Counting heads as they crossed to the Spanish frigate, several men appeared to have minor injuries, but they were all accounted for. Once they were aboard they were herded through the companionway and disappeared below. I continued to watch as a dozen or so Spanish men dragged two heavy ropes across. Again, the captain had proven to be my ally. In attempting to save the ship, he was keeping our treasure from the grasp of the sea.
Once the salvage operation was underway, I turned to Blue and the two men at the oars. “We need to get out of here while they’re occupied.”
Isle de los Pinos was the closest refuge and I took a bearing on the sun before giving the men a heading. It wasn’t difficult with the shoreline in sight. Sweat flowed from the foreheads of the freedmen at the oars as they fought against the strong current running through the channel. When we reached the southern side of the point, I called for a break. Blue and I changed places with the men to take our turn and we soon spotted the island.
I had hoped, but had not expected, to see a mast in the bay. Harp had run south, but with the Spanish frigate in chase, I assumed he was making for the safety of the smaller Cayman Islands. News of his mutiny might have reached the governor’s ears in Grand Cayman, but the smaller islands’ residents would likely be ignorant of Harp’s new status as a pirate. I only hoped Swift and Red would remain alive until we could rescue the crew, find a ship, and save them. Schooner or not, I would have my revenge against Harp.
The water changed shades from a light, almost-translucent blue to a deep, dark indigo as we left the shelter of the point. Fighting the current running across the mouth of the bay, Blue and I pulled hard, finally collapsing on our oars as we reached its protection. Gasping huge gulps of air, we surveyed the water behind us for any sign of pursuit. For now we were alone.
Now that we were inside the shallow bay, the current eased, allowing us to make good progress. Bypassing the anchorage that Harp had used, we continued to the east. I wanted to find refuge somewhere out of sight of the shipping lanes and close to the mainland to facilitate our rescue attempt. Facing the stern I was able to watch for any pursuit. For the time being, we appeared to be safe and my thoughts turned to Shayla, Lucy, and the men. Havana was the likely port where the Spanish would have taken the ship and crew. With protected deepwater anchorages, the city housed the ever-present Spanish bureaucracy. It was my opinion that if the captain expected reward, he would head there.
“There’s a good landing. Good hunting and fresh water.” Blue pointed to a copse of palms set against a black-sand beach.
Changing course, we headed toward the small cove. By the time we hauled the skiff onto the beach the sun was sinking in the west. We were tired from the escape, but I could feel the tension running through Blue and myself as we stood on the fine, volcanic sand. It was only natural to want to get right to it, but with no weapons and just four men, we would have to be smart about our plan. For now, we needed provisions and rest.
Putting aside my emotions, I tried to think things through. “With the ship in tow, and assuming they are heading for Havana, they won’t reach the harbor until morning.” I said it to rationalize my decision as well as for Blue’s benefit.
“Right, Mr. Nick. We’ll get the bastards in the morning.”
“And our women.”
He nodded. Hauling the skiff above the high-water mark took the rest of our energy and the four of us collapsed on the beach. We rested until just before dark when Blue came alert. He had sensed something and I slowly lifted myself up to scan the bush behind us. The setting sun reflected a dozen pair of eyes staring back at me.
“We can’t fight them,” I said, standing with my hands held high. The crew followed my example and we were soon surrounded by a group of natives.
Chapter 12
Despite popular myths, island natives are not always hostile. Considering our own outlaw status, we, too, were often enemies of the governments we found ourselves entangled with. This made for some strange alliances, but being close to Spanish soil, I hoped the men approaching us could be convinced we were friends. With bows drawn and the tips of their arrows held steady, the group emerged from the bush. I tried to stay optimistic. Surely, this close to Cuba, and with the Spaniards’ proclivity toward enslaving anyone they could capture to keep the sugar plantations producing, the men standing before me had to be the enemy of my enemy—and therefore my friends
Three men advanced under the watchful eyes and arrows of the rest of the party. One man greeted me in a language that sounded familiar, but I didn’t understand. Shayla was our translator, though thankfully Blue, too, had a knack for native dialects. This one seemed to be a mix between the indigenous Carib and the slaves’ native tongues, and Blue understood enough to communicate. He and the man exchanged a few words, then an unassuming figure made his way through the group.
