Santiago shaded his eyes and surveyed the scene. The bodies of three more sailors, presumably pulled from the wreckage, lay next to a pile of odds and ends salvaged from the Lively—crockery, lengths of rope, a couple of swords, several pairs of boots, a lantern, and various articles of clothing spread out to dry.
There was no sign of Montserrat’s corpse.
He startled when Valentina shouted, “He’s alive.”
Next thing he knew, she was running towards a piglet tethered to a palm tree, busy rooting for something in the undergrowth.
He caught up to her just as she fell to her knees next to the animal, tears streaming down her face.
“I didn’t think pigs could swim,” she hiccupped.
Xiang approached, rubbing his hands together. “Make good dinner for you and Capitán,” he declared.
Valentina clenched her jaw. “Absolutely not.”
Melchor clamped a hand on Santiago’s shoulder. “I’m not sure why my daughter cares about the pig, but it looks like one more passenger for the skiff. You stay here with Valentina, I’ll organize the rest.”
Santiago was too exhausted and elated to try to work out how his arch-enemy had become his staunchest supporter. For now he was simply relieved Melchor had taken charge.
Glad of the shade of the palm tree beneath which she sat, Valentina watched the tide slowly ebb.
Her father, Christian and Izar had crammed the slaves abducted from Mosé into the skiff and disappeared round the point.
Beside her, Santiago had dozed off and was snoring softly, his fingers firmly entwined with hers.
She would never forget his resurgence from the deep, his bare torso glistening, wet trousers clinging to his powerful frame. The cave’s cocooning atmosphere added to the intensity of the memory.
Grunting happily, piglet rooted about nearby for a tasty morsel.
Muttering in his own language, no doubt about the pig, the Chinese sailor had wandered to the point, watching for the return of the skiffs from the Santa María.
A warm wind rustled the leaves of the palm tree. The unmistakeable scent of the sea stole up her nostrils, along with the easily identifiable odor of pig. She leaned closer to Santiago, preferring the aroma of wet wool and bronzed skin drying in the sun.
Not far away lay the bodies of four men wrapped in torn canvas, thankfully in the shade.
A homeless boy sat on the sand, staring out to sea as he grieved his dead captain and his shipmates.
Santiago’s other hand was looped in the rusting handle of a small chest whose contents she could only guess at. It likely contained treasure plundered from Spanish ships.
A risky voyage and an uncertain future in La Habana still loomed.
Her strict upbringing as the daughter of a well-to-do Spanish family should have stirred outrage, disgust and consternation in her breast.
She had never felt more peacefully contented.
Santiago was glad of a chance to doze for a short while before undertaking the next stage in their odyssey—the voyage to La Habana in a damaged ship. The city had only recently been handed back to the Spanish authorities after the British occupation. There was no way of knowing what awaited them.
However, he was fully aware of the young woman whose hand he held tightly. She was more precious to him than the chest resting nearby, though its contents were important for their future together.
He’d known from their first meeting that Valentina was a rare beauty, a woman to stir a man’s passions, but how could he have known then of her courage and resilience, her compassion?
She’d weathered an abduction, a hurricane, a shipwreck, and the attempted murder of her father. She’d reached out to young Collins and done her best to console him. She’d wept for the dead sailors, rejoiced with the freed slaves and challenged the inscrutable Xiang for the life of a pig.
Yet here she sat beside him on a lonely beach, sighing contentedly.
She’d even laughed off his underwater escapade—eventually.
He’d frivolously teased women in Sevilla, principally because it was expected of a sophisticated nobleman. He relished the prospect of teasing Valentina until she sulked and then kissing away the sexy pout.
“Skeef, ho,” Xiang shouted.
“Two small boats,” Valentina said, “rowed by Christian and Izar.”
A short time later, they rode the tide out of the cove. One skiff, with Izar and Xiang at the oars, carried Collins, two bodies and the salvaged hoard, including the pig.
