by Paul Clayton
“What is he saying?” said Samuel to Gredilla.
“He said that he is very sorry for you; that it is not his fault; that the Hidalgo ordered this.”
Samuel was about to reply when John suddenly pushed past him. “Bloody papist!” he screamed. “There will be no hearing!”
Samuel grabbed for his brother, but John’s dagger was already out and glinting in the sun. It flashed down and into the fat Spaniard’s chest. Fernandez’s eyes closed as he grabbed John’s doublet reflexively and held on to him. Fernandez’s eyes issued tears through their tightly clenched lids as much blood soaked through his white silk shirtfront.
John pulled his dagger out and pushed Fernandez away. He fell to the ground and his Indian men looked about, unsure of what to do.
Samuel turned to his brother. “For the love of God, John, have you lost your mind?”
John’s face was a mask of rage and he appeared not to hear.
Samuel turned to Fenwick. “Get his knife.”
Fenwick approached and John turned to him with a wild look in his eyes. Fenwick backed off, looking at Samuel.
“John,” Samuel shouted, “you have killed him! Now we shall all hang!”
John seemed to come out of his fog. He sheathed his dagger. “He betrayed us!” he shouted, his voice thick with anger.
Samuel turned away in disgust. He watched the approaching column of soldiers. They would arrive in another few minutes. A wagon brought up the rear. Samuel frowned as he made out the long, black cylinder of a gun taking up the length of the wagon. They would have to flee, he decided; John’s bloody rashness had seen to that. Immediately, all Samuel’s sailor’s senses came to life, measuring the slight breeze coming off the land, which moved the hairs of his beard; it was weak, tepid. Samuel scanned the harbor, judging the maneuvering room he would need in which to turn the Contempt; there didn’t appear to be enough. They would move like a slug, a perfect target for the Spanish on this sunny perfect day.
Samuel watched William the Smith hurriedly throwing his tools into a leather sack beside his forge. What was he doing? They were not going anywhere. They would hang in this balmy, mosquito-infested place. His mood blackening, Samuel watched the heated air ripple off the small forge. The distortion tickled his eyes, then his brains, and an idea came to him that might save them. If it didn’t, he reasoned, it was better to die a quick death fighting, perhaps a musket ball between the eyes, than slowly swinging and strangling with a Spanish rope around one’s neck.
Samuel shouted to his men. “Back to the ship! Cast off the ropes. Quickly now.”
Fenwick looked at Samuel as if he were crazy. “Samuel, have you lost your mind? They have a gun! They’ll blow us to kindling.”
“Yes. If they can see us.”
Fenwick sputtered and looked around to see if any of the others had heard Samuel’s crazy utterances. “See us? For the love of God. They are not blind.”
Samuel shoved him. “Shut up! Get on the ship-- unless you want to hang.” Samuel grabbed Fenwick’s hat off his head and ran back toward William’s forge. The old man had already gone back to the ship. Using Fenwick’s hat to insulate his hands from the red-hot iron, Samuel picked up the forge and ran to the bales. He lifted the forge high, dumping some of the coals onto a bale; he then ran to the next and did the same thing.
John ran over to him. “Our goods,” he said in a shocked voice, “you’re burning our goods.” John attempted to scrape the coals away with his dagger.
Samuel ignored him and hurried on to the next bale. Soon ten of the bails were smoldering and emitting smoke from their tops like the chimneys of miniature cottages.
Samuel gave John his sword and started back to the ship. “Come on,” he called to him, and to Fenwick and Gredilla, who were still standing around. Fenwick and Gredilla followed Samuel grudgingly as John tried futilely to stop the spreading fires.
Fenwick stopped and looked back. “Half of everything I own was invested in those bales,” he wailed. “I am brought low.”
Gredilla nodded. “My commission-- up in flames!”
Samuel ignored them and called over to his brother, his voice sharp with anger. “Give up, John. That is all our monies burning up! All because of your rashness!”
John looked at him angrily then turned to look back at the approaching soldiers. “I will stay and fight. I’ll not run away.”
Samuel stopped and Fenwick and Gredilla waited for him.