It appeared the natives disguised their chiefs as we did our captains. He came forward under the protection of several men, and lifted a hand. At first I thought it was the signal to fire, then he leveled his palm at his waist and motioned to the ground. The men obeyed and lowered their weapons.
Relief spread through us and I thought that if the chief had revealed himself then I should as well. Extending a hand toward him, in the manner the American president Thomas Jefferson had made fashionable, I greeted him.
With his warriors still wary behind him, the chief and Blue spoke for the next few minutes. There was quite a bit of head-nodding from the men within earshot, which I took to be a good sign. After more talk, Blue followed him through the copse of palm trees and waved back to me and the two freedmen, indicating we should follow.
The terrain quickly rose as we left the black-sand beach. Pine trees replaced the palms near the beach as we gained elevation. We were quiet as we walked, still tired after our escape, and when we reached the camp, perched near the top of a hill, we collapsed by a small fire. Thirsty, I drank deeply from the skins that were distributed, thankfully with fresh water and not wine or spirits. After we drank our fill and recovered, I rose and looked around.
Over the last few years we had been both guests and prisoners in several native villages. This one was well laid out and nicely organized, a neat and business-like affair. With the three-hundred-sixty-degree view offered by the summit, it was no wonder they had spotted us. The village was situated among several peaks, some larger and many smaller, all covered with pine trees. The valleys below held lakes and streams. There was little in the way of arable land needed by the plantations; as such, deemed not “profitable” it was probably the reason the village existed.
We were fed and allowed to rest until dark, then around the glow of a bonfire the villagers assembled and started asking questions. Blue had a grasp on their language, but it was far from a fluid conversation. Adding hand signals whenever I could to help clarify our situation, they seemed to understand, and to my relief, appeared sympathetic.
Now that we knew they were friendly, the question was, would they help us? Speaking to Blue, who sat by my side, we agreed it was time to ask for their help. He made a request and immediately heads started to shake back and forth. There was no need for an interpreter.
I felt the weight of the small pouch I’d carried to Harp’s ship yesterday against my hip. “Maybe a little gold’ll change things,” I said to Blue.
I thought if I whispered to Blue it would seem devious, and so was speaking to him in a normal voice, assuming they didn’t understand. But at the mention of gold, I could see from their faces, lit by the flames from the fire, that they knew the word.
From my earlier survey of Cuba, I’d observed none of the rock formations or rivers where gold was usually found; this didn’t mean there wasn’t any here, of course. Columbus had discovered the island almost three-hundred years ago, and rumors persisted that he’d left behind a secret gold mine. This I doubted.
It was too late to undo what my outspoken words had done; my only option was to make the best of it. Removing the
pouch from my britches, I released the drawstring attached to my belt, and emptied the coins onto the ground. The group drew closer, in awe of what they conceived as unfathomable wealth. One at a time, I picked up the coins and replaced them in the pouch. I didn’t put it away, though; I wanted them to know it could be theirs.
“Let’s start with needing weapons and a guide,” I told Blue.
The conversation turned into a negotiation, and though there were sometimes raised voices and looks of disgust and disbelief on both Blue and the chief’s faces, I knew this was stagecraft.
Suddenly both men looked at me.
“Three coins, Mr. Nick,” Blue said.
Wanting to show the chief that Blue had the authority to strike a deal, I handed him the pouch, showing the chief that Blue was my equal. The chief smiled as Blue carefully extracted three coins from the pouch, then tucked it away.
“Four guns, ammunition, and a guide,” Blue told me, after handing the coins to the chief.
