The King's Gold (16 page)

He said these words softly, almost in a drawl, in a tone of solicitous inquiry that would not have fooled even a babe in arms. It did not fool El Bravo de los Galeones either, for he got the message, averted his eyes, and said no more. Olmedilla had sidled up to the captain and whispered something in his ear. My master nodded.

“This gentleman has just reminded me of another important point. No one, absolutely no one,” said Alatriste, fixing his icy gaze on each man in the group in turn, “will, for any reason, go down into the ship’s hold. There will be no personal booty, none at all.”

Sangonera raised his hand and asked curiously, “And what if a crew member holes himself up in there?”

“Should that happen, then I will decide who goes down to fetch him.”

El Bravo de los Galeones was thoughtfully stroking his hair, which he wore caught back in a greasy pigtail. Then he asked the question that was in everyone’s mind:

“And what is there in this ‘tabernacle’ that we can’t see?”

“That’s none of your business. It’s not even my business. And I hope not to have to remind anyone of that fact.”

El Bravo gave a jeering laugh. “Not if my life depended on it.”

Alatriste stared at him hard. “It does.”

“Now you’re going too far, by God.” El Bravo was standing, legs apart, shifting his weight from one to the other. “By my faith, we’re not a load of sheep to put up with being threatened like that. Me and my comrades here—”

“I don’t give a damn what you can and can’t put up with,” Alatriste broke in. “That’s the way it is. You were all warned, and there’s no going back.”

“And what if we want to go back?”

“You talk boldly enough in the plural, I see.” The captain ran two fingers over his mustache, then pointed to the pinewoods. “As for the singular you, I will be happy to discuss the matter alone, just the two of us, in that wood.”

The ruffian made a silent appeal to his comrades. Some regarded him with what seemed like a glimmer of solidarity, and others did not. For his part, Bartolo Cagafuego had stood up, brows beetling, and was approaching menacingly in support of the captain. I, too, reached for my dagger. Most of the men looked away, half smiling or watching as Alatriste’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword. No one appeared bothered by the prospect of a good fight, with the captain in charge of the fencing lessons. Those who knew his past record had already informed the others, and El Bravo de los Galeones, with his low arrogance and ridiculous swagger—hardly necessary amongst such a crew—was not much liked.

“We’ll talk about it some other time,” he said at last.

He had thought it over, and preferred not to lose face. Some of his fellow ruffians nudged one another, disappointed that there would be no fight in the woods that afternoon.

“Yes, let’s do that,” replied Alatriste gently, “whenever you like.”

No one said anything more, no one took him up on his offer or even looked as if he would. Peace was restored, Cagafuego’s brows unbeetled, and everyone went about his own business. Then I noticed Sebastián Copons withdrawing his hand from the butt of his pistol.

The flies buzzed around our faces as we peered cautiously over the top of the dune. Before us lay Barra de Sanlúcar, brightly lit by the evening sun. Between the inlet at Bonanza and Chipiona Point about a league farther on, where the Guadalquivir flowed into the sea, the mouth of the river was a forest of masts with flags flying and the sails of ships—
urcas
, frigates, caravels, small vessels and large, both oceangoing and coastal—either anchored amongst the sandbanks or else in constant movement back and forth, this same panorama stretching eastward along the coast toward Rota and the Bay of Cádiz. Some were waiting for the rising tide in order to travel up to Seville, others were unloading merchandise onto smaller boats or rigging their ships so as to sail on to Cádiz once the royal officials had checked their cargo. On the farther shore, we could see, in the distance, prosperous Sanlúcar, with its houses reaching right down to the water’s edge, and on top of the hill, the old, walled enclave, the castle turrets, the ducal palace, the Cathedral, and the customhouse, which, on days such as this, brought wealth to so many. The harbor sands were speckled with beached fishing boats, and the lower city, gilded by the sun, teemed with people and with the small sailing boats that came and went between the ships.

“There’s the
Virgen de Regla
,” said Olmedilla.

