“Who am I, you ask? Just a poor sailorman who’s been ashore these past months, dodging redskins an’ keeping a weather eye out for a ship, any kind of ship to take me back where there’s Christian folk.”
“What about those people?”
“A bad lot! A mighty bad lot, if you’ll be takin’ my word for it.”
Had he seen my boat? If he had not, I was wishful that he would not, yet such a one as this might easily stumble upon it where a larger party would have small chance of doing so.
“You’ve been down to their camp?”
“That I have not, nor shall I, for they’re a bad lot, as I’ve said. They’re folk to fight shy of.”
As briefly as possible, I explained how I came to be here, and what my intentions were—as far as I knew them. “Aye,” I said at the last. “It is a ship I want, too, and a means to get back to England. But there’s a girl yonder that worries me. I think she is in trouble.”
“Hah! It’s the youth in you speaking! In trouble, is she? I’ll warrant if she’s not she will be. Trouble goes with women, walks hand in hand with them, and he who goes among them shall expect nothing else.”
“I believe she’d like to be free of them,” I said, irritated.
“Did she tell you that? Is it her husband she’d be free of? Well, I’m not surprised. The trouble with women is they’re always looking over the fence where the grass is greener.”
“She would not be looking at me then,” I replied, “for I’ve nothing more than what you see. I’d put by a bit, and made a venture with theGood Catherine, and it is lost to me … gone.”
“Aye, y’ll see nothing more of that cargo. The good captain of theGood Catherine will add your portion to his and grow the fatter for it.”
He glanced at me shrewdly. “The girl is it? The Injun girl or that proud and devil-be-damned Spanish lass?”
“It is the Senorita Guadalupe Romana,” I said, with what I hoped was dignity. “She is a lady, and a lovely one.”
“Oh, I doubt it not! Them’s the worst kind! She’ll invite you to come forward in every way a woman has, then scream if you put a hand on her! I know the kind.”
“You do not know her,” I replied stubbornly, “but we’ll get nothing done standing here. Go you about whatever it is you do. I am going to see if that girl needs assistance.”
“Now what would I have to do in this godforsaken place besides saving my skin? What, I ask? You’ll not be rid of me so easy as that. I think you’ve a means to a ship, so I’ll stand hard by. And I’ll listen t’ your troubles, I’ll share whatever it is you eat, I’ll drink at your wake, but I’ll have nothing to do with your fancy women!”
He turned his head, looking for all the world like a big bird, and then shook his open hand at me. “Don’t get me wrong! I like a woman as well as the next man. But find them, have your hour with them, an’ leave them, that’s what I say! If they speak of love, put your hand on your poke and keep it there. If they start worrying about you catching cold or not eating right or drinking too much, catch the first vessel out of port. Believe me, when it comes to women, I know them! Oh, do I know them!”
My gesture indicated his sword. “Can you use that thing? Or is it just hung there for show?”
“Show, is it? Aye, I can use it! Well enough, I can use it! I’ve fought my battles by sea and land and used every sort of weapon, and I am alive to see this day. I’ve been a rich man twice, left for dead once, twice a slave, and many times a prisoner. I know when to fight and when to run—and run I will if the time is not right or the numbers too great.” He glanced at me. “Don’t look for me to be a hero. That I am not. I will fight as long as it looks like winning and if there’s a bit to be had, I’ll fight the harder, and longer, too!”
“Do you have a name then? I’ve told you mine.”
“Captain Tatton Chantry, he says. Now there’s a name! It has a sound to it, all right. Well, mine does too, for I’m known as Silliman Turley.”
“All right, Turley, come along with me if you wish, but if trouble comes, you stand to that sword or I’ll have no part of you.”
“Well now!Captain, he says, and captain he acts! So be it. You lead and I will follow and you’ll not find me lacking. But if you fail me, I’ll be off, and you can lay to that.”
My attention had been on the camp as we talked. We were some distance off, and had kept our voices low, but I didn’t want them to know we were about until I had some idea of what was happening.
