Guine. All eleven of us, including Lizzie’s family. The house will be quite crowded with Cecchis and Dunsfords, I should think. Although perhaps it’ll make little difference, given the mansion’s size.

One good thing, I suppose. Father must be on his best behavior for a change.

Chapter 2

Jack: May 4, 1851

I SAW MY FIRST DRAGON the very day I came to San Francisco. It had a big ugly head of painted wood and paper, with a body made from yards of yellow cloth. Chinamen carried it through the streets on long poles, the body twisting like a snake as the bearers jumped up and down to the rhythms of tinny drums and the snap of firecrackers. The streets of Little China had been lined with hundreds of Celestials waving yellow flags with even more dragons on them – blue dragons. I’d never seen so many Chinamen in one place. Somebody told me they were celebrating the New Year, but I didn’t believe that. It was February. Even Chinamen must know when the New Year begins.

The second dragon however – the fire dragon – was an altogether different creature. As it marched through the city last night, it was terrifying. It ate through San Francisco with a ferocious roar.

We never heard the fire alarm. It was Billy Mulligan who came running into the Golden Ribbon just after midnight to warn us of the flames. Every building on the square was on fire, he said, and the flames were coming our way.

There wasn’t much panic, really. Not what I expected. I suppose many people had been through the Great Fire last year, so they must’ve known what to do. Most of the ladies ran upstairs to put on some clothes and collect a few of their belongings, Mrs. Schwartzman yelling at them to hurry up, shouting that they should gather outside in the middle of the street so we could all be together. The men quickly tipped back their drinks and gathered up what winnings they had before rushing out the door. I doubt Mrs. Schwartzman cared much where they ran off to because they’d have already paid their debts to her. She didn’t believe in keeping a tabulation for anybody.

Once the Ribbon was emptied, she grabbed my arm. John, she whispered, I need help with my trunk. Come with me.

I wasn’t keen on having to go further into the building while there was a fire coming our way, but I didn’t want to refuse the request. I’d helped Mrs. Schwartzman cart that heavy old thing from Stockton, after all, and I knew what she kept there and how much it meant to her. She led me past the bar into her office.

It won’t take a minute, she said, grabbing the cash box as we passed through, unlocking the door to her bedroom before rushing inside. I keep it mostly packed all the time, just in case. You never know in this town.

The battered trunk was in one corner of the room, covered with a patterned shawl dripping with purple bangles and beads. Purple’s Mrs. Schwartzman’s favorite color, so the room looked like someone had thrown plums everywhere. It was the gaudiest place I’d ever seen, but Mrs. Schwartzman thought it was beautiful.

Flinging the shawl over her shoulders, she searched through her clutch of keys while I opened the window for a glance outside, hoping not to see the fire’s glare. I could smell smoke, but the flames themselves weren’t to be seen. I figured we had a bit of time left.

More than twenty keys of every size were on that ring of Mrs. Schwartzman’s: to the cash box, the cellar, the office, her bedroom, everything. The biggest was a master key that opened every door to each of the hotel rooms upstairs. Just in case there’s trouble, she always said.

Aha, she crowed, finding the key she wanted and slipping it into the trunk’s lock. She flipped the lid open and thrust the cash box inside. Then she dashed around the room, gathering up jewelry and framed photographs and other bits of her life. Well, dashing may be a generous word, since Mrs. Schwartzman is the size of a barn and just about as easy to move.

After one last look around, she dropped the chest lid, locked it up, and turned to me. I’m ready, John. Let’s get the hell outta here. We each grabbed a handle and wrestled the leaden box through the Ribbon.

The ladies had done as she asked and were waiting in the middle of Washington Street, clutching each other and pointing at the reddish glow in the distance over Portsmouth Square.

This way, girls, Mrs. Schwartzman shouted, pulling toward the Cove.

Wait,