It occurred to him that she had never answered the question he asked earlier. “Well, how is he?”
“Not well,” she said. “I am afraid things do not look good at all.”
“Did he do well with the move between the Gypsy and here, or do you think it may have worsened his condition?”
Isabel shook her head. “I do not know. I did not see him before he left your ship. I know only that he does not look well to me. He does not stop going in and out of”—she mumbled to herself in frustration—“I do not know how you say it . . . When you are conscious. Conocimiento.”
“Consciousness?” Adam offered.
“Yes, that is the word.”
Of course he doesn’t look well. Dr. Santos said not to move him.
Adam didn’t say what he was thinking. Instead, he said, “Ma’am . . .” He caught himself. He didn’t feel comfortable yet calling her a word that meant grandmother. “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me? I mean, was there a reason you had those men bring me here tonight? Or did you just want to let me know you believe me—that I’m . . . well . . . your grandson?”
“I thought you might wish to see him,” she said. “And since he is so very poorly, I did not think that I should wait until the morning.”
“Now?” he asked, unsure of whether he should get up and leave the room right then, or even if he did, how to get to the room where his father was resting.
Isabel stood and said, “Yes, now. Come with me.”
ADAM FOLLOWED ISABEL OUT OF the little chapel and up the stairs. The huge house was eerie at this hour. There were no servants up and working, no noise whatsoever.
Most of the place was in complete darkness, except for the areas illuminated by lanterns. One such area was the mahogany staircase. Once they reached the top of the stairs, Adam was not surprised when Isabel led him down a hallway to the left. Two rooms at the end of that corridor were illuminated, whereas the hallway that went to the right was pitch dark. Adam was soon able to see that one room looked like it was a guest bedroom that had been set up as a closet for the family physician’s medical kit. The room just beyond that one on the left had an entryway that was catty-cornered, with only a thin strip of pale light coming from beneath the heavy wooden door.
Isabel opened the door and led Adam inside. There lay Santiago in an impressive mahogany bed that was covered by a gauzy canopy which went from the ceiling down to the floor. The double doors that led out to the balcony overlooking the sea were wide open, and a gentle breeze was blowing through. Adam couldn’t help but be impressed, since he had never grown up with such a luxury. If he wanted to sleep with the windows open in warm weather, he had to contend with whatever biting insects came into the room.
There was a single sconce flickering with a tiny flame on the wall just inside the room. In spite of that being the only lamp that was lit, the room was still bright, because of the cool light of the waxing moon shining through the open window.
Although Santiago was silhouetted by the canopy, as Adam stepped forward, he could see that his father’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Santiago was taking quick, shallow breaths as he slept. Adam didn’t know what that meant medically, but it looked worrisome. He glanced at Isabel standing there beside him, as though she might be able to offer some explanation of her son’s shallow breathing, but she just shook her head. Her eyes began to well with tears.
Instinctively, Adam put his arm around her. At five foot nine, he wasn’t especially tall, but Isabel was still nearly eight inches shorter than him.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and wept, then dabbed her face with her handkerchief. “You be here with him now. There is no way to know if he will get better or how long he will be here with us.”
Adam squeezed her shoulder, and then they looked at each other with a solemn understanding of the situation. Isabel excused herself from the room.
Adam sat down in a chair that was next to the bed. He imagined that Isabel was probably sitting there earlier when they first brought Santiago back to the estate. He was struck by the thought that when his father had left home the previous day to help Martin and Charlie find him, the man had no idea his rescue efforts were for his own son. And Santiago certainly would’ve never thought that it might be his last day to effortlessly move around and enjoy the beautiful grounds of the family’s estate. Now he was striving against death itself as the effects of his injury attempted to extinguish whatever light of life remained within him.
Adam couldn’t stop thinking about what Santiago had told him earlier—that he didn’t want his son to watch him die. He pushed that thought out of his mind in an effort to mentally deny the fact that his father could be that close to death. Instead, he turned his thoughts to his mother. He wondered what she would think seeing her long-lost husband lying there in that condition. Would it break her heart? Or would she not care, since he left so many years ago and they had been apart for such a long time?
Nah, he thought. My mama’s a sensitive woman. She’d be in tears and worried sick to see him like this.
Finally, Adam’s thoughts drifted back to his father. What would my life have been like if he never had to leave? I reckon it would’ve been so different.
He wondered what his mother would do if she were there. When he saw a basin of water on the dresser next to his bed and a stack of folded rags beside it, he knew. He grabbed one and dipped it in the water and used it to dab his father’s forehead. His mother had always done that to him when he had a fever. Knowing it would likely have little effect, he leaned across the bed and dropped his head down onto his arm next to his father and sobbed quietly.
When a hand began to touch the top of his head, he was startled. He raised himself up and realized his father was awake.
“Mijo . . .” he said. “Am I dreaming? Or are you here.”
Adam quickly dried his eyes and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. I am here. I wanted to know how you were doing.”
