Felipe was the youngest, not more than seventeen, I thought, but a strong-looking lad who seemed close to Armand. The others seemed a sullen, lazy lot.
Wearily, I went to my place away from the group and burrowed into the sand, using a strip of bark as protection from the wind.
My eyes closed. The wind stirred the leaves, and along the shore the waves rustled upon the sand. I thought of my home, and how the sea would rumble and growl among the worn black boulders, licking with hard tongues at the soft places among the rocks.
Tatton Chantry…a borrowed name belonging to a man long dead, a man from where?
Who had he been, that first Tatton Chantry, that stranger who died?
I remembered him from my father’s time, remembered the night we had lifted him from the sea, a handsome young man, scarcely more than a lad.
Dead now…yet living in me, who bore his name. Had he family? Friends? Estates? Was he rich or poor? Brave or a coward? How had he come where we found him?
A mystery then, and a mystery still.
He had spoken to my father, yet what had he said beyond the name itself? Had he really said anything? I only know that my father leaned close as the pale lips struggled to speak.
He died there, in our house by the sea, and when desperately I needed a name other than my own, his had come to mind.
It was my name now, for better or worse.
In all the years since, I had come upon no man who knew that name.
Yet it haunted me then, and it haunts me still.
CHAPTER 5
ARMAND AWAKENED ME with a light touch on the shoulder. My eyes opened on stars shining through the trees. It was clouding over, but here and there a star still shone through. Slowly, my mind cleared itself of the dream-stuff that lingered and brought me to reality.
I was on the shores of America, I was with a party of people who were not my friends, and the future was doubtful. If there was to be any future at all.
“All is quiet,” Armand whispered.
Felipe had taken the first watch, Armand the second. Now it was my turn. We had not involved the others as I trusted none of them.
Armand and I walked together to the outer edge of camp, but he seemed reluctant to leave. He sat down near me where we could watch along the shore and around the camp.
He was silent, and I waited, knowing there was something he wanted to say.
“I think we have much trouble,” he said, at last. “These people, they understand nothing, yet there is much that is wrong here. I feel it.”
“You are a Basque, Armand. Were you a fisherman?”
“Sometimes…a herdsman, too. My family owned a boat, but we had sheep on the mountains near the sea. The sea troubled me. I kept wondering what was on the other side.”
“So it was with me. I, too, wondered.” I indicated the mainland. “I wonder what is there. Someday I shall know.”
We were silent, and then, choosing my words with care, I said, “Armand, I agree there is trouble here. There will be more trouble. We will be stronger if we know this, and if I know I can depend on you, and you on me.
“There are savages. I have seen them. We have far to travel, and to survive will be difficult. Also, there are Conchita and the Señorita Romana to consider. We must see that they are safe, always.”
“Bueno.”
“You are sleepy now?”
“No, Capitán, my mind is alive with thoughts.”
“Then do your watch a little longer. I wish to look about.”
The boat worried me. Now that it had been repaired after a fashion—although I intended to seal the seams even more carefully with resin—I feared somebody might come upon it. It represented our best chance to escape. Without it we should have to travel overland, a journey that would require weeks rather than days.
The boat lay undisturbed when I came to it, and I stood for a few minutes, listening. Once, I thought I caught a distant sound. Unwilling to return by the same trail, on which I might encounter enemies, I followed the creek to the shore, then swung around and started up the shore so that I might approach Armand from the sea and in plain sight. Several times I had to walk around formidable piles of driftwood, and to crawl over logs.
I paused to catch my breath, and looked out over the still water. I thought I heard voices, but the sounds whispered themselves away and left nothing.
It was on such a night—dark, still, and with gathering clouds—that I had landed at Bristol. Behind me lay all that I had known; before me, loneliness, uncertainty, and a life among a people who had destroyed all that I had loved.
The fisherman who brought me over was a rough, kindly man. “Leave the shore,” he advised, “and go inland away from it. There be many accents in England, and away from the coasts of the Irish Sea they’ll not know yours from any other.
“Be a quiet lad, and try to learn a trade, and you’ll do well. Folks be not travelers now, y’ ken, and most have been no distance from their homes. They have heard of your country but it is little enough they know. Be wary of the lads, for they can make it hard upon a stranger.”
That night had been dark, too, and there was little enough movement along the key, and as I started to walk ashore the good man handed me a bundle. “There’s a change of shirt for y’, lad, and a bite to eat, but dinna stop until you’re far from here. Bristol is a canny town. Some would be friendly, but a sight more would not, so get y’ hence.”
He was a good man, but I never knew his name.
I never saw him again. But here or there, time and again, I gave some friendless one a hand because of what he had done for me, a homeless lad.
Truly, my life had two beginnings—the one when I was born, and the second when I walked away from that fishing boat. The delivery was made on the Key of Bristol, and I walked away into the world.
Now, seventeen years later, on the shores of America, I was facing another beginning…or perhaps an end.
It was time I was getting back. Armand would be waiting, and now I knew the boat was safe. I went along up the shore, meeting with no more obstructions.
