Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker
Prologue
June 27th, 1624…
The end of the mangrove branch was as hard and as sharp as the devil’s thumbnail when it tore into Captain Bartolome Vargas’s cheek.
Searing pain was followed by the feel of hot blood sliding down his sweaty face. He leapt over a knobby-knuckled tree root. ’Twas no easy task given his legs burned with fatigue.
Not so long ago, he could have sprinted from the Bridge of Segovia to King Philip’s Court without losing his breath. Now? He was lucky to skirt a fat sea grape bush without falling flat on his arse.
His lungs were afire when he raked in a gasping breath of hot subtropical air. Thirst and starvation wreak havoc on the body, he thought desperately. And if his own sorry state was not enough to convince him, all he need do was look to Rosario, his stalwart midshipman.
Rosario kept pace beside him, but a harsh wheeze issued from the depths of the young sailor’s chest. The sunken, bruised flesh around Rosario’s eyes spoke of restless nights made worse by the continuous grumblings of a hungry belly. And Rosario’s lips were so dry and cracked, Bartolome’s own mouth smarted in sympathy.
Of the 224 brave souls who had set sail aboard the Santa Cristina on her doomed voyage, only thirty-six had survived the storm and subsequent wreck. In the weeks that had followed the early season hurricane and the sinking of the galleon, three more of Bartolome’s crew had succumbed to illness and the elements.
Now, if the French sailors from the small ketch that had dropped anchor beyond the reef, the ones who had rowed to shore and who were at that moment traipsing up the beach, happened upon them? Bartolome knew he would lose still more of his loyal men.
“What do we do, Capitán?” Rosario held a grubby hand to the stitch in his side as they darted and weaved through the sand and trees toward the slapdash camp set up in the center of the tiny island they now called home.
“We hide.” Bartolome swiped at the hot, sticky blood dripping from his chin. “And if they find us…we fight.”
Rosario’s Adam’s apple lurched in the wind-burned column of his throat. Doubt flashed in his black eyes.
Bartolome had counted fifteen sailors aboard the newly arrived French vessel. Which meant if it came to a battle, the crew of the Santa Cristina outnumbered the intruders more than two-to-one. Even so, it was obvious the midshipman held little faith they would come out the victors in any conflict with the newcomers.
Bartolome shared Rosario’s fear. The rest of his crew were in no better shape than he or Rosario. What we gain in numbers, we give up in strength.
He considered commanding his men to surrender to the scurvy French bastards. To save themselves.
The wreck had already taken so many souls and that loss of life weighed heavy upon Bartolome’s spirit. The thought of delivering more members of his courageous crew into the hands of the Reaper? ’Twas almost too much to bear.
And yet, if they turned themselves over, surely they would be keelhauled—or worse—until they gave up the location of the Santa Cristina’s enormous bounty.
Bartolome and his men had not spent the last few weeks liberating the tons of gold and silver coins, the barrels of jewelry and uncut gemstones from the Santa Cristina’s sunken carcass simply to have it land in the hands of the French king.
Louis XIII was el hijo de puta of high renowned. Doubtless the vile monarch would use the Santa Cristina’s riches to further the conflict already brewing between France and Bartolome’s homeland of Spain.
That could not happen. Not if Bartolome had breath left in his body.
His midshipman was the first to burst into the dirty clearing where the Santa Cristina’s surviving crew gathered around a small campfire, smoking the small batch of fish they had pulled from the sea earlier that morning. By the time Bartolome wrestled past the last bush, most of his men were on their feet, looking at him in alarm.
“Francés,” he gasped, flinging more blood from his face and sparing it but a glance as it landed on the sand in a shower of shining crimson. After two deep breaths, he added, “Grab your weapons.”
To a man, the sailors scrambled to arm themselves with the rudimentary spears and clubs they had fashioned from downed limbs and the few pieces of sturdy driftwood harvested from the beach. A handful of them wielded the blades and daggers they had clung to during the perilous swim to shore after the big ship went down.
Bartolome had prepared his men for the day they would be discovered by their enemies. For the day they would have to battle for their lives and the safety of the spoils meant to fund the might and continued glory of Spain.
It seemed that day may have come.
He took comfort in knowing the treasure was secure in its new home. And he held out a small spark of hope the Frenchmen would leave the island without venturing too far inland. That spark was doused, however, when raised voices sounded through the trees.
