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“Hey!”
Bell ran after it. The driver stopped. When he peeled back his goggles, he looked like a schoolboy playing hooky. Bell guessed that he had “borrowed” his father’s car.
“I’ll bet you twenty bucks that thing can’t do a mile a minute
.”
“You’ll lose.”
“It’s six miles to Vallejo. I’ll bet you twenty bucks you can’t get there in six minutes.”
Bell was losing the bet until, two miles from Vallejo, they came squealing around a bend in the road, and the driver stomped on his brakes. The road was blocked by a gang of men who had dug a trench across it to lay a culvert pipe. “Hey!” yelled the driver. “How in heck are we supposed to get to Vallejo?”
The foreman, seated in the shade of an umbrella, pointed at a cutoff they had just passed. “Over the hill.”
The driver looked at Bell. “That’s no fair. I can’t do sixty over a hill.”
“We’ll work out a handicap,” said Bell. “I think you’re going to win this race.”
The driver poured on the steam, and the Stanley climbed briskly for several hundred feet. They tore across a short plateau and climbed another hundred. At the crest, Bell saw a breathtaking vista. The town of Vallejo lay below, its grid pattern of streets, houses, and shops stopping at the blue waters of San Pablo Bay. To the right, Mare Island was marked by tall steel radio towers like those Bell had seen at the Washington Navy Yard. Ships lay alongside the island. In the distance, he saw columns of black smoke rising behind Point San Pablo, which divided San Francisco Bay from San Pablo Bay.
“Stop your auto,” said Bell.
“I’m losing time.”
Bell handed him twenty dollars. “You already won.”
A line of white battleships rounded the headland and steamed into view. He knew their silhouettes from the Henry Reutendahl paintings reproduced for months in Collier’s. The flagship, the three-funnel Connecticut, led the column, followed by Alabama, with two smoke funnels side by side, then the smaller Kersage, with two tall in-line funnels and stacked forward turrets, and Virginia taking up the rear.
“Wow!” exclaimed the kid at the wheel. “Say, where are they going? They’re supposed to anchor at the city.”
“Down there,” said Bell. “Mare Island for maintenance and supplies.”
THE KID DROPPED HIM on a street of tailors’ shops that catered to Navy officers.
“How much to replace my suit of clothes?”
“Those are mighty fine duds, mister. Fifty dollars if you want it fast.”
“A hundred,” said Bell, “if every man in your shop drops everything and it’s done for me in two hours.”
“Done! And we’ll get your hat cleaned free of charge.”
“I would like to use your washroom. And then I believe I would like to sit in a chair where I can close my eyes.”
In the mirror over the sink he saw a slight dilation of his pupils that told him he might have suffered a minor concussion. If that was all. “Thank you, Mr. Sheep.”
He washed his face, sat in a chair, and slept. An hour later he awakened to the rumbling of a seemingly endless line of wagons and trucks heading for Mare Island Pier. Every fourth truck had T. WHITMARK stenciled on the side. Ted was doing well feeding the sailors.
The tailor was as good as his word. Two hours after arriving in Vallejo, Isaac Bell stepped off the ferry Pinafore onto the Mare Island Naval Shipyard. U.S. Marines snapped to attention at the gate. Bell showed the pass Joseph Van Dorn had procured from the Navy Secretary.
“Take me to the commandant.”
The commandant had a message for Bell from the Napa Junction railroad station.
“MY HOSTS USUALLY HOLD the reception after I preach,” said the visiting English clergyman, Reverend J. L. Skelton.
“We do things differently on Mare Island,” said the commandant. “This way, sir, to your receiving line.”
