“Very well. In the morning, then.”
Darkness had come, and their fire burned just as bright as before. No sentries had been put out. I accepted the food Conchita, the Indian girl, brought to me, and I ate alone in silence.
It was just as well, for I had much thinking to do. They had come ashore on a galleon. That galleon was still afloat when they left her, and it might not have sunk. Such vessels often carried treasure, and certainly a marketable cargo.
It was sinking, they said. But had it actually sunk? Nobody had seen it go down, and even so, how deep would the water be?
I had seen no ship off shore, so it might be in the waters that lay behind this long island on which we were … orbelieved we were.
I, Tatton Chantry, a young man of family but no fortune, nor of any position now that all was lost in Ireland, I might have access to a fortune greater than any my family had known in these last hundred years or more.
Perhaps a galleon loaded with silver and gold from the mines of Peru? For long had I dreamed of such a thing, of finding my pot of gold at the foot of my own rainbow.
This could be it!
My knowledge was of armies and cities, although more than a few times I had sailed upon the seas. A man who has nothing must follow chance wherever it takes him. Although I loved the far places of the world, my wanderings were dictated more by the circumstances of employment than choice.
At least I knew enough to gather leaves and make a bed of sorts. I chose a place alone, well back from the fire and under the edge of brush that would serve both a windbreak and hiding place. Watching the others, it seemed the only ones who had any conception of how to prepare for a night in the wilderness were Guadalupe, Armand, the Basque, and the strange captain whose name I had not heard.
My thoughts returned to the boat, yet there was little to think of there. The splintered portion could be replaced by a slab of thick bark, easily obtainable and easily fitted.
The ship, their ship, held my thoughts. I tried to visualize how she might look and where she might have drifted, if she had not actually sunk. Above all I must give them no inkling of what I was thinking … even planning—if all proceeded as I believed it might.
Before the day broke I was up, pulling on my boots and brushing my clothing free of leaves. Then away I went to the inland shore.
Here the trees grew down almost to the water. The channel inside the islands, if such it could be called, appeared to be shallow. It was also narrow. There was no sign of a ship.
Hounding a small point by climbing over drift-logs, I startled a great flock of egrets and herons, thousands of them who flew with a great flapping of wings sounding much like applause from a vast theater. As they flew away, their wings caught the pink and rose of the rising sun. I stood a moment, in awe of their beauty against the morning sky.
Changes in the color of the water led me to believe there was a deeper passage leading westward into the land, or nearer to it.
A thought came to me that I had stupidly overlooked. What had become of the rest of the crew of the ship? Were they by chance still aboard? Had they taken another boat and gone elsewhere? Or were they still about? What had really happened aboard the ship? Had it simply started taking water? Or had there been a mutiny? The master of the vessel was not among them, so where was he?
I didn’t like the situation. I must speak with Armand. I paused, scowling, and studied the movement of the water. The deeper channel was there, I was sure, and the tide might have taken the vessel deeper into the channel, beaching it somewhere on a bank or shore if it had not sunk.
Nearby was a mound, low and long. Kicking a boot toe into it, I exposed a thick mass of seashells. Obviously, savages had long lived here, taking their living from the sea. We ourselves might profit from their experience, for the great number of sea birds could only be attracted by great numbers of fish.
From the sand I picked a broken arrowhead, beautifully made by chipping away flakes of stone. It reminded me again that I must have a bow.
After glancing all about, I sat down on the shell mound. Nearby, there was an old log that had sloughed off some great sheets of bark. They might be too brittle for my purpose. It would be better to peel fresh bark from a standing tree, but I would take this, just in case.
I walked over and picked up the bark, and came upon several other arrowheads. These were intact, and I pocketed them for future use. As I straightened up with a sheet of bark in my hands, I saw her.
Rather, I saw a bit of the poop beyond a wall of leaves. Squatting on my heels, I looked again. Only from that position could I see the vessel.
It was time I returned to the boat, where they would be expecting me to be, and then to the camping area, where I might find food.
All was still at the boat. Placing my bark on the ground, I looked about, measuring the trees for a better selection of bark. Nearby was another and more recently fallen tree that looked better than what I had, but the bark I’d brought back would prove a convenient excuse for my absence if one was needed.
I found a small canvas-wrapped bundle of tools in the sail locker and went to work. Trimming off the end of the plank, with a hatchet I cut a strip of bark of the size needed. I made holes and with an awl stitched the bark into place with cords drawn through the holes. As I worked, I considered my situation.
Don Manuel disliked me, that was obvious enough. Don Diego had been polite, but no more. The third man, whose name was still unknown to me, was in no position to do more than register an opinion. I trusted none of them.
As for Guadalupe Romana, she was but a pawn in the game, and I had seen how quickly she showed submission when Don Manuel spoke. Was she genuinely obedient? Was even her fear genuine? Or was it part of a pretense she was carrying on?
With the job half-done I walked back to the fire. They were moving about, and Conchita was at the fire. She threw a quick glance my way and seemed friendly. I walked to the fire and extended my bands. “I shall soon have the boat fixed.” I spoke only for her ears. “Let Armand know.”
