Sword of Vengeance (6 page)

The notion galled him.

Still, there was nothing to be done but enjoy what he had while he had it. Morales held out the bottle and sloshed its contents. “Ah, my friend, no one has a better sangria,” he told the cantina owner.

Valdez added beneath his breath, “Aye, but to my own misfortune.” He walked around behind the bar, brought out another bottle, and wondered if he would be paid for his troubles. Perhaps when the sergeant was in a better mood he might approach the man with a bill.

Morales swaggered across the room, dragging his sword belt behind him like an afterthought. He paused at the nearest table and leaned on the shoulder of the detachment’s corporal, Eduardo Galvez, a venerable campaigner who had spent his entire adult life in uniform. Galvez was a man of average height, with a solid build that his unremitting weariness had begun to erode.

He had been a sergeant like Morales more times than he could count. But inevitably his penchant for strong drink placed him at odds with his superiors and resulted in his demotions. At the age of forty-two, Galvez had once again attained the rank of corporal.

“Galvez, my brave corporal, how well you distinguished yourself against the
Inglés
soldiers,” Morales exclaimed.

“But Sergeant. We encountered no one. I did nothing,” Galvez said.

“And you have never been more distinguished,” Morales said, roaring with laughter. He clapped Galvez on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of the man.

The other soldiers joined in the fun at Galvez’s expense. The corporal did not seem to mind, however. In fact, except for his gasping for breath, he appeared unaffected by the sergeant’s insinuations. He recognized Morales’s black moods for what they were and had long ago resolved to bend with the breeze rather than resist and break.

“Now, my brave corporal,” Morales said, “see that you take our horses around back of the cantina and put them in the first corral you find, eh?”

“
Sí
. As you wish, my sergeant.” Galvez glanced forlornly at the cup of wine he would not be able to finish. Better to be thirsty, however, than to suffer a kick in the head. The corporal shoved himself away from the table and, without so much as a glance to left or right at his companions, headed straight for the door.

The younger men, thankful they would be allowed to sample the pleasure of Valdez’s cantina, watched the old corporal depart. None felt pity for the man. After all, he must bear the responsibility for the treatment he received.

Morales grinned at the young soldiers surrounding him. The corporal was a forgotten incident. Morales knew these young lads hung on his every word. And he was more than willing to fill their young heads with tales of Sergeant Morales’s bravery when fighting Indians and how he routed a war party with naught but his sword and a cudgel carved from a length of cypress.

Morales had just launched into one of his favorite tales after ordering Valdez to bring them all chorizo and fried bread when a familiar figure reappeared from outside. The sergeant looked up into Eduardo Galvez’s careworn features. Morales’s story trailed off unfinished.

“What is it, brave corporal? Are there too many horses for you to handle? Impossible. See, you have hardly drunk any wine.” Morales did not allow the corporal to make a reply. Not yet. It was easier to intimidate a man if you did not give him a chance to speak. “Yet here you stand? Have you indeed finished what I sent you to do?”

“No,
el jefe
,” Galvez said. “I have not begun.”

“Then why do you disobey my orders and return to stand before me?”

“I met a boy outside,” Galvez said. “One of Father Ramon’s Creek Indians. He has been awaiting our arrival back in the settlement.” Galvez lowered his head, bending over so that he might continue in a whisper. “He will only speak to you, Sergeant. But he says he brings important news. He speaks of
Inglés
seafarers and a treasure of yellow gold.”

Morales leaned closer to the corporal. The sergeant blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a hairy paw. “Gold?”

“
Sí
.”

“Who is this boy? What is he called?”

“His name,” Corporal Galvez said, “is Esteban.”

B
Y MIDMORNING, THE HARDEST
part of the journey, poling a raft across St. John’s River, lay behind Kit and Tibbs. Father Ramon had insisted on guiding them as far as Alsino Escovar’s cabin. They had left the Creek village before dawn and had made good time despite the fact that even Father Ramon had become confused as to the current whereabouts of Escovar’s cabin. Tibbs had objected at first that the priest would only slow them up. But after hours spent winding through a network of forests, peat swamps, and primeval glades, even Tibbs was forced to admit that without Father Ramon’s help the two Yankees would have become hopelessly lost. Now even the priest was disoriented.