Valentina sat aboard the second skiff, the chest tucked beneath her bench, two bodies at her feet. She looked over her shoulder at the wreck until they’d rounded the point. Santiago wanted to sit beside her, to kiss away the tears when she turned to face him again, but he and Christian were plying the oars.
His friend reached for Santiago’s oar. “Sit with her. I can manage.”
He picked his way carefully and put an arm around her shoulders. “You survived, that’s the important thing.”
“Only thanks to Christian,” she said softly, smiling at his first mate. “Many others died. I don’t understand why Montserrat insisted on sailing into the hurricane.”
“Was he anxious, perhaps, to reach the safety of British territory?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “He may have thought some rich reward for his spying awaited him.”
“I suppose we’ll never know.”
Consigned to the Deep
Valentina stood beside her father on the fore-deck of the Santa María. She inhaled the salty air, relishing the warm zephyr on her face. “It’s difficult to believe this is the same sea whipped into a frenzy by the hurricane just a few days ago,” she said.
“Verdad,” he replied, nodding to uprooted trees along the shore. “But you can see evidence of its destructive power in some of the coastal villages we’ve passed.”
She stared at the island that would soon be her home.
Her father must have sensed her trepidation. “Don’t worry, La Habana is a far cry from these remote places on the south coast.”
“Hopefully not too big though,” she replied.
“Smaller than Madrid, I’m told,” he promised with a wink, “but just as dirty, and a lot noisier.”
Despite his good-natured jesting, she realized there would be challenges, but they faded in importance when the funeral ceremony began on the deck below.
Santiago led the way, his tricorn pressed to his heart. He was about to preside over the burial of men who were his enemies, yet his bearing bespoke dignity and respect. Behind him came crewmen bearing the still-shrouded bodies of Maitland and his officers. Collins brought up the rear.
The sad procession lined up beside the ship’s rail.
Her heart went out to the youth who stood ramrod-straight, fists clenched at his side. “He’s too young to have experienced so much pain and death.”
The lad had confided to her horrific tales of his life before he’d joined the Royal Navy, bringing into clear focus how privileged and protected she’d been as the daughter of a high ranking nobleman. It made her more appreciative of Manuela’s tyrannical methods, and her parents’ indulgence.
“He must be anxious about going to La Habana,” her father remarked. “The inhabitants won’t have much love for the English.”
“Then we’ll protect him,” she retorted.
Her father chuckled. “Him and the pig, I suppose.”
She gripped his arm as Maitland’s body was lifted to a platform specially rigged atop the ship’s rail. Santiago made a brief pronouncement, but his words were lost on the wind. Her throat constricted when he looked to Collins for the signal to proceed.
The boy saluted. “Farewell, my captain,” he shouted, before nodding to the sailors on the platform.
Valentina and her father as well as many of the crew made the sign of the Savior as Maitland’s body was heaved into the clear waters of the Caribbean Sea.
Relieved when the last of the corpses had been
consigned to the deep, Santiago replaced his tricorn and offered his hand to Collins. “You did well.”
The lad clenched his jaw and looked out to sea.
Santiago regretted his next words, but they had to be said. “Now it’s time to look to the future. I suggest you dispense with your Royal Navy uniform before we sail into La Habana on the morrow.”
Collins nodded resignedly.
“You have a decision to make,” Melchor said after joining them. “If you wish to return to the British Navy, we’ll make the necessary inquiries to get you to La Florida somehow.”
“I don’t want to return to England,” he replied, “but what’s to become of me in Cuba?”
“I can always use loyal men,” Santiago said.
The lad’s eyes widened. “I ain’t no pirate.”
Santiago chuckled. “Who said anything about becoming a pirate? I plan to establish a shipping company in La Habana, and I’ll need crewmen who love the sea.”
The youth hesitated, his eyes darting from Santiago to Melchor and back. “I don’t habla the español,” he mumbled.
