fish, and fruit.
We careened two ships there and scraped their bottoms, and made some other repairs. We also loafed a lot and ate a lot of fruit, and I taught Novia how to swim. At that time, I do not believe I had gone swimming since I had been on Hispaniola, and it was good to get back into the water. Once we were joined by two Kuna girls who could swim like seals, and anybody who saw the three of them playing would have found it easy to believe there were girls with fish tails right over the next wave. I have had some bad times in my life, but I have had a lot of wonderful times, too, times I would love to go back to. That was one of those.
Another one was just this morning. I bundled up in my sweater, my overcoat, and so on, and unlocked the church so I could go in to say my mass. (We have to say mass every day, whether anybody comes or not.) The furnace had been turned down the night before, and the church was so cold that there was a skin of ice on the fonts. But the warm presence of God was waiting, and He and I were alone in there together. After I had received, I was no longer aware of Him.
But I knew that He had not gone away. The logwood cutters lived in the swamps and cut a kind of wood used to make red dye. They said it pays better than anything else a man can do, but their living conditions are about as bad as living conditions can get. Imagine the march to Santa Maria-the part through the lowlands. Now imagine living like that all the time. Imagine sleeping in a swamp and eating in a swamp. Instead of marching with the hope of getting out, you go off each day to fell trees and haul logs. The Spanish try to drive the logwood cutters out from time to time, just like they did when we were buccaneers on Hispaniola. It comes, and it goes. That is what the cutters say. They fight if there are not too many Spanish, and hide in the swamps if there are.
They fight with Spanish logwood cutters, too.
We signed up a few men-three for my ship-but not what we had hoped.
The Cimaroons were something else. I have seen some tough men, but I never saw any tougher than they were. Most are black-escaped slaves, and men whose fathers were escaped slaves. Some are Zambo Moskitos, some white. (The whites are mostly runaway slaves, too.) We went ashore and talked with them, explaining what we wanted. They said they would talk it over that night and call us in the morning.
Right.
We were keeping a close watch, because we were almost within shouting distance of the Spanish Main, and there was no port. If the weather had looked like it was going to get rough, we would have to get out to sea in a hurry. Novia and I woke up in the middle of the night, and when we were both sweaty and out of breath we decided to go up on deck, look at the moon, and cool off.
Everything seemed to be in good shape. Boucher was officer of the watch, and he was awake and nearly sober. There was a man at the wheel and another at the masthead, both awake, and the moon-one of those thin crescent moons that always look prettier than anything has a right to-was setting behind the trees. Novia and I watched it go down, tangling itself in the branches and shining through the leaves.
Then she pointed, and I saw a piragua putting out, all dark and not making a sound that I could hear. To its left there was another, and another to its right.
I smacked Boucher a pretty good one, yelled, 'Are you blind!,' jerked the pistol out of his belt, and fired it in the air.
That woke the watch and we had the guns run out and firing before the piraguas had covered half the distance from shore. That woke men on the Magdelena, the Weald, and Gosling's Snow Lady. The piraguas scooted back, and when the sun came up there were twenty or thirty bodies floating in the water.
Pretty soon some Cimaroons hailed us just as nice as you please and said they wanted to join us, and would we kindly come ashore and pick them up?
We said no thanks, just swim on out and we will throw ropes to you so you can climb on board-no more than ten on each ship.
Eventually they paddled out in piraguas, carrying muskets, hatchets, cane knives, and so forth. Twenty-six came aboard Sabina. I do not remember how many went to the other ships. I looked them over and sent back all those who had any kind of wound. That left about twenty. After that, I let my officers pick out one man each, telling each officer that he was responsible for that man and was to kill him if he found him plotting with the rest. At that time, we had a quartermaster (Red Jack), a first mate (Bouton), a second mate (Boucher), a third mate (O'Leary), a bosun (Corson), a bosun's mate (Dell), a gunner (Hansen), and a gunner's mate (Maas). So that took care of eight.
After that, Novia and I picked one together, and Mahu, Big Ned, and Azuka did the same thing, making ten.
We told the rest they had to go back. They wanted to fight, but we were too many for them and we were standing all around them. Eventually they went off with no blood spilled.
We had not done as well at either place as we had hoped, but Captain Burt wanted to take a shot at Maracaibo anyway, and Harker, Gosling, and I went along. We all agreed that if it looked too bad we would not do it. Novia was against it, but I felt like Harker-our luck was bound to change sooner or later.
Which it did in about a week. We took a fair-sized ship carrying cacao beans and twelve thousand pieces of eight. As if that were not good enough, four of its crew joined us. Gosling put a few of his men on board and took it to Jamaica, promising to do some recruiting and meet us at Curacao, a Dutch island that was about as close to the Gulf of Venezuela as we wanted to go before we were ready to move in.
Everybody except Harker and me, that is. He sailed into the Gulf with me on board one fine evening and dropped me off close enough to see the lights of the city. I do not believe I will ever forget standing there with my boots ankle-deep in mud and watching the Princess sail away, as dark and as silent as any shadow. I had some money of my own in my money belt, plus a heavy purse of doubloons Capt. Burt had given me. Besides the money, my long silver-hilted Spanish sword, a Spanish dagger Novia had picked up somewhere, and a letter she and I had forged together.
I also had Captain Burt's words ringing in my ears. 'You're the best man I could hope to have for this, Chris. I'm countin' on you more than I've ever counted on any man in my life. We've got to know about that fort, first and last. After that, the watchtower. After that, the whole city-where to look for money, and how many soldiers there are. Mark where you're landed, because Harker will come lookin' for you in a fortnight. In one fortnight, mind. That's fourteen days, neither more nor less. If you're not finished by then, come back and report anyway. We sent you in once, and we can send you in again.'
I had nodded. 'I've got it.'
'Good.' He was trying to smile, but too worried to make it look right. 'I'm countin' on you not to get caught. If you are, keep your chin up, stand mum, and don't lose hope. We'll do everythin' we can to get you out. And good luck.'
I knew I was going to need it. IF I WERE to tell all that happened in Maracaibo, I would be at this for a year. I doubt that I have a month. I hiked into the city, staying out of sight until I was practically there. By the time I got down close to the waterfront, where the action was, it was midmorning. I went from inn to inn looking for a place to eat, and more importantly for a place to stay. There's no better place for a man to listen to gossip and maybe ask a few questions than the taproom of an inn. Eventually I found one that looked clean and decent without being too pricey. The innkeeper had a Native American slave, and on the third day I was there I bought him.
It was the kind of thing I had told myself over and over I should not do, but I did it just the same. That morning, I heard noises like somebody pounding oakum and some pretty fair Spanish cussing in the courtyard and went out to see what was going on. The innkeeper and his sons had their Native American slave down and were beating him with good-sized sticks. He was curled up the way you do, trying to cover his head with his arms. I kept thinking he would yell for mercy any minute, but he never did. He never said a thing until they stopped, and as I watched I started to wonder whether he could talk, and whether they were going to kill him.
Finally they quit, wiping the sweat off their faces and panting. That was when I heard him whisper, 'Oh, Jesus…'
It was all he said-but it was in English. Our Lord's name sounds a lot different in Spanish because the J is pronounced like H and the E like AY. 'Hay-soos.' This was English, no doubt about it. And I felt as though He were standing right behind me, laying His pierced hand on my shoulder. This is it, Chris. This is the moment. What are you going to do?
