Captured in the Caribbean

by Sara Whitford

  “If you waiting a little more, we being there soon,” said a grinning Hector.

  Adam shook his head. “Nah. You know, let’s just turn around and head on back to town. I reckon I’ve changed my mind about trying to find this Señor Cordova, anyway.”

  This time Hector didn’t respond to Adam, but to Carlos he said, “¡Apurate!” Then it sounded to Adam like he issued some sort of command.

  Carlos snapped the reins, and the horse sped up.

  The only thing Adam kept thinking was, Oh Lord, not again. Please don’t let these two dump me in the middle of nowhere out here.

  Fortunately, once they had ventured well into the dense forest, Carlos stopped the horse cart, and he and Hector turned around to face Adam.

  “What is this?” Adam asked.

  “Listen, amigo,” Hector began, “we no having no plans to harm you, but we do needing to borrow you for a little while.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Very soon we arriving to a place—a safe place for you if you are behaving yourself. And all you having to do is sit quiet for a day or two.”

  “What?! My crew is supposed to be leaving Havana tomorrow, and I have to be on that ship.”

  Carlos made some extended observation to Hector, then appeared to suggest something to his associate.

  Hector shook his head. “No es necesario. That will not be necessary, right, amigo?” he asked Adam.

  Knowing he couldn’t understand what Carlos had said, Hector decided to translate. “He say we should tying you up so you cannot be escaping.”

  Adam would not react.

  “I not thinking we need to worrying about you, amigo,” said Hector. “You is not thinking of escaping, yes?”

  Adam’s face was like steel. He refused to let these men see what he was feeling. He swore to himself the previous year after he had survived another dangerous set of circumstances that he’d never again show fear to another man, or beg another man for his life. He hated the way he felt that day he had begged Ajax and Lot to not leave him on that island. He knew the only thing that ultimately saved him was Providence. Emmanuel had had many conversations with him about that very thing after he was rescued, and Adam came to realize that his life would go on up until the time God had appointed for him to die—and it would not happen one moment sooner or later.

  “You listen good to me,” said Hector. “Listen very good. Carlos, he taking a message back to your barco—your ship—that we is holding you in a secret place, and if they wanting you back they have to give us whatever we telling them.”

  “You must be joking!” Adam laughed hard. “You actually think that you’re going to send a message back to our American ship that you are demanding ransom—for me? This was my first time on that ship. I have no skills for them. They won’t pay tuppence for me, you idiot.”

  In reality, Adam knew his shipmates on the Gypsy would do whatever might be necessary to try to help any of the men on board that ship if they found themselves in trouble, but he wasn’t about to comfort these two rogues with that kind of knowledge.

  Hector looked at Carlos, annoyed, then took a deep breath before he said to Adam. “Ya veremos. We will see.”

  Chapter Six

  MARTIN AND CHARLIE HAD WALKED up and down San Pedro Street along the waterfront a dozen times looking for a house or apartment with the name Velasquez, but to no avail.

  Most of the little houses that lined the road were marked with names outside like Ramirez, Martinez, Garcia, Rosado, and so forth, but they’d not seen anything that even looked close to Velasquez. Finally, Charlie said, “This is a waste of time. Why don’t we just ask someone? This might not even be the right street. Maybe it’s not San Pedro, but San . . . Paul or somethin.”

  “Fine,” said Martin.

  He marched across the street and asked a man who appeared to be a guard occupying a watch house near what looked like some kind of estate. In slow and halting Spanish, with a Carolina accent, he said, “Ah, perdon, señor. Yo necesito hablar . . . ah . . . un hombre. Ah . . . el Capitán Santiago Velasquez de Leon. ¿Ayuda?”

  He showed the man the piece of paper with the captain’s name and the street on which he lived, and waited for an answer.

  Although Martin’s Spanish left a lot to be desired, Charlie was impressed. It was more exotic words than he could string together in any language.

