Cerulean Isle (12 page)
“What of the chart? You’ve put it someplace safe, haven’t you?”
“Of course. It’s folded and tucked tightly in my shirt.”
The crew focused on sailing cautiously over the coral reefs that plagued the shallow green water. Grant and I stood at the bow looking out at the island. Dense fog covered the peaks of the great mountains that ruled the land. Clusters of houses dotted the waterfront, interspersed with patches of sandy beaches. Large black rocks fortified the shores of Grenada, and as our agile sloop swam closer, a thin layer of morning fog fell over us.
“Welcome to Grenada,” Waylin spoke from behind us. “We are now entering St. George’s Harbor. Grenada is an interesting place; it’s always been one of my favorite islands.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Well, St. George’s has the safest natural harbor in the entire Caribbean. The coral we just passed protects it from larger ships. We’ll dock in a few minutes. Forgive me, but I must leave you now to take the helm. We’ll talk more soon.”
Waylin left us, and we watched anxiously as St. George’s Harbor embraced our ship. The waterfront was crowded with ships similar to ours. We could see lush green hillsides where farms had been carved out of the tropical forest.
I was nervous about venturing onto a strange island amid strange people. The uncertainty of my future scared me the most. What would become of me? What of Waylin and Christoff? Would the rest of their lives be spent constantly eluding L’Ollon’s crew? Would I hear in a year’s time that their bones washed up on a distant shore?
“We should help them,” I said to Grant.
“Help who?”
“Christoff and Waylin. We should help them as they have helped us. It’s only a matter of time before L’Ollon’s crew finds them.”
“What do you propose?” asked Grant.
“To send them off with their own fortune. A portion of our gold should go to them. What say you?”
“Jacob, listen. You are intelligent and brave, but sometimes you must think of
your
future before the future of others. Only days ago, we were in the bowels of a foul barque, cold and hungry. The tables turned for us when we found the gold in Shanley’s storeroom. That is
our
money. We risked our lives for it, and it should stay with us.”
“Christoff risked his life to save ours. We owe him something for that.”
“What about the deaf boy, Sebastian? Christoff let him die. He stood there while L’Ollon pulled the trigger. He let Shanley die, too. Before all of that, Christoff led us to the lion’s den and left us to skulk about on our own. We could have been killed any moment in that villa. He had his own agenda, and we watched it unfold in the foyer. We watched him buy the sloop and pay for the crew. If he cared a pretty shilling for us, he would have privileged us with knowing his intentions the moment we set foot in Willemstad. Here we are, on the edge of a wealthy new life, and you want to give it away?”
“Every reale is stained with the blood of murder,” I said.
“Because it was acquired through piracy.”
“What is it about the pirate’s life that keeps you so enchanted?”
“Pirates are free. What’s wrong with wanting freedom?”
“There is nothing wrong with freedom. That’s what I want too. But I will have it by making decisions that separate me from people like Jean L’Ollon and James Shanley. There may come a day when you have one chance to choose either right or wrong, a final decision that makes the difference between becoming the person you’ve dreamt of being, or becoming the person you’ve feared. What will you choose?”
“I guess…I guess I don’t know,” he answered.
I turned from him and walked away.
“Where are you going?” asked Grant.
“To tell Christoff about the gold and that he may keep my share. I don’t want it. I don’t need it.”
“Wait,” he shouted after me. “I’m coming with you. I don’t need it either.”
We found Christoff standing beside Waylin at the bridge of the sloop. Waylin clutched the helm with both hands and turned the large wheel. The graceful sloop responded and drifted smoothly into the wharf. The deckhands tossed line to the dockworkers, and together they eased the ship close to the wooden walks and moored it tightly to the pilings. The crew prepared the gangway for us to disembark. Once all was secure, Christoff gave us his attention and we revealed our cache of gold and silver.
“This sack contains a fortune, lads!” Christoff exclaimed. “You say you stole this from Shanley?” He handed the wealth to Waylin, who poured out a handful.
“Do you know what kind of a coin this is?” Waylin asked, holding the large gold coin under the sunlight. It gleamed as if on fire.