Samuel called out. “Come to your senses, John. Our only chance is to take to the water. Otherwise we will all hang.”
John said nothing as he watched the soldiers. They rode at an unhurried pace, not yet having noticed the head-high tendrils of smoke that were now moving toward the Contempt.
Samuel shook his head angrily. “As pigheaded as you are, I’ll be damned if I’ll let you hang!” He turned to Fenwick and Gredilla. “Help me with him.”
Samuel threw his arms around John, pinning his arms to his chest, while Gredilla and Fenwick each grabbed a leg. John struggled in fury as they carried him back to the ship.
John’s hat fell off as they dumped him onto some coiled ropes. For a moment he seemed dumbfounded, as if coming out of a faint. Then he retrieved his hat.
“Get the ropes aft!” Samuel shouted at him. John looked pained, but ran to the rear of the ship.
Samuel went to the bow, where another set of ropes tethered the Contempt tightly to the quay. Gredilla stood passively, watching the soldiers’ advance. Fenwick stood next to him, looking down at his boots and rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to hang!” He looked at Samuel. “Why did I come here? I’m just a tailor!”
Samuel began pulling the ropes away. “You’re a greedy little tailor and you thought there was a lot of money to be made, that’s why you came here. Now. Both of you help me get these ropes off or, so help me, God, you will hang!”
Fenwick and Gredilla knelt and frantically pulled at the ropes. The ropes fell away and they could then hear the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the paving stones. The bales were putting out a thick smoke now, but no flames were visible.
Samuel looked aft. John and the teenaged seaman Peter Butler struggled with the ropes there, but they still held. Another man who had been helping them had panicked and was now clambering aboard. The weak, smoky wind had moved the ship only a few inches from the pilings.
Samuel looked back at the column of soldiers. They were at the end of the quay now, putting the ship well within the range of the Spanish muskets. Fernandez’s Indians watched the drama without making a move, seeming not to care about the outcome.
Samuel turned round to the ship. Fifteen or so of the twenty-man crew were hauling on the ropes, raising sail. Fenwick started climbing quickly up to the rail. Gredilla stood still, watching the approaching soldiers worriedly.
“Senor Gredilla,” shouted Samuel, “go help John with the ropes.”
Gredilla nodded, but didn’t move. He looked over at John and took off running toward the soldiers. “The English are escaping!” he shouted at them. “Hurry!”
Samuel ran back to John. He pulled his sword and began hacking at the remaining ropes. A partly severed rope snapped like a whip crack and the ship lurched outward from the quay. Samuel and John leapt for the ropes and began climbing. John tumbled over the rail. Samuel clung to the ropes, looking back. Peter Butler stood unmoving, looking at him open-mouthed.
“Jump,” Samuel shouted as the ship slowly slid away, “save yourself!” He clung tightly to the ropes, holding out his hand.
Peter Butler’s eyes were wide with fear and indecision.
“Come on, boy,” shouted Samuel.
The ship slid out of reach, Butler remaining frozen, unable even to lift his hand.
As the weak, smoky wind pushed the ship away, Samuel watched a dozen soldiers run up to the quay. Two of them grabbed Butler, throwing him to the ground, while the others quickly set their muskets into their shooting stands. The soldiers in the g
un wagon wheeled it around, almost turning it over.
Samuel climbed over the rail and ducked down on the deck as the first volley from the muskets slammed into the ship, showering them with splinters. He got to his feet. There would be a few minutes before the Spanish reloaded their muskets. Flames now sprouted from half of the smoking bales and the smoke was growing thicker, partially obscuring the ship. Samuel crouched down and a moment later another volley from the muskets cracked into the Contempt as it drove sluggishly forward toward the breakwater. Before they got there, Samuel would turn her and attempt to head her out to sea. Until then they would be broadside and vulnerable to the Spaniards. Samuel got to his feet. His men seemed okay. He looked to port, searching through the thickening smoke for the Spanish cannon. He prayed the smoke would continue to thicken; he prayed that the gunners were hung over and bleary eyed from drinking too much wine the night before, and he prayed for a miracle. How else could the Spaniards miss at this range?