  The guard looked at the paper, then studied the young men. He gave a lengthy response in Spanish that sounded like it ended with a question. Martin didn’t understand much of it, but he did understand something about the captain living nearby.

  “What’d he say?” asked Charlie.

  Martin barely shook his head, not wanting to appear too obvious, but he responded, “I’m not sure. I think he wants to know how we know the captain.”

  “Well, answer him.”

  Martin cleared his throat. “Ah . . . El capitán . . . ah . . . es un amigo de . . . ah . . . mi . . . Oh Lord, how do you say ‘boss’? Ah . . . patrón?”

  “¿Quien es su patrón, señor?” the guard asked.

  “Mi patrón se llama Emmanuel Rogers. Somos de North Carolina en America.”

  The guard scratched his head, seemingly unsure of what to do. He made a motion to indicate that he wanted the men to wait while he went to the main house.

  Martin stood there, impatiently waiting for the guard to return.

  “What were y’all sayin?” asked Charlie.

  “I told him who we were lookin for. I think he said the Velasquez house is near here. He wanted to know if we knew the captain. I told him we did—that he was a friend of our boss. Then he wanted to know who our boss was, so I told him. And I told him where we were from.”

  “So what’s he gone inside for?” asked Charlie.

  Martin shrugged.

  They saw the guard start making his way back down the lane towards the gate and open it.

  “Ven conmigo,” said the guard, motioning for them to follow him.

  Martin gave a friendly slap to Charlie’s shoulder and then ran ahead to follow the guard. They went into a courtyard, then across a terrace, at which point the guard turned them over to a black servant, who worked in the enormous house on the estate. He wore a white blouse and white trousers, as they soon noticed did all of the servants on the property.

  “Siganme, por favor,” said the servant.

  He started to walk into the house, but Martin and Charlie weren’t following him. He looked back and motioned for them to come along, so they scurried to catch up. They had noticed that the several workers out on the grounds and those who were serving in the house all appeared to be African slaves, although neither Martin nor Charlie had ever seen so many slaves belonging to one family. For that matter they had never seen slaves speaking Spanish. Still, they realized it was entirely logical that they would speak the same language as their masters.

  The ornate columns and blue mosaic tiles in the house were impressive. The floors looked like they were made of marble, and the domed ceilings were exquisitely painted. The chandeliers and sconces dripped with crystal, and the furniture was intricately carved and upholstered in plush velvets and patterned silks. The luxury of the place took their breath away. There were no houses like this back home. Not even close. Beaufort’s wealthiest citizens had impressive homes, no doubt, but this could nearly be called a palace.

  For a moment Martin and Charlie had nearly forgotten they were there to try to find Captain Velasquez. As enjoyable as it was touring what was clearly one of Havana’s finest homes, they had a friend and shipmate to track down. They were hoping someone would show up soon to tell them where they needed to go.

  The servant finally led them into what appeared to be a grand office and library. Martin was stunned when he recognized the man sitting behind the desk as Captain Velásquez himself.

  “¡Bienvenidos, chicos!” said the handsome young captain as he stood and walked arou
nd his desk to greet them.

  “Captain Velasquez!” said Martin. “I never expected to find you here.”

  “Why not?” asked the captain, laughing. “This is my house.”

  “Well, this place is . . .” Martin looked around the room, unable to find the words to convey his utter shock.

  “You did not expect a—how you say?—‘old salt’ to be living in a place like this?”

  Martin and Charlie both shook their heads in disbelief.

  “To tell you the truth, this house was built by my father’s family, que Dios le bendiga.” He bowed his head and crossed himself. “He is dead now, but my mother is living still, gracias a Dios. My heart is on my ship, La Dama del Caribe, but when I am here in Havana I stay with her so she will not be alone.”

  “Well, it’s really . . . extraordinary,” said Martin, looking around the room. “Really. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I thank you,” said the captain. “So tell me: What brings you here today?”

