by Betina Krahn
“And if someone sees us?” she said irritably.
He turned on her with eyes flashing hot silver light.
“Then we’ll just have to pretend it’s Havana again,” he said in low, resonant tones that called up alarming associations in her. “And run like hell.”
He handed her another piece of driftwood before the sting made itself felt.
She wheeled and trudged back through the soft sand to their campsite, where she refused to look at him as he started a fire. He used hay from the cart as tinder, then some slats from a broken produce flat, and soon had a respectable flame going. She found his competence at fire building both unexpected and annoying. And she liked it even less when he pulled out his journal to record what could only be described as their dismal lack of progress.
January 25, Day 5
Hotel rooms, two nights in advance, NOT USED: $23.00 U.S. Gratuities for hotel staff: $6.00 U.S. Wagon and cart rental (with animals): $37.00. Whole damnable flock of chickens: $17.00. Peppers, onions, and all manner of odiferous vegetable material: $24.50 U.S. Tool to break padlock on basement door (rental): $2.00.
Chased out of Havana by a chum of the governor. Churlish bastard smacked O’Keefe around and tried to appropriate the scrolls. Something-or-other Castille. Nasty piece of work.
Forced to flee with a stubborn-arsed donkey and two dozen chickens who shat their cages in unison the minute we left town. Smell was horrific. Sinuses swollen closed. Five bloody hours dragging two arses (mine and donkey’s) along impossible roads with nothing but scraps of leather tied to my feet. Now camped on a damp beach… waiting for some boat that is probably a figment of Valiente’s imagination. Am exhausted… smell like the bottom of a cat box… have sand in this damned woolen underwear… and just learned there’s no water for tea.
Will be homicidal by dawn.
No jury in the world would convict me.
Thirteen
They took turns standing watch. It was well into the night and the others were dozing around the dying embers of the fire when the professor spotted something on the horizon, grabbed two kerosene lanterns from the wagon, and climbed to the top of one of the rock stacks nearby. As he waved the lights back and forth, a sizeable boat emerged from the inky horizon, steaming right for them.
Relief broke over Cordelia as she watched several men jump from the longboat that came ashore and greet the professor. In short order, they began removing cargo from the wagons and settling it in the launch. The chickens and produce, it turned out, were more than camouflage; they were intended to sweeten the price of passage and build good will among the ship’s crew. At the professor’s insistence, Hedda climbed into the boat with them and was ferried out to the waiting steamer. All went smoothly until the boat returned and was loaded a second time.
Shouts and shots rang out from the road above them, galvanizing the sailors. Government soldiers materialized out of the darkness above them and began closing in on all sides. It was chaos for a moment as bullets careened off the rocks around them and the men shoved the professor into the boat and began to row. Pulling Goodnight to safety behind the wagon, watching bullets peppering the water near the longboat, Cordelia reached under her skirt for her pistol and began to return fire.
“This,” she shouted at Goodnight, who was staring at her in disbelief, “is why I’m so keen on guns!”
After reloading, she was up again, pointing her gun over the side of the wagon and squeezing off shots at the soldiers. But there was an endless stream of uniform-clad bodies hurtling over the dunes toward them; they were far outnumbered. A glance over her shoulder at the ship told her the longboat wasn’t coming back. The cargo was gone and the professor and Hedda were both safe aboard; the captain would be mad not to weigh anchor and steam off without them. She looked at the soldiers creeping ever closer to their position, then at Goodnight, whose face was hot and ruddy. She stared at him, met his eyes, wishing… Shaking her head to clear it, she peered over the edge of the wagon again. She would make every bullet count, but before long they’d be overrun and—
A great boom roared from the ship, followed by a billow of smoke and a screaming whine that ended in an explosion beside the donkey cart. Sand and rock became deadly missiles and flying water obscured the scene momentarily. The government charge reversed as soldiers went scrambling for cover. The shock of it took two seconds to fade.
“They’ve got a gun!” she shouted at Goodnight, grabbing the front of his shirt and shaking it. “A big one!”