It was clear enough what my intentions should now be: to find a ship, or some way in which to return to England and open proceedings that would establish my claim to some of the profit from the voyage of theGood Catherine.
A thought occurred to me. “Turley, how long have you been here?”
He shrugged. “Two years … I think. A man loses count of time when the days are alike and he has no need to be anywhere at a certain moment. It was a late summer when I came ashore, and there was a winter, then another winter.”
“No trouble with Indians?”
“Aye … with some of them. Mostly I keep shy of them.” He pointed. “I’ve a place in the swamp … deep inside.”
Moving with infinite care, we edged closer to the camp. Turley was like a ghost in the woods. His body seemed to glide between leaves and branches, or under them, stirring scarcely a leaf in the passing. I was more clumsy, yet watching him, I learned to do better. Soon he paused, lifting a hand.
There were voices, a faint smell of smoke. First, I saw Armand and Felipe. They stood together, off to one side.
Don Diego and Guadalupe Romana stood together; Don Manuel sat on a log not far from them. A large man was facing them, a huge, enormously fat man but one who moved with that curious ability some fat men seem to possess.
“Do not repeat to me this fiction, this romance! I do not believe in your mysterious Englishman! I think he is a lie, but no matter! Tell me this only: where is theSan Juan de Dios?”
“I repeat,” Don Diego replied, with dignity, “the galleon was sinking. Don Manuel acted quickly, getting us into the boat and away. Without him we all might have been lost.”
“Ah, yes!Don Manuel! Very heroic, no doubt! But do you not ask yourselveswhy he hurried you? Was the vessel actually sinking? Was he saving your lives or merely getting you off the ship and away?”
“Of course, she was sinking!” Don Diego protested. “She was lying well over when we made the deck.”
“I acted to save them.” Don Manuel replied coolly. “As for theSan Juan de Dios, she undoubtedly lies on the bottom of the sea.”
“Hah!” The big man turned in such a way that I could see a part of his face. It was a bearded but brutal face, the face of a strong, ruthless man, but an intelligent one—or such was my immediate estimate. “Very neat! Very tidy, indeed! And does the distinguished Don Diego know that your own vessel, theSantiago, is soon to sail up this coast?”
“Is that true?” Don Diego spoke in a lower voice and we could scarcely hear the words.
Don Manuel shrugged. “But of course! It was to sail to Florida, then to come along up the coast to spy out the presence of any French settlements. Or any English settlements, for that matter, for our people in England tell us that Sir Walter Raleigh is planning some such venture. It is a service to the King.”
“And you?” The big man spoke with sarcasm. “Were not you to be here to meet your vessel?”
“I would have been in Spain,” Don Manuel replied. “I took passage on theSan Juan de Dios expecting it would take me to Spain.”
“But you are not in Spain, Don Manuel,” the big man said, “you are here, a galleon loaded with gold is near here, and your rescue ship is coming. How very convenient, Don Manuel!”
For a moment there was silence in the camp, then the large man turned abruptly away from the dons and gestured to two armed men who stood nearby. “They are not to leave camp. They will be guarded every minute, and if either escapes—”
The guar
ds obviously understood the uncompleted sentence. Ignoring Guadalupe, the fat man strode across the camp to confront Armand and Felipe. “This Englishman … you spoke with him?”
“We did.”
“Who was he? What was he?”
“A man cast away. He had come ashore for water. His party was attacked and he was abandoned when the others fled.”
“Ah, yes. So he said.” He paused, as if thinking. “This captain … what sort of man was he?”
“A gentleman, and unless I mistake not, a swordsman.”
“You mean he was a man who carried a sword?” The big man’s tone was contemptuous.
“I mean aswordsman. He had the movements and the manner, the style, if I might say so.”
“Ah? You speak as one who knows. Do you?”
“I do. I worked in the armory at Toledo. I was a maker of swords, and I have observed many swordsmen. I have seen the best.”