  “Right, well, our ship—Emmanuel Rogers’s ship, the Carolina Gypsy—is supposed to leave tomorrow, but one of the members of our crew—he’s Emmanuel’s apprentice—took off on his own this mornin, and we need to find him and make sure he’s back on board by nightfall.”

  “What is this having to do with me?” said the captain.

  “We’ve been lookin all over town for him, but my Spanish isn’t so good, and so far we’ve had no luck. Emmanuel told us if we ran into any troubles here in Havana, that we should come to you—that you’re a friend of his.”

  The captain nodded his head in understanding. “I see, but how can I help? I don’t know this boy. I am not knowing where he has gone. Did he tell any of you any pieces of information?”

  Charlie spoke up. “Yes. Martin here was supposed to meet him this mornin to go looking for a man, but Martin got there late, and Adam was already gone.”

  “Would you stop blamin me?” said Martin. “That’s the second time you—”

  The captain interrupted before the boys could start arguing. “Maybe this young man don’t want to go tomorrow on the ship.” He grinned and held out his arms as he motioned around. “Maybe he likes it here in beautiful Havana.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Martin. “Emmanuel will kill us if we don’t get this boy back to North Carolina.”

  “Not to mention his mother,” said Charlie.

  “So this is a young boy?” asked the captain.

  “He’s barely eighteen,” said Martin. “He’s Emmanuel’s apprentice, and this was his first trip to the Caribbean. Emmanuel told us if we don’t come back with the boy, we might as well not come back at all.”

  The captain shook his head. “Emmanuel Rogers is a friend for a very long time. This boy must mean a great deal to him if he say that to you.”

  “Aw, well if you know Emmanuel,” said Martin, “then you know his company is the only family he’s got.”

  The captain nodded. “I understand.” He thought for a moment, then said, “All right, I help you, but I need to know what information you have. Havana is much bigger than your little town, so your friend could be anywhere. Let us just hope he has not left the main town.”

  “Thank you, Captain Velásquez!” said Martin.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Charlie.

  “Please, call me Santiago. When we’re on La Dama, call me capitán, but here Santiago is fine.”

  “Alright, Santiago,” said Martin. “Well, as we were sayin, I was supposed to meet Adam this mornin at the northeastern gate of the Plaza Vieja. He had been given a name of someone he was lookin for, so maybe he’s found him. Thing is, we don’t know the man, so we wouldn’t know where to check.”

  “What is the name of the man?” said Santiago. “I live my whole life here. I know many people, so maybe we can find who this is.”

  “The man’s name is Alonso Cordova. His nickname is Poncho.”

  Santiago looked pensive. “Alonso Cordova? Hmm . . . And why was this boy looking for this Alonso Cordova? What did he want with him?”

  Martin and Charlie looked at each other. They appeared to be trying to decide whether or not to tell him what they knew.

  “Listen, boys,” Santiago told them. “I will be happy to offer you my help, but you need to tell me what you know. Otherwise, we may miss something that is important.”

  Martin said, “Adam heard from his grandfather—well, he’s like his grandfather—that Poncho Cordova might know something about his father. Apparently, his father left Beaufort before he was born, and this Poncho was a friend of his.”

  Santiago wrinkled his brow. “Why would this old man not just tell him the father’s name? Would that not be much easier for him to find information?”

  “Of course it would,” said Martin, “except Adam’s mother made Valentine—that’s the old man—promise that he would not tell Adam anything about his father. But she never made him promise not to tell anything about people who might have known his father.”

  Santiago chuckled. “I see. Well, that is clever of the old man.”

  “So do you know this man? This Alonso Cordova?” asked Martin.

  “I knew of him.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Charlie.

  “Well, if he is the man I am thinking of, he is dead.”

  “What?” asked Martin. “Are you sure? When did this happen?”

  “Yes, I am sure,” said Santiago. “I think it was about ten years ago.”

  “Then where’s Adam?” Charlie wondered aloud.

  Martin looked at him, his brain still a little slow from the headache. “Huh?”

  “I mean, if he already found out that fellow died, he ought to have gone on back to the Gypsy. He’s been gone hours now.”