“Gun, hell—they’ve got artillery!” he shouted as another missile screamed over their heads, aiming for the beach behind them.
Thinking quickly, she unbuttoned her skirt, pushed it down her hips, and kicked it aside. Underneath, she wore a pair of khaki breeches, tall boots, and a holster slung low on her hips. When she looked up, he was staring at her, stunned.
“Come on!” She jammed her gun into her holster and dragged him headlong with her into the surf. They were waist deep before she released him.
“You better be able to swim!” she called, diving in.
“Not… especially well.”
A bullet smacked the water nearby, and he groaned and plunged into the water after her. Fear for one’s life, it seemed, had the capacity to turn mediocrity of skill into stellar performance. Despite being fully dressed— Cordelia doubly burdened with substantial boots and concern for the slower Goodnight—both managed to make the quarter-mile swim to the longboat that hadn’t yet been raised.
They climbed into the launch, finally out of range of fire from the shore, and were hauled up to the ship’s deck and swung aboard to a cheer from the crew and a frantic welcome from Hedda and the professor.
Cordelia was exhausted and cold and a little nauseous from the seawater she’d swallowed, but one look back at the still-smoking shore and she knew it had been their only chance to get to the ship. She turned to congratulate Goodnight on their success, and found him on his hands and knees, coughing up saltwater.
When she was helped out onto the deck by some crewmen, a short, stocky fellow with lively eyes and a magnificent handle-bar moustache appeared before her, holding out his hand. It took a minute to realize she’d seen him before.
“Welcome aboard, Miss O’Keefe,” he said in blessedly American tones. “I’m Cap’n Johnny O’Brien. I should apologize for gettin’ you caught in the fireworks. Those bastards have been after us for months.”
“They weren’t after us?” Cordelia asked, swiping water from her face.
“I remember you.” Goodnight rolled out of the longboat and came face to face with O’Brien. “You’re that Yank they were searching for at the—” He turned on the professor. “You got us passage with a wanted captain on a hunted ship?”
The professor’s answer was eclipsed by a resounding boom from what sounded like a far-off cannon. There was an instantly familiar whine growing louder and a trail of smoke arcing across the sky. The crew ducked and braced until the shell exploded in the water, well to starboard. O’Brien was quickly up and barking orders and the big gun on the foredeck was being primed, even as the ship wheeled about. Hedda dragged Cordelia toward steps leading below, but not before she spotted a ship on the horizon and saw the flash and smoke from another gun blast.
The last thing she heard was O’Brien’s laughter.
“Let’s get outta here, boys!”
January 26, Day 6
Contribution to boat captain’s fund for needy revolutionaries: $1,000.00 U.S. Nine bottles Irish whiskey: $36.00 (a bargain at twice the price).
attacked by government soldiers. Nearly got ear shot off by O’Keefe when she returned fire. Damned beach blown up by ship-to-shore artillery! Had to swim for it. O’Keefe climbed onto boat dripping wet. Sweet Jesus. Wasn’t an eyeball left in a socket.
She really does wear breeches. Got legs like a damned racehorse. Smooth. Muscular. Could crack a man’s spine like a walnut. And the upper half… can’t bear to think about what I saw
beneath that wet shirt. What kind of family lets a woman go gallivanting off into the wilderness wearing nothing but a man’s shirt?
Bunking with Valiente, who snores like a water buffalo.
Wonder how many men she’s shot.
Wonder how many men she’s NOT shot.
The next morning, Cordelia awakened in her own nightgown, face down on a bed that was swaying gently. She pushed up and looked around, not quite willing to trust the normalcy of the sunlit cabin around her. At her feet was another bunk, neatly made up, and familiar steamer trunks stood open in the space between.
“What do you know?” she said through a scratchy throat. “We survived.”