“A swordsman. All right, I accept it. And a captain, too? A captain of what?”
“I do not know.”
“What has become of him?”
“He went for a walk along the shore. I believe he wished to see if any ships were about. He did not come back.”
“Any ships? Or one particular galleon?”
“Who knows?”
“So he did not return. Did he join others hidden nearby, perhaps? Did he seem interested in the galleon?”
“No,” Armand lied. “He knew only that we had escaped from a sinking ship, nothing more.”
The large man turned sharply on Felipe. “Is that true?”
“I believe so. He seemed interested only in getting something to eat. He was hungry, I think.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I have been hungry, senor. I observed his attention to the fire where the food was, and how he ate. He was hungry, senor, even though he claimed this land—” Felipe waved a hand, “—as his estate.”
The big man changed the subject. “TheSan Juan de Dios … where is she now?”
“I do not know. We were ordered to the boats. When I looked back … she was down in the water. But where or when she sank, who knows?”
The large man, whoever he was, seemed to know what he was about. That worried me. He was no man to trifle with, and it was obvious his sources of information were excellent. Yet where washis ship? If ship he had.
Now he was giving orders to several men and they were moving out.
“We’d better get shy of this place,” Tufley whispered, “they’re comin’ for a look around, I’m thinking.”
We moved back, taking our time and trying to make no sound or movement. From the slight rise from which we had first viewed the camp, I glanced back.
The original Spaniards were all there, but there were a number of other men moving about. There must now be at least twenty in all.
There was something disturbing about the large man, something that made me feel that I’d seen him before. Another strange man, a man lying on the ground with his back to us, had also seemed familiar.
Suddenly we heard the big man speak again. His voice was loud. “No man or woman is to leave this camp but by my order. Do you understand that? He or she who tries to leave will die, and I do not exaggerate. I don’t carethat,” he snapped his fingers, “for any of you.”
Don Diego replied, his voice strong and clear. “Senor, if harm comes to anyone here, I will see that you hang for it, and your comrades will hang beside you!” He paused then and said, “Do you remember who I am, senor?”
The large man bowed with a sweep of his hat. “Who does not, Don Diego? But let me remind you that the seas are wide and a man with a ship can go where he will. And I shall go where not even you can follow, and where the might of Spain is less than a whisper in the night. I will do what I please, Don Diego, and when it pleases me to do so I shall slit your noble gullet with my own hand, and feed what remains to the fish.
“Do you understand me, Don Diego? You are nothing here …nothing! I have the power now, and I alone!”
We moved away, rinding our way back to a cedar-clad knoll where the waters of the sound could be seen, and much of the area around.
There was now no sign of theSan Juan de Dios.
Had she sunk, at last? Or found some other place to rest until another tide floated her free? Search as I might, I could see nothing of her.
We went down off the knoll and into a deeper thicket of cedar. There we found a place where the earth had been hollowed, perhaps by some bear, long ago, at the base of a cedar, but close against the trunk where it was covered by thick branches. There was room for two there, and we took shelter. From the packet inside my shirt I took some ship’s biscuit and shared it with Turley.
Night was shading down and we settled ourselves for sleep. Turley, with the ease of his years in the woods, was soon asleep, but I lay long awake, disturbed by memories of my youth. Why they had suddenly come upon me now, I could not guess, but lying back and looking up at the cedar, enjoying the pleasant smell of the crushed needles, my mind strayed back to my boyhood.
My father had been a bookish man, quiet in manner and gentle of voice. He loved to walk the lonely beaches as I did, and to climb among the rocks. Often when resting he told me stories of the Milesians who had come to Ireland from Spain, long, long ago, and how the Irish were then called Scots from a Milesian queen named Scota. She had been a daughter of Pharoah, ruler of Egypt. He told me tales of Conn of the Hundred Battles and of the old kings who ruled from Tara, and of the Druids who had been their teachers and advisers.
He told me the story of how the Danes had settled Dublin. In Gaelic it wasDubh-Linn, or the Black Pond.