Stepping through the last curtain of trees and brush, I emerged into the clearing.
The fire was there, burned down to coals, but there was nothing more.
They were gone…and I was alone again.
My first instinct was to get out of sight and I did so, stepping back quickly into the darkness under the trees. The faint reddish glow cast by the fire lit the clearing just enough for me to see that it was empty.
After the first shock of discovery, I stood very still, listening. I heard nothing. Yet they had vanished, disappearing into the night as if they had never been.
No, the fire was there. There might even be tracks, but I was no red Indian to read a story from the dust. There would be tracks, of course, but how to tell those of the Spanish party from the newcomers…or were there any newcomers? Perhaps they had left to be rid of me. Don Manuel’s outright dislike had been obvious from the start, and even Don Diego had been offended by me.
Inspecting the scene more carefully, I saw near the place where Guadalupe had slept something dark, seeming with a shade of red…a cloak, perhaps.
Holding to the edge of darkness, I worked my way about the clearing, recovering the blanket, for such it proved to be. A blanket or a robe…I could use that. Then, near where Don Diego had slept, I saw a package that contained the food.
Little enough was left, yet sufficient for a meal or two for the lot of us.
No Indians had taken them, then, for they would surely have wanted both the robe and the food. On the other hand, it was unlikely, if they had left to be rid of me, that the blanket and the food would be left behind—unless they were simply careless, and that I could well believe.
If they were taken, how could eleven people be captured without
noise? I had never been further off than three hundred English yards, always within hearing of a cry or shout. And I had heard nothing.
They must have left me freely and of their own accord.
So be it.
I picked up the robe and the package of food, which was heavier than I’d have believed, and walked back to the boat. Shoving off, I scrambled in, got up the sail, and left the creek, the clearing, and the red coals of the fire. With a light wind blowing, I moved out across the sound—if such it was.
At the moment I had room in my thoughts for but one destination. The Spanish galleon.
Yet I found myself scowling and perplexed. Why had they not taken the boat? And if they merely wanted to be rid of me, why not simply tell me so? I should have gone. But even had I refused, they had firearms and I had none.
It made no sense.
If they had been taken by force, why was there no evidence of a struggle?
There were no ships about. There had been no evidence that anyone but ourselves was in the area.
Yet how much evidence had we left? Would anyone have known that we were ever present?
My attention reverted to the water across which I was sailing. It was still, yet I could sense some movement, some current. Was there a river flowing from the mainland?
There was a faint suggestion of gray in the eastern sky. The water had the sheen of metal except where the shadow of some great tree fell across it. Working in along the shore, I glimpsed the dark bulk of a galleon’s hull. I lowered the sail and moved in toward the shore, sculling the boat with an oar until I was close alongside. I listened, but heard no sound aboard the ship. Lines trailed from the side, evidently where the ship’s boat had been lowered. Making fast to one of these, I caught another, gave it a test yank to see if it was fast at the other end, and then I went up the rope and swung to the deck.
All aboard was confusion. Lines lay about, scattered clothing, even a sack that proved to be filled with food, apparently forgotten in the haste to get free of the vessel. Carefully, alert for anyone who might still be aboard, I worked my way around the ship’s deck.
She lay where the tide had left her, yet she seemed to lie on an even keel—and would float again, I believed, when the tide was right.
All was dark and still. The vessel seemed haunted. And although I had always accounted myself a brave man, I shrank from going below. Even an empty ship is not lifeless, for it seems to stir, to creak, to yawn, even to whisper.
She was a relatively small vessel, and I went aft. Dagger in hand, I entered the passage. All was still. Before me lay the great cabin, and I stepped in.
The room was in turmoil. Astrolabe, sandglass, and cross-staff lay upon the table along with some hastily bundled-up charts….Was ever a vessel abandoned so heedlessly before? All they might have needed was left behind.
There was a pistol also, and I picked it up. It was loaded. I thrust it behind my belt, just in case. Adjoining this room was another, and much smaller one. A faint perfume lingered…without doubt from the cabin of Guadalupe Romana.
Then I saw an incongruous touch. In a corner of the room was a small chest. It must have belonged to her. The top was thrown back, as though its contents had been ripped from inside. No woman would have been likely to leave it so, for these chests were used to store keepsakes, the little things a woman treasures.
No…there was but one likely explanation. After Guadalupe Romana had left the cabin, somebody had entered here and searched…for what?
I took another look around….I would return later.
When I came again to the deck there was a faint pink in the sky. I went forward. The vessel was lightly aground, but the tide would float her free. Perhaps she would work free, anyway, if there was a little current here, some movement of the water.
The vessel was simply abandoned, deserted by passengers and crew, fair game for any who came. And I was here.
The sack of foodstuffs found upon the deck I dropped into my boat. I also collected some further gear, a coil of line, some canvas. I found a cask of powder, a bullet mold, several bars of lead, three muskets, two more pistols.
I returned to the cabin of the Señorita Romana and carefully repacked the small chest. Then I gathered what I could find of clothing and packed that into another leather chest.
As I kicked aside some of the fallen bedclothing that lay in my path, I heard a faint tinkle.
