Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (33 page)

“Bastard!” Tom panted, fighting Maurice's restraining hold. “I'll kill him
now
—”

Faster than a man his size should have been able to move, Maurice was on his feet, behind Tom, lifting him off Sanchez with a double nelson. “Later. We need him now.”

Sanchez scrambled out of harm's way and fought to regain his breath.

“We need to ask him some questions first. Use your head, man.”

Reason fought its way through a mind clouded with fury. In the hurricane of his terrible anger, Tom found again the calm center and slumped in Maurice's embrace.

With a look of wounded innocence, Sanchez managed to haul himself to his feet. “Was it something I said?” he rasped.

Tom shrugged off Maurice's hold and walked slowly forward until he stood squarely in front of the pirate captain. “The boys you kidnapped in South Carolina were
my sons
.”

Horror spread across Sanchez's face. His bluster and rowdy energy drained, he found the nearest barrel and sat heavily. He seemed to shrink. And most important of all, he removed his black hat with the crimson feather. “Oh,” he said.

“You're damned right, ‘oh,'” Tom said. “You have about three seconds to start at the beginning. I want to know what happened every step of the way, and especially where you left them and with whom.”

“And if—”

Tom's hand moved and his rapier, singing a high, steely note of death, pressed lightly against Sanchez's Adam's apple.

“I won't stop him this time, pirate,” Maurice rumbled.

The sound of creaking wood, of lapping water, of wind on taut lines. “Put away your steel, Thomas Paxton. I'll talk without it.”

A half-hour later, Sanchez slumped against the rail and stared at the restless sea. “And that's it,” he said listlessly. “They're fine lads and brave. I hope that old man's taking good care of them.”

“You hope!” Tom snorted. “What do you know about—”

“I have three sons of my own, señor. I harmed you, I agree, and your father. But not the boys.”

“How come the mutiny?” Maurice asked from the shadows.

“Hah!” Sanchez spit into the water. “Four days ago, a fat prize minus a foremast wallowed before our very noses, but it was British and I kept my word to the governor and Bliss and refused to take it. For this, Crow Johnny led the men against me.” He stared at the hat in his hands and gazed lovingly at it. “That and my hat. He was jealous of my hat and feather, and wanted them for himself.”

After the silence stretched on, Maurice turned to Tom. “What do you want to do?”

“Ah, hell,” Tom sighed. He sat, rubbed his eyes. “See if we can get this tub to San Sebastian. It's only a hundred and fifty miles.” He glanced at the rigging. “Shouldn't be too hard if the weather holds for a day or two.”

“And once you're there, señor?” Sanchez asked.

Tom shrugged. “I don't know. Tie up somewhere, get the kids and Adriana—”

“I have a better idea,” Sanchez interrupted. “You think maybe I apologize for taking your sons. Well, I don't. I'm sorry they were yours, but I don't apologize, because that was a job and I do it like a job.”

Tom bridled but Sanchez cut him off.

“No, you wait. You are not truly mad at Onofre Sanchez. You are mad at someone who took your sons. But now that you know Onofre Sanchez, you are no longer going to be mad, because Onofre Sanchez is going to help you get those sons back.”

“You're crazy as a loon!” Tom said. “He's crazy, Maurice.”

Maurice loomed out of the shadows. “Maybe not,” he said quietly. “Go on, Sanchez.”

“You were trying to hurt that old man when you took his daughter?” Sanchez asked.

“Of course not. Jenny and I—” Tom stopped and sagged visibly. “All right, Sanchez. Don't stop now.”

Sanchez shrugged. “It's simple. I don't know you when I take those boys, so I just take boys, not
your
boys. But then a real man—Thomas Paxton, who I can see with these eyes—saves my life, my ship, and my hat. And for this I owe a debt.” Very formally, Sanchez removed his hat and handed it to Tom. “It is no joke,
hombre
, when I tell you. Onofre Sanchez swears by his black hat and red feather that he will help you get your sons back.”

Tom stared at the hat in his hands, at Sanchez, back to the hat, and at last at Maurice. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Maurice said, a slow grin spreading, “that you aren't gonna get a better offer in a long, long time.”