  “Maybe it’s another Alonso Cordova,” offered Martin. “Is that possible?” He looked at Santiago for some response.

  Santiago gave a halting nod. “It is possible, but it is not the most common name. What do you know about this Alonso Cordova—the one this boy looks for?”

  “Only that he was a sailor. Valentine said he sailed with Adam’s father and that they were close friends.”

  Santiago clicked his tongue and shook his head sorrowfully. “Hmm . . . There are many sailors in Havana, and I suppose it is possible that there could be more than one, but I’m afraid this was probably the same man. The Alonso Cordova that I knew was also a sailor—at least he was at one time.”

  “Then you must know some people who knew him,” said Martin. “Maybe Adam has found his family or somethin and gone to see them.”

  “You say that you think he went into La Plaza Vieja, looking for this man?”

  Martin and Charlie both nodded.

  “This is the problem, boys. There are many—how you say it?—bandits who work down in the plaza. They wait for men from out of town to show up looking for help and then they will trick them and rob them, or sometimes even kidnap them for ransom.”

  “See!” Martin exclaimed to Charlie. “This is exactly why I was worried. These kinds of things happen! And Adam would just have to be the one that these kinds of things happen to on this trip.”

  “You ought not assume the worst, Martin,” Charlie argued. “He might even be back at the Gypsy already.”

  “You said that same thing over an hour ago,” countered Martin.

  Santiago shook his head, visibly annoyed at Martin and Charlie’s arguing. “Boys, this is not helpful. Let me just get my things, and we will go and look for your friend.”

  “Fine,” said Charlie.

  “Fine,” Martin agreed.

  Chapter Seven

  ADAM AND HIS CAPTORS CONTINUED traveling a little farther into the forest with the horse cart until the cleared path came to an end. At that point Carlos and Hector untied the horse from the cart and began to march Adam deeper into the woods on foot. Carlos walked in front and led the horse. Hector stayed behind Adam.
Both men wore machetes on their belts, but now Hector had his in his right hand to ensure that Adam kept moving as instructed. In his left hand Hector held a palm branch, which he swept back and forth behind him every so often to make sure their footmarks were covered over with foliage.

  It would’ve seemed to make more sense if at least one of the men were riding the horse, but the vegetation was so thick in places—intentionally, or so it seemed—that Carlos often had to bend back branches just so they could pass through. Adam figured they did it that way to keep the path mostly hidden. He certainly had no idea in which direction they would go once they stopped the cart. Everything looked wild and overgrown.

  They walked. And walked. And walked some more. It was damp and sticky and hot. At one point the horse reared up. Quicker than Adam realized what was happening, Carlos swung his machete forward and chopped off the head of an enormous snake.

  Oh Lord, thought Adam, that thing’s even bigger than the cottonmouths back home!

  “Do not worry,” said Hector. “This serpent, she not having poison. She just crushing you to death.” He squeezed both hands in front of him as if he were wringing out a wet cloth.

  As they walked by the body of the serpent, still wriggling on the ground, Hector picked it up and tossed it across the forest. Then he stabbed the head with his machete and flung it as well.

  “Why’d you do that?” said Adam.

  “Why not?” said Hector. “Think about it! That serpent did not just having his head fall off. Leaving her here might giving away our path. We not wanting to give away our path.”

  It was frustrating. Adam thought about how he could leave some clues along the way, but with Hector following so close behind him, he didn’t have a chance to do anything of the sort.

  After about another twenty minutes of walking, they were no longer having to spread vegetation to make their way down the path but rather were on a well-cleared walkway. They were so deep in the forest at this point, though, that it no longer mattered whether or not anyone could see their trail. In the distance Adam saw several grass-thatched roofs begin to appear. As they got closer, he could could tell that it was a camp of sorts. There were two crudely constructed buildings—a long, rectangular one and a short, square one. Then there was a third building that looked like it was higher quality—at least as much as could be said for a hut in the middle of a tropical forest.