One morning he took up his stick and said, “Come, lad, I’ve a thing to show you,” and he took me out along the shore and up among the rocks to a high place where the ground was suddenly flat, rimmed all around with the ruins of an ancient wall.
“It was a castle once,” he said, “a fortress of a sort. It commanded,” he pointed the path, “a way up from the sea, yet it was a rare raider who came this way. Most often they came from the east coast and attacked the people who lived there. Only now are we in grave danger here.”
“We are?”
“You bear an old name, my son, as do I. Our name is a symbol, and so it has been for many, many years. Yes, one day they will come. Somehow we must get you safely away.”
“I want to stay with you. I can fight.” I said this with more hope than honesty, for although I had learned to ride and to shoot, to fence and to duel with the quarterstaff, I had never fought except with my fists against the village boys.
“No … you must not fight. You must escape, and then one day you will come back here and claim what is truly yours.
“The name must continue to live, even though it must live in hiding. This castle,” he gestured about him, “was built of huge timbers once. Twice it was destroyed, and then it was built of stone. Again it was destroyed and again rebuilt. The last time it lay as you now see it, but if the stones are down and the walls are gone,we still live. You must come back here, my son. Someday you must come back.”
A few short years later, he was dead, killed by the invader, and I was a fugitive, hunted through all the countries of Ireland.
My mother’s people were of theTuatha De Danann, who ruled Ireland before the coming of the Milesians, a wise and strong people, noted for their arts and knowledge. So my people were doubly old in the land, and my name was known throughout Ireland.
Hard had been the years of my flight! Hard the very days after I landed in England! The village folk stared at me as I walked through, and the dogs barked and ran snapping at my heels, but frightened though I was I did not turn, but walked on through the village and away into the land.
That night I slept in a corner of a stone wall, and in the morning started on. The bit of food I’d brought from the boat lasted me through the day. Twice I turned down lonely lanes and then reached a muddy road and passed an inn.
I’d a bit of money and my belly demanded attention, yet I hesitated for fear of stirring curiosity at a lad going his way alone.
Most inns would not wish my custom. Yet my hunger was such that I turned from the road and went up to the door.
It was an impressive place, with timbered galleries, a courtyard, and stables. I went into the common room, glancing into the kitchen as I passed the door. It seemed to glitter with copper kettles, brass candlesticks, and a row of pothooks at the wide fireplace.
There were evidently few travelers on the road, for there were but four men within the common room, one of them a stout, older man with gray hair who shot me a quick, appraising look out of kindly blue eyes. A pair of men who might be locals were sharing a bench and drinking to each other from the same tankard, as the custom was. The fourth man was slim and handsome, a man with prematurely white hair and lean features that might have been carved from marble, so white they were, and so expressionless save for the eyes. The eyes were very large and almost black.
He had glanced up when I came in, then paid me no attention.
I had slept in my clothes and they were rumpled. I must not have looked well, for the tavern keeper, a burly, brusque sort of man, came forward. “All right! We’ll have no—!”
Young I might be, but I’d not been born to a castle for nothing. “Ale,” I replied coolly, standing my ground, “and a bit of bread and cheese. If you have a slice or two of beef, so much the better.”
I pointed toward an empty table near the stout old man. “I’ll have it there,” I said and, ignoring him, I walked over and seated myself.
He hesitated, taken aback by my manner, so unlike a lad from the lanes or the farms. He started to speak. “I have little time,” I told him. “I am expected.”
He left the room and a maid came quickly throwing me a curious glance. She hit the table a swipe with a cloth and then put down a tankard of ale. “A moment, sir, and we’ll be having the rest.” Then under her breath she whispered, “If you’ve naught to pay with, better run now. He’s a fierce hard man!”
Placing a gold coin on the table, I heard her gasp. In a moment the tavern keeper was there and he reached for the coin. “Leave it,” I said. “When I’ve eaten you can take of it what is necessary.”
Fair Blows the Wind (1978) Page 5
