Since July 14th they had been searching
between this place and San Diego for the port of Monterey. "Perhaps this
is the place," said Crespi, the priest, reluctantly. "Vizcaino may have
been amiss when he located it in 37 degrees."
"Yes," spoke Captain Fernando de Rivera, "these explorers are careless
dogs. One seldom finds the places they map out so gaily. And what do
they care who dies of the hunger or scurvy--drinking their flagons in
Mexico or Madrid? A curse, say I, on the lot of them."
Portola turned an irritated glance of disapproval on his henchmen. "What
say you, my pathfinder?" he addressed Sergeant Jose Ortega, chief
of Scouts.
"That no one may be certain, your excellency," the scout-chief answered.
"But," his eyes met those of his commander with a look of grim
significance, "one may learn."
Portola laid a hand almost affectionately on the other's leather-covered
shoulder. Here was a man after his heart. Always he had been ahead of
the van, selecting camp sites, clearing ways through impenetrable brush,
fighting off hostile savages. Now, ill and hungry as he was, for rations
had for several days been down to four tortillas per man, Ortega was
ready to set forth again.
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