CHAPTER 6
RIO LAGARTOS
“An interesting sort of barbarian,” said Velasco, handing his wife a glass of claret. Olivia accepted the glass without speaking. They sat on the veranda of Rio Lagartos, their principal plantation, watching the burial service being conducted in the white cemetery down below. It was consecrated ground, and when Father Reies found out there might have been Protestants buried there, there might be trouble; but Velasco was a civilized man and saw no reason why white men should be buried in the colored cemetery merely on account of some three-century-old doctrinal dispute.
“He chews tobacco and speaks of God as if the Almighty had him to dinner once a week,” Velasco said. “We shall have to go over the plantation very carefully after he leaves, and burn all the Protestant tracts. He is bound to leave a few. I don’t want Father Reies to find them.”
He delicately smoothed out a wrinkle in the trousers of his pale blue suit. Velasco had returned to Rio Lagartos in dreadful disarray, with tar and gunsmoke streaking his green and yellow outfit, and his collar stock torn by a bullet he hadn’t even noticed. He found the pale blue restful. He reached out and took his wife’s hand.
“I hope those dreadful sailors don’t stay long,” said Olivia. She peered out over the veranda toward the sea and toward the long black plume of smoke that rose from the green horizon.
“Those ships are still burning,” she said.
“Yes. I put the Spanish flag over them and tried to tell the British they were my property, but they were not appeased. The prizes were in shallow water, and the flames will not quench. They will burn for some time.”
“You should not take such risks, my love,” said Olivia.
Velasco affected a lazy, feline shrug. “It was nothing, my dear. A little skirmish in the night.”
The party at the graveside dispersed, the majority organized under George Willard to build temporary lodging for themselves. Gideon Markham, carrying his bible, walked across the long plantation lawn to the veranda. His brown coat was still stained with gunpowder and ash. Velasco introduced him to his wife. Olivia did not speak English, and Gideon could not speak her language. Velasco interpreted the necessary formalities.
“We would offer you wine, Captain, but I remember you do not drink,” Velasco said. “Perhaps we could offer you lemonade?”
“Wine would be excellent, Don Esteban,” said Gideon. “I do not drink spirits on my vessel; it would be bad for discipline. But ashore there is no reason for abstinence.”
“Have some claret, sir. It is the best we can get in these difficult days.”
“Thankee, Don Esteban.”
They drank quietly in the shade of the great porch. Señora Velasco could not entirely keep her eyes from wandering over Gideon, observing the dark blood under his fingernails, the little wounds in his clothing from enemy lead and iron. The sea breeze, soft this far inland, cooled the veranda.
“Don Esteban, I must find my way to a ship,” Gideon said. “I must travel to Mobile to meet my other privateer.”
“Then you must go to Havana,” said Velasco. “Even there you may have trouble finding a ship to go to Mobile, since your, ah, countrymen have seized the place. You may find a ship bound for Pensacola and can make your way from there, I will give you a horse if you wish.”
“Thank you, but it would be faster to go by sea. Mr. Willard saved a boat and hid it carefully; other boats are upstream past the landing. If the British don’t find them all, we’ll be able to outfit a boat and be in Havana in two or three days.”
“Much faster than the land route, indeed,” said Velasco cautiously. He sipped his wine. He thought he knew where this conversation was going to lead.
“Don Esteban, I cannot take my men with me,” Gideon said. “That many Americans in San Juan would attract attention. They would almost certainly be arrested—the Spanish authorities have imprisoned any American privateers they could find, even those that were in distress. As a single American gentleman I may be able to get by, but my men— never.”
Velasco carefully brushed a silken lapel. “How may I assist you, my friend?” he asked.
Gideon coughed uncomfortably. “They need a place to stay for two or three months,” Gideon said. “I would of course pay for their food and for any other articles they may need. They’re all skilled— if you needed a building put up or a grove cleared, they could be put to use.”
“I could be in serious trouble were it found out,” Velasco said. “The British will certainly complain to the authorities in Havana, who will send men to make inquiries for your crew.”
“Don Esteban, I trust you are not without influence,” Gideon said as tactfully as he could. “My men could quarter themselves away from your house, down by the landing. No one goes down there, and it’s on your land. You would know of any searches. Willard could enforce strict discipline; they wouldn’t be found wandering about.”
Velasco sipped his wine. He could use the labors of fifty white men for the autumn months. He had licensed a sugar press a year before, but hadn’t found the skilled labor to build it. A new stable had to go up, since the last had been burnt by a trouble-making slave. The privateer’s boats had been so much more efficient than the flat-bottomed craft hammered together by the slaves that it would be nice to have a few. As for any search conducted by the local forces, Velasco was himself the local magistrate, and the head of the local garrison was known to be very approachable in these matters, and to be so extraordinarily lazy and inefficient that any search he conducted would easily be diverted. Besides, he could tell the man that he had with his own eyes seen the privateers sailing away in their little boats and that they hadn’t returned.
“You may tell your men that they may stay, Captain,” he said. “They will keep out of sight on Sundays— that’s when the priest comes. He was here earlier today but has gone.”
“Today?” Gideon said. “Today is the Sabbath?”
“It is Sunday, the third Sunday in August.”
“Thunderation!” Gideon gasped. “I’d forgotten!”
“You had other things on your mind, Captain.”
Gideon seemed quite agitated. “I should not have forgotten,” he muttered. “The Sabbath is holy, and I should have kept it.” He stood. “Thank you for the wine, Don Esteban, and the chance to meet your beautiful wife,” he said. “I thank you on behalf of my men. I will tell them the good news, and then we’ll have a little service. The two of you will be most welcome.”
“A Sunday service after a funeral?” asked Velasco, puzzled. “Have you not already—?”
“Not in the proper spirit,” said Gideon firmly. “The men are used to special Sunday services. I must choose a text. Good day to you, sir. Señora.”
Velasco rose hastily. “Good day, Captain,” he said. “Supper is at eight if you would care to join us.”
“I would be honored, Don Esteban. Tonight, then.”
Velasco sat down as he watched the receding form of the Yankee captain. “An interesting sort of barbarian,” he said to his wife again, and took her hand.