He lowered his voice when he spoke, as if they might be able to hear us on the other side of the river, and he wiped the sweat from his face with an already sodden handkerchief. He seemed even paler than usual. He was not a man for long walks or for traipsing over sand dunes and through scrub, and the effort and the heat were beginning to take their toll. His ink-stained forefinger was pointing out a large galleon, anchored between Bonanza and Sanlúcar, and sheltering behind a sandbank just beginning to be revealed by the low tide. Its prow was facing into the southerly breeze rippling the surface of the water.

“And that,” he said, pointing to another ship moored closer to us, “is the
Niklaasbergen
.”

I followed Alatriste’s gaze. With the brim of his hat shading his eyes from the sun, the captain was scrutinizing the Dutch galleon. It was anchored separately, near our shore, toward San Jacinto Point and the watchtower that had been erected there to prevent incursions by Berber, Dutch, and English pirates. The
Niklaasbergen
was a tar-black, three-masted
urca
, or merchant ship, its sails furled. It was a short, ugly, rather clumsy-looking vessel, with a high prow above which hung a lantern painted in white, red, and yellow, a perfectly ordinary cargo ship that would not attract attention. It, too, had its prow facing south, and its gunports had been left open to air the lower decks. There appeared to be little movement on board.

“It was anchored next to the
Virgen de Regla
until day-break,” explained Olmedilla. “Then it went and dropped anchor over there.”

The captain was studying each detail of the landscape, like a bird of prey that will only be able to pounce on its victim in the dark.

“Is all the gold on board?” he asked.

“No, one part is missing. They chose not to remain moored next to the other ship because they were afraid it might look suspicious. The rest will be brought at nightfall by boat.”

“How much time do we have?”

“It doesn’t set sail until tomorrow, with the high tide.”

Olmedilla indicated the rubble of an old ruined netting shed on the shore. Beyond could be seen a sandy bank that the low tide had left uncovered.

“That’s the place,” he said. “Even at high tide, you can wade ashore.”

Alatriste screwed up his eyes more tightly. He was studying the black rocks barely covered by water, a little farther in to shore.

“I remember those shallows well,” he said. “The galleys always did their best to avoid them.”

“I don’t think they need worry us,” replied Olmedilla. “At that hour, the tide, the breeze, and the river current will all be working in our favor.”

“I certainly hope so. Because if instead of running into the sand, our keel collides with those rocks, we’ll go straight under . . . and the gold with us.”

We crawled back, keeping our heads down, to join the rest of the men. They were lying on cloaks and capes, waiting with the stolid patience of their profession; and without anyone having said a word, they had instinctively gathered together into the two groups they would form when it came to boarding the ship.

The sun was disappearing behind the pinewoods. Alatriste went and sat on his cloak, picked up the wineskin, and drank from it. I spread my blanket on the ground, beside Sebastián Copons; Copons was on his back, dozing, with a handkerchief covering his face to keep off the flies and his hands folded over the hilt of his dagger. Olmedilla came over to the captain. He had his fingers interlaced and was twiddling his thumbs.

“I’m going with you,” he said softly.

Alatriste, about to take another drink from the wineskin, stopped and regarded him intently. “That’s not a good idea,” he said after a moment.

With his pale skin, sparse mustache, and beard unkempt after the journey, the accountant cut a frail figure. However, he insisted, tight-lipped, “It’s my duty. I’m the king’s agent.”

The captain thought for a moment, wiping the wine from his mustache with the back of his hand. Then he placed the wineskin on the sand and lay down. “As you wish,” he said suddenly. “I never meddle in matters of duty.”

He remained thoughtful, though, and silent. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he announced, “You’ll board at the bow.”

“Why can’t I go with you?”

“We don’t want to put all our eggs in one basket, do we?”

Olmedilla shot me a glance, which I held unblinking. “And the boy?”

Alatriste looked at me, as if indifferent, then unbuckled the belt bearing his sword and dagger, and wrapped the belt around them. He placed this bundle beneath the folded blanket that served as a pillow, and unfastened his doublet.

“Íñigo goes with me.”

He lay down to rest with his hat over his face. Olmedilla again interlaced his fingers and resumed his thumb-twiddling. He seemed less impenetrably impassive than usual, as if an idea he could not quite bring himself to express was going around and around in his head.

