Dawn came and with it the first squall. It didn’t last long and failed to produce significant winds or rough seas. Just a late summer rain to the passengers, who were as yet unaware of their course change.
Miguel was at the helm when the Captain came up the stairs to the poop deck. Not being a man of the sea, it took him a moment before realizing they’d altered course.
“Why have we changed course, Señor de Benito?”
“If it please the Captain, sir,” Miguel replied. “A sudden change in the wind and the threat of a coming storm at six bells during the first watch, prompted me to alter our course. I fear a hurricane approaches from the west, causing these southerly winds.”
“A hurricane? There was a light rain earlier. What gives you cause to think a hurricane approaches?”
“The trade winds have always blown from the west, sir. Late last night, it shifted to a south by southwest wind. My estimation is that the storm will pass to the north of us sometime two days hence. I hope to remove us from its path by then.” That seemed to satisfy the Captain and as he turned to leave, he looked ahead of the forecastle, then stopped and turned around.
“Where is the rest of the fleet?”
“By your orders, sir,” Miguel replied. “We turned east in the eve. Shortly after nightfall we sailed out of the fog, which seems to have bound the rest of the fleet.”
The Captain puffed up slightly. “Very good,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll be safe. Our first concern is our own cargo and passengers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Throughout the day, two more short-lived squalls passed, rising quickly out of the southwest, moving northeast. After the second one, Miguel was even more certain that they were running ahead of a slow-moving hurricane coming off the coast of Florida. As nightfall approached he gathered the officers on the quarter deck to inform all of them of his suspicions.
As the sun fell toward the horizon, it illuminated from behind the high clouds that stretched unbroken from north to south, seeming to punctuate his words. “Señores, it is my opinion, and the Captain concurs, that we are running ahead of a slow-moving hurricane which is crossing the Florida peninsula. We have changed course and are making our way to a safe harbor called Xuma Sound, yet another day’s sail from here. I fear this storm, which is already within our sight, will be upon us by morn.”
“Is there no safe harbor closer, Master de Benito?” asked one of the junior officers.
“Only one,” Miguel replied. “A shallow and narrow harbor controlled by the French.”
A murmur went around the men gathered before him. He continued, “We will attempt to make it to Xuma Sound. Failing that, we may have to fight a quartering wind and high seas to make the French harbor.”
“Any port in a storm,” muttered the first mate. “But a French harbor, sir? I’d rather go over the rail.”
Whispers of acknowledgement went from man to man, along with nodding heads. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Señor Nieves.”
Pablo Nieves was a big man, over six feet in height and almost two hundred pounds. He was well liked and respected among the crew, as was Miguel. He’d been first mate aboard the Magdalena under Miguel’s command for nearly two years.
“Let the crew know, gentlemen. Have them prepare for a storm before night falls. Have the pages go among the sleeping crewmen and tell them. The Captain is informing the passengers now.”
By nightfall, the crew had cleared the decks of anything not secured and made ready for the approaching storm. They didn’t have long to wait. By the time seven bells rang on the first watch, shortly before midnight, the wind began to increase.
Dawn broke gray and raining, with building seas and near gale force winds. The passengers stayed below deck, save for a single individual, Enzo Navarro. He was a small, fair-haired man in his early twenties. Born in Havana, he was going to Spain for the first time, representing his father’s sugar plantation. No stranger to tropical weather and rough seas, he’d spent his youth piloting a small sloop up and down the coast of Cuba, exploring. Enzo stood at the rail, watching the tumultuous sea.
The morning watch crew performed admirably in the building storm, constantly adjusting the sails to the shifting wind conditions at Miguel’s orders. The Captain had long since taken leave of the roiling deck, but not before depositing his breakfast over the rail.
“May I come up, Master?” Enzo shouted from the bottom of the stairs. Miguel looked down at the man standing confidently on the main deck, shifting his body weight with the roll of the ship. Though soaked, with his hair pushed back over his scalp, he didn’t seem to be bothered by the weather at all.