I could see the look of respect for my compatriot on the chief’s face, and the frequent glances toward me that he had cast during the first round of the negotiations stopped. From the puffed-up chest and look on Blue’s face, I could tell he was enjoying his new status.
“We’ll need provisions and more men,” I said, thinking if the Spanish had taken the women and crew to Havana, we would be facing at least a garrison.
Blue spoke to the chief, then turned to me. “We should travel light. It is a long row across the bay, then two days’ march to Havana. Less if we can find horses.”
I knew Blue would rather walk than ride, but there was an urgency to the situation. Our men were likely to be enslaved; there was no telling what would happen to the women. Despite his distaste for horses, there was no doubt that Blue would ride almost anything to save Lucy.
The mood lightened and fresh skins were passed around. These contained some kind of sweet liquor, and I cautioned myself and my men to moderation. An hour later, after taking only small sips, I could feel my head spin. Seeking a secluded place, I lay down and shut my eyes.
Chapter 13
Activity around the camp woke me before dawn. As I got up, I could feel yesterday’s exertion in my muscles and joints, but I was determined to get Shayla and the crew back, not to mention the treasure aboard the ship.
I had formed an attachment to both our previous ships, the Panther and the Cayman. Both were named for animals that we had fought along our journeys: panthers in the Everglades and crocodiles on Grand Cayman. Like a child with his first toys, they were important to me, but with both lost—one through a trade, and the other through the deception of Emanuel, the man who had led us to Henriques’s cache in Cozumel—I had a different, more detached opinion of our transport now.
The ship didn’t matter; the treasure aboard did. The silver bars recovered from the Wreck of the Ten Sail, and the gold from our adventure in Haiti were hard-fought prizes. Rescuing the crew had priority, but I had no intention of leaving Cuba broke. Getting up, I found Blue and the freedmen eating by the fire. Though I was anxious to get started, I knew I needed to eat. We finished the meal and were preparing to depart when the chief came over and introduced our guide.
I was surprised, though I shouldn’t have been. The man was clearly a Spaniard, but his long, scraggly beard and uncut hair told me he had been exiled here. It wasn’t unusual to find expats in the Caribbean. There were any number of circumstances, be it shipwrecks, escaped prisoners, or even disease such as Harp suffered, that could push a man to the outskirts of civilization. I greeted him in Spanish, and was again surprised when he returned the salutation in English.
“Good day to ya, Captain.”
“Nick Van Doren.” I rose and extended my hand. The calluses I felt told me he was a worker, and looking into his eyes, I saw the whites were clear—both good signs, though he did have an edge about him.
“Juan de Cordova.”
“Glad to have you aboard. Are you aware of our circumstances?”
“The chief told me your women and crew were taken.”
“Pardon my inquiry,” I started, wanting to know at least something of his history. There were too many similarities with Emanuel. “You’re Spanish, yet—“
“I was Spanish,” he cut me off. “Just a name now.”
His explanation was cut short by Blue coming up behind us. He nodded to the horizon, where I saw the first rays of light breaking over the water. Part one of our plan required an early morning departure in order to utilize the glare of the rising sun to disguise our transit across the bay, as well as avoid the afternoon winds and heat. Juan’s story would have to wait.
“Right, then. Are the men ready?”
Blue nodded, and handed me a rifle. Taking it by the barrel, the first thing I noticed was the rust covering the metal. Scolding myself for sleeping instead of servicing our newly purchased weapons, I could only hope that the rest of the weapon was in better condition than its surface. It was a battle in these climes to keep the rust at bay, but one that needed to be fought.
“Ammunition?” I asked Blue, who handed me a pouch that I guessed from its weight contained a few dozen rounds. Not nearly enough if we were forced into a fight. “That’s it?”
“He says they have no more.”
I cursed again. My diligence had been lax and I hoped we wouldn’t pay a price for it. There was no point harping on it now. I attached the pouch to my belt and prepared to move out. The other men had rifles as well. Blue also had one and his blow gun. Starting down the hill, we quickly reached the bay.
