Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker
Epilogue
June 27th, 1624…
“Please, Capitán,” Alvaro, a young helmsman, pleaded. “’Tis a perfect night to be at sea. Let us unfurl the sails and make for Havana.”
Even in the dimness of the moonless night, Captain Bartolome Vargas registered the beseeching look on Alvaro’s face.
He and his men had won the battle at the campsite. But not before losing ten more of their brethren. Another dozen of the Santa Cristina’s crew were variously injured and being seen to by the ship’s surgeon. Those few who had managed to come out of the fight unscathed were gathered around Bartolome on the French ketch and wearing looks that closely mirrored Alvaro’s.
This ship was a chance at salvation. A chance to reach home port and fill their bellies with good food and good drink.
But ’twas a slim chance, indeed.
Too slim.
“You heard the French capitán.” Bartolome kept a wide stance on the deck of the ketch as the ocean breeze rocked the ship. Oh, how he had missed the feel of a vessel moving beneath his feet. He had been a sea captain for so long that solid ground seemed foreign and wrong.
“Every one of our enemies is out looking for us,” he continued. “’Tis little chance we could make Havana without running afoul of them. We would most assuredly be tortured into giving up the location of the treasure.”
His men could not argue the truth of his words, and yet a few of them grumbled their displeasure. He pretended not to hear it. There were times it behooved a leader to let small insurrections slide.
“Gather what food and supplies you may whilst I prepare to light her afire.” He lifted the bucket of lamp oil in his hand, keeping his voice steady and authoritative.
No doubt, if they left the ship anchored, a passing vessel would see it and come to investigate. They could not invite more scrutiny. Tthey would burn her remains in the dead of the night, and then continue their vigil on the island. Continue to sit in the crow’s nests they had built and watch for a passing ship flying the Spanish colors.
“Do as the capitán says!” Rosario barked when the crew were slow to do Bartolome’s bidding.
With a few more grumbles and a lot of shuffling feet, Bartolome’s men eventually wandered off into the dark. All except for Alvaro.
The young sailor stood rooted, his hands curled into thick fists that looked particularly angry in the gray wash of starlight.
Straightening to his full height, Bartolome peered down the length of his nose at the recalcitrant sailor. Small insurrections were one thing. Large ones? No.
Mutiny had a way of multiplying upon itself.
“I did not stutter, Alvaro,” he stated imperiously, wishing he had not lost the bone-handled dagger in the melee of battle. “Neither did Rosario.”
“You keep telling us to bide our time, Capitán.” Alvaro’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “You keep promising a Spanish ship will stumble upon us. But what happens if one never does? The secret of the Santa Cristina’s treasure will die with us.”
“No,” Bartolome shook his head. “I have a plan to ensure that does not happen. Trust me.”
For a long moment, Alvaro studied Bartolome, looking for the truth in his captain’s eyes. He must have found it. He nodded before joining the others as they pilfered from the small ketch what stores they could find.
Not long after, Bartolome sat in the bow of the Frenchmen’s rough wooden dinghy and watched as orange fire ate its way across the ketch’s deck. Tongues of flame licked up the mast and lapped at the wooden side rails. Acrid smoke filled the air, making every breath burn. And the dinghy rode low in the water, weighed down by the food and supplies they had taken with them.
Alvaro’s words echoed through Bartolome’s brain. “The secret of the Santa Cristina’s treasure will die with us…”
Despite his brave words, that was the thing Bartolome feared most. It was the one thing—besides his hungry belly—that kept him awake at night. The one thing that taunted him even when he managed to fall into a fitful sleep.
If they did all die on the island, and if the clues he planned to leave behind were not enough to lead his countrymen to the riches, then all of this—all the pain and suffering and thirst and starvation—would have been for naught.
No, he thought with an adamant shake of his head. The Santa Cristina’s riches will rise again! For the glory of God and our holy king!