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 the conquistadores 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.
5
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 Señorita 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.
It was on such a night—dark, still, and with gathering clouds—that I had landed at Bristol. Behind me lay all that I had known; before me, loneliness, uncertainty, and a life among a people who had destroyed all that I had loved.
The fisherman who brought me over was a rough, kindly man. “Leave the shore,” he advised, “and go inland away from it. There be many accents in England, and away from the coasts of the Irish Sea they’ll not know yours from any other.
“Be a quiet lad, and try to learn a trade, and you’ll do well. Folks be not travelers now, y’ken, and most have been no distance from their homes. They have heard of your country but it is little enough they know. Be wary of the lads, for they can make it hard upon a stranger.”
That night had been dark, too, and there was little enough movement along the key, and as I started to walk ashore the good man handed me a bundle. “There’s a change of shut for y’, lad, and a bite to eat, but dinna stop until you’re far from here. Bristol is a canny town. Some would be friendly, but a sight more would not, so get y’ hence.”
He was a good man, but I never knew his name.