She stripped her nightgown, washed in the fresh water someone had thoughtfully provided, and pulled on a dark woolen skirt over some dry breeches, her old boots, and a khaki shirt. She debated strapping on her gun, but decided it would need a good cleaning and a protective coat of oil after being dragged through saltwater, and left it lying on her bunk. Tying her hair back with a ribbon, she stepped out into a short, narrow passage. At the end of it, she found Hedda and the professor sitting at a long wooden table in what appeared to be a common room. They offered her a cup of strong coffee and a bowl of oatmeal littered with raisins. She wouldn’t have said minutes before that she was hungry, but she consumed it with groan of satisfaction and felt considerably better afterward.
“Goodnight?” she asked, wrapping her hands around the crockery mug.
“We share a cabin,” the professor said. “He is not moved from the bunk.”
“He’s not much of a sailor,” she said grimly. Then she fixed Valiente with a dark look. “Whatever possessed you to book us passage with an outlaw captain?”
“He is an old friend. I know he wishes to make money and has a fast boat. And”—the professor shrugged—“no one else will take us. We are outlaws, too.”
“Lovely,” she said with a wince. “How much are we paying him?”
“One thousand dollars U.S.” said a familiar voice from the door. They all turned with surprise to see Goodnight ducking into the common room. “The paper portion of which was on my person and is now drying all over our locked cabin. Highway robbery. Or should I say ‘high seas’ robbery?”
“You’re up.” Cordelia sniffed in his direction. “And sober.”
“A condition that can and will be remedied,” he said irritably. “But not before the captain gets his money. He is holding my liquor until he gets payment.”
“Smart man,” she said with a vengeful smile.
“Well.” The captain’s face appeared in the doorway. “Ye can’t make it this long in the revolution business without learnin’ a trick or two.” He stepped into the dining room to refill his cup from the coffee urn.
“We outran the Spaniards, I take it,” she said to him.
“Oh, they’re still comin’,” O’Brien said, pouring a fresh cup and pressing it into Goodnight’s hands. “But it’s the Cuba Espanola. She tops out at eight knots. They’ll soon break it off and head home. You’d best settle back and enjoy the ride.”
Hedda shoved a bowl of oatmeal into Goodnight’s hands and he groaned and tried to give it back. Cordelia stepped in, saying it would help with the seasickness, and for a moment they stood eye to eye and will to will.
O’Brien looked from Goodnight’s black eye to Cordelia’s damaged lip and back. “That must have been some fight.” He chuckled. “Who won?”
With a growl, Goodnight exited the commons.
An hour later, the affable captain was more concerned as he stood on the watch deck outside the wheel room, scanning the distant ship with his telescope. He lowered it and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Cordelia asked. She and Hedda had been strolling the upper deck when they saw the captain studying their pursuers, and climbed the steps to join him.
“We’re widening the gap. They should have given up by now,” he said. When she gestured to his telescope, he handed it to her. “I know this captain, Don Luis Pou. He knows his boat and he’s not usually this much of a hard-tail.”
It took a while for her to focus the instrument properly. On the deck of the Spanish gunboat she made out several dark-clad figures and one in white, who seemed to be wearing a Panama hat. She jerked her eye from the sight.
“How would he—” She feared she already knew the answer. “I think it’s Alejandro Castille.” She handed the telescope back to O’Brien. “On the bridge of the ship. See if you think the one in white is wearing a Panama hat.”
“Ye’ve got a good eye, Miss O’Keefe. Must be the Irish in ye.” The captain’s smile tightened as he lowered his glass. “Who is he—this Castille—and how does he rate commandeerin’ a 200-ton Spanish gunboat?”
“A very good question.” She studied the distant, indistinct outline of the Spanish ship. “But a better one is why he would do it.”
That afternoon, Cordelia, Hedda, and the professor took over the dining table in the common room to unroll and study the original scrolls. They had to find out what was in the stone figures that made them so desirable to Castille. He had already ransacked, threatened, and assaulted in pursuit of them, and now called on his most powerful political connections—Cuba’s military—for aid. But when the professor saw the originals, he sighed and said they were so magnificent, he could almost understand Castille’s desire for them based on just their beauty.