Halfway across a meadow, about seventy yards from the edge of a forest of slash pines, Kit paused to take a moment’s rest. His two companions were more than happy to sink down in the grass and prop themselves against a man-made battlement of cypress logs. The timber’s bark was gone and the wood was worn smooth by the action of wind and rain and perhaps even fire, for one log was soot-blackened. Tibbs wiped the sweat from his eyes and helped himself to a sip of water from one of the deerskin bags they had taken from the village. Kit surveyed the placement of the logs. They were arranged in a triangle, dragged from some nearby bayou.

“Escovar has left many such primitive little forts,” Father Ramon said. “He is a cautious man by nature. But I think I have him pinned down.” He spoke with conviction. The priest dislodged a clump of peat from his sandal. “A man cannot have too many places to hide, Alsino has often told me.” The Franciscan shook his head in resignation. “He does not trust the Creeks, even the ones around my mission. But I recognize this place. Yes, I have found him.”

“Just as long as he has horses, I don’t care how secretive the bastard is,” Tibbs muttered, wrinkling his toes in his boots. He was wet and tired, and as the sun climbed into the sky, he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He adjusted the pouch over his shoulder and handed the water bag to the priest. Then he worked a kink out of his stiffened shoulder.

“You want me to carry it for a while?” Kit offered his friend.

“You’ve done your share of packing our gold,
compadre
, I can do mine,” Tibbs replied, patting the pouch flap. He shaded his eyes and stared up at the hot, cloudless sky. The tall grasses seemed to droop beneath the heat and oppressive humidity.

“It isn’t far now,” Father Ramon said. “Just beyond those trees. See the cluster of cinnamon ferns at the base of those laurels? They mask a deer trail that will lead you right to Escovar’s cabin. Just keep to the trail.”

“You’re sure?” Tibbs asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, my son. But I will walk this last distance with you, to keep you both out of trouble. I will tell Alsino you wish to trade gold for horses. He will forgive your intrusion once he hears me out.” The old priest leaned against the smooth, worn log and sighed. “I shall be glad to return to my people.”

“We are in your debt. Padre.” Kit had grown to like this simple man of God.

Tibbs slapped at a mosquito and left a bloody smear on the side of his neck. “God, but I will be glad to be rid of this forsaken country.” He patted the pouch he carried; it contained their future.

“We are almost home,” Kit said. “What will you do with your share, Bill?” It was a question they had asked one another throughout the voyage from Derna. Each time the answers changed as the men reconsidered what they wanted from life. “I don’t know anymore,” Kit continued. “I can’t seem to think any further than a tub of hot water and a soft bed.”

“Well, I can. From now on, others will risk their necks while I reap the rewards. We haven’t lost so much of our gold to keep a wise man from setting himself up for life. I have plans for us, Kit. Big plans.”

“I’m with you,” Kit said. “Only …”

“What?”

“The talk we heard of war with Britain.”

“Good God, man, that is none of our concern. We are men of wealth now. And the rich cannot afford to be patriotic.”

“You’re an incorrigible brigand, Bill Tibbs.”

“Just trying to save you from yourself,” Tibbs replied with a grin.

Kit glanced around at the priest. “Well, Father, are you rested enough to continue? The sooner we find horses, the sooner you can start back to the village.”

“I am rested,” the padre replied.

“Then we can be on our way.” Kit scrambled to his feet. He turned and happened to check the trail of crushed grass that marked their route across the meadow. Then he froze as a troop of Spanish dragoons materialized out of the forest behind them.

At a glance Tibbs knew there was trouble. He stood alongside his friend and watched in dismay as the dragoons readied their muskets and advanced on the men in the redoubt.

“Christ! What now?” Tibbs muttered.

“Not Christ,” Father Ramon spoke up. He too was on his feet and recognized at a glance the man who had tracked them down. “Sergeant Pablo Morales.” The priest also knew he was in desperate trouble for having aided the
Inglés
fugitives.
Madre de Dios
, how had Morales learned of the Yankees’ presence? the priest wondered.

“Get down, damn it,” Tibbs said, crouching behind the makeshift fort.

“Why? He’s seen us,” Kit replied.

“Like a bee trapped in a spider’s web, I fear we are caught, my friends,” the priest said, blessing himself with the sign of the cross.