“Si.“She was squatting, Indian-fashion, at the fireside.“Cuidado!”
Be careful. Aye, I would that.
Don Manuel looked at us suspiciously, although he could have heard neither of us. He came to the fire.
“The boat is repaired?” His tone was brusque.
“Soon,” I said. “It will be makeshift, but it will serve if we are not pushed against rocks, and if we keep to quiet waters.”
He ignored me, paying no attention to my comments. Suddenly he asked, “You have experience of boats, Captain?”
“As a lad I fished in waters off our coast. They were often rough waters.”
“You could take us to Florida?”
“With God’s help. First it would be wise to see if there are people on the Savannah River. We might even find a ship there. There was a French fort, but I believe your people captured it.”
“Don Diego!” He had joined us. “I suggest what food we have be rationed. It must last us at least a week, perhaps two.”
He smiled at my ignorance. “You jest, Captain. We have food for a day, perhaps two.”
“But your packs! I have seen large packs—”
“Clothing, Captain. You would not expect us to dress like beggars? When we again appear before civilized people, they must understand who and what we are. We could not appear in poor costume, or clothes soiled by travel. It would be most unbecoming.”
For a moment I was speechless. “Don Diego,” I spoke carefully, “you must face reality. It cannot be much less thanfour hundred miles to Saint Augustine, although I do not know its exact location. Even the Savannah is far, and I am afraid you will be very hungry before you arrive …if you arrive.”
“You jest, Captain. I do not think it—”
“I do not jest, and the sooner you understand the situation the better. To the north of us there is nothing, although there are rumors that the English have tried a settlement there.
> “To the south of us … somewhere … are Spanish settlements. Between here and there are savages who have often been badly treated by the Spanish and who will not be friendly. This is an unknown coast with many shoals, few bays or coves. Trouble is everywhere.
“We can catch fish from the sea. We may even kill a deer, but only at the risk of attracting enemies.
“There is no one to help you, no one to save you, no miracle we can expect. You have no servant you can command to bring food, and nowhere to bring it from if there were. The clothing you so carefully brought with you is not even likely to clothe your bodies at burial, for the savages will take it.”
Don Diego’s face was stiff with shock, I suspect not so much at the facts I laid before him as my manner of speaking. In many ways these people were children, for always before there had been a servant or a slave to do their bidding, and no need for them to lift a hand. It was simply a fact: they disdained any sort of physical labor, and disdained those who did it.
Don Diego was not accustomed to having facts so cruelly thrust upon him. His dignity was offended.
He stood speechless. His lips worked with unframed words. Guadalupe seemed wryly amused.
“What had you planned to do?” I asked, at last.
“Planned? There could be no plan. The ship was sinking. We seized what we could and got into the boat. We did not think of food. Why, we …”
They simply had not thought, or believed it necessary.
“What happened to the others? To the sailing master? To the rest of the crew?”
“I do not know. There was another boat, I believe. I do not know what happened to it.”
“Well, my friends, you will now have decisions to make, work to do, and much hard travel. Whether you live or die will depend on you.”
“I think not, Captain,” Guadalupe said, sweetly. “It will depend onyou . After all, Captain, we have had someone to think for us and care for us because we have been able to pay. If we ask you to do this for us, what will we have to pay you?”
For a moment our eyes met. Slowly, I smiled. Her eyes widened and became wary. Perhaps she feared what I might say, but I merely bowed. “I will do what can be done, and all I ask is passage to Europe. If, that is, you want my assistance.”
“We can kill deer!” Don Manuel was contemptuous. “We are skilled at hunting.”
“At killing, you mean? I doubt not that most of your hunting was done on game preserves where beaters drive the game close to you to be killed. It will be different here.
“Here you must stalk your deer, get very close, and be sure of your shot. Then you must butcher the deer, clean it, and remove the cuts of meat you will need. You must also skin the deer, as the hide will be useful for making moccasins.”
“Moccasins!We have our boots!”
“How long will they last when you wade streams, struggle through swamps and bushes? And what of the women? Their slippers are suitable for ballrooms, but not for walking in the forest.”
Don Diego brushed aside my objections. “We have the boat, Captain, which you are so kindly repairing.”
“The boat?” I shrugged. “Much can happen in four hundred miles. This will not be like floating upon a lake. There will be times when we must get into the water and drag the boat through shallows or over sand. We do not know what lies before us.”
They simply stared, then turned away unable to grasp what had happened to them. The reality they faced was utterly grim, and they had no pattern of behavior with which to meet it.
What had become, I wondered, of the old breed? Of the Pizarros, of the Ponce, de Leons, the Balboas and the Alvarados? They were hard, fierce men, many of them survivors of the Moorish wars. Bloody men in a bloody time, but in their own way they had been ruthlessly efficient. Nothing had stopped them.
These people before me were the latecomers, the courtiers, the politicians, skilled at intrigue and the use of family and political connections, who had outwitted theconquistadores at court, robbing them of the fruits of their hard-won battles and taking the profits for themselves. But the lions had made the kill, and the vultures now ate the meat.