With Hedda as recorder and the professor describing the possible meanings of each block, they began to wade through the translation. Starting at the top of the first column and reading downward, the professor found calendar references that indicated “time before time”—ancient indeed. These dates were linked to a figure that was unmistakably a cat head in profile. It was the Creator Spirit in its jaguar form, the professor said. There was a sunburst and what seemed to be flames shooting from it onto adjacent blocks. Fire was the medium of creation, the professor declared. According to Mayan belief, all of the ancient elements passed through the flame of the sun and were set down on earth still burning.
“Which of course explains why three-fourths of the planet is covered by water,” Goodnight said, causing them all to look up. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking rumpled and disagreeable. “Soggy from putting out all of those fires.”
Cordelia gave a sniff in his direction and recoiled. The captain had apparently returned his supply of whiskey.
“Why don’t you retire to your cabin?” she suggested pointedly.
“What—and miss all of these erudite musings? For your information, Goodnights are very big on scholarly conjecture. We’re whizzes at puzzles.”
“If you get sick, you’re leaving.” She shoved an empty bowl from the sideboard at him, then turned back. “Where were we?”
“These.” Valiente tapped one of the blocks partway down the column. “Clearly trees. Four great trees hold up the sky at the four corners of the earth. This is in their creation story. The next block says that animals were then created. Then came bees and all manner of birds. Then boars, monkeys, and crocodiles.”
“Are you sure that’s a boar?” Goodnight leaned over the figures, squinting. “Looks like a fellow I knew at Oxford. Prinny Lewis. A right porker, ol’ Prinny.”
“Really.” Cordelia inserted herself between him and the rubbings. “We’re trying to learn something here.”
“Trying to learn if this is all a waste of time?” he asked archly.
“Whatever we learn about the stones and the Gift of the Jaguar will be reported back and we’ll have done our job.” She turned emphatically back to the table. “Continue, Professor.”
“Then a great snake appeared.” He drew his finger along a banded groove that seemed to run through several blocks. The snake’s head was ringed with what looked like feathers, and out of its open mouth came a human face. “This image—people coming from mouths of snakes—appears many places in Mayan art.”
“Awful idea.” Hedda shivered.
> “This great snake is Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, a major god found all over Mexico. Very powerful. He helps in creation.” The professor focused again on the snake’s head and read: “Numbers of humans are born. Small. Weak.” He pointed to small bent-looking figures repeated many times in one block beside much larger animals. “No claws or teeth with which to hunt.”
“Which only means the Mayans never met the likes of O’Keefe here,” Goodnight said looking her over. “She has teeth. And isn’t afraid to use them.”
She bared her teeth in a warning smile.
“Humans have few days and lives full of trouble,” Valiente said, oblivious to the tension around him. “There are no old men in their villages.”
“The old women probably ate them,” Goodnight muttered.
“Jaguar Spirit is moved by the wailing and sad hearts of humans. He gives mankind a gift. The gift is so great that humans flourish and their cities grow. They dig in the earth. See this hacha—what you call axe?”
“It looks more like a maddox or hoe.” Hedda paused in her note taking. “Picks are for breaking ground and hoes are for tilling it.”
“Si—yes! Tools. Humans make the earth to bloom like a garden.” He came to the three-dimensional head of the jaguar on the second scroll and studied it. “His spirit is very pleased. The people make gifts to him.”
The professor turned his attention to the blocks flanking the unusually realistic cat. Cordelia went to his side to share his view and asked what he saw.
“It says ‘come’ or ‘enter.’” His eyes widened. “I think it invites the people. You see? These small ones enter the mouth of the jaguar.”
“They bring gifts to the Jaguar Spirit?”
“It must be. Madre Dulce! Do you see it?” He was suddenly beside himself with excitement. “These stones may be the source of the legend itself!”
Fourteen
Cordelia stood for a moment absorbing the professor’s idea, letting the possibilities assemble in her mind. The stones might be the source of the legend in more ways than one. They might have been part of the place where the legend—