Fair Blows the Wind (1978) (2 page)

Removing my hat to spare the plume, I ducked under an overhanging root thrust like a tentacle from the root-mass of a great up-torn tree. I stepped over a smaller trunk and found myself in a shadowed and secret place, a cave half-covered and all hidden. Hanging my hat and jerkin upon a root, I gathered great slabs of bark from the drying trunks and placed them overhead to shelter me from rain. I gathered others to form better sides, and in a matter of minutes had a tidy little home, lacking but fire and food.

Almost a hut, as thick-sheltered overhead as though thatched. What more could be wished by man or beast?

How simple are the wants of man! How much at ease he can soon become! Yet my stomach growled, protesting my good spirits.

"Be still, beast," I said cheerfully, "you've naught to gain by complaining. This day you'll do without, and perhaps many another, so let you be silent and endure."

The sea was out there. With the coming of day, and with some ingenuity, I might rig a pole and line, cast into the surf, and catch a fish or two. Yet to do this I must stand bold against the sky, visible for some distance, an invitation to any scalp-hunting Indian. Better a growling, protesting stomach than one ripped open to the blowing sand.

And so ... I slept.

My stomach awakened before my eyes did. Some vagrant odor, some sweet aroma ... broiling meat!

I sat up.

Morning had come while I slept. The sun was in the sky, the waves rustling on the beach ... and again, that smell of broiling meat. I got up swiftly, banging my skull on an overhanging limb. The sea had been a good builder but a poor architect. Brushing off my clothing, I rearranged my jerkin, shook the sand from my hat, fluffed the plume, stepped out upon the sand. Nothing.

To my left and right, nothing. Before me the forest, behind me the sea, all else was sand. Yet the smell of broiling meat was fresh upon the breeze.

My stomach growled anxiously. Indians? I hoped not. White men? Unlikely. There was no ship within sight, and no place one could well be hidden.

My eyes adjusted to the change of light and caught a faint drift of something that might be smoke above the trees. I started, cautiously, in that direction. I was no hunter, but chose what cover I could find. Suddenly, I came upon tracks in the sand at the forest's edge--several people with heels. I followed the tracks.

Soon I heard voices. Pausing, I listened. They spoke in Spanish. The Spanish were enemies of the English, but there were Irishmen in the armies of Spain as there were in the armies of France, Austria, and several other nations. I had lived, briefly, in Spain and spoke the language fluently.

Again I looked to the sea. No ship. No sign of boat or barge, nor was there any obvious cove or inlet where a ship might be hidden. Yet I knew enough not to trust my eyes on that score. Many such places are invisible until one is close upon them.

I had been told that there were outer islands that sheltered inland seas, islands many miles long, thin bars of sand crested by brush. Was I on one of those? It seemed likely.

Walking through the trees, I found myself at the edge of a small clearing. And there, gathered as if for a picnic in the forest, were a dozen people. Three were women, at least one of whom was young and lovely. Some of the men appeared to be gentlemen. The others were soldiers, or sailors. They were roasting meat. There was also another odor, very pleasant ... it brought memories of Constantinople.

Coffee!Only a little of the delightful brew had come to England, by way of Arabia and Turkey. The brew was discovered, it was said, by a goatherd who found his goats remaining awake all night after eating of the berries.

Stepping through the last few trees, I paused. Dramatically, I hoped. Their eyes came to me and I made a low bow, sweeping the grass with my plume, and greeted them in their own tongue. At the sight of me the men's hands went to their weapons, the women's to their bosoms.

"Senores and senoritas, I greet you! May I ask what brings you to my humble estate?"

They stared as well they might. One of them, a young man with arrogant eyes, black mustaches, and a pointed beard, replied sharply. "Yourestate?"

"But of course! Do you see anyone else about?" Replacing my hat, I walked toward them. "I am Captain Tatton Chantry, at your service."

"An Englishman!" he almost spat the word.

