“You are not running from something,” Isabella said. “You are running after someone. A man.” She didn’t phrase it as a question, but a simple statement of fact.
Charity didn’t reply, simply watched the woman watching her. Finally, Isabella whispered, “My mother once had the charm. She lost it to old age, but she passed it on to me. You will kill this man you seek and many others. I know this to be a good thing. One day, you will return to America, but not for some time. When you do arrive there, you will find me and Roberto, but Mama and Papa will have gone home to be with Jesus by then. However, they will die as free people in a free land. I will tell no one of these things, only that which you have told me to say.”
Without another word, Isabella rose and went to the cabin, climbing down the ladder, without looking back. Charm? Charity thought. The Caribbean islands are full of tales of shamans and mystics, though she’d never met one. Charity knew there was nothing on board that pointed to her real identity, or her objective and mission. Could this woman be the real thing?
An hour later, while Charity was still puzzling over what Isabella had told her, the old man climbed quickly and silently up the ladder. He stood on the tilted deck and turned his face toward the wind, looking up at the sails and then out beyond the bow at the sea, his silver hair blowing back from his forehead.
He has to be in his sixties, at least, Charity thought. He still carried himself like a much younger man, though. Judging from the way he moved with the boat, it was obvious he was no stranger to the sea.
Finally, he turned around, and he was smiling. In very good English he said, “With your permission, Capitán, I will inspect the rigging for you.”
Charity returned his smile and nodded. Alonzo turned and, without the aid of either the rail or the handholds along the side of the cabin, he walked forward, along the port side. With a touch from an experienced hand, he tested the standing rigging for tautness. Moments later, he returned on the starboard side to the cockpit and sat down beside Charity.
“Your barca is well and good,” he reported. “And quite a beautiful vessel.” The sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face told Charity what he wanted most just now.
“Would you like to take the helm?” she asked, standing.
“I would like that very much,” he replied and slid over behind the helm. He glanced down at the displays on the screens below the pedestal with its many switches. Then his eyes fell on the antique compass, mounted in its bezel on top of the pedestal. He glanced up at the stars that filled the night sky, his eyes brimming slightly. “We are on course for America.”
Charity reached past his knee, found the switch for the autopilot and turned it off. “Wind Dancer is now under your full control, Alonzo.”
The old man lovingly took the wheel in his twisted fingers. Charity noticed that they weren’t so much contorted by arthritis, or years of pulling fishing nets. His fingers fit the wheel perfectly.
Glancing over at Charity, his smile broadened. “I am a sailor. But the government sent me to the fields, when I grew to be too old, to cut the sugarcane.”
“Age does not make a man one thing or another,” she said. “The salt water still courses through your veins. I can see that.”
Alonzo looked up at the sails, the main luffing slightly. Charity scooted over closer and showed him the three switches that operated the sheet winches. “Foresail is the top one. The jib is below that, and the main below the jib. Try it.”
Reaching down, Alonzo toggled the main sheet winch for a second, and the mainsail luffed even more. Toggling the switch the other way, he bent the boom inward a few inches until the snapping ceased.
“It is much easier than the winch handles,” Alonzo said.
“You can easily single-hand the Dancer in a whole gale,” Charity said.
Alonzo checked the compass and made a slight adjustment to the wheel. “Yes, I believe I could.”
“When did you first take to the sea, Alonzo?”
“As a boy, not much older than Roberto. My father was a fisherman. He sailed a working sloop designed by the same man who designed this one. The name? It is very appropriate. She dances to a quick and happy tune.”
“Thank you,” Charity said. “I think so, as well.”
“I worked for my father until I was old enough to buy my own boat. It was not as fine as his, and many leagues distant from this fine boat. But it was mine. However, I did not like the fishing so much.”
“What did you do?”
Alonzo grinned. “Do you know that I am eighty-three years old? It is true. Rosina is my second wife. I buried my first wife of thirty years, long ago. We had two strapping sons. All lost to a hurricane, while I was at sea. Rosina is much younger than I. We have been married now for over thirty years. Isabella is my only child left, and Roberto my only heir.”
He said this as if it was of great importance, though judging from the pitiful condition of their belongings, Roberto wouldn’t be inheriting much.
“I once owned property,” Alonzo said, continuing his story, as if reading Charity’s mind. “A fine plantation house on a hill, overlooking Arroyos de Mantua, not far from the sea. The house is gone now, lost to the same tempest that took my first family. But the land is still there. When the bearded one is gone, my grandson can claim it as the rightful owner.”
“It’s worth a lot? This land?”
“Dirt is dirt,” he said. Then, with a mischievous grin and a wink, he added, “But a man can put something under that dirt to make the land much more valuable.”
“If you didn’t fish when you were a young man, what did you do with this boat of yours?” Charity asked. She was enchanted with old Alonzo’s melodious voice and his tales from long ago. She would never have guessed him to be in his eighties.
“I was born into America’s Prohibition,” Alonzo continued. “I’ve been to America many times since then. I was only six years old the first time I made the crossing with my father. We carried rum to Cayo Hueso. Many still called it that, back then.