Ours was a time of radical change. The world was in ferment, yet so it must seem in any period of growth, for growth is ever accompanied by pain.
Men had crossed the sea and ventured into new lands, discovered new things, new peoples, new religions, new gods. Luther had led a break with the Church, and her vast domains had dwindled, and with it, something of her power. England, North Germany, and the Scandinavian countries had broken free and set up their own churches. Even the domains Spain claimed in the New World had been invaded by the French, English, and Dutch.
Yet there were many like Don Diego, no doubt a good man as such men went, who lifted no hand to do anything for themselves. He had been a competent governor of a small province, ruling by regulations already in force. He was a diplomat, a courtier, able enough in his own world, but helpless outside it. Like others of his kind, he despised physical labor and depended on work done by others. And now there were no others, only Armand and the soldiers—and to these Don Diego and the others had become a burden.
My years were but twenty-eight, yet seventeen of those years had been spent in bitter struggle to survive in a world of wealth and privilege, when I had neither. They did not like me, but for the time I was needed. Already I knew what a Spanish prison could be like, and I also knew that gratitude is rare, especially from such as these.
When Conchita brought me coffee and a sturdy piece of ship’s bread, I spoke for her ears only. “Armand is a good man, I think—one of the best.”
She gave me a quick smile and hurried away, but now there was understanding between us, a certain sympathy. I would need all the friends I could get.
I spoke to him. “Armand, tonight we must watch. You and I.”
“Felipe,” he said quietly, “is a strong one.”
Felipe was the youngest, not more than seventeen, I thought, but a strong-looking lad who seemed close to Armand. The others seemed a sullen, lazy lot.
Wearily, I went to my place away from the group and burrowed into the sand, using a strip of bark as protection from the wind.
My eyes closed. The wind stirred the leaves, and along the shore the waves rustled upon the sand. I thought of my home, and how the sea would rumble and growl among the worn black boulders, licking with hard tongues at the soft places among the rocks.
Tatton Chantry … a borrowed name belonging to a man long dead, a man from where? Who had he been, that first Tatton Chantry, that stranger who died?
I remembered him from my father’s time, remembered the night we had lifted him from the sea, a handsome young man, scarcely more than a lad.
Dead now … yet living in me, who bore his name. Had he family? Friends? Estates? Was he rich or poor? Brave or a coward? How had he come where we found him?
A mystery then, and a mystery still.
He had spoken to my father, yet what had he said beyond the name itself? Had he really said anything? I only know that my father leaned close as the pale lips struggled to speak.
He died there, in our house by the sea, and when desperately I needed a name other than my own, his had come to mind.
It was my name now, for better or worse. In all the years since, I had come upon no man who knew that name. Yet it haunted me then, and it haunts me still.
Armand awakened me with a light touch on the shoulder. My eyes opened on stars shining through the trees. It was clouding over, but here and there a star still shone through. Slowly, my mind cleared itself of the dream-stuff that lingered and brought me to reality.
I was on the shores of America, I was with a party of people who were not my friends, and the future was doubtful. If there was to be any future at all.
“All is quiet,” Armand whispered.
Felipe had taken the first watch, Armand the second. Now it was my turn. We had not involved the others as I trusted none of them.
; Armand and I walked together to the outer edge of camp, but he seemed reluctant to leave. He sat down near me where we could watch along the shore and around the camp.
He was silent, and I waited, knowing there was something he wanted to say.
“I think we have much trouble,” he said, at last. “These people, they understand nothing, yet there is much that is wrong here. I feel it.”
“You are a Basque, Armand. Were you a fisherman?”
“Sometimes … a herdsman, too. My family owned a boat, but we had sheep on the mountains near the sea. The sea troubled me. I kept wondering what was on the other side.”
“So it was with me. I, too, wondered.” I indicated the mainland. “I wonder what is there. Someday I shall know.”
We were silent, and then, choosing my words with care, I said, “Armand, I agree there is trouble here. There will be more trouble. We will be stronger if we know this, and if I know I can depend on you, and you on me.
“There are savages. I have seen them. We have far to travel, and to survive will be difficult. Also, there are Conchita and the Senorita Romana to consider. We must see that they are safe, always.”
“Bueno.”
“You are sleepy now?”
“No,Capitan, my mind is alive with thoughts.”
“Then do you watch a little longer. I wish to look about.”
The boat worried me. Now that it had been repaired after a fashion—although I intended to seal the seams even more carefully with resin—I feared somebody might come upon it. It represented our best chance to escape. Without it we should have to travel overland, a journey that would require weeks rather than days.
The boat lay undisturbed when I came to it, and I stood for a few minutes, listening. Once, I thought I caught a distant sound. Unwilling to return by the same trail, on which I might encounter enemies, I followed the creek to the shore, then swung around and started up the shore so that I might approach Armand from the sea and in plain sight. Several times I had to walk around formidable piles of driftwood, and to crawl over logs.
I paused to catch my breath, and looked out over the still water. I thought I heard voices, but the sounds whispered themselves away and left nothing.
Fair Blows the Wind (1978) Page 3