"An Irishman," I corrected, "and I bid you welcome. If you are hungered, feel free to kill what game you need, and please drink of the streams. The water is fresh and cold."

"By what right--"

Before he could continue the question which might have proved embarrassing, I interrupted: "I do not see your ship. Is it close by?"

"Our vessel sank. We have been cast ashore." It was an older man who spoke, a fine, handsome gentleman whose hair and beard were salted with fray. "If you could lead us to a place of safety we should be eternally grateful."

It was not my intention to reveal my own destitute condition, for at all times it is best to deal from a position of strength or seeming strength.

"Unfortunately, there is no such place near here. My own people are not close by." I paused. "You were bound for the Indies?"

"For Spain," the older man said. "I am Don Diego de Aldebaran. You speak excellent Spanish, Captain."

The pretty young woman interrupted. "Will you join us, Captain? I fear we have little to offer, for we escaped our ship only in the nick of time."

I bowed. "A pleasure, I assure you!" Well, that at least was honest. Little did she know how much of a pleasure. "Your vessel sank, then?"

"She was sinking. There was little time to take more than the merest clothing, and a little food."

Yet all the men were armed with swords and cutlasses, and an occasional pistol and musket were visible. Both Don Diego and the arrogant young man, whom I now ignored, carried pistols in their sashes.

Another young woman, an Indian servant by her appearance, brought me meat, bread, and coffee. As we ate, for the others dined also, they talked. Wisely, I kept silent and listened.

It became immediately apparent that they suffered from a divided command, with differing notions of what was now to be done. Don Diego wished to go north, believing another ship would come along which they might signal and which might take them aboard. The arrogant one, whose name proved to be Don Manuel, wished to go south to the Spanish settlements in Florida. Just how far distant they were, he obviously had no idea. I did.

"Of one thing you must be warned," I offered. "The Indians are not friendly. Two of my men were killed yesterday, only a few miles from here."

They were startled. That aspect of their situation had not occurred to them. Living as they had been accustomed to, in well-protected cities, they had no true understanding of what might lie out in the wilderness.

"You will frighten the ladies," Don Diego warned.

"Senor," my tone was cool, "they would do well to be frightened, and so would you all. The danger is not to be exaggerated. I would suggest a smaller fire, and that you remain here no longer than you must."

"Do not fear," Don Manuel said contemptuously. "We are alert."

"I observed that," I commented, "when I walked into your camp."

He put his hand to his sword hilt. "I do not like your manner." The menace in his tone would have amused me at any other time.

I merely shrugged. "So? If you wish to fight, do not fear. You will have many chances before you reach your people
. I
f you reach your people. Now let there be less fire."

One of the soldiers stepped forward and began drawing sticks from the flames by their protruding ends.

They ignored me then and began a casual, desultory conversation that had to do with clothing, the difficulty of walking, and whether they might have to sleep out another night.

The coffee was excellent, and I ate the bread and meat, savoring each morsel. My years of soldiering had taught me to rest when opportunity offered, to eat whenever there was food.

The man who had taken the sticks from the fire, obviously a soldier, stopped near me. He was a broad-shouldered, powerfully made young man, at least five inches shorter than I. Under his breath he whispered, "I am glad you are with us,Capitan. Save for the soldiers not one of them has ever slept out, carried a pack, or walked, except on well-trodden paths."

I had lived too long not to have an eye out for the main chance. One lives, one survives, and if one is wise, perhaps one gains a little. "Your ship sank?"

He shrugged an eloquent shoulder. "She was afloat when last I saw her but she was making water fast."

"Too bad. There might have been food aboard her, and more weapons." A thought came to me. "You came ashore in a boat? Where is it now?"

"Yonder." He pointed through the trees. "She was damaged in launching. We barely made the shore."

But they did reach shore, and there was a boat. Boats could be repaired. I made the suggestion.

"Who knows? It might be done, but Don Manuel was all for marching."