Melchor laughed. “I’m sure my daughter would love to teach you.”
Collins frowned. “Why would she bother with the likes of me?”
“Because you saved her life, for which we are eternally grateful,” Santiago replied. “And because she cares what happens to you.”
Collins swallowed hard as he looked up at Valentina still standing on the fore-deck and began to shrug off his jacket. “If she teaches me, I can look after her pig in return.”
La Habana
Despite the correct Spanish flags flying from the appropriate masts, the Santa María was challenged as she approached the narrow inlet leading to La Habana’s harbor. Santiago had forewarned Valentina this would happen, but she nevertheless looked anxious as the Spanish marines boarded the ship.
“What if they discover the chest?” she asked.
“They won’t,” her father replied, squaring his shoulders to confront the boarding officer before the man could open his mouth. “I am Don Felíx Melchor, most recently Governor of La Florida. We were delayed by the hurricane. I wish to speak at the earliest opportunity with Governor de Funes.”
Valentina breathed more easily when the marine gaped open-mouthed, then stood to attention and bowed hastily. “A thousand pardons, Your Excellency. Capitán Gregor at your service. We are overly cautious given…”
“Sí, sí,” Melchor interrupted with a dismissive wave. “Commendable.”
Gregor’s face reddened as he scanned the decks and the crew. “We have reports this is a pirate ship.”
Her father scowled. “Do I look like a pirate?”
Santiago coughed and studied his feet, afraid if his eyes met Valentina’s he might laugh out loud. Melchor did look more like a windblown pirate than a gentleman and was fully aware they carried gold plundered from unwary ships.
The color drained from the officer’s face. He bowed again, then barked orders for his men to pull back the heavy copper chain blocking the entrance to the harbor.
“Well done, sir,” Santiago said quietly to Valentina’s father.
Melchor shrugged and put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “We’ve undergone enough difficulties without having to deal with officious marines. If they’d done their job, La Habana would never have fallen. Anyway, enough of that. What’s done is done and we should pay attention to the impressive fortress we are passing. Looks like there’s been extensive damage.”
“Morro Castle,” Gregor replied, having apparently overheard. “Castillo de los Tres Reyes, named for the Three Kings. There used to be a watchtower, destroyed during the British siege.
“They also mined one of its bastions. The main reason the city fell,” he asserted. “Governor de Funes is planning to build a better fortress along the channel, the Forteleza de la Cabaña, so no such thing can happen again.”
Once the chain had been removed, the Santa María sailed on to dock in the harbor where repairs were underway on several damaged vessels. It appeared Cuba’s north coast hadn’t been left unscathed by the storm.
Gregor bowed again and offered to lead Melchor’s way to the Governor’s residence in the Castillo de la Real Fuerza, apologizing profusely that a carriage would normally be made available but the storm had rendered the streets impassable.
“My daughter and her betrothed will accompany me,” Melchor stated bluntly.
Gregor eyed Santiago, clearly surprised a man he evidently considered a lowly sea captain was affianced to a governor’s daughter.
Valentina’s eyes widened as she smiled at Santiago.
Melchor’s apparent acceptance of their desire to wed bolstered Santiago’s determination to provide his bride with a comfortable life in Cuba.
He assisted Valentina along the coastal road littered with broken branches and debris, until they eventually arrived at the star-fort.
Gregor pointed to the top of the central watchtower. “La Giraldilla,” he announced.
Valentina and her father frowned, clearly not understanding.
Santiago explained before Gregor had the chance. “He’s referring to the statue of the woman on top of the watchtower. See?”
Valentina nodded. “Who is she?”
“It’s said to represent the wife of the famous explorer Hernando de Soto,” Gregor said with a smug smile. “She kept watch for her husband’s return from La Florida, not knowing he had died.”
“How sad,” Valentina whispered, snuggling closer to Santiago who decided this was the moment to impart a piece of knowledge Gregor was most likely completely unaware of. “The statue is called La Giraldilla because it’s fashioned after the one atop the famous La Giralda tower.”