“Yes, and welcome,” Miguel shouted back over the wind.
The young man went up the steps to the poop deck without the aid of the handrail and came to stand next to Miguel, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly as if he were enjoying a bright, sunny day at sea.
“The Captain said on the eve that a hurricane might find us today,” Enzo said, taking a quick glance at the compass in its bezel. “From the looks, it’s passing to the north. Quite odd.”
“You know the sea,” Miguel said while studying the passenger. It was more statement than question. He had, of course, met the man before they put to sea in Havana, but he regarded him now in a new light.
“Yes,” Enzo replied simply.
The ship was sailing before the wind, which was now nearly straight out of the west. They’d tacked east only hours before as they’d neared the reef north of the island of Lucaioneque. With the island and its reefs now many leagues astern, the crew was preparing to tack again; this turn would put them on a southerly course, directly toward the narrow and quite shallow gap between Curateo and San Salvador. The deeper passage into Xuma Sound to the south of San Salvador could only be approached from the east, and with the wind out of the west, that was impossible. The navigator had assured Miguel that the northern entry to the sound, although shallow, would allow the Magdalena passage if he were to stay to the center of the gap between the southern tip of Curateo and Little Island to the east. The gap was only slightly more than two leagues in width and it meant sailing a broad reach along the whole coastline of Curateo.
“Señor Nieves!” Miguel shouted to his first mate on the main deck. The man turned and looked up. “Prepare to come about! Send a page to inform the passengers!”
Pablo quickly grabbed the nearest page and shouted instructions in the boy’s ear. As he scurried off, Miguel turned to his guest. “Perhaps you’d find more comfort in your cabin, Señor Navarro.”
Enzo grinned. “With your permission, Master de Benito, I am much more comfortable on the deck of a sturdy ship, than restricted to a stifling box of a cabin.”
Having seen the page return to the deck, Miguel said, “Very well, Señor.” Then shouting to the first mate, he said, “Coming about, Señor Nieves!”
As the crew began to haul on the rigging, Miguel spun the helm to the right, the Magdalena responding immediately. The great ship heeled over precariously as it turned, then righted itself slightly as Miguel brought the wheel back to center and the wind filled the sails from abeam, keeping the heavy ship heeled a few degrees. The crew quickly ran up the lateen-rigged mizzen sails on the quarterdeck to aid is steerage, hoisted the bowsprit sails, and brought down the topsails.
“Your crew is exceptional, Master de Benito,” Enzo said.
Miguel liked the younger man. “Thank you, señor. And please call me Miguel.”
“Then you must call me Enzo, Miguel.” He extended his hand and Miguel took it momentarily before bringing it back to the straining wheel.
For the next three hours, the two men talked while Miguel wrestled with the wheel against the quartering wind. The ship was constantly battered by wind and wave as it fought its way forward against the white-capped rollers taking them broadside. At last came the shout from the forecastle, “Land ho!”
“Where away?” shouted Miguel above the rising w
ind.
“Ten points off the starboard bow! Two leagues!” came the reply from the sharp-eyed lookout.
“Tis much too early,” the navigator said, having joined Miguel and Enzo on the poop deck for this last leg toward safe anchorage. “Curateo should be at least another seven hours.” Juan Castellano grabbed his own compass and quickly went down the stairs, crossed the main deck and climbed up the stairs to where the lookout stood on the forecastle.
Minutes later he crossed the main deck again, rejoining Miguel and Enzo. “I fear I’ve made a mistake in calculating our position yesterday,” he said. “The land before us is not Curateo, but Lucaioneque. We must sail southeast for twenty leagues to be aligned with a northern approach to the Sound and it will be an additional twenty leagues before we arrive there.”
Miguel gave the orders and the crew responded instantly, taking the ship away from the rocky shores of the uninhabited Lucaioneque. After an hour, the wind began to lessen and turned, coming directly astern. This pleased Miguel, as it meant the worst of the storm had passed and was moving north.