“It’s a doubloon,” I said.
“You are familiar with currency, Jacob?”
“A little. My village in Cuba was a trade post settlement. My father was a great…” I stopped my ramble. “Go on.”
“Allow me to explain what you’ve got here. Obviously, gold is worth more than silver. To be quite accurate, an ounce of silver is worth one-sixteenth the value of an ounce of gold. All of the common silver coins that you see glimmering in the palms of merchants and smiths are called reales.” He picked a silver coin from his palm and tossed it to me. “That is a reale; its value is one.”
I had seen many like it throughout my short life.
“Here,” he tossed me another silver coin, much larger. “That is called a piece of eight. It is worth eight reales, making those two silver coins worth what?”
“Nine reales,” I answered.
“Correct. Now, here is a medium-sized silver coin. This one is worth four reales. It is called a half piece of eight. On to the gold,” said Waylin. “This large doubloon is one ounce of gold, worth sixteen pieces of eight.”
“Sixteen of these?” Grant held up the large silver coin.
“Indeed, lad. And equally so, this doubloon is worth one hundred and twenty eight reales. That’s right, one hundred and twenty eight of the small silver coins that you see everyday. Every single gold coin you stole is a doubloon and nearly every silver coin among them is a full piece of eight. You have made yourselves quite rich.”
Christoff stepped toward the bow and gazed out at the rolling water. He stood for several minutes with his hands clasped behind his back. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if finishing a thought. His attention returned to us.
“I must ask you lads if you were successful in carrying out Jean L’Ollon’s orders. Did you recover his sea chart and the leather book as he instructed?”
I did not know what to say. I did not want to reveal the book to anyone.
“Yes,” Grant answered. “We stole the sea chart and found the book, but both items were lost during our escape. I’m sorry.”
“Then it be just as well,” declared Christoff. “Things of such controversy are better lost.”
Waylin poured the coins back into the bag and handed it to me. I gave the pouch to Christoff. “We wish to repay you for saving our lives.”
Christoff stared at the pouch. “I…I cannot accept this. It belongs to you and Grant.”
“It is not my wish to keep it,” I replied.
“Indeed, Christoff,” Grant concurred. “There is enough to share. It’s the pirate way. The captain’s articles guarantee a share of all loot. For example, the great Bartholomew Roberts’ articles forty years ago said, ‘The captain and the quartermaster shall each receive two shares of a prize.’ Are there not articles governing this sloop that should be enforced in this matter? Let us do what is right.”
Christoff looked over at Waylin, who shrugged. Christoff said, “I face two worthy seamen, two fair pirates. If this is your solemn pledge, then the bounty shall be divided equally amongst us or not at all. Good lads, thank you.”
Waylin shook our hands. “From this day forth, I will be at your service,” he vowed. “Wherever life takes you, should you need me, I will come. This, I regret, is all I can offer in gratitude.”
Waylin led us off the ship. My legs trembled and my stomach began to turn as my body acclimated to the unmoving land. I breathed slowly until my stomach settled.
The people of Grenada welcomed us. Women batted their eyes at Waylin and fellow seafarers shouted ‘aye’ as we made our way along the harbor.
“Follow me,” said Waylin. “We’ll surely find Raphael at Cod Fish.”
“Who is Raphael?” I asked.
“And what is Cod Fish?” Grant added.
“Raphael Renard,” answered Waylin, “is a man who knows how to make people disappear. He’ll make sure L’Ollon’s men can’t track you down. Cod Fish Tavern is the busiest watering hole in St. George’s.”
A short walk along a stony road led us into the capital of St. George’s. To the east I could see the ominous peaks of Grenada’s two mountains, the smaller St. David and the larger St. Catherine, rising above the dark green hillsides. Set against the bright blue sky, they wore thick shadows. The mountains were grand but silent, like two fallen giants kneeling in defeat. St. George’s was bustling and boasted a large marketplace where farmers, merchants, and traders networked, and common folk spent their money. Once outside Cod Fish Tavern, Waylin stopped to warn us.