Samuel hurried forward to check the depths. His men were busy readying the saker, a bronze, muzzle-loaded cannon, eight feet in length, that fired three-inch-caliber shot. Mounted in the stern, it would be useless until he brought the ship about. Samuel shouted back to them, “Get that damn gun loaded. Quickly!”
“Almost ready,” came a shout. Samuel peered down at the sea bottom through the clear water. Without the cargo they were not drawing much water and had plenty of draft.
Somewhere above Samuel a musket ball punched a hole through the sheets with a slap. He looked back at the quay through the patches of thick smoke. Gredilla was gesticulating wildly to a mounted soldier as the bales burned in a fury. Black smoke obscured the quay now, and Samuel saw several Spanish soldiers attempting to wrestle one of the bales over to the edge of the quay and dump it in the sea. Other soldiers carefully aimed their long muskets at the ship. Then, through the tendrils of black smoke, Samuel saw what he feared most-- a large flash of orange fire from the Spanish gun. He prayed that their aim was poor. It wasn’t. A crash came from aft and a cloud of dust and debris blew seaward. One of his men screamed and lay on the deck, his hands covering his eyes as blood ran between his fingers. His mates ran to him and carried him below. Samuel saw that the shot had stove a hole in the superstructure of the stern. It wouldn’t sink them; he’d have William begin the repairs when next they anchored.
Samuel signaled the helmsman and turned the Contempt. Then his men fired the saker. Samuel watched in appreciation as the shot struck one of the burning bales, knocking it over like a ten pin. The Spanish musketeers broke ranks in a panic and ran for the protection of a low wall not far from the quay. The Contempt moved faster now, showing only the slim silhouette of her stern. Samuel saw the Spanish gun flash fire again. He waited a few moments and breathed in relief as a geyser of seawater erupted off their starboard. The water rained down on him and his men and a cheer went up. They would be well out of range before the Spaniards could reload. Samuel could hardly see the soldiers moving about on the quay now as a stronger wind spirited them out to sea. Thanking God, he went back to look at the damage.
Chapter 2
Twelve hundred miles north, above the Florida peninsula, the forest was unnaturally quiet and full of activity. The four-leggeds and winged-ones remained still as stone as they waited and watched the two groups of men moving stealthily closer to each other through the ferns and bushes. In one of the groups, Calling Crow, chief of the Coosa people, looked over at his son, Swordbrought. Swordbrought was only sixteen summers upon the earth, but his face showed no trace of fear, just a stern resolve. Calling Crow felt a quick twinge of pride, then nodded over at Red Feather, his most trusted brave. Red Feather gave the signal and the ten other braves immediately knelt, disappearing from sight.
Calling Crow remained standing as he listened for sounds of the others. He and his men had been hunting two days south of their village when they ran into the signs on the trail. These were Coosa hunting lands and this affront could not be overlooked. Otherwise there would be more incursions.
Calling Crow was taller than most of his men. His skin was the color of a leaf in autumn and his nose proud and full, its prominence offset by deep brown eyes that were thoughtful and wise. In the late middle of his earth journey, he was still very strong physically, without a trace of fat on him. He wore a breechclout of woven brown/black bark fibers and a sash of the same material. Bands of decorative, black tattoos encircled his neck, arms, chest and legs. Around his neck he wore a necklace of iridescent black crow feathers and a carved wooden cross, a relic of the time when the Spanish moved in his world. Given to him by a woman that he had loved, it was powerful medicine and had once stopped an arrow.
Calling Crow heard a sound. He whistled like a robin and Red Feather and the others immediately knew what he wanted. They got to their feet, moving into position as they prepared to ambush the approaching Timucua invaders.
Like many other tribes of the southeast, the Timucua were a Muskogee speaking people. They fought wars against, and held alliances with, the tribes to the north, west and south of them, but a balance of power had long been achieved and borders remained fixed. This changed with the arrival of the Spanish along the Floridas in the middle of the sixteenth century. The Timucua received the brunt of the invasion. Their numbers quickly decimated by disease and superior technology, some Timucua village leaders submitted to the invaders, reluctantly embracing the cross and servitude in the plantations; others fought back and were driven off; still others made a pact, allying themselves with the powerful invaders, thus ensuring their own survival. This group fell in the last category.