Santiago’s eyes fluttered from open to closed. He looked like he was fighting hard to keep himself awake. “I am still alive but cannot say much more than that.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Adam. “Thank God for it. You need to get better fast. We have a lot to talk about. There are so many things I want to ask you.”
Santiago gave Adam a weak smile, then coughed. He looked like he was struggling to catch his breath.
Adam wondered if he should try to help him sit up. Lying there on his back for so long was probably causing congestion to pool in his lungs, and that might cause pneumonia. He tried to reach one hand under Santiago’s right shoulder to help elevate him. His father didn’t understand what he was trying to do at first and felt terrible pain in his left arm and shoulder from his injury.
“I’m trying to lift your head up a little,” Adam explained. “You’ll be even worse off if your lungs start filling up with congestion.”
Santiago gently closed his eyes in understanding. It appeared as though he found it too difficult to nod. He did try to lift himself a bit so that Adam could pull another pillow under his head and back. When he leaned over to help his father, he could feel heat radiating from his injured arm, but he didn’t know if he should say anything to him or just wait and tell the doctor. He knew enough to recognize that meant an infection was setting in.
As soon as Santiago was more comfortably settled, he coughed strongly a few times, so much so that the sound of it worried Adam. He reached for another of the cloths on the bedside table and handed it to his father, who promptly used it to cover his mouth as he coughed up phlegm.
“I cannot understand why I am in this terrible state from just a gunshot wound to my arm,” observed Santiago.
“I’m not sure,” said Adam, “but if you have an infection starting, like the surgeon said, that could be making you feel bad all over.”
“You have taken good care of me today, mijo.”
Adam forced a smile
. “Of course. Well, I’ve tried.” He took a moment to observe his father in his weakened state, then said, “It makes me so angry that this only happened because you were trying to rescue me. Not angry at you, of course, but at the situation. It makes me even angrier that Eduardo is the one to blame for keeping us apart all of these years.”
“I understand.” Santiago couldn’t say much, but he looked like he was mustering every bit of strength he had to be able to talk to his son.
Adam was about to say something when Santiago spoke again. “You know, your mother . . .”
Adam wrinkled his brow, unsure of what his father would say. “Yes?”
“I want you to know I loved her with all my heart. I always . . .” He started coughing horribly again.
Adam grabbed the pitcher of water that was next to the basin on the dresser and poured some in a cup that was sitting next to it, and he gave it to his father.
After he had a sip, Santiago began to speak again. “I always hoped that maybe someday I would find a way to come back, but as the years went on, my uncle was still living, and I still did not trust him. And his banda seemed to always be growing more.”
“I understand,” said Adam. “But I have a question.”
“What is it, mijo?”
“Do you think he’ll keep coming after me now that he knows who I am?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you think I should do?” Adam’s question was rhetorical. He knew his father barely had the strength to string a few words together, much less answer a question like that.
Nevertheless, Santiago pointed to a wardrobe on the far side of the room. “In there,” he said.
Adam looked over and noticed the imposing piece of furniture. “You need something from there?”
Santiago nodded. “Yes, open it.”
Adam crossed the room and pulled the heavy brass hoops that opened the doors. On the right there was a closet for hanging clothes, and on the left were several small drawers. He looked back at his father. “Now what?”
Santiago pointed to the left, indicating the drawers. “Third one” was all he said.
Adam opened the third drawer, but its contents were unremarkable—a large variety of men’s stockings. He was surprised only because he’d never seen so many before outside of the general store back in Beaufort.
“Are your feet cold?” he asked his father.
Santiago tried to lift up his right arm to point downward. Adam took that to mean he should look in the drawer below. He opened that one, but it was only full of belt buckles and shoe buckles.
“No!” Santiago said. “Third drawer, beneath the socks.”
Adam closed the fourth drawer and reopened the third one. He moved the socks aside but still didn’t see anything.
“There’s nothing here,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want me to find here.”
“Open it,” said Santiago. “The drawer bottom.”
Adam understood now. There had to be a secret compartment in the drawer. He felt around beneath the socks for any kind of latch or opening, but he wasn’t able to feel anything but a solid piece of wood. He pulled a bunch of the socks out of the drawer and placed them in the right-hand side of the wardrobe, beneath the hanging clothes, then stood off to the side a bit so the moonlight could illuminate the inside of the drawer. Still no use.
“Use this,” said Santiago, pointing to an unlit lantern on his bedside table.
Adam went over and grabbed the lantern and opened it, then spotted an ember bowl nearby on the dresser and used one of the tongs to pick up an ember and light the wick. He carried it over to the wardrobe and held the light over the drawer. He was finally able to see how it worked. There was a tiny pin on each side of the drawer that was holding the bottom in place. After he pulled each of them back, the bottom panel sprung up about an inch, just enough for Adam to be able to lift it out.
There were papers inside the drawer, including various envelopes.
“Take them,” said Santiago.