“Bees sting,” Kit reminded the padre, and drew his pistols. Tibbs hurriedly readied his own weapons as he squatted under cover.

“There are too many. We’re finished, damn it,” Tibbs growled in disgust.

“They’ll lose some of their men in the process,” Kit said, facing the dragoons, who had begun to walk their mounts forward, slowly advancing on the makeshift fort. “I don’t think any one of them is in a hurry to die.”

“What are you getting at?” Tibbs said.

“Please. No killing,” Father Ramon blurted. “I cannot allow it.”

“Shut up, Padre,” Tibbs said. “Kit?”

Kit checked his guns, taking care to prime each weapon. Then he looked over his shoulder at the edge of the forest beyond which Alsino Escovar’s cabin ought to be. “We need horses if we’re to get out of this.”

“Forget it,” Tibbs said. “Those dragoons would ride us down before we got halfway.”

“Us. But not you, if I stay here and give them something to worry about. You go get us horses from Escovar.”

“You can’t stay. I won’t let you,” Tibbs protested.

“Do you have a better idea?” Kit waited for an answer, and when none was forthcoming, said, “Good. Get going.”

“Why should you be the one to stay?” Tibbs asked, defiance in his voice.

“Because it was my idea,” Kit retorted. “Now start off. And keep low. Crawling’s slower, but they might not see you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t try to haggle with Escovar. Just pay him what he wants for the horses and come on. I’ll be waiting right here.”

Tibbs looked at the priest. “You say the ferns mark the deer trail?”

“You cannot miss it. And the path widens the closer you come to Escovar’s,” Father Ramon explained nervously.

Tibbs looked questioningly at the treasure bag, as if unsure whether or not to leave the gold.

“Take it with you,” Kit said. “I don’t want Morales to have any chance of getting his hands on what’s left. He hasn’t earned it.”

Tibbs held his arm outstretched as Kit knelt at his side. The two friends clasped hands. “I’ll be back,” the dark-haired man promised in a choked whisper. “I swear it.”

“I know, Bill,” Kit said. “Just hurry.”

Tibbs placed one of his pistols on the ground by Kit. Then he tucked the other in his belt and crawled off through the tall grass.

“No bloodshed, please, Señor Christopher,” Father Ramon pleaded.

Kit gave the man a strange look. Only his mother called him by his full name. It sounded odd, coming from the Spanish priest. Kit pointed at the soldiers at the opposite end of the meadow. “Padre, that’s entirely up to them.”

Sergeant Morales rolled onto his back and managed to slake his thirst with the last of the water in his canteen and that belonging to one of his troops, a slim, cautious youth by the name of Vargas. The underling watched with a mixture of anger and resignation as the sergeant consumed the last of the younger man’s water. Morales passed the empty canteen back to his subordinate.

“Don’t worry, little pup. You shall drink your fill once we have captured these
Inglés
sailors.” The sergeant wiped a hand across his perspiring features and stared up at the cloudless void. How still and quiet … quiet! He propped himself up on one elbow. “Galvez. Corporal Galvez.”

“Sí, my sergeant,” Galvez said, glumly acknowledging his presence where he was hidden in the grass.

“Perhaps our friends have no more powder. Find out for me, eh?”

“Sí,” came the weary reply. Grass rustled, and then the corporal popped his head up. A pistol cracked, and the corporal’s hat flew from his head as he ducked back under cover.

“They still have powder, my sergeant,” came Galvez’s gloomy report.

“I can hear,” Morales said, and added, “idiot,” beneath his breath. He closed his eyes and took stock of the situation. He and his men had tried to rush the makeshift fort. It had been a halfhearted attempt. Galvez had let slip about the gold, and now each man wanted a share and no one wished to risk death in obtaining it.

Morales relived with humiliating clarity the charge his men made across the meadow. Powder smoke blossomed above the logs as the
Inglés
opened fire. Two of the dragoons dropped from horseback, and the other horsemen immediately wheeled their mounts and retreated out of range of the Yankee guns. Dismounted, the dragoons opened fire and tried a second assault on foot. It too failed, at the cost of another man. The log walls still held. The timber not only provided excellent cover, but the builder had placed his battlements on the meadow’s highest point, a grassy mound that provided an excellent field of fire for the
Inglés
defenders.