It was already night. Hans had fallen asleep, exhausted by mortification and prayers—both Christian and those lifted to the forgotten spirits of the mountains of the Upper Rhine. A series of images unfolded in his mind as he dreamed. He saw himself wandering through a chamber filled with the wreckage of strange machines. Then caverns appeared, their walls carved with runes, always under the watchful gaze of a shadow.
"Der Teufel stellt uns Dinge hin, die nicht von dieser Welt sind, um uns zu verwirren."
(The devil sets before us objects not of this world to lead us astray.)
Hans heard the words as he walked through the chamber.
"Aber wenn sie nicht von dieser Welt sind… woher stammen sie dann?"
(But if they are not of this world… where do they come from?) he asked.
"Jenseits der Sonne… von dort, woher Gizob ist."
(Beyond the sun… from where Gizob comes.) the specter answered, watching him closely.
"Wer ist Gizob?" Hans asked.
(Who is Gizob?)
"I thûl nuithannen ah ú-orthor na prestad!"
(The Sleeper, who must not be disturbed!) declared the figure in an archaic tongue, revealing itself: clad in an ancient armor, cloak and helm, from which two glowing eyes gleamed, all wrapped in a swirl of blue ethereal vapor.
Hans awoke with a start, jarred by the whine of a mosquito. He felt one land upon his cheek and, without thinking, raised his hand to crush it. Then he realized—he was unbound. But before he could move, a hand clamped over his mouth.
"Quiet…" Magdalena's voice whispered in his ear. "I'll free you, but you must follow without a word."
Hans nodded. Magdalena was just about to release him when, from afar, came the crack of branches underfoot. Out of the darkness emerged tiny points of light. Soon, a group of men carrying lanterns stepped out of the jungle like phantoms. Their silhouettes, etched by the moonlight, revealed tall figures in broad hats, some even tricorne. They all spoke at once, their voices a muddled quarrel. Behind them, villagers trudged obediently, burdened with saddlebags.
"They're back from the mines… don't move a muscle," Magdalena breathed.
"Are they speaking English?" Hans whispered.
She silenced him with her hand. The men passed beneath the watchtower, under the eye of its guard. At last, they reached the gate, rapped upon it, and were admitted. A pair of them took the bags and dismissed the Indians, who slipped away in silence, vanishing into the dark village street. When the way was clear, Magdalena hastily loosed Hans's ankles, and he rose to his feet.
The village lay silent; Brian sprawled in his chair, snoring loudly. Hans moved to follow the girl, but stopped and touched her shoulder.
"My satchel," he murmured, stricken.
She tilted her head and showed him she carried it slung on her back. At that moment Brian, still asleep, tipped sideways and tumbled from his chair. He awoke with a start, stood up, yawned like a hippopotamus, and collapsed back down.
Magdalena and Hans froze. The Jesuit's legs would not obey him; Magdalena weighed their chances. Both pressed into the shadows. From the sepulchral stillness of the square rose ghostly laughter and voices. Brian looked toward the redoubt with irritation. The voices grew louder, swelling into an open quarrel. True to his nosy nature, Brian stood up and headed for the gate.
"This is fortunate… he never misses any gossip," Magda whispered.
Hans exhaled, lifted his eyes to the night sky, and gave thanks—before Magdalena jerked him roughly back.
Brian pounded on the gate with his fist. A small hatch slid open, revealing the gruff face of an old man with a grey beard and a pipe clamped between his teeth.
"What the devil is it now?" Brian demanded.
"Eddy's at it with Kirk. Drunken foolishness," the old man replied.
"Oh, heavens… let me in."
"Don't you have the stranger to guard?"
"That's my problem… just open up!"
The hatch slammed shut; a heavy bolt scraped, and the gate swung open. Brian stepped into the redoubt's central courtyard. Around him rose warehouses, the church, the rectory, a barracks, and the dormitories. In the middle, two men traded blows, hurling insults and curses. Brian recognized Eddy, flung to the ground, while his opponent, Kirk, stood over him with disdain.
"Calm yourself, Garrison… I'll pay you when I have the coin. I've none for now," Kirk said.
Eddy rose, his brow furrowed with rage.
"A debtor is not to be pitied… he is to be made to pay," he snarled, and, whipping out a dagger, lunged at his foe. Kirk dodged, flashing out a knife of his own, its blade catching the lantern light. They set upon each other amid jeers and whistles.