The amulet was cool against his chest. In a house on a hill a hundred fifty miles away, his sons waited. Somewhere nearby, he would find Adriana. “I still think you're crazy,” Tom finally said, “but …” He stood, handed Sanchez's hat back, and held out his hand. “You've got yourself a deal.”

A wild light gleamed in Sanchez's eyes as he clamped the hat on his head and shook Tom's hand. “Let's sail,” he said. “As soon as we're under way, I'll tell you my plan.”

The
Red Dog Song
had a crew once more.

CHAPTER XVII

… love you. I love you, Adriana …

The voice faded and disappeared. Struggling out of a deep sleep, Adriana bolted upright in bed and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Thomas? Is that you, Thomas?

It had been his voice, she was sure, but try as she might, she couldn't bring it back. Concentrating, she thought she heard the dim echoes of the sea, much like the roar heard when one places a shell to one's ear, but that, too, disappeared within seconds, leaving only silence.
He was calling me, trying to tell me
.… Or had the dream been nothing more than wishful thinking? Bleakly admitting the possibility, she lay back on the lumpy straw-filled ticking and recalled the events of the past five days.

The storm … fight … the
Cassandra
afire …

The trip across the heaving water filled her with terror, but was nothing compared to the fear that clutched her stomach when she saw Bliss and heard him give the unbelievable command to shoot Larkin and the others. What followed was worse, and when she saw the tiny catboat that held Tom pitch emptily atop the waves, she lost consciousness.

When she came to, she found she was a prisoner in the ship's brig, she was still in shock when the
Druid
dropped anchor at San Sebastian later that night. Defeated, her will beaten into submission by an overwhelming sense of loss, she was taken by carriage through winding streets and up the gradually rising slopes of The Sleeping Giant. The carriage passed through wrought-iron gates into a well-tended courtyard alive with flowers. “Where are we?” she asked her escorts.

“Captain Bliss's residence, miss,” answered one, “and I shouldn't like to be in your shoes if the captain dies. Or if he lives, for that matter,” he added with a shudder. “Out you go, now. And no sense tryin' to run for it.”

They were greeted by a muscular, dark-skinned native who listened impassively to the instructions passed on by the sailor and then, without a word, took Adriana by the arm and led her into the house. Inside, the residence was airy and spacious, well lighted, and luxuriously appointed with imported furniture that glowed richly in the lantern light. Not that Adriana had time to see much. The native whisked her down a hall, up a flight of stairs, down another hall, and finally had stopped in front of a heavily barred door. “Inside,” he grunted—the only word he'd spoken during the entire proceedings—and pushed her into darkness.

Slowly, Adriana's eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Her prison was a room no more than eight by ten feet. It was furnished with a simple bed, a chair, a small table, and nothing else. The only exit, other than the door through which she had just come, was a window choked by wrought-iron bars fashioned into vines that were, she immediately discovered, impossible to budge. Alone, disconsolate, and frightened, she slumped onto the bed and, feeling for the first time the weight of her predicament, wept her only tears since Giuseppe's death. She grieved for Tom, she grieved for his sons who would never again see their father, and she grieved for herself. Not until some hours later did the sobs subside, and she lapsed into the deep sleep of total exhaustion.

Nothing but her state of mind had improved by morning. Telling herself she had to remain calm, she used the chamber pot supplied by her captors, drank some of the fresh water left her, and used the rest for a modest toilet. Refreshed, she inspected her surroundings and discovered little new of interest. The door and window were as impregnable as they had been the night before: the only way out was the way she had come in. The view through the window was restricted to what, she calculated from the angle of the morning shadows, must be the western and southern slopes of The Sleeping Giant. Straight ahead was a wall of steeply rising jungle. If she lay her head against the left edge of the window, she could see a profile of the mountain and, perhaps a couple of hundred yards away and higher up, most of a large and elegant mansion that she guessed was the governor's residence.

