Apparently I have done it to his satisfaction, for, after snarling, "I should have had you lick it off, girl," he reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me to my feet, his face in mine. "Next time I will."
Done with me, I am flung aside as he addresses Higgins. "We have heard rumors ... and there is much irregular here." He looks at me. "I have my suspicions. We will be watching you and we shall see."
He climbs into his boat, and says, "Vamos!" and the Spaniards pull away. The Lieutenant's last glance is at me, and though the day is warm, I give a bit of a shiver, then I dive back into the warm, cleansing waters of the Caribbean Sea.
Chapter 23
Later that day, we put the seaman's bones into a canvas sack and sew it up. We let him keep his crucifix about his neck, but we do take his earring. The Star is rigged for a short sail and we put the bag in the lifeboat and prepare to cast off. As we are climbing in, I inform Dr. Sebastian of our intention to cross over to the Key to bury the remains.
"But why?" asks the Doctor. "They are just bones."
"It's an age-old tradition, Dr. Sebastian, a bargain, really, between those who sail the sea and those who live on land—between the living and the dead," I explain to the landsman. "You see that all of us seamen wear a single gold hoop in our ears? Well, if a sailor meets his end at sea and later washes up on shore, the person who finds him must give his body a proper burial, and is then allowed to take the gold ring for his payment. We took his gold ring, so now we've got to bury him. Simple as that." I reach up to touch my own earring.
"I see," says the practical surgeon, who has undoubtedly cut up more bodies and thrown away more bones than he could possibly count. "More nautical foolishness."
"Just so, Doctor. Sailors are very superstitious as a rule, and one of the things they don't like is being buried at sea." I motion for Davy to hoist the Star's sail, and Tink takes his place on the tiller as I call up to my First Mate, "Mr. Tanner, make all preparations for getting under way. When we come back aboard, we'll pull the hook and head over to Cuba to take on fresh water and sell our sponges. The Dolphin is not due to rendezvous for five more days, and we can't do anything till we get that diving bell. All right, shove off."
"He could have been a real rotter, you know, this man we are burying," says Tink. He turns the last shovelful of Key West dirt over the grave of the Spanish sailor and tamps it down.
Since we did not know his name, we made up a crude wooden cross with just the words Vaya con Dios, Marinero, "Go with God, Mariner," written in ship's ink thereon, and we stuck it in the sand above his head. We are at the western tip of Key West, having had no intention of getting anywhere near that alligator pit.
"Right," says Davy. "Or a real son of a bitch of a Bosun's Mate."
"Myself," I say, "I want to believe that he was a nice young man who loved the girl he left behind with a heartfelt promise of a quick return, and she, in turn, mourned his loss when he did not come back, not ever." It's the romantic in my nature.
"Of course," says Davy, with a heavy sigh.
By common consent, we have given the Spanish sailor's earring to Davy, who had none, since he had placed his on the finger of Annie Byrnes when he married her. He now has another hanging on his ear, one that is certainly salty, having lain below all these years.
"Whoever and whatever he was, he showed us the way to the Santa Magdalena, and for that I am grateful," I go on. "And I think he is glad to be buried at last on Spanish soil, and he will, perhaps, bless our expedition for our doing it."
"It's gonna be dark soon, Jacky, we'd best be getting back," warns Tink.
I look up into the reddening sky and realize that Tink is right. We'll want to get the Nancy B. headed south before true night sets in.
"We did what we came to do. Let's get back," I order, and we return to the boat. "Rest in peace, sailor," I say as we push off.
We reach the Nancy B., lift the anchor, raise the sails, get her on course, set the watch, and as she surges toward Cuba, we go down for dinner. We have an excellent soup featuring, I believe, the parts of a certain unfortunate red rooster, as well as biscuits, potatoes, ham, and redeye gravy.
After I have eaten my fill, I lean back in my chair, place the back of my fist against my mouth to stifle a discreet burp, and lift my glass to my crew, to announce, "It will take us eighteen to twenty hours to get to Cuba, if the current wind holds, and the same sailing time to get us back to our rendezvous with the Dolphin on Friday. That means three days of sweet liberty in one of the finest ports in the Caribbean. Do I hear a cheer?"
"Hear, hear!" shouts my parcel of rogues.
On to Havana and all her charms.
Chapter 24
"So, Jemimah. We are nearing Havana. Will you leave us there, or will you stay? Now that you're free and all."
We have seen the land looming before us and are working our way up the coast, to the city. Breakfast has been served and cleared away, and I am gazing down at the new chicks, which the broody hen just hatched.
"Don't know," she says, tossing out the grain to the clucking chickens. "What's there for me?"
"Oh, about seventy thousand people. Lots of big buildings and forts. Biggest town north of Peru, and that includes Boston, New York, and Charleston. New Orleans, too." I got this information from Dr. Sebastian, who, aside from being an avid naturalist, is also an agent of British Intelligence. "I'll give you what you've earned so far if you want to go. You shouldn't have any trouble finding work, 'cause you're one fine cook."