Our skiff remained where we had left it, and after a brief inspection, we loaded the provisions we had bargained for and pushed off the beach. The water was dark and the sky speckled with stars. Only a sliver of light showed in the eastern sky as we set the oars into their locks. The freedmen silently placed the blades in the water.
The chief had been correct and the crossing was an arduous task. I was glad for our early start when the wind came up, but we were close to shore by the time the waves started to whitecap. Our plan appeared to have succeeded, at least to this point. Juan had chosen an isolated stretch of mangrove-covered shoreline to land. The beach might have been easier, but easy wasn’t often the best way. Wasting no time, as soon as we hit the shallows, we jumped from the skiff and, fighting through the muck, hauled the boat into the brush.
Though we wanted a rest, the conditions along the shore were inhospitable. Trying to ignore the swarming mosquitoes, we pushed through the tangled branches and roots. It seemed like a mile, but was likely only a hundred yards when we broke through into a clearing. Judging from the size and cultivation of the field, we found ourselves on the outskirts of a sugar plantation. Unfortunately, the harvest had been completed, and instead of having the cover of the large stalks, we were exposed.
“We need to move around the perimeter,” Juan said, as he set out toward a small forested rise in the otherwise flat landscape.
In single file, with Juan leading and Blue trailing, covering our tracks as went, we moved toward the trees. Save for the iguanas snacking on the downed stalks, we were alone as we made our way through the fallow field. After climbing the rise, the plantation spread out below. The main house was clearly visible in a clearing laid out with a half-dozen buildings of different sizes and functions. I guessed at what must have been the foreman’s house, school house, kitchens, smokehouse, workshops, and slave quarters.
These buildings held little interest to us. Off to the side I noticed a large open-air structure housing the boiling vats for the cane. Huge piles of stalks were piled nearby, with what appeared to be all hands preparing the crop. On the outskirts I could see several men with rifles watching the operation. It was an area we wanted to avoid, but beyond it lay the stables—and the horses.
With no cover between us and the processing area, we would be exposed for a hundred yards, unless we backtracked and skirted the entire plantation. That might have made sense, except that
there could just as easily have been other, unknown obstacles to face.
Deciding we were too close to our goal to turn back, we discussed splitting up and walking separately toward the stables. The thought proved unnerving to the freedmen, who if seen would be assumed to be runaway slaves and punished accordingly. After observing the goings-on for a few minutes, I realized that role-playing might be the answer. A man acting like a slave that belonged there would not be questioned.
Juan and I rubbed dirt on our exposed skin. It served to darken our appearance, as well as lighten the mood a little. The freedmen took over now, knowing exactly what to do. Backtracking down the rise, we scoured the picked field for enough stalks to appear that we were completing the harvest, picked them up, and started toward the stables.
We made it to the processing building, where we switched the stalks to our shoulders facing the work party and continued unquestioned. Once around the corner we dropped the stalks and ran for the stables. Without knowing if anyone was inside, we moved single file to the door, where Blue peered inside. He waved us off, and instead of entering we moved along the exterior of the building to an open-air walkway.
Stalls lined both sides of the breezeway. Half were empty, the others occupied by horses crunching hay. Ducking into an empty stall, we waited while Blue scouted the area. He returned a few minutes later giving the all-clear sign.
“Right, then. Can you all ride?” I asked.
“Only been in the back of a wagon, Captain,” one of the freedmen said.
The other nodded. Blue was not fond of the animals either, and when horses were involved, fear on the part of the rider was a problem. With three out of five of us unsure about riding, our best option was to take a carriage.
Finding and negotiating with the owner or foreman would be risky. There was no way of predicting their allegiance or their willingness to sell us a horse and wagon. I didn’t want to steal either, but we had no option. The next hurdle to overcome was finding a rig, but we were lucky, and on exiting the breezeway found two horses harnessed to a ten-foot open wagon.
Uncharted Waters Page 6
