CAPTAIN BARTON MCGILL HAULED BACK his right foot and kicked the rock he'd stumbled over. "Son of a bitch!"

The rock went skittering down the path that led to the top of the semaphore hill. A few steps above him, Amanda waited, her face hidden by her bonnet.

"My," she said as he joined her, "you're in a fierce temper."

"Are you surprised? I go away for three and a half months"-he linked her arm in his; they resumed their climb toward the ramshackle house and the wooden signal tower perched on the hilltop-"and when I come back, nothing's the same. I waited two hours for the lighter from shore!"

"You just made the mistake of anchoring on the day the mail boat arrived, Bart."

"Ship," he grumped. "Mail ship."

A fragrant cigar clenched between his fingers streamed smoke into the clear air of early evening. For February, the weather was unusually warm and beautiful. He took a puff of the cigar, asked, "How often are they sending that steam monstrosity out here?"

"Twice a month."

"Never seen such crowds! Kicking, punching each other-must have been a couple of thousand people in those lines at the post office."

"You can turn a nice profit if you get a place at the front of a line. You call sell it to someone else for twenty-five, sometimes fifty dollars."

They circled the side of the hill about fifty feet from the summit. On the front porch of the house, the elderly man who raised the arms on the semaphore tower to signal when a ship was sighted sat rocking slowly. A paper in his lap snapped in the wind.

Bart's gray eyes searched the soft gold sky, then the shadowed hills across the channel to the north. He didn't want to look behind him. He didn't care to be reminded of what he'd seen when he stepped on shore: masses of people; pack animals and every sort of wheeled conveyance; new buildings of raw pine or red brick-the only word for it was chaos.

What pained him most were all the abandoned ships in the harbor. It was unconscionable that worthy vessels should be left to rot. Their crews had succumbed to the lure of the diggings. Bart's own officers were standing armed guard on the Manifest Destiny. He'd threatened to whip and chain any man who attempted to jump ship.

The changes in San Francisco were only part of what troubled him, though. Certain changes in Amanda's situation-and in his own state of mind-were equally responsible.

Feeling dour, he was sharp with her. "That all you can think about these days? Profit?"

She wheeled to face him, her dark eyes catching the western light. He marveled at how lovely she was. She possessed a beauty no girl of sixteen or seventeen could hope to match. She was assured, not gawky, calm-spoken but purposeful. Secretly, he admired her strength, though he wouldn't have admitted it. Her strength was one reason he feared he'd lose her- He realized he was extremely nervous. He had been worrying about this moment ever since the harrowing passage through the Strait of Magellan. For a time, he'd thought Manifest Destiny was going to founder and break apart in the violent winds and towering seas.

They'd run against the gale six days and six nights. Even now he could hear the roar of the waves smashing over the bows, feel the bite of the ropes that held him lashed to the helm.

He'd fought the storm as if it were a human enemy, dogged by a conviction that his luck had played out, and he'd never reach San Francisco. But he refused to give up. Finally, the clipper escaped the worst of the weather.

Although he'd already been awake seventy-two hours straight, he'd sprawled in his bunk for another two or three, thinking. Sorting out what he wanted of life and what he didn't. He reflected that perhaps only the prospect of imminent death could force a man to arrange his affairs. Lying there with the cabin lamps unlit, he'd reached a decision.

The freight-laden clipper arrived in San Francisco harbor nine days behind schedule. He'd been on shore since noon. He'd yet to speak to Amanda concerning the decision. He was fearful she wouldn't care about it. Besides, she had much to tell him about the past weeks- And now the walk had taken a bad turn. Alone with her, away from the rowdy town, he'd hoped to tell her what was on his mind. Instead, just a moment ago, his nervousness and uncertainty had prodded him to make a remark better left unspoken.

She tugged off her sunbonnet as she faced him. Evening sunlight set her dark hair ablaze.

"Bart, that was unkind."

He studied the cherry-colored tip of his cigar. "Mentioning profit?"

"No, what you implied about me."

"Maybe so, sweet. But you have a look you didn't have last time I was here."

"I told you-a great deal has happened."

She leaned against him, letting him feel the curve of her body. The contact somehow heightened his uneasiness. He felt exactly like a callow boy, angry with the world because he expected it to reject him- He tried to smile. "I found that out the minute I walked into Kent's and Felix informed me Sam Brannan was the new owner. How much did you squeeze out of him?"

"I asked ninety thousand. Firm. He complained but he paid. It's prime real estate."

"That uppity nigra of yours told me he got himself a last name, too."