“And what will happen,” he said at last, “if the group boarding at the bow is delayed and fails to reach the quarterdeck in time? I mean . . . what if something should happen to you?”

Beneath the hat hiding his face, Alatriste did not stir.

“In that case,” he said, “the
Niklaasbergen
will no longer be my problem.”

I fell asleep. I closed my eyes as I often had in Flanders before a march or a battle, and made the most of what time there was to gather my strength. At first, I fell into a superficial doze, opening eyes and ears from time to time to the fading daylight, the bodies lying around me, their breathing and their snores, the murmured conversations and the motionless shape of the captain with his hat over his face. Then I fell into a deeper sleep and allowed myself to float on the gentle black water, adrift on a vast sea filled, as far as the horizon, with innumerable sails. Then Angélica de Alquézar appeared, as she had so many times. And this time I plunged into her eyes and felt again the sweet pressure of her lips on mine. I looked around for someone to whom I could shout my joy, and there they were, lying very still amongst the dank mists of a Flemish canal: the shadows of my father and Captain Alatriste. I squelched through the mud to join them, ready to unsheathe my sword and fight the vast army of ghosts clambering out of tombs, dead soldiers in rusty breastplates and helmets, brandishing weapons in their bony hands, and staring at us from hollow sockets. And I opened my mouth to cry out in silence—old words that had lost their meanings, because time was plucking them from me, one by one.

I woke with Captain Alatriste’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s time,” he whispered, almost brushing my ear with his mustache. I opened my eyes to the darkness. No one had lit fires, and there were no lanterns. The slender, waning moon shed only enough light now to be able to make out the vague, black shapes moving around me. I heard swords being slipped out of sheaths, belts being buckled, hooks fastened, short muttered sentences. The men were preparing themselves, exchanging hats for kerchiefs tied around their heads, and wrapping their weapons in cloth so that there would be no telltale clank of metal. As the captain had ordered, all pistols were left on the beach, along with the other baggage. We were to board the
Niklaasbergen
armed only with swords and daggers.

I fumbled open our bundle of clothes and donned my new buff coat, still stiff and thick enough to protect my upper body from knife thrusts. Then I made sure my sandals were firmly tied on and that my dagger was securely attached to my belt with a length of cord wound around the hilt, and, finally, I placed the stolen constable’s sword in my leather baldric. All around me, men were speaking softly, taking one last swig from the wineskins, and relieving themselves before going into action. Alatriste and Copons had their heads close together as the latter received his final instructions. When I stepped back, I bumped into Olmedilla, who recognized me and gave me a little pat on the back, which, in a man of such sourness, might be considered an expression of affection. I saw that he, too, was wearing a sword at his waist.

“Let’s go,” said Alatriste.

We set off, our feet sinking into the sand. I could identify some of the shadows who passed me: the tall, slender figure of Saramago el Portugués, the heavy bulk of Bartolo Cagafuego, the slight silhouette of Sebastián Copons. Someone made some derisory remark, and I heard the muffled laughter of the mulatto Campuzano. The captain’s voice boomed out, demanding silence, and after that no one spoke.

As we passed the wood, I heard the braying of a mule and, curious, peered into the dark. There were mules and horses hidden amongst the trees and the indistinct shapes of people standing next to them. These were doubtless the people who, later on, when the galleon had foundered on the bar, would be in charge of unloading all the gold. As if to confirm my suspicions, three black silhouettes emerged from behind the pines, and Olmedilla and the captain paused to hold a whispered conversation with them. I thought I recognized the “hunters” we had seen earlier. Then they vanished, Alatriste gave an order, and we set off again. Now we were climbing the steep slope of a dune, plunging in up to our ankles, the outlines of our bodies standing out more clearly against the pale sand. At the top, the sound of the sea reached us and the breeze caressed our faces. As far as the horizon—as black as the sky itself—stretched a long dark stain filled with the tiny luminous dots of ship’s lanterns, so that it seemed as if the stars were reflected in the sea. Far off, on the other shore, we could see the lights of Sanlúcar.

We went down to the beach, the sand dulling the sound of our steps. Behind me, I heard the voice of Saramago el Portugués, reciting softly to himself: