"From the starboard — mon neveu, do you not understand? If we are still traveling south, a wind from starboard is coming from the west."
David groaned. "Meaning what, Uncle Jacques?"
"Meaning that perhaps we have seen the worst of it. I have heard men speak of riding out these storms. Nearly always the wind switches from the east to the northeast, and then, when the worst is passing, the wind comes from the west, until finally it returns to the southeast or east."
They stayed quiet awhile longer, listening while the wind abated. David broke the hush with what was on everyone's minds. "The visibility was poor, but we all saw what looked like the old man aboard the Annabelle. Suppose it really was him. No, no, hear me out. I've gone over and over this. While we were at Zeb's dance, suppose the old man and his cohorts unearthed Elijah Carey's corpse, transported it to MacVie's land, swapped the clothing, then burned it?"
"A second masquerade?" Sophie heard the way her tone bit the air. "That's horrendous. I cannot believe Father would torture us in such a way. If that was him on the Annabelle, I — I don't know about you, but I feel betrayed. All the heartache we've suffered these weeks, thinking he's dead."
"I cannot reason it, either. Perhaps El Serpiente fouled his plans to slip word to us, and it became a masquerade he never intended to continue."
"Oui, but how could the team of St. James and Carey have accomplished a second masquerade with such expertise that they did not leave us a single clue?"
"Suppose we ignored clues."
Mathias stirred. "Indeed. Sunday in the copse on MacVie's property, I noticed a smell from the charred body. It wasn't the odor of burned flesh."
"Decomposition, from Mr. Carey's body!" Sophie felt the energy of discovery and hope ripple through her companions. "I smelled it, too, but I was so distraught that I pushed the thought of it aside. What if Father intended for us to ignore the clues?"
Mathias rose on one elbow. "David, remember I told you I'd noticed that the corpse's arms hung straight, not twisted backwards, as they would have for a living victim who'd been tied to the stake."
A raspy chuckle escaped Jacques. "Even after all my years working for Montcalm, I must admit that I, too, missed a clue. Late Sunday afternoon, I walked the graveyard and noticed that the dirt on Monsieur Carey's grave looked freshly turned."
Surprise widened Sophie's eyes. "Assayceeta Corackall visited me Sunday afternoon to bring condolences. He told me the Creek, hearing of Father's murder, had witnessed the passage of his spirit through the forest early Sunday morning."
"His spirit?" David laughed. "Ye gods, if we're right about this, if that really was the old man aboard the Annabelle, he left so many clues that we're bloody idiots for not having figured it out. But the committee's ambush suggests that the old man was so desperate to succeed that he'd sacrifice his own flesh and blood. I don't believe it. I cannot escape the feeling that Donald Fairbourne just wanted to scare me back to Alton. And the old man and I didn't always agree, but I know he wouldn't have wanted me murdered."
"I don't think Father had anything to do with the ambush."
The snarl in David's voice was audible. "MacVie?"
"He was second-in-command for the Committee of Safety and probably browbeat the rest of them into the ambush." She paused. "And MacVie told me he wanted to kill me for personal reasons."
"Why, that stinking son of —"
"David, let it go." Mathias lay back sounding exhausted. "Consider this. If we're correct about this wild scheme, and Will was on the Annabelle, he planned the ruse with Elijah Carey's corpse to purchase time and cover so he and his two 'friends of John Adams' could slip from town and head to their meeting with Don Alejandro in St. Augustine. And that means we must assume we aren't the only ones who've figured this out. All this time, the redcoats may have been chasing Will, not us or El Serpiente."
Sophie said quickly, "No one else, Arriaga included, needs to know that Father may not have been murdered."
"Agreed." David ejected a hard sigh. "But if Hunt and Fairfax survived the storm, they may as well head back north. Unless a miracle occurred hours ago, most of the bribe for the Gálvez has taken up residence at the bottom of the ocean."
"We survived. If the redcoats did also, they've too much at stake to merely return to the colonies." The serene certainty in Mathias's voice surprised Sophie.
"He's right, David. Our part isn't finished. We've these emeralds to discharge, so we go on to Havana. And if we encounter those assassins again, let us not forget that Jonah was almost certainly murdered by one of them."
"Emeralds." Tension tugged on David's voice. "The gods only know where the storm blew the Annabelle, how much damage she sustained, and how long it will take her to reach Havana. What impression will we make in Havana without the other two-thirds of the emeralds? I told you this reeks of crooked piquet. If we seek out Don Antonio Hernandez and give him our paltry portion, he might suspect us of robbing and murdering his nephew — maybe even of sinking the Annabelle."
Sophie shifted about, encouraged because the ship didn't feel quite so out of control anymore, but flustered by David's logic. "Fortunately we don't have to plan that far ahead this moment. Unless I'm mistaken, we'll be spending the next few days recuperating from the storm."
"Repairing the structural damage," said Mathias. "Pumping out the seawater. Straightening out the hold."
She returned the squeeze to Mathias's hand and took heart. "I wonder how far off course we've been blown."
Jacques chuckled again. "Perhaps to the Bahamas, eh? I have never been there. I should like to see the islands."
She attempted a laugh but curtailed it when her stomach knotted. "I've heard that buccaneers prowl the Bahamas."
"Ehhh. Blackbeard is long dead."
"But there are still plenty of Continental, British, and Spanish warships about."
They heard voices on deck, the hatch thrown open, and footsteps clomping down the companionway. The door to the cabin whammed open, and the four squinted into lantern light. Capitão Arriaga's slender frame filled up the doorway with vitality and competence. Rainwater and seawater dripped off and puddled beneath him, and by some trick of lighting, for a second or two, Sophie swore he'd traded his hair for seaweed and his two legs for a merman's tail. "Bom dia, my passengers! You are each alive and in one piece, sim?"
"Alive, oui. In one piece, non. My stomach resides in that chamber pot over there."
Arriaga laughed at the Frenchman. "In good spirits, no less! I am honored. You will be pleased to know we have passed through the worst of the tropical storm. José is cleaning up the galley even now so our empty bellies will soon have some relief."
David pushed up to a sitting position. "Where are we?"
"We must have clear skies to know that."
"We heard a mast break. Which one was it?"
"The main topmast. And we have leaks to repair. If we are lucky, we will find safe anchorage for a few days."
Jacques prodded David. "What did I tell you, eh? The Bahamas. Oui, I would like to see the Bahamas."
"And well you may, Monsieur le Coeuvre."
***
Blown east by the tropical storm, the Gloria Maria limped south Friday toward the Bahamian archipelago on sails of the bowsprit and foremast but only the mainsail and main staysail on the mainmast. Just before noon, they came upon bobbing wreckage of a ship that had been caught in the heart of the storm — broken masts, barrels, a corpse tangled in timber and canvas. Hammering and sawing aboard the brig stilled while they sailed past. Portuguese crossed themselves and murmured to Nossa Senhora Maria.
Captain and crew resumed structural repairs, general cleanup, and pumping the hold, while Sophie and her companions sorted through the chaos in their cabins and cleaned and repaired their gear and weapons. Discouraged from taking a nap by all the noise, they mended clothing, ate José's excellent fare, and avoided the tropical sun. In truth, had they not been aware of the brig's vulnerability, Friday
might have felt restive.
Early afternoon, ship's carpenter León, who was on the mainmast, spotted the Abaco archipelago, northernmost islands of the Bahamas. The brig headed southeast, paralleling a string of cays imbedded in a barrier reef to the east of Abaco. They turned southward again, rounding the middle of Great Abaco Island and passing a cove occupied by a brig, her crew finishing repairs of storm damage. Tension dissipated from Arriaga's face after a look through the spyglass confirmed the other ship as a merchant he recognized, not a pirate. About four in the afternoon, farther south on Great Abaco, the Gloria Maria entered an empty, quiet cove secluded by royal palms and jungle.
Arriaga unloaded four of his men into a gig and sent them scouting ashore. They returned to report that all was quiet on the beach and in the jungle, and the other brig had already set sail. But human visitors had preceded them to the cove, evidenced by salt-crusted remains of an old campfire. The captain didn't seem concerned or surprised by news of the campfire and had his men tow the Gloria Maria deep into the cove, past an island covered with billowing sea oats embedded in alabaster sand. Arriaga explained to the passengers that in the morning, after transporting everyone ashore, the crew would tow the brig in even closer to shore and careen her, enabling sailors to plug leaks in the hull.
Only a few feet of water separated the keel of the brig from the sandy bottom in the cove when they anchored. Never could Sophie have imagined such turquoise water — so clear she could see all the way to starfish on the bottom — or the pristine alabaster sand on the beach, sprinkled with shells of rose, vermilion, taupe, and violet. With the lush verdure, azure sky, balmy sea breeze, and fluffy cumulus, she understood why pirates had favored the Bahamas.
Arriaga joined her on the port side facing east and leaned both elbows on the railing. "Beautiful, eh?"
The breeze rippling through palms and sea oats ashore beckoned a welcome. "In all my life, I've never seen anything to compare with it. Is this what Cuba is like?"
"In some places, sim. But Cuba has more variety. Mountains, waterfalls, and streams. Many mahogany trees like that one over there. Hah. If that were not the only mahogany tree on this island, the Spaniards would be here, too, chopping wood for their ships as they have done in Cuba." He smiled at her expression. "You want to step ashore today, senhora?"
"Only if it doesn't interfere with your repairs."
Still smiling, he straightened, the fervor of his gaze like a sultry summer night in the Mediterranean. Behind him, Mathias approached, spotted the two of them together, and drew up short. "I think I can spare someone to tour you and your companions around." Arriaga fingered her sleeve, as if brushing off lint. "But you must be sure to catch some crabs."
Sophie looked from his fingers, to the sensuous curve of his lips, to the surprise on Mathias's face. "Crabs?"
"Sim. They crawl out on the beach at night. See the size of my hand? Even bigger than that." Scowling, Mathias strode back the way he'd come, leaving Sophie to wonder whether the storm had siphoned the passion out of him and into Arriaga. "With the moonlight tonight, you will not even need a lantern. I will send Sebastião and twenty sacks with you in the gig."
"Twenty sacks, capitão?"
"You will have no problem filling them." His laughter was vivacious, hearty with his love of the Atlantic Ocean. "Crabs are stupid."
True to his prediction, the crabs appeared after nightfall, scuttling across the sand. In the moonlight, Tomás demonstrated to the four passengers how to scurry up behind a crab and grab it, keeping fingers clear of the claws. Laughing and kicking sand around, they filled the sacks in minutes. In fact, they might have used a few more sacks. Crabs were stupid.
But as they rowed back to the brig, Sophie studied the beach of moonlit silver and the blackened jungle beyond it. This wasn't the Gloria Maria's first visit to the cove. Arriaga had known about the crabs, and Tomás had showed the passengers how to flirt with a group of dolphins familiar enough with humans to venture close to shore. Salt-crusted remains of a campfire: she wondered whether crabs weren't the only foolish creatures in the cove.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
EARLY SATURDAY MORNING the passengers again went ashore, this time to a grove of palm, cocoplum, and pigeon plum trees, where the crew had strung hammocks and provided rum, cheese, fruit, and cakes. The crew even had the decency to set up their bubbling, stinking pitch pots downwind. The arrangement was enough to satisfy the grouchiest of guests. Jacques, who had drunk five sailors under the table the night before, proceeded to the nearest hammock and sprawled in it. Within a minute, his snores echoed through the grove.
Only the fact that Mathias had come to bed long after she'd fallen asleep threatened to skew Sophie's mood, but she was far too interested in Abaco to preoccupy herself with his mood. She watched the crew of the Gloria Maria careen the ship with heavy tackle attached near the base of the mahogany tree and ten feet off the deck on the mainmast. After the Portuguese waded out to stuff leaky seams with oakum and cotton and cover the patches with pitch and tallow paint, she, David, and Mathias walked along the beach and explored mollusks and starfish.
Sophie surrendered to the heat just after noon. Belly full of fruit and cheese, head humming with rum, she tumbled into a hammock and snoozed, lulled by the music of tropical birds and palm fronds. Even a distant, grumbly thunderstorm failed to rouse her.
Late afternoon, a fishy smell prodded her awake, and she stared head-on at a grouper working its bloody, hook-torn mouth. With a yowl, she flipped from the hammock and rose, scowling, to the whoops of David, Mathias, and Jacques. The Frenchman slapped his knee. "See you jump, belle Sophie!"
Mathias poked David. "She mistook it for El Serpiente."