When all his men were well hidden behind the bushes and ferns, Calling Crow signaled them again. Eyes narrowed with determination and righteous indignation, they drew back their arrows and waited. Soon the gentle rustle of the invaders’ footsteps could be heard and a file of grim-faced, top knotted Timucua braves appeared coming down the trail. The man in the lead held his bow at the ready as his eyes rapidly swept the trees and bushes for signs. The brave behind him carried one of the long, iron muskets the Spanish called harquebuses tightly to his chest.
Calling Crow let the enemy braves advance until he was able to determine their numbers. He squeezed the medicine pouch hanging from his belt and said a quick, silent prayer to guide the arrows of his warriors. Then he gave the signal to attack, a turkey call. His men stood suddenly and released their arrows. The lead Timucua brave fell to his knees, staring down in angry disbelief at the arrow piercing his chest. By the time he had fallen forward, the other Timucua, having sustained only minor wounds, had dropped out of sight.
There was very little sound as Calling Crow and his men moved stealthily about, seeking advantage. They rose quickly here and there, their arrows flitting through the hot, still air like angry insects. As Calling Crow peered through the thick foliage, he thought it strange that the Timucua were fighting so poorly. Most of their arrows were hastily and wildly shot, and it almost seemed as if they didn’t want to hurt Calling Crow and his men. The harquebus boomed suddenly and deafeningly, distracting Calling Crow’s thoughts.
Calling Crow and some of his men had seen or heard the Spanish harquebus on at least one occasion, and so its awful voice did not frighten them. The puff of smoke from the fired gun oozed through the bushes, giving away the location of the shooter. Immediately, several arrows cut through the leaves and he collapsed with a crash of branches. The remaining men continued their maneuvering and shooting.
The fear that the harquebus could inflict on Indians who had no experience of it was not the sole reason the Timucua brave had been carrying it. The explosive report of the gun traveled far under the canopy of forest, farther than would the shouts and cries of fighting men. Upon hearing it, another, much larger group of Timucua who had been lying in wait all night got to their feet. They began a well-practiced flanking movement, quietly closing in on Calling Crow and his men.
“Red Feather,” Calling Crow called to
his most loyal supporter, “how many have we killed?”
Red Feather stood motionless next to a tree across the trail, disdainfully exposing himself to the enemy. “Just the lead brave and the thunderstick shooter.” Red Feather was no longer the young, tentative boy who had first welcomed Calling Crow into the Coosa tribe. Now he was a man with high, stern cheekbones, brave eyes, and a strong, confident voice. Because of Red Feather’s loyalty and bravery, Calling Crow had made him his tastanagi, his right-hand man in all things concerning war and the security of the people.
The voice of the fierce young brave named Crying Wolf cut through the stillness. “These cowards hardly raise their heads.”
“They’re not cowards,” said Calling Crow in warning. “Something is not right.”
“What is it?” It was Swordbrought, from somewhere behind Calling Crow.
Calling Crow turned and looked into the fearless eyes of his young son. Before he could answer, an angry scream cut through the sounds of their battle. He and his men turned as thirty or so Timucua braves rushed out at them from between the trees. Many of the Timucua carried what looked to Calling Crow like bundles of coarse cord.
“Red Feather, Swordbrought,” shouted Calling Crow, suspecting the worst, “you and the others, break and run!”
Then the Timucua were upon them, heaving their cord bundles. Calling Crow rose and drew back his bow as a cord bundle blossomed in midair into a large, coarse net. The net fell about him, deflecting his arrow. He dropped his bow as he struggled with the entangling cords of the net. A moment later several Timucua smashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Blows struck him and he heard a strangely accented voice cautioning the Timucua braves not to hurt the captives too badly. Calling Crow’s arms were bound behind him and he was yanked to a sitting position. He looked about and saw that two of his men, Half Knife and the young brave, Crying Wolf, had been captured. Half Knife was lying prostrate, his wrists bound behind him, but Crying Wolf was still fighting with the two braves who were attempting to tie him up. Calling Crow saw that his son Swordbrought, Red Feather and the others had evidently escaped.
