Captain from Castile (32 page)

"Are you mad?" put in Escudero. "The fellow would be over the side like an eel, at the first blink. Can't you see what he's aiming at? He'd buy his pardon by informing on us. He's one of the General's wag-tails—like Sandoval."

Pedro's heart sank, for the other had read his intention well enough, but he looked unruffled.

"Senor," he said, "nothing is easier—or cheaper—than to insult a prisoner. You know perfectly well that if I had my arms and the leave of this company, I would cut off your ears. As to escape, a pair of chains will cure that until we are clear of the harbor."

"Fair enough," approved Coria. "And when we are clear, you can have your arms and my leave, brother Pedro. I'll bet my share of the emeralds on you. Anybody take me up?"

Silence followed, even on the part of Escudero. It was well-known that in fencing bouts Pedro de Vargas matched even Cristobal de Olid and Gonzalo de Sandoval.

By majority consent, Pedro's enlistment with the mutineers was now tentatively accepted, and a pair of shackles were produced to make it effective. As the handcuffs locked, Pedro tried vainly to catch Coria's eye; he felt that he had more to hope from this scapegrace than from the others. In the wrangle that followed as to where he should be kept, Escudero urged the hold; Coria, the cabin. But the former's authority had dwindled in the past hour. Coria won the debate by asserting that a chained man was the best guard of the jewels, and for his part he thought it safer if no one who wasn't chained slept in the cabin.

"Meanwhile," said Pedro, striving again to fix Coria's attention, "I hope you'll set a guard over the companionway. It would be a pity for me if certain gentry did not wait until I have my arms."

He got a poisonous glance from Escudero, but Coria only grinned. "I take your meaning. Redhead. You'll be safe enough. I'm for sleep— if you can call two hours sleep."

The party broke up, some leaving by the door to the quarter-deck, others climbing the companionway to the poop deck. Bolts were shoved home, and Pedro remained in the darkness.

Immediately he began working at his fetters, but uselessly. Even if he had stripped the flesh from his hands, his bones were still too large to be squeezed through the iron cuffs. And with every minute, the precious margin of time was shrinking. If he could only have had a word alone with Coria! That had been his last hope. He might perhaps have won the man over.

In the stuffy blackness of the cabin, he strained and sweated. The thought occurred that even if he succeeded in escaping at that moment, it would be too late. Even if somehow he got to shore, it would take time to reach Escalante and spread the alarm. Minute by minute, the brave dream of the army, of the men he loved, was crumbling, when so little would have sufficed to save it, when he had been so close to talking himself free!

An hour gone. Outside, he heard a gromet turn the glass, chanting his call, even though there was no change of watch. Then again silence.

No, a slight sound, as if the hatch above the companionway was being cautiously raised. Then a step, slow, furtive, descending.

Escudero?

He braced himself. Someone had entered the cabin.

The shade of a dark lantern slid back and he saw—Coria.

"I think," came a whisper, "you had something to tell me. I couldn't chance it before. We haven't much time. What do you want to say?"

XXXV

It was now or never. Coria had scented something to his advantage and was, in so far, open to suggestion. Everything depended on the next minute.

Pedro said, "I wanted to ask why you came on this expedition."

"Because I'm poor as a beggar's louse," returned Coria, "and the prospects looked good."

"Then why are you quitting it?"

"Because I'm tired of songs and promises. I got my hands on a bit of gold at San Juan de Ulua; but hasta la vista. I had to fork it over to give to the King. I'm fed-up."

"So you think you'll get rich in Cuba?"

Coria grinned toothily. "Remains to be seen."

"I wouldn't count on it too much. Juan Escudero's the man who'll

get rich. He has the ear of the Governor, and that's not going to be of help to you. He'll be your enemy from tonight on. Even as a friend, he's shown how much you can depend on him."

The grin faded, but Coria said nothing.

"No market in Cuba for emeralds," Pedro added. "And suppose Escudero tips off the Governor to confiscate them?"

The teeth disappeared. Coria scowled. "What are you aiming at?"

"That you're no fool. There's nothing in Cuba for you. What do you owe to this pack of traitors on the ship, when I can show you the way to Cortes's favor and five hundred pesos?"

Coria fingered his chin. "For what?"

