“I acted to save them.” Don Manuel replied coolly. “As for the San 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, the Santiago, 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 the San 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!”
7
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 guards 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 a swordsman. 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, señor. I observed his attention to the fire where the food was, and how he ate. He was hungry, señor, even though he claimed this land—” Felipe waved a hand, “—as his estate.”
The big man changed the subject. “The San 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 was his 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 care that,” he snapped his fingers, “for any of you.”
Don Diego replied, his voice strong and clear. “Señor, 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, señor?”
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 the San 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 was Dubh-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.