I looked down and saw a small medallion of peculiar shape and design. Putting down the chest, I took it up. On one side was some odd lettering—or what seemed to be lettering—of a kind I had not seen before. On the other was a strange design of twisting lines and half-circles. It was not a coin, but it seemed to be very, very old and worn. I dropped it into a small bag I carried in my belt.
On deck I completed loading the boat, going to the pantry for further food.
It was broad daylight by the time the last items were aboard, and I stood by the bulwark looking all about me. Nowhere was there any sign of life save the occasional flocks of birds that flew over, or a fish jumping out on the sound. Lying close in to shore as she was, there was small chance of the boat being seen.
Again I went below, but this time into the hold. There I saw a full cargo—casks, bales, and bundles of I knew not what—but not, I knew, what I sought. Suddenly I came to a door, heavily timbered and locked.
For a moment I looked at the door. I looked at the lock. It made me smile. To one who had wandered the high roads of England, France, Spain, and Italy as I had, locks were no mystery. In less than a minute I had picked the lock and opened the door into the room.
There were several stacks of something covered with sheets of canvas. I lifted one—silver bars. I hefted the nearest. Not less than thirty pounds. Stepping back, I judged the sizes of the piles.
Eight…perhaps ten tons of silver!
The silver was neatly piled, with cross-beams of oak to hold it in place so the cargo would not shift.
Beyond, in a smaller cabin or locker, was what I hoped to find: not one chest, but three. I tested the weight. Heavy…very heavy, yet I was a strong man, and such weights had once been common enough for me.
One by one I carried them into the main hold, then closed the door and locked it once again.
Back on deck, I rigged tackle over the hold and hoisted the boxes, one at a time, to the deck. Then I lowered them into the boat. Although the boat could carry twenty men and their gear, she was well down in the water when I loosed my painter and shoved off.
I saw the name on the galleon’s stern—San Juan de Dios.
My heart was beating heavily, and I was perspiring, but not from the work I had done. I had no need to examine the chests. I knew what was in them.
If I could only get away with what I had here beside me, there need never again be hunger, thirst, or cold.
I would have my fortune….
CHAPTER 6
HOLDING AS CLOSE to the shore as was practical, I rowed the heavily laden boat westward. Along the shores were great stands of cypress and swamp gum festooned with Spanish moss. Behind the clumps of trees in some places lay swamp or shrub bogs covered with evergreens, all low-growing.
Somewhere I had to find solid ground, or a river leading inland, up which I might take my cargo. Now that I had a boat loaded with supplies and wealth, I was a worried man, for fear that I might come upon Indians or even pirates, many of whom haunted these shores, lying in wait for Spanish vessels.
As I moved, I kept alert for whatever might come, yet a part of my mind worried over yet another question. There had been but little water in the ship’s hold that I could see, and not much damage that was visible—surely not enough damage to cause the passengers to abandon ship in such a quiet sound. Something or somebody must have frightened them. There could be but one reason I could think of: They wanted the ship’s treasure
.
If such was the case, then I could expect them to come searching for the ship…and soon.
The wind was rising, yet I hesitated to hoist my sail. With the sail I could move faster and easier, but my boat would be more visible.
I worked the boat among some small islands, most of which were strips of sand and mud covered with low growth. Many of these, I suspected, would be temporary, to be flooded out by the next big Atlantic storm, with heavy rain or snow. Yet now they offered concealment, and a sort of backwater where I might feel safe a moment.
My eye caught a break in the end of an islet near me. I moved up around the end of the island to see that it was cleft from the end almost to the middle. The cleft was walled to the water’s edge by a thick growth of willows and swamp gum. Deliberately, I trailed one oar and pulled on the other, turning the bow of my boat into the cleft.
The green walls closed about me. Catching at branches, I eased the boat to a stop before it hit into the mud at the bank, then I made it fast to a small tree. Now, unless someone came right past the end of the islet, I was hidden, lost to the world. Filling a shot pouch and powder horn, I checked the loads on another pistol and a musket, and stepped ashore.
Now to find a place to hide my fortune, if such a place could be had. Hidden well, and above high-water level.
Catching hold of a slim tree, I swung myself ashore. The islet was no more than a hundred yards long, perhaps less, and like its neighbors it was covered with low brush and small trees. Near the upper end of the islet there was a mass of driftwood, a tangle of roots, branches, and bark that had floated down the river and piled up here. Several of the logs offered a convenient bridge to the next little islet and from there it might not be difficult to get ashore.
I returned to the boat and found bread and cheese, enough to make a meal. Slipping a few squares of ship’s biscuit into my shirt, I crossed to the neighboring islet, then waded through the shallow water to the shore.
For an hour I walked steadily inland—or what I believed was inland, for with the number of water courses, streams, and swamps, it was impossible to be sure. Yet finally I came to higher ground and a thick stand of cedar giving way to pine. Turning to look back, I found only a few steps from me an edge of the forest with a view of the sound from which I had come. At first I saw nothing, and then I did…the ship was moving!
Fair Blows the Wind Page 4