Little by little, as we ate, I drew information from him. He called himself Armand, the Basque. He had been a soldier in Peru. Don Diego had been governor of a province, Don Manuel an official of some kind, reputed to have influence in high places. My informant knew little more than shipboard gossip.

Don Diego was guardian of the lovely one, Guadalupe Romana, now en route to Spain to be married ... maybe. There was more than a little mystery about her--or so I gathered from listening to Armand, the Basque.

I glanced toward her. She had been looking at me and her eyes slid away as mine reached hers. Shewas lovely, very much so. Large, dark eyes, rimmed with long lashes, a proud, beautiful face with a touch of sadness in it and a hint of something else.

Don Diego was coming over. "You have experience of this country?" he asked me.

I did not wish to lie. I did wish to survive. So I would not lie; neither would I admit to no prior experience of the country. For one thing I knew: Without guidance this lot would not survive the week.

"Enough to know there is great danger. My advice would be to return to your boat, repair it, then sail south to your settlements in Florida."

"Who knows how to repair a boat? We are gentlemen and soldiers, not workmen. Boats are for fishermen and sailors."

"You wish to die, then?" It was a time for brutal honesty. "A few years back a ship was wrecked on the shores of southeast Africa. It was Portuguese. The only way the people could survive was to walk, but they were mostly gentlemen and ladies who had never walked. One man was so fat he could not walk and had to be carried. The few sailors carried him only a little way, then refused to carry him further. They left him sitting on the sand. He died rather than make the effort."

"But the boat is damaged! We scarcely made the shore!"

"If it brought you this far the leaks cannot be so great. It is my thought to repair it. Believe me, the journey will be easier, and safer, than if you go by land."

"But who could do this, Captain? A gentleman such as yourself would not have the skills--"

"I have lived in your country, Don Diego, and know that a gentleman there does not work with his hands, but we Irish ... we do what needs to be done."

Guadalupe Romana walked over to us and stopped beside Don Diego. She was looking at me and her gaze was disconcerting.

"Don Diego, if you attempt to march north now, you will surely encounter the Indians who killed my men. Dangerous as the sea may be, it is preferable to the land, especially as you have women along."

"We have seen no savages," Don Manuel interrupted. "Nor do we fear them."

"If you do not fear the savages," I did not wish to offend him more, so tempered my language, "you might ask yourself if you and the women are prepared to swim the mouths of rivers? Or to cross swamps infested with snakes and alligators."

Don Manuel did not like me. What he might have said I do not know, but a fourth man now approached us, and spoke. "Senor Chantry speaks truly. On my last voyage along this coast, we came close inshore and sailed past the mouths of several rivers. There are miles of swamps. If the boat can be repaired, I would recommend it."

Don Manuel turned on his heel and walked away, disdaining to talk longer. Don Diego lingered, then followed Don Manuel, and they stood together, talking, with many gestures.

The third man remained beside me. He was a man perhaps ten years older than I, with a stern, confident way about him, a man of substance, I thought, a man who knows himself.

"Tell me," he said, "do you think we could reach Florida?"

"It is not far ... I have heard there is a colony on the Savannah River, which is even closer." I hesitated, glanced at him, and then said, "I do not know the situation there ... or here, but I have a feeling all is not well. Perhaps you would know better than I whether it is safe to go to Florida."

"Your feelings do not lie, Captain. Don Diego and Don Manuel have agreed to the marriage of the senorita. Her marriage is to a creature of Don Manuel's, through which both hope to profit. Now there is trouble."

I waited. He glanced at them, but they were concerned only with their own affairs. Senorita Romana was standing by herself near a tree. "There is trouble, indeed," he said. "Don Manuel now wishes to marry the senorita himself, and this Don Diego does not want. For if she marries Don Manuel she is out of his hands, and he will get nothing more from her. If she marries this man to whom they take her, both have a hold upon him."