Sword of Vengeance (3 page)

Clay had been a man so sure of his skill that he could not imagine failure, not even when the bow reared up with a great grinding and splintering of wood and the whole ship shuddered like a mortally wounded beast. The mizzenmast came down in a tangle of canvas and timber and rope that buried the captain and several of the crew. The rest were pitched into the storm-tossed sea as the
Trenton
capsized.

Kit could feel the cold embrace of the water. Something cracked him across the back of the skull. He choked as the turbulent waters carried him under, borne down by the weight of the treasure pouch. To his horror, the pouch flap had torn loose and gold bracelets, rings, and necklaces spilled into the depths.

Clutching the bag, he fought the ocean’s grip, refusing to release his hold on the treasure pouch as he clawed at the black water. He managed by sheer chance to catch hold of a rope lashed around a section of mast. Hand over hand, he pulled himself to the surface, thrusting his head out of the ashen sea to gulp air and cling to life.

Where was the
Trenton
? Surely not that shapeless mass of timber coming to pieces on the submerged reef.

Seawater stung his eyes. Waves lifted him and carried him toward the distant shore. God, how much of al-Jezzar’s gold had the sea reclaimed? There was no time to look. Despite his pain-blurred vision, he glimpsed a johnboat riding the crests of the storm-swept surface. The boat leaped like a dolphin and crashed with a thud against the section of mast Kit had found. He reached for the side of the boat, stretched his trembling fingers. In another couple of seconds it would be too late.

Reach. Reach, damn you, or drown.

Kit opened his eyes and found himself groping toward a wall of mud and coquina shells. He rolled on his back and stared up at a cedar-plank ceiling. Sunlight spilled into the room through an open doorway and the unshuttered windows permitted a gentle cross breeze through to freshen the hut’s interior. A crucifix hung above the doorsill. Kit was lying on a hard but not uncomfortable cot set in one corner of the coquina-walled hut. Kit noted at a glance he was not alone in the room. Long-legged Bill Tibbs was stretched out on a second cot, his bootheels dangling just inches above the floor.

A comely Creek Indian woman in the late months of her pregnancy sat on a stool alongside Tibbs, who was not only conscious but propped up to receive the broth she was spooning into his mouth. His upper torso was naked, and his shoulder was bandaged. If Tibbs was in pain it didn’t show. He obviously enjoyed the attention he was receiving from the woman. The rope and wood frame of the cot creaked as Kit shifted his weight. The woman turned at the sound, and on seeing the second Yankee was awake she set the bowl of broth on the floor within Tibbs’s reach and hurried from the room.

“Well, you sure spoiled that.” Tibbs scowled at his friend.

“From the look of her, she was spoken for,” Kit replied. He sat back against the wall and felt a sharp, stabbing pain lance through his skull. He brought a hand to his head and touched a cloth bandage.

Across the room, within view of both men, the large leather pouch had been securely fastened and left on a narrow but solid-looking table crafted from the dark wood of a young loblolly pine. An oil lantern, a worn leatherbound Bible, and a quill and ink had been left on the table, no doubt by the room’s owner, but shoved to one side to make room for the treasure pack.

“Spoken for, indeed … but talking was the farthest thing from my mind.” Tibbs sighed, a wicked grin on his face.

“Half drowned and still as horny as a goat.” Kit chuckled and then sucked in his breath as his wound sent a sharp protest from his head to his shoulder blades.

“Goats? Yes, we have goats,” a brown-robed priest said from the doorway. He had brought another bowl of soup.

Father Ramon Saucedo at sixty moved with the grace and energy of a man twenty years younger. His skin was as dark as that of the Creek Indians he served, the color of old bark. Indeed, the lines and wrinkles that creased his features gave his skin not only a barklike color but the texture of some aged forest monarch that had survived wind and rain and fire. His hair was stringy, silver and unkempt, but his mustache and goatee, also silver, were neatly trimmed. And if he had lost the beauty of his youth (once women had called him handsome and contested with one another to catch his eye), he had replaced such a transitory appeal with an air of wisdom and dignity that shone from his features as brightly as the Florida sunlight.

“Good morning, my friends,” the priest said. His sandals shuffled softly over the packed earth floor of the single-roomed cabin. “It has been a while since I have spoken English. I am Padre Ramon Saucedo. You understand me, yes?”