It was not long before Derek appeared—tall, commanding. He fired into the air, and the fight froze.
"What devilry is this? Who started it?" he shouted.
The men glanced about and then pointed at Eddy, who still brandished his dagger in defiance.
"Mr. Garrison… again in brawls? Put away that damned blade," Derek ordered.
"I was only demanding what is mine," Eddy shot back. "That Cornish dog Kirk owes me three doubloons, or the Azure Ore he promised me—and I got neither."
"The Azure Ore belongs to the redoubt. Take your due in goods or coin," Derek retorted.
"I'll not accept it… I want my money, Kirk!"
"You'll have it when I've had my share. And what use is money you cannot spend?" Kirk replied coolly.
"The next fair at Puerto Caballos is not till after the hurricane season," another miner chimed in.
"It's my money!" Eddy roared, raising his knife, ready to strike.
Derek lifted his pistol and leveled it.
"Eddy, one more fray, and this shot will not be a warning," he said coldly. Eddy faltered, as did all the others, staring in tense silence.
"There's no need for such violence," Eddy muttered, sliding his blade back amid the mocking laughter of the men.
Derek planted his hands on his hips and swept the group with his gaze.
"Mr. Evans, do you think discipline can be maintained without calling on Rafael?"
Walter Evans cleared his throat and scratched his thick beard.
"We might send Mr. Garrison down to the mines for a spell."
"I'll not go to the mines… I'm no miner, I'm an Able Seaman!" Eddy protested.
A ripple of laughter ran through the men.
"You could take the mule's place on the capstan," Kirk jeered, followed by another round of laughter. Eddy flushed scarlet and started forward, but Derek raised his hand, and the noise fell away.
"Then give us no cause to punish you again, Mr. Garrison. Rafael would not be so lenient—he'd not hesitate to take the cat from the sack, and you all know it." Derek's eyes hardened. "Now: all of you. Back to your barracks, to your beds, and to dream of angels… at once!"
All the men muttered and began to disperse. Derek noticed Brian leaning against a pillar, grinning with both thumbs raised. He strode toward him.
"What the hell are you doing here? Get back to your post!"
"Oh, come on… the Teuton's got nowhere to go," Brian replied with mock joviality.
"BACK. NOW!," Derek Shouted.
Brian scowled, lips pursed like a scolded child, and slunk away, grumbling.
"No need to get so worked up…" he muttered as he walked off.
As he headed for the gate, he came upon Kwame, who was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigar, having witnessed Derek's reprimand.
"Enjoy yourself?" Brian asked, his voice dripping with irony.
"More than I can say for you."
"Damn bastard," Brian muttered under his breath, making for the exit of the redoubt.
Once outside, he crossed the square and returned to his chair to resume his watch. He leaned back against the post with the musket across his legs and, bored, considered giving the stranger a beating.
But when his eyes went to the stake, it was empty. Startled, he leapt up, scanning about, rattling the chains. Then he shouted:
"The bloody Teuton's on the loose!"
No one heeded him. He bolted for the watchtower, where the lookout sat smoking at the base, until a stone jolted him awake. He leaned out and saw Brian below, flailing and waving his arms.
"What's the matter, fat man?" the guard called down.
Brian, breathless from his dash, wheezed:
"The prisoner… has… escaped!"
The guard stared, slow to grasp, then stiffened. The bell rang out at once. Men poured into the courtyard, bewildered, while pounding rattled the gate. As soon as it opened, Brian stumbled in with the alarm.
"Useless fool!" several shouted at him.
Derek arrived and took the report, his glare burning through Brian. Meanwhile, Rafael burst from his hammock, nearly falling, and as he gained his feet, Derek's words reached him: the German had fled. The priest clutched at his chest, found the master key missing, rushed to the rectory, flung open the cupboard, and confirmed his fear—the satchel was gone.
He stormed into the yard, where the barracks men were gathering, and bellowed:
"What are you waiting for, you lazy dogs?! After him!"
At once, the men armed themselves with machetes and muskets. Rafael seized Brian by the collar, ready to strike him, but Derek intervened.
"Let us focus on finding the fugitive, Rafael."
Rafael glared and stalked away toward the square. Derek fixed Brian with a hard look, and the man lowered his eyes meekly.
"One of these days, I won't be able to shield you any longer," Derek warned, before striding after Rafael, who barked orders at more than a dozen men. Torches flared, weapons gleamed, and they scattered to the four winds, rousing villagers with shouts and whistles.