"Why shouldn't Israel adopt a last name? He's a freeman. And he'll have a responsible position, helping to manage the claim-"

"Israel Hope." Bart shook his head. "The whole world's haywire. Niggers naming themselves after mining camps-Billy paid off and gone chasing up the Yuba-your cousin showing up from Oregon one day and getting shot the next-" He fixed her with an uncompromising stare. "And you weren't there when the lighter tied up at the pier."

"I've already apologized for that. I had to sign papers with Brannan."

"Well, it makes no difference."

"You sound as if it does."

"What the devil's my opinion worth? I'm just a common sea captain-" His bitterness grew uncontrollable. "I've never owned a speck of gold. And believe it or not, I've never killed a man."

Amanda stiffened. "How did you learn-?"

"Israel"

"He had no right-"

"Oh, don't score him for it. He was only recounting what happened in the camp. Besides, it'll be all over San Francisco soon. Someone from Hopeful is bound to come down here and talk about it."

"There's no reason why they'd-"

"There certainly is. Most women don't know which end of a gun to pick up, let alone how to shoot one. Have you decided what you're going to say to Louis when he finds out?"

"That I'm not guilty of any crime! The miner's court brought no charges against me. I can explain the shooting to him-"

"For his sake, I hope so."

Bart turned away, glowering down at the sprawling town. Lanterns beginning to wink in the dusk softened its jumbled look. Westward, darkness was thickening above the channel. A fog bank hid the horizon. The air was growing chilly.

He was ashamed of the things he'd said. Yet he'd said them, hadn't he? Hell! He ought to head back for the clipper this instant. The confusions of shore life were too much for him to handle any longer. Ferocious as the tides and winds could be, they were antagonists a man could understand, and master. Here, he understood nothing-not how to deal with the demons that drove Amanda, nor how to control himself so he didn't hurt her.

And he had hurt her-to the point where she couldn't even summon anger.

"Would you care to listen to my side of the shooting scrape, Bart?"

"No. The Pike got in your way. And nothing-no one-is allowed to do that, correct?"

She shook her head. "It sounds like you don't think much of me any longer."

Bitterly: "I think more of you than you'll ever realize. That's why I wish I'd never helped you find those books, or asked those damn questions. Now you won't stop until you own Kent's again. I suppose that means you won't be coming back here."

She avoided his eyes. "I haven't decided."

"You don't fib very well, sweet."

Her cheeks darkened.

"You going straight to Boston?"

"No, Virginia first-to visit Jared's son. He deserves to know what happened to his father."

"You could write him."

"I considered it. That sort of news isn't easy to deliver in any fashion. But I think I can soften it better in person.

He had no comment. After a moment, he said, "Suppose you get all your humanitarianism out of the way and approach Stovall and he refuses to sell-what will you do then? Aim a gun at his head?"

"You're unreasonable. And very unpleasant, I might add!"

She spun to gaze at the thicket of bare masts in the bay. He all but abandoned his plan to discuss what he'd decided after surviving the storm.

"I plead guilty to unpleasant," he said. "But not to unreasonable. Putting your personal crusade aside, you still don't know what you're getting into by deciding to settle in the east."

"I know very well."

"Permit me to disagree. There's real trouble brewing. Has been ever since that damn Democrat from Pennsylvania tried to tack his antislavery proviso onto the Congressional bill for money Polk could use to negotiate with Mexico."

"I've heard some people actually approve of Mr. Wilmot's proviso."

"Nobody down south approves of it! Wilmot tried to violate the 1820 compromise line. Tried to make sure slavery would be banned in any new land acquisitions, north or south. The proviso passed in the House, but the Senate voted it down, thank God. Still, ten state legislatures in the north endorsed it. Not that it makes much difference to me personally, but I'll be flogged if I can see how the federal government has any business interfering with the rights of states, new or old. There's no such thing as a state surrendering a little bit of her sovereignty. Just as old John Randolph of Roanoke said thirty years ago, that's like asking a lady to surrender a little bit of her chastity."

"It was my impression you avoided thinking about politics, Captain McGill."

"Who the hell can avoid it when everybody on the east coast talks of nothing else? The hotheads on both sides of the Congress are screaming because of Wilmot. Someone's got to settle the question of slavery in the new territories. And figure out a better system of enforcement for the fugitive slave laws. It better happen soon, too."

"The newspapers on the last mail packet said Mr. Clay proposes to work out a compromise of some sort."

"Yes, he's supposed to introduce a flock of bills to calm the abolitionists and the secessionists-"

The last word brought a sharp glance from Amanda.

"That's right, the southerners are raising that threat again. The damn fanatics in the north are driving them to it! You'll be drawn into it if you go back. Nobody can stay neutral-"

Now it was her turn to sink a barb. "Except at sea?"