Enzo had stayed with Miguel and Juan at the helm throughout the storm, offering observations from time to time on the stalwart crew’s abilities. He noted the compass and, perceiving the slight wind change, said, “It seems the worst of the storm has passed well to the north of us. Perhaps we need not the safety of Xuma Sound?”
“Yes, Enzo, it appears we’ve been blessed,” Miguel replied. “However, I think we will continue yet to the Sound. It would be prudent to check for damage in sheltered waters.”
The day wore on and soon it was night. They held the southeasterly course well into the night, the seas still battering the starboard bow and occasionally breaking over the deck. Two sailors were swept overboard by one unusually large wave. There was nothing Miguel or the crew could do for them. They were in the hands of God and His mercy.
The pilot kept a continuous reading of the ship’s speed at the sound of each bell. When the crew changed watches at eight bells, the freshened crew stood ready to make the turn south. The wind was still astern and they were making almost eight knots. With luck, they’d make Xuma Sound by mid-morning.
Once the turn south was made, Miguel turned the helm over to the second mate and retired to his bunk to try to get some rest. Enzo had left the poop deck only an hour before. The two men had learned they both had a deep, abiding love for the sea, and during the evening and night, they became friends.
Miguel’s rest was fitful, but he finally succumbed. He was jarred awake just a few hours later when he was knocked from his bunk. He quickly donned his boots and made his way to the poop deck above the Captain’s cabin. The Captain had not been seen since breakfast. The wind had changed once again. It was now coming from the northeast. Impossible, thought Miguel, the wind should still be out of the northwest.
“It’s been coming around steady for three hours,” the second mate announced as Miguel crossed the deck toward him. “I was about to send a page to wake you.” The deck pitched and heaved in seas much rougher than when Miguel had retired.
Checking the compass, yet knowing the second mate would still have the southeast course, he said, “How can this be? The wind should have gone around to the north, but not continued around to northeast, unless….”
“Unless the storm has changed direction,” Juan said as he came up the steps, “circling around us.”
The storm had changed direction. Unknown to them, they’d avoided the hurricane when it was at its weakest, after having crossed the Florida peninsula. Once in the open ocean, it had passed north of them, completely destroying the entirety of the treasure fleet before gaining in strength and circling around to the southeast, then to the south. Now it was finally heading west, straight for the safe harbor at which they planned to put in. Miguel realized this, but far too late. By sailing south, they were on an intercept course with the hurricane. He made the decision. There was no other choice and little time to waste.
“We are coming about,” he said. “We will make haste for the French harbor.”
Again, the big ship heeled sharply in the pitching seas as she turned to the west. Just two days prior, the long, slow rollers had been coming out of the east, lulling him to sleep. Then overnight, the wind-whipped waves had come out of the west, being driven by the storm, colliding with those from the east. Now it was like being in a giant tub as it was sloshed back and forth, then side to side. Towering waves came crashing together from all points of the compass.
An hour into their run for the relative safety of the French harbor, the full fury of the storm was on them. The ship was tossed so much that Miguel was unable to accurately read the compass. The sails were beginning to rip at the seams and the yards were straining severely. With each dive into the trough of a giant wave, the whole of the ocean rose up over the forecastle and the ship dove beneath it, sweeping any hapless sailor who wasn’t holding on to something overboard.
The yardarm on the mizzen mast snapped and the upper half of the yard crashed through the poop deck, killing the Captain instantly in his bunk. The loose sheets whipped across the poop deck, their pulleys trying desperately to crush the skull of anyone in the way.
Miguel clung to the wheel while the wind and spray whipped at his clothes, snapping his sleeves. If we can only make the harbor, he thought. In the darkness he could only pray that his course was true, and he did. He fought the wheel like a madman as wave after wave came crashing over both the forecastle and main deck.
Above the roar of the wind ripping through the shrouds and stays, Miguel heard an ominous sound. Surf crashing on rock. He’d miscalculated and the wind was driving the ship directly onto the reef. He had to make a choice. Was the harbor entrance north or south? He had but seconds to decide, and then he turned the great wheel to starboard. If he was wrong, perhaps they’d miss the reef, or find a hole though it and become beached on the island.
