Guns of Liberty (28 page)

“How far away are we from Georgia?” Tibbs asked.

“Two days by horse.”

“Good,” Tibbs exclaimed. “We can make it. We’ll rest up and then tomorrow or the next day borrow a couple of your horses and ride out. This Sergeant Morales will never know a thing.”

“No,” Father Ramon said.

“We will pay you for the animals, of course. Probably more than what they are worth,” Kit said, thinking of the gold trinkets that had almost drowned him, the treasure of Bashara al-Jezzar.

“Of that I have little doubt,” the padre conceded drolly. He glanced knowingly over his shoulder at the leather pouch behind him on the table. “Maria and Esteban spoke of the treasure. And I must admit I, too, examined the beautiful things you rescued from the sea.”

“Our treasure,” Tibbs emphasized. Just because a man donned a brown robe, sandals, and a cross didn’t mean Tibbs felt obliged to trust him. He began to eat while scrutinizing the priest.

“Yes. Of course.” The padre ignored the man’s suspicious gaze. “It is yours alone.”

“So you see we can offer you much more than what a couple of your horses are worth.” Kit was worried that Tibbs would antagonize the old padre. They owed the priest their lives. Father Ramon could easily have turned them over to the authorities. Kit didn’t want the old one to regret his decision. “Surely a portion of our wealth might prove useful for a church or a school outside St. Augustine.”

Tibbs all but choked on a mouthful of fish. They hadn’t even divided the spoils taken during the Derna raid, and already Kit was giving some away.

“It is impossible,” Father Ramon replied.

“Why?” Kit asked.

“Because I have no horses,” the priest replied. “I sent Esteban for help. Four Creek men carried you here upon the very pallets on which you rest.”

“Damn!” Tibbs muttered.

Father Ramon gave him a pained look.

“But across the St. John’s River, back in the woods, is the cabin of Alsino Escovar, the trapper. He has boats, horses, and a thirst for the shiny metal. He will sell you anything.”

“How far past the river is his cabin?” Kit asked. Even with the pain hammering in his head he had begun to plan, to set his options and gather all the information necessary should the situation become desperate and the Yankees need to escape with this Sergeant Morales in hot pursuit.

“An hour, if a man is running,” said the priest. “But much longer for these old bones.” The Franciscan shook his head. “Enjoy your youth, my friends. Savor your days like rare wine. For the glass is soon drained. Ah, too soon.” He clapped his knees and stood. “How I prattle on when you need your rest. We will talk later. Sleep,
compadres
. You are safe for now. Heal yourselves. I shall pray for the return of your strength. And my prayers are always answered.” The padre winked and vanished through the front door into the yellow glare.

Kit sat upright and watched the brown-robed figure through the window. Father Ramon had barely stepped past the corner of the cabin when he was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of excited children and a half dozen Creek braves. The men were dressed in breeches and worn, patched linsey-woolsey shirts. They might have been Spanish settlers save for the reddish-brown luster of their skin and their shiny, shoulder-length black hair that hung straight and framed their flat, dark faces.

The cluster of mud-walled cabins appeared to be set well back from the shore and nestled in a clearing of live oaks and black willows draped with Spanish moss.

“What do you think?” Tibbs said. He managed to stand and shuffled across the floor to the table, where he began to painstakingly unfasten the torn flap of the large leather pouch. The jewel-hilted scimitar that contained the Eye of Alexander fell into his hand. He sighed with relief. But his humor quickly faded on further inspection of the bag. All that remained of the stolen wealth was a handful of trinkets—a few solid gold bracelets, a couple of necklaces of pounded gold set with emeralds, and a golden goblet inlaid with pearls and lapis lazuli.

This was wealth, to be sure, but only a fraction of what they had taken from al-Jezzar’s treasure room.

Tibbs’s face became livid as he slowly turned to show Kit how they had been robbed.

“Damn their souls, they’ve taken it all. Robbed us blind, by my oath. Blood will flow for this!” Tibbs pounded the tabletop with his fist.

“They took nothing,” Kit spoke up from the cot. He propped himself against the wall. “The pouch ripped open when the
Trenton
dumped me into the sea. I saved what I could.”

Tibbs glared at his companion. Somehow he managed to calm himself. There was nothing to be said. He stared at the pouch as if willing the return of what had been lost. But he was no conjurer. At least something had been salvaged. A man could make a good life for himself on what remained. Tibbs returned the Eye of Alexander and lowered the flap.

“You did well, my friend,” he said in a gentler, calmer tone of voice. “Best we heal up and quit this place as quickly as we can.” He gingerly stretched out upon the cot.

“At least we’re among friends,” Kit added, trying to make the best of the situation.

“Sure. Friends,” Tibbs echoed, unconvinced. “Only where are our guns?”

Kit swept the room at a glance. A knot of fear re-formed in the pit of his stomach. Tibbs was right about one thing. Their weapons were gone.
If Sergeant Morales and his soldiers came
, Kit thought,
we would be completely defenseless.

“You think we can trust the priest?” Tibbs muttered, eyeing the open doorway and the empty sunlight that had suddenly lost its warmth.

Kit looked from his friend to the window and the brown-skinned men and women of the village who had grouped together to keep the Yankees’ cabin under observation.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” he said.

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Kerry Newcomb was born in Milford, Connecticut, but had the good fortune to be raised in Texas. He has served in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and taught at the St. Labre Mission School on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation in Montana, and holds a master’s of fine arts degree in theater from Trinity University. Newcomb has written plays, film scripts, commercials, and liturgical dramas, and is the author of over thirty novels. He lives with his family in Fort Worth, Texas.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1991 by Kerry Newcomb

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

978-1-4804-7877-0

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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