As a child, he had found the French tongue beautiful—almost musical in tone and cadence. Now, it sounded to him as harsh and unforgiving as a clanging death knell.
’Tis time, he thought gravely. Time to dance with the darkness once again.
As King Philip’s most decorated sea captain, he had seen his fair share of fighting and recognized the hot, oily anticipation of battle when it slicked through his veins.
Habit had him reaching for his trusty cutlass, but his fingers landed only on the cracked leather of his belt. He had lost his prized blade in the storm.
“Here, Capitán.” A gunner by the name of Juan José handed Bartolome a bone-handled dagger. “May the good Madré Maria be with you, sir.”
“May she be with each of us,” Bartolome agreed with a firm dip of his chin.
He had barely spoken the last word when the group of Frenchmen stumbled into the clearing. Once the newcomers saw the haggard faces of the Santa Cristina’s crew staring back at them, their expressions registered varying degrees of confusion and surprise. Then, understanding dawned in the eyes of the leader of the group. That understanding was quickly replaced by a prurient gleam.
“So here you are,” the man said in badly accented Spanish, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin so his rough palm rasped against his whiskers. It reminded Bartolome of a snake in the grass, and he could not shake the feeling this newcomer might prove as deadly.
“Every ship that sails these waters has been looking for you since the storm. But fortune favors us, it would seem.” The French leader cocked his head, a slow, greasy grin slipping over his tanned-leather face. “Tell us where to find the treasure.”
Bartolome brandished the dagger in his hand, squinting when a ray of sunshine cut through the trees overhead, making the blade sparkle with menace. “We will die before we tell you,” he growled through gritted teeth.
The newcomer’s gaze alighted on each of Bartolome’s crewmen. No doubt taking their pitiful measure.
For one long moment, no one moved. No one dared breathe. The tension vibrating through the air was thick enough to cut with a rapier.
Finally, the French leader shrugged. “So be it.” Lifting his blunderbuss, he aimed at Juan José’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The blastfrom the weapon was obscenely loud in the silence of the clearing. But it was nothing compared to the pain-soaked cry that peeled from the back of Juan José’s throat when the young sailor was flung backward by the force of the large bore shot. He hit the sandy ground, his hands scrabbling ineffectually at the bloody, bony mess that had once been his sternum.
For a few heartbeats, Juan Jose’s brain refused to believe his body was already dead. But then reality set in, and the young gunner breathed his last. As his spirit left his body, his bladder emptied itself.
The smell of rancid urine perfumed the air, making Bartolome’s nostrils flare.
Death is such an indignity,he thought as rage rolled through him. His voice was a crack of thunder when he bellowed, “Attack!”
Bless his crew, they did not hesitate. Hurling themselves toward the newcomers, they fought with what little strength remained in their enfeebled bodies.
Battle cries, the boom of weapons, and the clash of steel echoed through the trees. But Bartolome heard none of it. He was deaf to all but one man. The bastardo who had so callously killed Juan José.
Bartolome’s deadly intent must have registered on his face. When he charged the newcomer, he was met with a sneer and the zinging of a cutlass pulling free from its scabbard. He did not do as his instincts prompted and viciously attack the man in a bid to slice him bloody.
A dagger had no hope of defeating a cutlass in hand-to-hand combat. But what the small blade lacked in reach, it more than made up for in maneuverability. When he was but a few paces from his target, Bartolome flung the knife with all his might.
The force of his throw caused two buttons on his tattered vest to pop off and fall into the sand. And the dagger spiraled through the dense air, silver and ivory mixing together in a pinwheel of color.
The flight was silent.
The end of the flight was not.
The blade buried itself in the Frenchman’s chest with a solid thunk.
When the intruder saw the dagger had planted itself deep, his eyes flew wide. Bartolome could see the delicate web of veins cutting through the whites. The Frenchman wrapped a hand around the bone handle, but that was the last move he made before his eyes rolled back and he toppled sideways. Dark blood oozed from the corner of his open mouth to pool in the sand beneath his head.
Bartolome might have taken a moment to bask in the precision of his throw, but a familiar voice cut through the cacophony of battle with a desperate cry for help. A quick glance to his left showed Rosario wrestled with a man twice his size.
Without hesitation, Bartolome pulled the dagger from the lifeless body of the Frenchman. Letting loose with a banshee cry, he launched himself onto the back of the puto cabrón pinning Rosario to the ground…