He handed the bowl of soup to Kit, who nodded his thanks and chanced a sip. It was salty, and chunks of fish and scallops floated in this broth. He found the sample to his liking.

Father Ramon pulled over a three-legged stool and sat down. “You washed ashore on the island. Barely a strip of sand and beach grass. I go there to cast my nets. Maria and Esteban found you and brought me to you. Which was fortunate for you both.” The padre toyed with the wooden cross dangling from a leather string around his neck. “My humble house is a palace compared to the prison Sergeant Morales would offer you at the garrison in St. Augustine.”

“Prison?” Kit said. He set the wooden bowl aside and introduced himself and Bill Tibbs and then continued with his initial question. “Why prison?”

“There has been much trouble of late. Yankees from the north have come across the border and declared all of Florida a republic, free of Spanish rule. But the mission Indians have been well treated. Our colonists are of Spanish descent. We do not wish to break ties with our mother country, so we fight. The soldiers have hunted these Yankees down and killed or imprisoned most of them.”

“Be we are … uh, traders,” Tibbs blurted out. “We’ve nothing to do with any of this. A storm wrecked our ship, or we would never have troubled you.”

“I believe you,” the padre said, leaning forward. “But then my heart is filled with peace toward all men.” Father Ramon kissed the cross he wore. “Sergeant Morales is a soldier, a man of war. If he discovers you, then …” The padre shook his head. The implication was quite clear: Their fates would be sealed.

“Do not worry,” the padre spoke reassuringly. “I am no friend of Sergeant Morales. You are safe here. He seldom comes to visit. I have promised him the wrath of God if he touches one of my flock again.” The priest seemed momentarily lost in thought, and he looked back to the barefoot Indian woman standing in the doorway. In a matter of weeks Sara would be having Morales’s child. The woman disappeared into the sunlight; she was none of his guests’ concern. He returned his attention to the matter at hand. “I will not reveal your presence here. But you cannot remain long. You will be in danger until you cross the border.”

“How far away are we from Georgia?” Tibbs asked.

“Two days by horse.”

“Good,” Tibbs exclaimed. “We can make it. We’ll rest up and then tomorrow or the next day borrow a couple of your horses and ride out. This Sergeant Morales will never know a thing.”

“No,” Father Ramon said.

“We will pay you for the animals, of course. Probably more than what they are worth,” Kit said, thinking of the gold trinkets that had almost drowned him, the treasure of Bashara al-Jezzar.

“Of that I have little doubt,” the padre conceded drolly. He glanced knowingly over his shoulder at the leather pouch behind him on the table. “Maria and Esteban spoke of the treasure. And I must admit I, too, examined the beautiful things you rescued from the sea.”

“Our treasure,” Tibbs emphasized. Just because a man donned a brown robe, sandals, and a cross didn’t mean Tibbs felt obliged to trust him. He began to eat while scrutinizing the priest.

“Yes. Of course.” The padre ignored the man’s suspicious gaze. “It is yours alone.”

“So you see we can offer you much more than what a couple of your horses are worth.” Kit was worried that Tibbs would antagonize the old padre. They owed the priest their lives. Father Ramon could easily have turned them over to the authorities. Kit didn’t want the old one to regret his decision. “Surely a portion of our wealth might prove useful for a church or a school outside St. Augustine.”

Tibbs all but choked on a mouthful of fish. They hadn’t even divided the spoils taken during the Derna raid, and already Kit was giving some away.

“It is impossible,” Father Ramon replied.

“Why?” Kit asked.

“Because I have no horses,” the priest replied. “I sent Esteban for help. Four Creek men carried you here upon the very pallets on which you rest.”

“Damn!” Tibbs muttered.

Father Ramon gave him a pained look.

“But across the St. John’s River, back in the woods, is the cabin of Alsino Escovar, the trapper. He has boats, horses, and a thirst for the shiny metal. He will sell you anything.”

“How far past the river is his cabin?” Kit asked. Even with the pain hammering in his head he had begun to plan, to set his options and gather all the information necessary should the situation become desperate and the Yankees need to escape with this Sergeant Morales in hot pursuit.