“In Sevilla,” Valentina exclaimed. “Your birthplace.”
Santiago laughed, elated she had remembered something of his history.
Gregor scowled as they entered a low, arched tunnel. “When we reach the end, you must wait. I will inquire if His Excellency can see you.”
“He’ll see us,” Melchor replied.
La Habana wasn’t at her best after the hurricane, yet a sense of homecoming washed over Valentina. The capital was bigger and noisier than San Agustín, but it had the same tropical ambience.
She hoped Santiago’s pleasure in explaining the statue of La Giraldilla was a good omen. “Do you get homesick for Sevilla?” she asked while they waited in the anteroom at the end of the tunnel.
“Never,” he replied quickly, “though I regret being isolated from my brothers and sisters.”
Before she could reply, a nearby door burst open and a portly gentleman bustled out. “Felíx,” he exclaimed, rushing to embrace her father.
“Ambrosio,” he replied. “Good to see you, old friend.”
“We’ve been worried. Señora de Montserrat told us you’d stayed behind to organize the evacuation, but you didn’t arrive on any of the ships we sent.”
“It’s a long story, amigo mío, but first permit me to introduce my daughter, Valentina, and her betrothed, Capitán Santiago Velázquez.”
The governor brushed a kiss on Valentina’s knuckles. “Encantado, señorita,” he gushed. “You were but a babe-in-arms the last time I saw you.”
He frowned as he turned his attention to Santiago. “Surely not the notorious pirate captain?”
“No,” Melchor replied quickly, calming Valentina’s nervousness. “A member of the famous shipping family from Sevilla.”
De Funes arched a brow. “The Velázquez trading company whose vessels bring us goods from España and sail away with our exports?”
“The same,” Santiago confirmed.
The governor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome indeed. And you’re just in time to meet another member of your family. Emilio Velázquez arrived recently to help re-establish the trade routes disrupted by the British. A cousin perhaps?”
Valentina worried when Santiago’s smile disappeared.
<
br /> Emilio!
Here in La Habana?
Santiago’s heart careened around his ribcage. An urge welled up inside. He must find his little brother, wrap his arms around him and squeeze the life out of him. But…
“Your brother?” Valentina asked.
“Sí,” he replied, his thoughts in turmoil.
“You must find him at once,” she said with a happy smile.
Santiago hesitated. “He might not be glad to see me.”
“Why not?” De Funes asked as he ushered them into his office.
Once again, Melchor came to his rescue. “Never mind that now. There are more important matters to discuss, including why our government didn’t notify me of the treaty ceding La Florida to Britain.”
De Funes gaped. “But I sent an envoy from Madrid with an official notification weeks ago, as soon as I received word of my appointment. The missive was handed directly to your Vice-governor. The envoy assured me of it when I arrived here to accept the British handover.”
“Therein lies the answer,” Melchor replied. “Montserrat has been acting as an agent of the British crown, apparently believing he was furthering the cause of Catalonian independence. He did not pass the message on to me.”
“Then he must be brought to justice,” the governor declared.
“He’s dead,” Santiago informed him. “He tried to flee to Jamaica. His ship was wrecked in the hurricane. He didn’t survive.”
Gratitude shone in Melchor’s eyes. No one must ever know Valentina had spent time unchaperoned aboard HMS Lively.
“Oh dear, Ivanna Luna will be distraught at the news.”
Santiago thought the governor’s sympathies should have been directed to Valentina. It was interesting that Montserrat’s wife and Ambrosio de Funes were apparently on a first name basis.
“I’ll inform Señora Montserrat of her husband’s demise, and his treachery against her and his country,” Melchor insisted.
“Sí, sí,” de Funes replied absently.
Valentina leaned close to Santiago’s ear. “I get the feeling Ivanna Luna will know of it before my father has a chance to tell her,” she whispered.
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