"For helping me stop the Gallega."

"I see. Cortes gets back the emeralds. That puts you right with him. And I get the reward. Who pays it?"

"The General." Pedro was taking a big risk and knew it.

Coria lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

"Homhre!" snapped de Vargas. "Can't you see what it means to Cortes to shut off news to Cuba? As to the money, it's a good deal more than you'd ever draw from Velasquez with Escudero coaching him. That's plain."

Coria still pinched his chin. His eyes in the dim light looked like a speculative cat's. It was maddening to think how much depended on the rascal's decision: the march across the mountains, perhaps an empire. He sat weighing the pros and cons. But Pedro sensed a wavering in him. The logic was unescapable. Escudero, the Governor's man, would never forgive what had happened tonight. Whereas, Cortes . . .

"How do I know he'll pay?"

"My word for it."

"Humph!"

In spite of the darkness, Pedro could feel the approach of morning. He made a supreme effort.

"If he doesn't pay, you can have my share in the horse, Soldan. That's worth more than five hundred pesos."

"Look you, de Vargas," Coria pondered, "I'm not in this for my health. It's sometimes convenient to forget promises. What security do I have—"

"Lord in heaven!" chafed Pedro. "We haven't a notary here. What can I give but my word? You've heard of my father. J swear by his honor."

Coria hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Done!" he said. Producing a key, he unlocked Pedro's shackles, then fetched him his arms, sword and poniard, from a rack in the corner. "Now what's the plan?"

"We'll take the rigging. Cut as much as we're able. Smash the compass. If we can delay the start by an hour, we have them. \Vhen they get on to us, head for the ship's boat. Are you ready?"

Coria delayed. "We'd better take the emeralds."

"\Ve've no time to break open the chest—not to speak of noise."

"Of course not. But, you see, we don't have to break it open."

To Pedro's amazement, he drew the vanished key from his pocket and unlocked the coffer.

"But I thought—"

Coria smiled. "As it happened," he murmured, "I threw away the wrong key."

"Vayaj, vaya!" grinned de Vargas. "That's a lucky mistake."

"Isn't it? Of course the honor of a cavalier would have kept me from taking advantage of it. I'm from Old Castile, senor."

One by one, he looked wistfully at the stones, then handed them over.

"Well, there you are. You're the proper guardian. They're pretty but useless to a poor man—at least this side of the Ocean Sea. That was a good point of yours. No market."

Pedro dropped the emeralds into his belt purse and made sure of the buckles. It seemed unreal that he had them at last in his possession. It remained now to restore them to Cortes. Before that, he realized, some grim work might lie ahead.

Shoeless and silent, the two men crept up the companionway to the poop deck. The stars had paled within a faintly spreading twilight. It was the hour between winds before the offshore breeze started. The water lay quiet and bodiless as the sky. As yet, possibly because of the late conference that night in the cabin, no one seemed awake on the ship except the dim figure of a seaman, who stood drowsily by the rail on the main deck. Pedro nodded toward him and tapped his dagger hilt. Within the next ten minutes, at the first breath of the wind, the ship would come to life, and no time could be lost.

Like shadows, he and Coria stole down to the main deck, careful to avoid the bodies of several sleepers. Crossing to a position behind the man at the rail, Pedro struck suddenly with the loaded pommel of his knife. The fellow crumpled without sound and was eased unconscious to the deck. A sleeper stirred and grunted, then fell silent again.

Pedro heard the gnawing sound of Coria's knife at the mainmast

halyards, then the jerking movement as he cut smaller cords. Hurrying forward to the foremast, de Vargas dealt with as much of the tackle as he could reach, and turned back along the deck, heading for the binnacle astern.

But now figures were sitting up or scrambling to their feet. A hoarse shout sounded. The forecastle doors swung open. A man loomed in Pedro's way as he sped toward the quarter-deck, gave an astonished challenge, was shouldered aside. Meanwhile Coria had found an ax and was raining blow after blow upon the compass when de Vargas reached him.

"That's enough," urged the latter. "Make for the boat. I'll hold them in check. Give a call when you're aboard."

Coria darted up the steps to the poop deck. Sword in hand, Pedro covered the retreat.

"Back there!" he shouted, as the first surge came at him, "I don't want to hurt any of you. . . . Well, then, take it: Santiago! Cortes!"