The next sound he heard broke his heart. The sound of the hull being torn open on the submerged reef. The ship shuddered, then spun broadside to the wind. Within seconds she began to roll onto her side. There was no time to give the order to abandon ship. Many of the crew had already been swept from the deck into the sea, the jagged edges of rock and reef putting a quick end to their lives.
Still Miguel clung to the wheel, as if by sheer will he could pull the ship off the reef. Suddenly, everything went black as one of the pulleys on the mizzen sheet connected with the back of his head.
It took only minutes for the ship to break apart in the crashing waves, spilling treasure, cargo, and bodies into the sea. Of the seventy-five crew and twenty-two passengers, only a handful survived the wreck and many of those died struggling in the water.
Miguel found himself in the water, clinging desperately to a length of wood. He had no idea what part of the ship it was from. Fifteen minutes later, he was thrown up onto the beach. For a moment he lay there, thinking he was dead. When he tried to turn his head, the pain in the back of his neck and shoulder told him he was not.
He struggled to his feet and staggered across the sand in the gathering light of dawn. Once he made it to the top of a dune he stopped and looked back through the driving wind and rain. There was no ship to be seen. Was I thrown overboard and the ship sailed on?
Then he began to see the flotsam being pushed ahead of the foamy water. Wood, canvas, rope, and everything imaginable. And bodies. He staggered down to the water’s edge, forcing himself forward against the wind and spray. The first body he came to was obviously dead, the man’s head caved in by a powerful blow.
He nearly wretched at the sight but moved on. After finding five people dead, he found the first survivor, Juan Castellano, his left arm bent grotesquely above the elbow. Helping Juan to a sitting position, the man moaned in great pain.
“Juan,” Miguel said, “can you hear me?” Juan nodded, his face ashen, blood flowing from an open wound in his scalp.
Miguel pulled his sheathed dagger from hi
s belt. He ripped both sleeves from his shirt and, using the sheath as a splint, he bent Juan’s arm back into place, tying the makeshift splint with one sleeve and binding the head wound with the other. He then ripped Juan’s right sleeve off and tore it longwise into two pieces. Tying the pieces together he made a sling to hold his friend’s arm.
“I must go,” he said. “To see if there are others. Can you make it up to the dune?”
“I think so,” Juan replied, struggling to his feet.
Miguel left him on his own and went further down the beach. Within ten minutes, he’d made it to a large rock jutting out into the sea and could go no further. Among the dozens of bodies, he’d found two others who were still alive and had tended to them. Going back the way he came, he found one more man who’d just been washed up on the beach. It was Enzo Navarro, struggling to his feet in the heavy surf.
“Enzo!” Miguel shouted. “You’re alive!”
“Am I?” the younger man asked, besieged by the pounding waves.
Together the three men made their way back to where Juan waited. The two injured men sat on the lee side of the dune with Juan as Enzo and Miguel went south, looking for others. They found no one else. Out of ninety-seven souls on board, only five had survived.
“Enzo,” Miguel said, “I have no idea what island this is, nor if there is food or water here. There are many barrels strewn across the beach. Let us empty the contents and partially bury several of them, open to the rain, for drinking water.”
One of the others, Pablo Nieves, was only slightly hurt. “Captain,” Pablo said, conveying to the others that Miguel was now the leader. “While you two set about doing that, I will go among the debris in search of any food supplies not ruined by the water. I will also drag the dead higher on the beach. We can bury them after the storm passes.”
The three men split up, leaving Juan and the other injured man, the pilot Antonio Martinez, to look after one another’s wounds. After two hours of struggling in the heavy surf, wind, and rain, Miguel and Enzo managed to retrieve four sugar barrels, which they emptied and set deep in the sand to gather rain water. Pablo found only a few pounds of salt-dried pork and had dragged twenty-one bodies up to the top of the dune. The others had been claimed by the turbulent sea.
Fallen Mangrove (Jesse McDermitt Series Book 5) Page 2