David, who'd held the grouper in her sleeping face, pondered the fish. "Surely not. This poor creature, god rest its soul, looks too much like Fairfax."
"Oui, it is something about the eyes, I think. Cold-blooded. Shall we go ahead and flay it, then?"
The three men swiveled sun- and rum-flushed grins at her. The prod to her intuition was almost painful, so she glowered. "I hardly think it wise to tempt the Fates with such humor."
"Fates, bah!" Jacques swaggered. "After such a storm, what are the odds that assassins or English pigs are here in Abaco?"
David swelled his chest. "Those louts are food for sharks."
She crossed her arms. "You'd better throw your one little fish back before you give the Portuguese cause for ridicule."
"Hah." David brandished it at her. "Fortunately, we didn't catch just old Fairfax here while you slumbered."
Beyond the grove, they'd strung fourteen fish out on three ropes. David's grouper, which weighed less than five pounds, was the smallest. They toted the catch down the beach to where José was lambasting a sailor for a careless cleanup of the pitch pots. Spying the catch changed the cook's entire attitude.
Whistling, he set to work dressing the fish. In the cove, Tomás and three men rowed the gig and pulled while Arriaga and sailors along shore pushed to right the Gloria Maria. To cheers from the passengers, the brig was towed to deeper water. Knee-deep in water and bare-chested like most of the crew, Arriaga faced them with a grin and took a bow for a job well done.
***
After supper on the beach, a sailor fiddled while men smoked pipes, sang, and danced around a bonfire. Each tune, Sophie got passed between Mathias, David, and Jacques. The captain, quick to perceive Mathias's reserve, claimed her for several tunes. While they danced, Mathias slunk off, annoying Sophie. Not that she disliked Arriaga, an accomplished dancer, but it dawned on her that she'd misread Mathias in addition to Edward. Even were Jacques sober enough to reprimand his nephew for inattention, it wouldn't have helped. The blacksmith wasn't ready to change their relationship. Perhaps he never would be.
While the fiddler took a break, and everyone refilled tankards of rum or wine, Mathias reappeared. David slapped him on the back. "Welcome back. We feared the crabs had carried you off, and we were about to
send out a search party." He and Jacques guffawed.
"I walked up the beach." Mathias regarded Sophie. "There's a place that's quite lovely by moonlight. You want to see it?"
"Certainly!" David took a step forward before Jacques snagged his upper arm. "Ah. Right. What Uncle Jacques means is that he and I are too busy drinking rum and learning bawdy Portuguese, so we shall defer the walk to later." His leer glittered in the firelight. "But you two run along."
Mathias hadn't taken his eyes off her. She laughed, handed her tankard to David, and hiccupped. "Oh, why not. I'm sure my dear old chum Mathias will come to the rescue if crabs try to carry me off." With another laugh, she looped her arm in his and bounded up the beach with him.
He disentangled their arms after they'd galloped far enough to be out of earshot and caught her hand in his while still matching her stride. "'Dear old chum'?"
With the sensuality of shimmery stars, a swollen moon, and a surf serenade, most men would seduce a woman on that beach. But Mathias wasn't most men, and she had the hunch he'd rather talk. "'Dear old chum' is more complimentary than 'stodgy old fart'."
He braked their progress and faced her. "I knew it! You've been trying to make me jealous with Arriaga! All that dancing with him!"
Oh, damn. Mathias didn't want to talk. He wanted to argue. "Well, one thing I'll say about the captain. He knows how to appreciate the company of a woman."
His eyes bugged. "So you were encouraging him!"
By then, she wished she'd drunk more wine. She glanced at the bonfire, then to the deserted beach ahead, a silvery ribbon by moonlight. "I'm sweaty from dancing and a bit drunk. I'm going to walk and cool down. I suggest you return and get yourself thoroughly drunk. If you find a fellow named Mathias Hale, send him after me. I've stored up eighteen years of lewd fantasies to share with him." She strolled up the beach.
The shells went crunch, crunch beneath her shoes. After a quarter minute or so, she heard the echoing rasp of Mathias's shoes. She kept walking and rounded a bend to where there were fewer shells. Just ahead, a blanket had been spread upon sand where the beach widened, and a bottle of wine stood upright beside the blanket.
Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 22