Fair Blows the Wind (1978) (4 page)

After glancing all about, I sat down on the shell mound. Nearby, there was an old log that had sloughed off some great sheets of bark. They might be too brittle for my purpose. It would be better to peel fresh bark from a standing tree, but I would take this, just in case.

I walked over and picked up the bark, and came upon several other arrowheads. These were intact, and I pocketed them for future use. As I straightened up with a sheet of bark in my hands, I saw her.

Rather, I saw a bit of the poop beyond a wall of leaves. Squatting on my heels, I looked again. Only from that position could I see the vessel.

It was time I returned to the boat, where they would be expecting me to be, and then to the camping area, where I might find food.

All was still at the boat. Placing my bark on the ground, I looked about, measuring the trees for a better selection of bark. Nearby was another and more recently fallen tree that looked better than what I had, but the bark I'd brought back would prove a convenient excuse for my absence if one was needed.

I found a small canvas-wrapped bundle of tools in the sail locker and went to work. Trimming off the end of the plank, with a hatchet I cut a strip of bark of the size needed. I made holes and with an awl stitched the bark into place with cords drawn through the holes. As I worked, I considered my situation.

Don Manuel disliked me, that was obvious enough. Don Diego had been polite, but no more. The third man, whose name was still unknown to me, was in no position to do more than register an opinion. I trusted none of them.

As for Guadalupe Romana, she was but a pawn in the game, and I had seen how quickly she showed submission when Don Manuel spoke. Was she genuinely obedient? Was even her fear genuine? Or was it part of a pretense she was carrying on?

With the job half-done I walked back to the fire. They were moving about, and Conchita was at the fire. She threw a quick glance my way and seemed friendly. I walked to the fire and extended my bands. "I shall soon have the boat fixed." I spoke only for her ears. "Let Armand know."

"Si."She was squatting, Indian-fashion, at the fireside."Cuidado!"

Be careful. Aye, I would that.

Don Manuel looked at us suspiciously, although he could have heard neither of us. He came to the fire.

"The boat is repaired?" His tone was brusque.

"Soon," I said. "It will be makeshift, but it will serve if we are not pushed against rocks, and if we keep to quiet waters."

He ignored me, paying no attention to my comments. Suddenly he asked, "You have experience of boats, Captain?"

"As a lad I fished in waters off our coast. They were often rough waters."

"You could take us to Florida?"

"With God's help. First it would be wise to see if there are people on the Savannah River. We might even find a ship there. There was a French fort, but I believe your people captured it."

"Don Diego!" He had joined us. "I suggest what food we have be rationed. It must last us at least a week, perhaps two."

He smiled at my ignorance. "You jest, Captain. We have food for a day, perhaps two."

"But your packs! I have seen large packs--"

"Clothing, Captain. You would not expect us to dress like beggars? When we again appear before civilized people, they must understand who and what we are. We could not appear in poor costume, or clothes soiled by travel. It would be most unbecoming."

For a moment I was speechless. "Don Diego," I spoke carefully, "you must face reality. It cannot be much less thanfour hundred miles to Saint Augustine, although I do not know its exact location. Even the Savannah is far, and I am afraid you will be very hungry before you arrive ...if you arrive."

"You jest, Captain. I do not think it--"

"I do not jest, and the sooner you understand the situation the better. To the north of us there is nothing, although there are rumors that the English have tried a settlement there.

"To the south of us ... somewhere ... are Spanish settlements. Between here and there are savages who have often been badly treated by the Spanish and who will not be friendly. This is an unknown coast with many shoals, few bays or coves. Trouble is everywhere.

"We can catch fish from the sea. We may even kill a deer, but only at the risk of attracting enemies.

"There is no one to help you, no one to save you, no miracle we can expect. You have no servant you can command to bring food, and nowhere to bring it from if there were. The clothing you so carefully brought with you is not even likely to clothe your bodies at burial, for the savages will take it."

Don Diego's face was stiff with shock, I suspect not so much at the facts I laid before him as my manner of speaking. In many ways these people were children, for always before there had been a servant or a slave to do their bidding, and no need for them to lift a hand. It was simply a fact: they disdained any sort of physical labor, and disdained those who did it.

Don Diego was not accustomed to having facts so cruelly thrust upon him. His dignity was offended.

He stood speechless. His lips worked with unframed words. Guadalupe seemed wryly amused.

"What had you planned to do?" I asked, at last.

"Planned? There could be no plan. The ship was sinking. We seized what we could and got into the boat. We did not think of food. Why, we ..."

They simply had not thought, or believed it necessary.

"What happened to the others? To the sailing master? To the rest of the crew?"

"I do not know. There was another boat, I believe. I do not know what happened to it."

"Well, my friends, you will now have decisions to make, work to do, and much hard travel. Whether you live or die will depend on you."

"I think not, Captain," Guadalupe said, sweetly. "It will depend onyou . After all, Captain, we have had someone to think for us and care for us because we have been able to pay. If we ask you to do this for us, what will we have to pay you?"

For a moment our eyes met. Slowly, I smiled. Her eyes widened and became wary. Perhaps she feared what I might say, but I merely bowed. "I will do what can be done, and all I ask is passage to Europe. If, that is, you want my assistance."

"We can kill deer!" Don Manuel was contemptuous. "We are skilled at hunting."

"At killing, you mean? I doubt not that most of your hunting was done on game preserves where beaters drive the game close to you to be killed. It will be different here.

"Here you must stalk your deer, get very close, and be sure of your shot. Then you must butcher the deer, clean it, and remove the cuts of meat you will need. You must also skin the deer, as the hide will be useful for making moccasins."

"Moccasins!We have our boots!"

"How long will they last when you wade streams, struggle through swamps and bushes? And what of the women? Their slippers are suitable for ballrooms, but not for walking in the forest."

Don Diego brushed aside my objections. "We have the boat, Captain, which you are so kindly repairing."

"The boat?" I shrugged. "Much can happen in four hundred miles. This will not be like floating upon a lake. There will be times when we must get into the water and drag the boat through shallows or over sand. We do not know what lies before us."

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 theconquistadores 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.

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 Senorita Romana to consider. We must see that they are safe, always."

"Bueno."

"You are sleepy now?"