The cry rang out across the water. His sword leaped. A man fell back, cursing and clutching his shoulder.

In the surprise, the bewilderment and uncertain light, it took a minute for the crew of the Gallega to organize an attack; but Escu-dero's orders were prompt and to the point.

"Get to the deck above him," he yelled. "Cut him off. Chepito! Tobal! Fetch your crossbows. Look alive!"

Armed with a pike, he led the frontal attack himself. But de Vargas bent aside the thrust of the weapon and sent back a blow that tilted Escudero's badly adjusted helmet over one ear. Then, turning, he leaped up the steps to the poop deck, just as two men, climbing from the side, reached the same level. The bend of the rail above the stem offered a slight protection. Within it, Pedro stood at bay, while the circle of men thickened around him. From below, he could hear the thumping sounds of Coria settling himself in the boat. The latter's treason had not yet been discovered, and a shout went up for him.

"It's like the dog to let us do the fighting," Escudero raged. "Where in hell is he?"

"Here!" came an answer from the water. "Good-by, Juanito. Give the devil my compliments when you meet him. Santiago! Cortes! . . . Ready, de Vargas."

The confusion of this surprise gave Pedro his chance. Vaulting backwards, he dropped to the water, shot under, rose to the surface, and in a few strokes reached the boat. Helped by Coria, he floundered into it. In the next moment, Coria bent to his oars.

It was a heavy yawl boat and moved by inches. Awkwardly fumbling, Pedro managed to ship a pair of oars for himself.

"Pull," Coria panted. "Pull your arms out."

The pandemonium of cursing on the Gallega suddenly stopped. In the half-light, Pedro could see a couple of figures at the rail and the silhouette of the crossbows. Deadly weapons at close quarters, they now had a perfect target at only a few yards.

"Don't miss, Tobal," sounded a voice.

Something buried itself in the thwart at Pedro's side, pinning his breeches to the wood and searing his leg like a hot iron. The next moment he found himself in the bottom of the boat, writhing around a center of pain in his head. He heard faintly the shout that went up from the Gallega and Coria's fierce oath. Everything turned black, but he did not lose consciousness. He was still aware of the anguish in his head and of Coria tugging at the oars. He was even aware that at one moment Coria flattened himself. He heard the thud of another bolt. Then the faintness passed, but the pain throbbed and leaped, so that he ground his teeth together to keep from crying out.

But now another sound came from the Gallega, the creaking of blocks and tackle. Evidently a lighter spare boat was being launched.

Pedro forced himself up.

"By the Lord!" muttered Coria between breaths. "I thought you were sped. How is it with you?"

Mumbling an answer, de Vargas groped for the oars. He could not see because of the blood streaming from his forehead, but he could make shift to row after a fashion.

"No use," Coria grunted—"three yards to our one."

The jerky, professional oar beats of the pursuers creaked rapidly nearer. Pedro drew his sleeve across his eyes and in the now definitely clear light caught a glimpse of the boat less than a hundred yards off.

"Can you swim, Coria?"

"Yes, but swimming's no good. We've a better chance if we fight."

Pedro shipped his oars, struggled out of his doublet, and tearing off a portion of his shirt bound the strip around his head.

"I've got to see to fight," he muttered.

Coria kept on doggedly pulling at the oars. Both he and Pedro knew that they had no chance against the eight armed men. They were simply following instinct and training. The land wind now ruffled the water, cutting down their progress, though it hardly affected the pursuing boat. Pedro could see Escudero's gilded helmet in the bow,

and the hard, intent face. If he did nothing else—A wave of dizziness struck. He grasped the thwart.

"Bring her around, Coria, so that they won't ram us."

The Gallega boat leaped forward. But suddenly, to Pedro's bewilderment, its oars stopped, tangled, began to back water. Escudero was no longer staring at him, but to the right; was shouting an order. The boat started to turn. In almost the same moment another longboat full of men came into sight, bearing down from the left in a converging line.

Coria dropped his oars. "Gracias a Dios!" he said devoutly.

In the stern of the oncoming craft, Pedro recognized Anton de Alaminos, Cortes's chief pilot.

"What's going on?" roared the latter, as the boats converged.