“I learned something very valuable then. If something is illegal in America, it will be in high demand. As a young man with his own boat, I made the crossing many, many times. Twice a week, for many years. I carried people mostly, but deep in the bilge, I carried marijuana.”
“You were a smuggler?” Charity asked, grinning with delight.
“A very good smuggler,” he replied. “The son of a sailor and smuggler. For many years, I rode on the wind that my forefathers, for several generations before me, had also harnessed. Everything I took to America, or brought back, I owned. I didn’t transport freight for other people.”
“Let me get this straight, Alonzo. You bought marijuana in Cuba and smuggled it into the United States?”
“No,” he replied. “I grew it myself and paid only pennies for the seed. I made enough money in ten years to last two lifetimes.”
Charity couldn’t help but laugh. Then a thought occurred to her. “You bought the plantation with your smuggling money?”
“Yes, I bought two hundred and forty acres. Very good tobacco land it was. With a fine plantation home and a number of curing barns for the tobacco. I became a torcedoro, a cigar roller. My sons and I made some of the finest cigars in the world. This was the time just before the bearded one. After the revolución, my land, as well as most every other man’s land, was taken by the government. The people were forced to do this or that, whatever the government determined was best. I was sent back to the sea to fish. Did I tell you I didn’t like the fishing so much?”
Charity laughed again. “Yes, Alonzo, you did. What happened to your tobacco plantation?”
“The government seized it. The fine home was turned into a business. The torcedoros working for us were forced to take a much lower wage and the cigars weren’t as good as they once were. My family was allowed to continue living there, as overseers, but the government said I would fish. I was at sea when the storm took my home and family.”<
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Alonzo looked out over the dark sea for a moment, as if remembering his first wife and their sons. “Now, they say I am too old to fish, or even to work the cane fields. So, the government cast me and Rosina aside and we could no longer afford the tiny house they put us in. Isabella worked in an office, her husband an officer in the navy. They lived much better than our little house, so they took us in. Roberto, the father, was killed just a year ago.”
Alonzo let out a great sigh. “The government told Isabella she had to move to another house after that. And that she could not take me and Rosina with her. Her new house was not far from Guadiana Bay. It was there that I built our boat, while Rosina hid with friends in Playa Colorada. Two nights after I finished building it, we met you, Gabriela.”
“Your daughter risked everything?” Charity asked in amazement. “She gave up her job? To protect you and her mother and risk everything to bring you to America.”
“Sí,” Alonzo replied, with a shrug. “It is what family does. It is not forever. The bearded one grows old. Faster than I do. He has grown fat on the people’s tete. He is soft and will not last much longer. When he is gone, Isabella can bring Roberto back to his homeland to reclaim his birthright. He will know where to dig a hole and he will live a life of luxury, taking care of his mother, as she has done for me and my lovely Rosina.” Then again, with the same mischievous grin and another wink he asked, “Did you know she is much younger than me?”
Charity laughed again. The laughing felt good. It was something she hadn’t done much of in the last few years.
“Alonzo, you are a dog.”
“Sí, muchacha, I am the dog. When Rosina is gone, I may charm you out of your pants.”
Charity grinned at the old pervert and checked her watch. It was still three hours until daylight.
“Go, Preciosa. Get rested. I was sleeping for many hours before you wrecked my little barca. I will sail this fine boat on this course until you awaken.”
Charity had no qualms about trusting her boat to the old man. He’d probably made this crossing more times than she’d gone grocery shopping.
“Buenas noches, Alonzo,” Charity said, rising and patting the weathered hand on the wheel.
Six hours later, Charity awoke. The light streaming through the portholes on the starboard side told her it was already daylight. Sitting up quickly, she bumped her shoulder on the low underside of the side deck. Rising and rubbing her shoulder, she looked around the salon.
The quarter berth on the other side had been rearranged back to a couch. Glancing forward, Charity saw that the small vee-berth was made up and the cabin empty.
Charity climbed quickly up the ladder to the cockpit. Alonzo and his family were all sitting in the early-morning sun, little Roberto on his grandfather’s lap, helping steer Wind Dancer.
“Good morning, Preciosa,” Alonzo said. “It is such a fine morning for the sailing. You looked so peaceful in sleep, I did not wish to disturb you.”
Sitting down on the other side of the helm, Charity glanced at the electronics. The small radar and chart plotter screens were turned off, as was the autopilot. She switched on the two screens and, according to the plotter, they’d traveled almost eighty miles and were no more than a quarter mile off the course she’d plotted the night before.
“My apologies,” the old man said. “The light from the little televisions made it hard to see the stars. There was no show on them anyway.”
“You sailed eighty miles, using only the compass?”
“I’ve sailed many thousands of miles,” Alonzo replied. “All with nothing but the stars to guide my way. The compass only points to one of them, so I rarely use it. The stars are timeless and predictable. They tell me where I am and where I am going.”
Smiling at the old man, Charity said, “I have a friend that says the same thing. You’re a celestial navigator?”
“He was his father’s navigator when he was just a boy,” Rosina said, smiling.
“We are nearing America,” Alonzo said. “It is perhaps five hours away.”
