Prologue
May 26, 1624…
The end is near…
ThewordsrangthroughCaptainBartolomeVargas’s mind with the ominous clarity of a death knell. The seas…the wildly capricious seas had turned against him just as they had done many times before. But unlike all those earlier hard-fought, hard-won battles, something inside him—a premonition, perhaps? Or maybe simple intuition?—told him this day there would be no escaping the watery jaws that waited to swallow his beloved ship and the 224 souls aboard her like a giant blue whale gulping down a gullet full of krill. This day neither Christ nor cannon could protect his precious galleon from the huge, frothing waves rushing up against her hull.
“Take in the main sails! Make haste!” he bellowed to the crewmen crawling in the rigging and scrambling and sliding across theSanta Cristina’s waterlogged deck. His first mate blasted the command through a whalebone whistle, the three-note trill nearly lost when the ferocious wind caught it and whipped it out to sea. Raking the rain and salt spray from his eyes, Bartolome wrestled with the big wooden wheel, looking toward the east and the roiling wall of clouds that heralded his doom. When he’d awakened that morning to the eerie glow on the horizon, his sailor’s instincts had warned him they were in for one hell of a storm. But so early in the season, he had not been prepared for this…
Un huracán—ahurricane. There was no doubt in his mind.
Withaviolentcurse, he swung his gaze to the north, hoping his sister ship,Nuestra Señora de Cádiz, had made it to Bone Key in time to ride out the fury on the leeward side of the island. Upon seeing the tumultuous red sky at sunrise, he and Captain Quintana, his counterpart aboard theCádiz,hadmadethedecisiontosplitthearmadasailingforSpain. Quintana would continue on, taking refuge along the way at Bone Key if need be. And Bartolome would turn back to their home port of Havana—and if he could not make that, he would shelter near the ringed island halfway between. Their thinking had been that if worse came to worst, at least one ship would survive the tempest. Butun huracán… Un huracáncouldverywellseethembothatthebottomofthesea.
JustlikeEustacio…
Withagrimace, Bartolome thought of the man he lost overboard midmorning along with six of his bronze deck cannons when theSanta Cristinatookaroguewavebroadside. It should have been his first clue this was no mere summer squall. He should have sought shelter then.
Hehadnot.
“God help them.” Bartolome quietly whispered a prayer for both Eustacio and his sister ship. Then he included a prayer for himself and his remaining crew, “God help us all,” before turning his attention to the south.
Themercilesswindwhippedhishairfromtheclaspathisnape, plastering it against the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He paid it no mind as he strained and wished with his whole heart to see the glittering, welcoming lights of Havana. Unfortunately, with the city still so far away, that sight was no more substantial than a memory. It was impossible to fight the wind and the tides to sail back to her now.
Asiftoprovehispoint, he watched, stricken, while theSan AndrésandtheSan José, the two gunships tasked with protectingtheSanta Cristina,eachfellvictimtothemonsterwavescrashingovertheirdecks. First one, then the other quietly slipped beneath the surface of the teeming water. Their demises rendered even more horrific by the seeming banality, the simplicity, with which they were dragged to the bottom.
The end is near…
ThosewordsonceagainroseuptotauntBartolome, and he had just enough time to send up an invocation for the lost souls aboard the gunships when—sploosh!—theSanta Cristina’s yardarms plunged into the angry ocean as she rolled violently to her side. The deck heaved beneath his feet. He gripped the wheel with one hand and the slick rail with the other, holding on so tightly his fingers ached. The mighty masts groaned and creaked in dire warning, and the bitter smell of silt and kelp, stirred up by the swirling currents, added to the sharp bite of electricity burning through the air.
Boom!Aburstoflightning, only found in the most turbulent and unpredictable hurricanes, sizzled through the sky overhead, highlighting the determined faces of Bartolome’s crew as they battled for the life of the ship, and ultimately their own salvation.
Theyhadonlyonechance: the ringed island he’d left behind just a short time ago when he was still arrogant enough to think it was possible to reach home port…
“We are coming about!” he yelled to his first mate.
Nodding jerkily, the young officer lifted his whistle to his lips. Bartolome saw the man’s cheeks puff out, but no sound emerged from the small instrument. With a shouted curse, his first mate shook as much of the sea spray from the whistle as he could before trying again. This time, two short, clear notes pierced the blustery air, followed by one long, melodious trill.
Bartolomewatchedthroughtheblindingscreenofrainashisvaliantcrewstruggledtodohisbidding. When the rigging was ready, he spun the wheel, his muscles burning from the long hours of desperately working to control the big ship.TheSanta Cristinamoanedmightily, the wood of her hull straining as she fought to make the turn in the heaving seas. But the instant the secondary sails caught the force of the gale, lifting the ship sharply before plunging her to her side, it became obvious it was too late. She could probably hold together long enough to take them back to the ringed island, but she was far too cumbersome to make the maneuvers needed to safely sail them around to the leeward side.
“She is too heavy, sir!” the cook’s son yelled, clinging desperately to the railing of the quarterdeck. The fear in the young lad’s wide eyes was as stark as the choices that lay before Bartolome. “We must relieve her of her cargo if we want to live!”
Hercargo…the tons of gold and silver coins, the barrels of jewelry and uncut gems theSanta Cristinacarriedinherbigbelly. It was a treasure King Philip desperately needed to fund the ongoing fight against the English, French, and Dutch—those scurvy bastards determined to see Spain’s empire burned to ashes. A treasure the king had entrusted to Bartolome, Quintana, and the twin ships they captained, the prides of the Spanish fleet.
Bartolomeknewwhathemustdo.King and country first.
Yankingthewheelhardleft, he struggled to follow the currents and pilot the ship from the deceptive safety of the deep water to the certain perils of the shallows.
“What are you doing?” the boy screeched as the ship plowed up a mammoth wave, the deck going nearly vertical before cresting the swell and plunging down the other side. “You will run us aground!”
AndthatwasexactlyBartolome’s plan. If he stayed out in the fathomless depths of the straits and liberated theSanta Cristinaofherpreciouscargobeforesailingaroundtothenorthoftheisland, they stood a chance against the wrath of the storm. However, half of the wealth of his nation, the wealth his king was counting on, would forever be condemned to a black, watery grave.
“We will steer her toward the reef line!” he yelled to the lad as another wave crashed over the decks, sending his crewmen sliding and grasping for handholds, and momentarily blinding Bartolome with a face full of foul, briny water. “There will be a chance for salvage!”
“But you will kill us all!” the cook’s son screeched, and Bartolome once again viciously swiped the salt spray from his eyes, sparing the thirteen-year-old boy a quick, pitying glance.
So young to be facing the inevitability of death. Likely has not yet tasted his first woman…
TheideagaveBartolomemomentarypause. But then he shook his head and pushed the thought aside, returning his attention to steering the ship through the treacherous seas. The life of a sailor was uncertain at best, and the lad had been well warned of the dangers before signing on to join his father on this voyage with the royal fleet.