Adam grabbed the stack of papers and brought them over to his father.
Santiago shook his head. “No, do not give them to me. You take them.”
Adam wrinkled his brow. “What for?”
“My testamento—my will—is there, and letters from your mother.” He smiled. “You will have to ask her if she still has the ones I sent to her.”
Adam raised his eyebrows in surprise. He looked at the papers again, shocked at the idea of holding documents of such great importance and sentiment in his hands. Then something occurred to him. “It looks like most of the documents here are in Spanish. I can’t read Spanish.”
“Take them to Tomás. He can help you understand what is there.”
Adam gave him a quizzical smile. “Thomas Drake? Even the letters from my mother?”
Santiago returned his grin. “You will be able to read those yourself. Those are in English.”
“But you said your will is here. I don’t think I should take this with me.”
Santiago said, “You must. You are in mentioned in there, and I think it can solve your problem with Eduardo.”
“I’m mentioned? But you didn’t even know who I was until yesterday.”
“I knew when I left Port Beaufort that my wife, your mother, was carrying my child, and that is written in the document. You are not named in the document, but she is, and you are our son.”
Adam looked down at the bundle of papers in his hand. He thought he knew which document was the will. He recognized the word testamento. If his father was sending that document with him, he must expect that he was not going to survive.
“Why would I take your will? You’re going to make it through this. You’re going to get better. You’re strong, I know it.”
Santiago shook his head. “Whether I do or not, just make sure my uncle knows about that document. Drake can help you find him.”
Adam folded the will and stuck it in his pocket. The letters he bundled back up with a cord and placed on the dresser beside him. He sat back down in the chair next to the bed.
Santiago’s eyelids were becoming heavy again.
“Don’t go to sleep,” said Adam. “Stay awake and we can talk. Or I’ll talk—you can just listen.”
His father was slow to respond, but he gave a nod and a weak smile. “Alright, mijo. I listen to you, but do not forget, I want you to leave here before I—”
“Stop talking like that! You keep talking like you’re about to die or something. Don’t do that!”
Adam could see that Santiago wanted to chuckle, but he could barely hold his eyes open. His chest went up almost as though he was trying to chuckle. “I just do not want you to see me . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Don’t! Don’t do that! What were you going to say?” Adam frantically tugged at his father’s arm, trying to stir him to speak again. He was breathing, but it was almost as if he’d had a very limited supply of energy, and he’d just used it all up to have that brief conversation with his son.
Santiago’s eyes weren’t even open, but he was able to get out just a few more words: “I am so proud of you, my . . .” He drifted off to sleep again, and this time Adam could not stir him to wake.
He bowed his head on the mattress and prayed in a quiet voice, “God, why would you do this? Why would you bring me all the way here and then let all these terrible things happen? And now you’re going to take my father? It’s not fair! This is so wrong!” He continued in a diatribe against the Almighty, until he fell asleep with his head on his father’s mattress.
After an hour or so, he looked up again, and his father was still sleeping, still drenched in sweat, and still breathing shallow. He thought about the things his father had said and how he didn’t want Adam to watch him die, so he decided that first thing in the morning he had to find Drake.
He looked on the dresser and saw the bundle of letters. He grabbed them and stu
ffed them in his waistband under his shirt. Then he leaned over and smoothed back his father’s hair off of his forehead and planted a kiss there. “God save you,” he said, and then he turned and crept out of the room, down the hall, and out of the house.
Chapter Twenty
IT WAS STILL DARK OUTSIDE in spite of the brightness of the moon. Adam wanted to be sure and leave before Isabel or the rest of the household was awake.
Soon he made his way down the lane and out of the gate to the street. It was a long walk back to the Gypsy, but at least it had finally stopped raining. Adam knew as soon as he got there he’d do one of two things: either he’d start reading those letters that his mother had written to his father, or he’d fall fast asleep. It made little difference to him, as long as he knew he could get a decent night’s rest in his berth until morning.
It seemed to take forever, but as he finally approached the wharf, he was struck by a great deal of commotion down near the warehouse where the Gypsy was moored. The nearer he got, the more concerned he became.
That chaos seemed to be coming from his own ship. His slow and tired walk soon became a fast jog. There were men he recognized as shipmates coming up and down the ramp, and it appeared there were also some local men—or at least men he didn’t recognize—also milling around by the bottom of the ramp of the Gypsy.
“What’s happening here?” Adam asked the unfamiliar men.
They shrugged and said something to him in Spanish about el capitán.
As Adam made his way through the chaos up the ramp, he spotted Canady. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“Some men came on board—I think from that group y’all met at that compound—and they nearly killed Ricky Jones.”
Adam’s eyes grew enormous. “What?” he said. “When did this—?”
“He and Smith are with the captain now. Go on up and see him.”
“Good Lord!” Adam exclaimed. He was about to continue up the ramp when it dawned on him that Canady appeared to be leaving the ship. “Where are you going?”
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