“An hour, if a man is running,” said the priest. “But much longer for these old bones.” The Franciscan shook his head. “Enjoy your youth, my friends. Savor your days like rare wine. For the glass is soon drained. Ah, too soon.” He clapped his knees and stood. “How I prattle on when you need your rest. We will talk later. Sleep,
compadres
. You are safe for now. Heal yourselves. I shall pray for the return of your strength. And my prayers are always answered.” The padre winked and vanished through the front door into the yellow glare.

Kit sat upright and watched the brown-robed figure through the window. Father Ramon had barely stepped past the corner of the cabin when he was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of excited children and a half dozen Creek braves. The men were dressed in breeches and worn, patched linsey-woolsey shirts. They might have been Spanish settlers save for the reddish-brown luster of their skin and their shiny, shoulder-length black hair that hung straight and framed their flat, dark faces.

The cluster of mud-walled cabins appeared to be set well back from the shore and nestled in a clearing of live oaks and black willows draped with Spanish moss.

“What do you think?” Tibbs said. He managed to stand and shuffled across the floor to the table, where he began to painstakingly unfasten the torn flap of the large leather pouch. The jewel-hilted scimitar that contained the Eye of Alexander fell into his hand. He sighed with relief. But his humor quickly faded on further inspection of the bag. All that remained of the stolen wealth was a handful of trinkets—a few solid gold bracelets, a couple of necklaces of pounded gold set with emeralds, and a golden goblet inlaid with pearls and lapis lazuli.

This was wealth, to be sure, but only a fraction of what they had taken from al-Jezzar’s treasure room.

Tibbs’s face became livid as he slowly turned to show Kit how they had been robbed.

“Damn their souls, they’ve taken it all. Robbed us blind, by my oath. Blood will flow for this!” Tibbs pounded the tabletop with his fist.

“They took nothing,” Kit spoke up from the cot. He propped himself against the wall. “The pouch ripped open when the
Trenton
dumped me into the sea. I saved what I could.”

Tibbs glared at his companion. Somehow he managed to calm himself. There was nothing to be said. He stared at the pouch as if willing the return of what had been lost. But he was no conjurer. At least something had been salvaged. A man could make a good life for himself on what remained. Tibbs returned the Eye of Alexander and lowered the flap.

“You did well, my friend,” he said in a gentler, calmer tone of voice. “Best we heal up and quit this place as quickly as we can.” He gingerly stretched out upon the cot.

“At least we’re among friends,” Kit added, trying to make the best of the situation.

“Sure. Friends,” Tibbs echoed, unconvinced. “Only where are our guns?”

Kit swept the room at a glance. A knot of fear re-formed in the pit of his stomach. Tibbs was right about one thing. Their weapons were gone.
If Sergeant Morales and his soldiers came
, Kit thought,
we would be completely defenseless.

“You think we can trust the priest?” Tibbs muttered, eyeing the open doorway and the empty sunlight that had suddenly lost its warmth.

Kit looked from his friend to the window and the brown-skinned men and women of the village who had grouped together to keep the Yankees’ cabin under observation.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” he said.

T
HE NEXT DAY DAWNED
with a rumble of distant thunder. Kit had rested fitfully, dozing for a while, then lying awake. For the past hour he’d lain motionless, staring at the ceiling and listening to the patter of the summer shower. One by one he counted the beads of sweat that rolled off his neck and soaked into the cot beneath his head. As dawn’s gray light seeped into the hut Kit rose from his bed and managed to stand, swaying in the center of the room. After a few moments he gained his sea legs.

A dull ache lingered in his skull, but the pain had lessened enough overnight to convince him he had suffered no permanent damage. He’d been willing to debate the matter earlier. But for now, as long as he could see and walk and he hadn’t been clapped in irons by the Spanish, Kit was satisfied.

A loud snore erupted from the opposite side of the room. Bill Tibbs mumbled something in his sleep and then curled over on his side. Kit padded across the room, leaned over his partner, and caught a whiff of Jamaican rum about the same time his bare toe nudged the cool, brown glass bottle Tibbs had left by his bed. The bottle toppled over, rolled beneath the cot, and clattered off the wall.

“Helped yourself, did you?” Kit accused. “And not so much as a drop for your friend. Ah, Bill Tibbs, you can be a selfish son of a bitch sometimes. Still, we’ve pulled each other out of tight scrapes and saved one another’s neck, so I guess I can pardon your oversight.”