"I'm not ashamed to say I've retreated. I don't want any part of such quarreling. It never decides anything-it only hurts people. I hope the situation doesn't get worse, but I'm afraid it may. Zach Taylor was a capable soldier, but as a president, he's a failure. So it's up to the Congress to resolve the differences peaceably."

"Peaceably?" she repeated. "What other way is there?"

"There's war."

"Oh, Bart, the states would never fight over-"

"Slavery? Don't you be too sure. There's a terrible violent streak in this country, Amanda-your own experiences should prove that. In New York, just last spring, the mob nearly tore down the Astor Place Opera House-the one you can't walk into unless you wear kid gloves-"

"I think I read a short item about that. I don't recall any mention of the cause."

"A ridiculous feud between Forrest, the American actor, and Macready from England. The feeling against the high-toned Mr. Macready boiled over when the Opera House booked him in Macbeth. The city called out more than three hundred police-the militia-even artillery and cavalry. There were thugs packing the theatre-and thousands milling in the streets. Why, Christ, before it was over, water hydrants were knocked open, the pavement was torn up and chucked through the Opera House windows-more than twenty got killed, and about a hundred and fifty wounded. The police arrested that Judson fellow-the one who writes those pieces against foreigners under the name Ned Buntline-for trying to set fire to the building-while it was still occupied! They dragged him away screaming, 'Working men! Shall Americans or English rule?' If people will behave like maniacs because an English actor spouts his lines on a U.S. stage, just imagine what they might do over the nigra question. I sometimes think we were immortal fools to start this country with a revolution. It's helped put a stamp of respectability on violence ever since."

Amanda had no answer for his assertion. Maybe he'd broken through her unspoken confidence that she could deal with any problem, no matter how large, deal with it and overcome it-without being harmed by it. He pressed his momentary advantage.

"If those Congressional compromises are put to a vote, I've heard Calhoun may go to Washington, sick as he is. He knows the situation's desperate-he and Webster and Clay and the other big thinkers. A big thinker I surely am not. But I'm content with my life because it lets me stay sane-no, you hear me out. You're a good woman, Amanda. A strong woman. But there's another part of you that's dangerous. In some ways you act like the windbag abolitionists-you've somehow got it in your head that you're one of those avenging goddesses of the Greeks or the Romans, I forget which-I read about them at the academy when I was no more than Louis' age. But the difference between you and one of the furies, sweet, is just this. They lived forever. You can't. You can be injured. Back east, you'll have to take sides politically. On either side, you'll be putting yourself in jeopardy. And you've already done it by declaring war on Stovall. So you're doubly vulnerable. I read some Bible when I was a boy, too. I remember St. Matthew. Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane-"

He gazed at her, hoping the meaning wouldn't be lost. " 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword-' "

The wind murmured in the silence. The darkness was lowering rapidly. It muted the ugliness of the town below-but not the determination in her eyes.

"I'll take my chances."

"Yes-unfortunately-" He tried to smile. Failed. "That's the kind of woman you are."

"Why won't you understand, Bart-?" Unconsciously, she touched the rope bracelet. "Jared's death made it impossible for me to turn back. I would never have wished him murdered. But once it happened, I accepted it-and decided to make the most of it. I'll never have the same kind of opportunity."

With considerable cynicism, he said, "You're certainly counting on your cousin once removed wanting no share of what belonged to his father."

"He's a preacher. I don't think he'll be interested. Besides, all I intend to ask of him is the use of the money for a while. He'll be rewarded. Eventually I'll give Jephtha Kent ten times what he'd earn otherwise, I've discovered how to use money to make money-"

She brightened then, her head lifting as she whirled to face the dark eastern sky. "Try to look at it from my side, Bart. Even apart from wanting to own the company again, it's exciting to think of going home. There's so much I've never seen. The cities. Fine houses and those huge factories they say are springing up everywhere. I want to ride a horse car and a railroad-I'll have to educate myself, too. Learn good manners, and how to dress properly. And teach everything to Louis-"

"Staying out of the way of the political trouble all the while? It can't be done. I especially don't think you can do it."

"Why not?"

"Just the way you are."

"Would you mind explaining that remark?"

"For one thing, you have a peculiar liking for nigras-"

Amanda bristled. "And which side were you on during the Astor Place riot, Captain McGill?"

"What?"

"You sound like you might have joined the thugs trying to keep the American stage for Americans only!"

"Nonsense. I never take sides. I was still in the Atlantic, thank God. Besides, I was just using that as an example of the way people in this country knock each other in the head over any trivial-"