Her inspection was interrupted by the sound of the bar being lifted from the door. On guard immediately, she turned and found herself face to face with the man who had locked her in the night before, this time accompanied by a woman who carried a tray holding a teapot and a basket woven of split cane. The woman set the tray on the table and gestured curtly. “Food,” she said simply. “You eat.”

Adriana didn't have to be asked twice. Famished, she attacked the slice of fried pork and still-warm corn bread while the woman watched impassively. “Who are you?” she asked when the first hard edge of her appetite had been assuaged.

“I am Carlotta. He,” she added, pointing, “is my husband, Ramon. We are Captain Bliss's people.”

Adriana sipped her tea, then slowly peeled the banana. “Is Captain Bliss … all right?” she asked. “That is,” she added hurriedly as disapproval darkened the servant's eyes, “I hope he is well.”

“We will watch you,” Carlotta replied without answering the question. “Bring you food, take you to wash. Make sure you stay. You are finished?”

“May I keep the orange for later?”

Carlotta checked quickly with her husband and, when he grunted his approval, nodded. “Soon come back,” she said, taking the tray. “Take you to wash, give you clean clothes.” And without further comment, she and Ramon slipped out the door and were gone.

Adriana's hunger was satisfied, but not her curiosity, for she knew little more than she had the night before. Bliss was wounded, but how badly was a mystery. She was under guard on the second floor of his house, but had only the foggiest notion of where the house was in relation to its surroundings, and where in the house she was. Of her keepers she had learned little. Both appeared to be mixed-bloods of Indian and African extraction. Both were dark-skinned and had jet-black hair. Ramon was at least six feet tall, and the strength in his massive shoulders and thick arms and legs was not hidden by his loose-fitting light cotton pants and shirt. His scowl appeared permanent; his eyes without expression but all-seeing; his voice, when he spoke, was a hollow rasp. He was armed with a knife that was almost long enough to be called a machete. Adriana didn't need to read Ramon's palm to know that Bliss would have had to search long and far to find another man as obdurately trustworthy as this one.

Carlotta was of the same height as Adriana and perhaps a few years older. Her features, more Indian than Negroid, were sharper than Ramon's and her skin was lighter, like the soft brown of an aged coconut shell. All told, softness seemed to characterize Carlotta in spite of her terseness. The soft brown of her eyes; the softness of her breasts, no doubt from nursing; the softness of her voice; the softness of her hands, which, though large and callused, moved deftly and competently.

Adriana passed the next four days in a stupor. Carlotta and Ramon brought her meals twice a day. Every morning, she was escorted to an enclosed room built over a stream, where she was allowed to bathe under the watchful eye of Carlotta. She was given a change of clothes. Only twice did something happen to break the stultifying boredom. Once at night the earth shook and the stench of sulfur filled the air. The next morning she understood why when, after a series of mild shocks, a cloud of smoke billowed from the top of The Sleeping Giant. Her concern, however, was short-lived when Carlotta shrugged and explained that the giant was only snoring, as he had for as many years as anyone could remember, and that there was nothing to fear.

The following day, Adriana experienced a shock of a different sort. While watching out her window, she saw two small boys—who she was certain were Jason and Joseph—playing under the watchful eye of a servant on the grounds of the governor's mansion. The sight almost broke her heart. That night, she resolved to somehow reach the boys to tell them of their father—that he loved them, and had tried to come for them.

And perhaps still would, she now dared hope. Perhaps.… Her spirits rising, she sprang from the bed and clutched the wrought-iron vines barring her way to freedom. At that moment, the sun, long risen on the far side of The Sleeping Giant, edged above its towering heights and the first rays, shining through a cleft in the rocks, struck her in the face. Why, she did not know, but she watched a few seconds too long before she averted her face and closed her eyes. And then saw, in the white glare that lingered, the explosion of light shift and soften and transform itself into the unmistakable outline of an oak tree wound about with brambles.

Oh, Thomas, Thomas. It was your voice. Thank God you're alive. I love you, too. Thank God.…

Calmed, she sat at the table and waited patiently for her breakfast. Thomas was alive. He loved her. And she had no doubt he would come for her and rescue her.