"Hmmm ... Suppose someone come up and try to put me back as a slave. Wouldn't be no trouble for them to do it—I'm black, they white."
"Dr. Sebastian tells me there's over fifteen thousand free blacks on the island. You wouldn't stand out."
"Ummm..."
"Don't want you to go, Jemimah, but it's up to you."
"Well, we'll see."
I let it go at that and reach down to scoop up one ofthe peeps. While the rest of the chicks are a fuzz of bright yellow, this one is white with streaks of black.
"Hmmm ... Ain't too tough to figure out who this one's dad is," I say, looking over at the banty, who seems to be glad to be the only rooster still standing. The chick fixes me with his bright little eye and then pecks my thumb. "Nope, not hard at all."
I put the feisty little thing back with his nest mates and go out the hatchway. I hop up on my quarterdeck to watch our approach to Havana.
I have dressed in my serving-girl rig—loose white blouse, tight black vest, black skirt, black stockings, black shoes—figuring it more appropriate for a visit to a Catholic port than my usual attire. After all, the Spanish Inquisition still does exist and I'd hate to end up on the rack. Or at the stake, for that matter, ready to be roasted for my many misdeeds. I suspect that my tombstone shall someday read She sure had it comiri.
I'm also wearing my curly black wig, and with my deep tan, I become Jacky Bouvier, Creole girl and Sponge Diver. Huh! Jemimah had said upon first seeing me in this costume, Least you finly got some clothes on you, gal. But what you doin' tryin' to pass? and I fluffed up and retorted that I had indeed passed for a high yellow before, like that time in New Orleans with Mam'selle Claudelle, so there. Wouldna fooled none of my kinfolk, not with that skinny little nose. Huh! Mebbe they thought you was Ethiopian or sumthin'
Both Higgins and Dr. Sebastian are on the quarterdeck when I arrive and Jim is on the helm. Davy and the other lads handle the sails, and Joannie has been allowed topside to sit in Jemimah's chair. I think the child's wounds were more to her mind than to her body. Higgins, I know, has the fake papers for the Nancy B. tucked in his jacket that designate him as Captain of my schooner. It wouldn't serve for me to be seen as such in these parts, as I did prey on Spanish shipping during that summer on my Emerald with my wild Irish crew. So I'd best lie low. Just a simple sponge diver and servant to Dr. Sebastian, that's all this poor girl is.
The mouth of the harbor opens up before us as we head in.
Yes, we could have taken on water in many a small Cuban port on our way here, but Dr. Sebastian wanted to check in with his contacts in Havana, and as for me, hey, I wanna go where the action is. And the action is certainly in this city, the biggest city in North, Central, and most of South America. Plus the ever-mercantile J. M. Faber wants to sell her sponges. And have a little fun.
"Yes," says Dr. Sebastian, echoing my thoughts, "Havana! Crossroads of the great treasure fleets of the Spanish Empire. The most heavily fortified port in the New World. Look over there—Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro!"
I follow his point and see the turreted fortress of Morro Castle now looming above us. Guns stick out from every opening.
"There used to be a submerged chain strung across the harbor to keep out pirates, but that is no longer needed because, as you will see, the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana guards the city from the north and Castillo de la Real Fuerza does the same to the south. Protecting the shipyard is the Castillo de Atares. And there is the Castillo del Principe. And observe all the heavy batteries all along this canal. Five mighty forts protecting this harbor. Now the chains are in place only at the sides of the channel, to direct all traffic down the middle and so into the range of the guns. Nothing gets in or out without the permission of the Spanish governor."
"You certainly could not pull your Harwich trick here, Miss," says Higgins. "There are just too many guns for you to spike, even if you had Mairead Delaney by your side."
I have to nod and agree with that. "But then I was a bold privateer and now I am but a simple sponge merchant and have nothing to fear from any government."
I get a few snorts on that.
"And speaking of the government, there it sits."
There she sits, indeed. As we slide into the harbor, we see the formidable San Cristobal moored in the middle of the channel, her eighty-eight guns providing even further protection for the harbor. Beyond her I see the city's waterfront, and tied up there is probably the largest number of ships I have ever seen in one single port. It is a veritable forest of masts and spars.
"Daniel, run up and dip the colors," I call, and the boy leaps up from Joannie's side and into the rigging to where the Stars and Stripes is flying, unties a line, and lowers the flag halfway in salute, and then returns it to its two-blocked position.
The Spanish man-of-war does not return the salute, of course—I mean, why would a proud thirty-five-hundred-ton, more than two-hundred-foot, double-decker First-Rate return the salute of a puny little schooner—but we are noticed, for a small boat is quickly launched and heads straight for us. A man stands at the bow and signals for us to stop. It is the same insufferably arrogant lieutenant who yanked me aboard the Nancy B.'s raft that day. Hmmmm....
"Heave to, lads," I say, with a sigh. "Let's see what he's about." Davy and the others jump to it and our sails go slack, and we wallow there and wait, till the boat comes alongside.
"Put down the ladder, McGee," I say. "I think he wants to come aboard. Be careful, everyone—remember, we are all Americans. No Brits here. This is enemy territory."