Glancing at the plotter, Charity saw that he was very close. The ETA displayed four hours and forty-five minutes to Key West at current speed. The knot meter indicated they were clipping along at fourteen knots.
“The wind has picked up,” Charity noted.
“Sí, and changed direction,” Alonzo said. “A storm is brewing far to the north in the Gulf. We crossed the Stream an hour ago, at dawn. It was a special feeling for me.”
We’ll be within range of the Zodiac by early afternoon, Charity thought.
“You and your family will be in America before nightfall,” Charity whispered to Alonzo. “You are an extraordinary sailor. May I bring you coffee, Capitan?”
The old man beamed. “Sí, café! For little Roberto, as well. He will become a great sailor, just like the men before him for six generations.”
Going below, Charity switched on the coffeemaker, having already set it up the night before, while she and Isabella made soup and sandwiches.
Isabella came down the ladder, joining Charity. “You have given my father purpose again, Gabriela. I have never seen him like this in my whole life. Thank you.”
“Your father is a unique man,” Charity said. “In America, he will be called a Renaissance man.” She stopped what she was doing and looked at Isabella. Though she was only a year or two older than Charity, the lines in her face made her appear much older. “Do you have relatives in America? Anyone that can help you get started?”
“Both of my father’s brothers went to America long ago,” Isabella said. “I have many cousins in Miami. Most are my mother’s age, their children my age. We will be fine when we arrive. Father will take us to them and they will help us. It is what families do.”
Charity poured coffee into a large thermos while considering the comment that both father and daughter had made. Her own family were all dead, and the only people close to her were those on her team, who she had left behind.
What coffee was left in the pot, she poured into two large mugs, only filling them halfway. Handing one to Isabella, she lifted her mug. “To your future in America.”
Together, the two women sliced a loaf of Cuban bread that hadn’t gotten wet in the raft and put bananas and mangoes into a small basket. They carried everything, along with three more mugs, up to the cockpit.
Wind Dancer sailed on through the morning. Alonzo kept her very close to the course on the plotter, though he never once looked down at it. Instead, he enthralled his shipmates with sea stories from long ago, while sailing by the compass.
By noon, Wind Dancer was within thirty miles of the Marquesas. They’d backtracked in just twelve hours what it’d taken Charity a day and a half to sail, running before the wind. They were now within the dinghy’s range of Key West.
Charity rose and motioned to Isabella. “Will you help me get the dinghy ready, Isabella?”
“We are that close?” the woman asked.
“In the dinghy it will take four more hours. I must get back on my course to Mexico. Do not worry, the engine is new. You’ll have no trouble getting there before dinnertime.”
“Will you not need it?” Alonzo asked. The look on his face told Charity that he was hoping to sail right into Key West Bight.
“I’ll get another, or return for it,” Charity replied, thinking of her timetable. “I have to be in Mexico within five more days. This is as far as I can take you.”
“It is alright, Father,” Isabella said. “I know we will make it. Gabriela has an important engagement in Mexico.”
Some of the sparkle left the old man’s eyes, then quickly returned. “I will build my own boat in America, just like this one,” he said, smiling.
After Alonzo furled the sails, it only took a few minutes to get the large rubber boat off its mount on the foredeck and into the water. Lifting the lid under the port bench, Charity removed the engine and stepped down into the dinghy to mount it.
The g
as tanks were bulky, but Isabella managed to get them over the side, where Charity could set them up in the dinghy. Pumping the ball in the gas line, she explained to Alonzo how the little outboard operated. It started instantly, with only a slight tug on the starter cord.
Assured by the sound of the little engine, Alonzo and Rosina began to hand down their belongings. Charity shut off the outboard and stored the family’s belongings along the sides of the inflatable, leaving room in the middle for Rosina and Roberto and a spot in the bow for Isabella. She would have to visually guide her father, as they neared Smathers Beach.
“Do you know the beach on the southeast side of Cayo Hueso?” Charity asked Alonzo.
“Very well,” he said. “But I will go to the Mallory Docks.”
“You’ll never get close,” Charity said. “Too many boats. Besides, things have changed there, and you won’t like it.”
“Why the beach?” Alonzo asked, puzzled.
“It’s important that you get ashore as quickly as possible. Until your feet are on American soil, you can be returned to Cuba. Make for the beach, it is the best landing place. With Isabella watching for rocks, you can run right up onto the sand. When your feet are out of the water and you are standing on the beach, you will be Americans. Tell the first people you see on the beach, that you are Cuban refugees seeking asylum and ask them to call the authorities.”
“Just like that?” Isabella asked.
“Yes,” Charity replied. “In America, it is called ‘feet dry.’ Any Cuban national who gets ashore in America is granted immediate refugee status and permitted to stay. But your feet must be on dry land.”
Placing the ladder over the gunwale, Alonzo helped his wife down into the Zodiac. Then Isabella climbed down, Roberto clinging to his mother’s neck once more. She took Charity in her free arm, hugging her close in the pitching boat.
“Be careful, Gabriela,” Isabella whispered. “I fear there is danger and pain ahead for you. But you will overcome both. The amount of pain will depend on how much you expose yourself to others.”
Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) Page 9