Now I had but one desire—to be free of this land, to secure my treasure and escape to sea where we might come upon a ship, even the Good Catherine, for their intent was to trade along this shore.
Guadalupe Romana looked upon me with cool eyes. “You have freed us from them,” she said. “Now what do you propose to do?”
“Get away to the sea. Find there a ship that will take us to England or some foreign land. Once there we can be secure and arrange for our futures.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You would plan my future?”
“Nothing would please me more,” I said, surprising myself at the words, but adding very hastily, “yet I would hesitate to more than suggest. Safety in England would give us time to plan, and perhaps we can arrange for you to return to Peru.”
She shrugged. “I was not safe there before. Why should I be again?”
“Perhaps to return to one of those hidden places still maintained by the Incas,” I suggested.
“I escaped from there, too,” she admitted, “nor can I well return.”
“All this can be decided at another time. Now it is enough to bring you alive into England, and with our friends.”
For a moment there was silence and then I said, “Señorita, I, too, know what it means to escape. I had to flee my own land. Even in England, if they discovered who I was, I would be in danger. I would say this to none but you, but I wish you to know that I do understand.”
We rested, then ate, then rested some more. Silliman Turley and I talked, and from time to time I translated for Armand and Felipe, although the former, having been a fisherman, had picked up some words of English.
The original plan of the Good Catherine had been to trade to the south as far as the mouth of the Savannah River, avoiding any contact with the Spanish, and then to turn about and come back up the coast. This she might already have done, although I’d been but a few days ashore and doubted there had been time. There was every chance she might come again along the coast.
She might and she might not. In any case, I must recover my boat and its treasure!
30
“Before the first light,” I suggested, and they agreed, content now to rest.
Over a slight fire, built upon a bed of flat stones, Turley with Conchita’s help made a gruel and some cakes, using the nuts for meal. There was smoked fish as well, and we were hungry.
It was a tidy place he had here, and it spoke well for Silliman Turley. He was no idler, but a workman competent with many skills.
“I have a boat,” I said, “a ship’s boat. It is loaded but will still carry us all if we can reach it.”
With the fire out the night was very dark, yet bright with stars. We heard vague sounds, and a sort of whoosh as some great bird, an owl no doubt, swept by on wide, slow-moving wings. The girls could have slept in the house, if such it could be called, but they preferred the cooler outside air.
Guadalupe was no more sleepy than I, so we sat together listening to the sounds of the night and watching the stars.
“Where was your home?” she asked. “I mean, when you were very young?”
I told her, choosing my words with care, and without naming places, of my boyhood. I told her what little I remembered of my mother, and of my father and his teaching, of his sharing with me those things he loved, the beauties of the wilder world and the love of learning and of pleasure in the word.
“You loved it, and yet you left?”
“My father was killed, part of my home was in flames. Whether it was the house or the stables, I know not. I escaped, and they pursued.”
“But you did get away.”
“That I did, but only because my father had expected that day and had taught me well. Each possible route we might take, and what I must do if alone, where I must go.”
“If you go back will they know you?”
“I think not. The name I shall use now is another name, and I shall return to the place from England. A few about may know the look of me, but the ones who know will never speak. There I shall go, and there I shall live.”
She sat close to me in the darkness and told me of her Andes mountains, and of the far land beyond those mountains where she had lived, but she, too, mentioned no names. And it pleased me that she was wary, although she had others to protect, and I did not. At last she went away to lie near Conchita and to sleep. And I slept, too, awakening, shivering, in the first chill moments before the dawning.
Turley was awake also and he brought the canoe around. A dugout canoe it was, but good enough. We loaded into it what we required and pushed off. There was a soft rain falling and no great visibility, which was helpful in avoiding our enemies—or would be, if they appeared.
We held close to the southern shore of what was obviously a large sound, a place of only brackish water, affected by the tides and also by the fresh water flowing down from several rivers that rose somewhere far inland.
Turley sat in the bow, as it was he who knew the way, and Armand held the steering oar, guided by gestures from Turley. I sat amidships, keeping my weapons dry under my blanket … or so I hoped.
We had been moving an hour before day came, only a vague graying of the mist about us. We glided through the still water like a ghost boat, shielded or at least screened by the mistlike rain.
We had far to go. We crept from the swamp into open water, holding up for just a minute close against a wall of reeds to study the sound. All was still. We could see less than a hundred yards. Felipe and I now took up our paddles and the canoe moved forward, gaming speed. Water dripped from our paddles when we lifted them.
A huge old snag lifted suddenly from the water like the head of some primeval monster, and Turley’s gestures guided us around it. Ahead there were patches of outlying reeds and we went between them.
We saw nothing, heard nothing but the occasional lonely cry of some gull overhead. The sky above was clearing. The rain ceased. Yet suddenly the sky was darkened again, and looking up, we saw an immense cloud of birds.
Turley looked around at me. “Passenger pigeons,” he said. “The savages kill them for their oil. Knock ’em down with a long pole when they are roosting. I’ve seen ’em killed by the thousands. Good eatin’, too.”
“Turn in toward the shore,” I said, “toward that lightning-struck pine.”
We eased in toward shore. Stepping off to a log which lay half-in, half-out of the water, I told them, “I’ll not be long!”
Swiftly I moved, holding to solid ground when I could find it until I was safely among the trees, mostly cypress and swamp gum mingled with a few pines. Walking the log again, I got back to the narrow, sandy islet where my boat had been hidden.
It was still there! A hasty check showed me that nothing had been changed. Taking in the painter, I shoved off with an oar, pushing the boat back out of the narrow waterway in which it had been snugged down.
Once clear of the islet I settled the oars in place and pulled strongly, with a glance over my shoulder from time to time to maintain the proper heading.
Yet for all of that it was nearly an hour until I came alongside the canoe. The boxes were covered by a tarpaulin brought from the ship.
Despite the heavy load the boat carried there was plenty of room for the others. Silliman Turley got out and with Felipe’s help got the canoe ashore and turned bottom-up.
There was no sign of the big man or his followers, no evidence of Don Diego or Don Manuel. Yet I doubted I had seen the last of them and was eager to be away.
Once in the boat we wasted no time but hoisted our sail and moved off. Guadalupe came aft to sit by me in the stern where I held the tiller.
She indicated the tarp-covered mound in the boat’s center. “What is it there?”
“Some food from the San Juan de Dios, some of my things and some of yours.”
“Mine?”
“I was aboard the ship. I found some of your clothing so I bundled it up to bring to you.”