“This place is always full of seamen from all over the world. Sometimes, there are rival pirates. Keep your mouths closed and stay by my side. A place like this can be dangerous. We’ll find Raphael and go from there.”
The sounds of clanking mugs and the smell of rum filled the air inside the tavern. Barmaids brought foaming carafes to tables of boisterous men. Some of the patrons played games with dice, others arm wrestled, all of them laughed at those who lost. I heard many different languages, but each one was slurred from too much drink. We snaked through the crowd and met a man seated at the bar. He was a wiry man, sunburned with short sandy hair. He and Waylin shook hands.
“Raphael Renard, this is Jacob and Grant. They have need of your talents.”
“Aye, Waylin. Let us be off to my shack on the edge of town. We’ll talk in detail there.”
We left Cod Fish Tavern, and at a nearby stable Waylin paid for the use of two brown horses and purchased two more. I was given a white horse and Grant took the reins of a black one. We mounted up and rode across town to Raphael’s residence.
He had called it a shack, and rightly so. The structure was made from scrap wood, planks and thatch. It was large enough for a table, chest, and bed. We sat around the table and formed a plan.
“I can help, but it’ll cost yah. I don’t work for free,” said Raphael.
Waylin put four pieces of eight on the table. Raphael leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Waylin put down two more silver coins. “Take it or we go elsewhere.”
“Where else you gonna go, Waylin? I don’t work for silver.”
“You’re a damn crook, a real scoundrel!”
“Of course,” Raphael replied with a grin, his remaining teeth brown and broken.
Waylin collected the silver coins and put down a gold doubloon. Raphael’s eyes widened. He snatched up the coin and stuffed it in his pocket. “I’ll take care of these boys, Waylin. They can stay with me for a few nights. I’ll put them aboard a merchant ship next week that’ll take them north, out of the Caribbean entirely, to the colonies. Sound good, boys?”
We nodded, and Waylin stood up from the table. “Then it’s settled. I shall leave you in the care of Raphael. Christoff and I set sail in a few hours. The day is young and we can catch the winds north west. Good luck to you, lads. Be well always.” We shook Waylin’s hand and watched him leave the shack.
~~~~~~
We passed the day listening to Raphael tell stories about the various vagrants and pirates that he helped evade capture. His primary connection was with traders and other mercantile companies. His business was simple: a criminal would pay him to book passage aboard a merchant ship sailing out of the Caribbean. To maintain the connections with the merchant captains, Raphael sabotaged the affairs of other merchants by stealing cargo, damaging rival ships, or poisoning crew members to delay scheduled departures. For him it was easy work, but he often gambled away his income, forcing himself to live in poverty.
We had decided on riding into town for a meal before nightfall when a man with a thick French accent called from outside the shack. “Raphael Renard! This is Commandant Leopold. Surrender or be taken by force!”
“Blasted French Navy! They’ve been trying to bring me in for weeks, but I’ve been hiding here.” Raphael pulled a small knife from his belt and hid behind the edge of the doorway.
“Ceci est votre derniere chance,”
shouted the commandant. “This is your last chance. Come out now or we’ll send someone in to get you.”
“Go ahead, Leopold, but I know the truth. You want to put me away because you’re as corrupt as I am.” Raphael pointed to the wooden table we had been sitting at. “Topple that table, boys, and stay behind it. They’re likely to start shooting.”
We overturned the table and crouched behind it. I peered through the cracks in the boards. A naval officer entered the shack. When he passed through the doorway, Raphael lunged for him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and slicing the man’s throat. The officer fell dead in the doorway.
Raphael stepped out from hiding. “His blood is on your hands, Leopold. You sent him in here to die.” Shots rang out. Raphael was filled with holes as he stood over the dead officer. We watched him fall, lifeless and bloody.
Commandant Leopold entered the room. He wore a wide black hat and dark blue overcoat with shining gold buttons. His scarlet vest was tight around his torso and a polished silver cutlass gleamed as it hung from his white belt. He kicked away the table and glared as he spoke.
“Qui êtes vous?”
Neither Grant nor I understood French. The commandant’s brow dipped. “Who are you?” he asked sharply.
“My name is Grant and this is Jacob.”