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 theSanta Cristinaon 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 theSanta Cristinaoutnumbered 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 theSanta Cristina’senormous 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 theSanta Cristina’ssunken carcass simply to have it land in the hands of the French king.
Louis XIII wasel hijo de putaof high renowned. Doubtless the vile monarch would use theSanta Cristina’sriches 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 theSanta Cristina’ssurviving 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.
