The Jesuit moved through the cave while the crash of waves against the rocks rumbled in the distance, mingling with the tang of salt. Wreckage dragged in by the current lay scattered about. Then he heard the echo of a song, sung by ethereal voices:
Three empires sought to bring me to heel,
but on the high seas I never learned to yield.
Albion Rex, Castile, and the Frenchman's cross!
come who may, I'll be the judge of loss.
Hans looked around, trying to discover whence it came. Suddenly he found himself in a vast underground chamber. At its center, seated upon a mound of bones, rose the skeleton of a captain; the hollows of the skull lit up and fixed upon Hans.
"A curse that began years ago… it falls to you to seal it and bring it to an end," it said in a cavernous voice.
Then a guttural sound swelled, as if every fleshless jaw at the spectre's feet were uttering it.
He woke with a start. The gloom of a hut closed around him, lit only by the light slipping through cracks in the wall; the smell of woodsmoke and maize encircled him. A sharp pain throbbed in his brow. Two women sat beside him in silence, tending his wound. When they saw him stir, they tried to dissuade him from moving, but they spoke in Maya and Hans did not understand.
"Where is Magdalena?" he muttered. "What happened? Is she well?"
Only replies in Maya came back to him.
"Máan, máan, sutana sáasil… jach jats'uts'il k'áax," said one of the women. (Easy, easy, black cassock… it was a hard blow.)
The Jesuit decided to rise, with the women's help. Something made him think the story was repeating itself, as at the convent. Once on his feet, he looked around: in one corner a hearth held the griddle where a young girl was toasting tortillas; above, the beams were blackened with years of soot. Hammocks hung from the posts, and rolled mats were stacked against the wattle-and-daub walls. Clay pots, palm-woven baskets, and a wooden chest with a few utensils completed the place. In another corner a cluster of children stared at him, eyes wide. He glanced toward the doorway and realized more children and adults were peeking in; when they saw him standing, the word spread: the Jesuit was alive.
Tottering, Hans made for the exit, pushing through the onlookers, and came upon the village chief, who greeted him with a small bow, echoed by all present.
"Black robe…" he said. "Welcome. You have returned to us."
Hans looked around, bewildered.
"Do you speak Spanish?" was all he managed to say.
The cacique raised his hand and moved it side to side.
"Little… little, not much," he said.
The Jesuit lifted his chin and drew a breath.
"Where is Magdalena, your daughter? Where is she?" Hans asked.
The Cacique gestured for him to follow, indicating he should walk at his side. They set out along the street lined with huts, whose owners stood in their thresholds watching them pass; the crowd—men, women, and children, with dogs wagging their tails—fell in behind, parting the clucking chickens as they went. The group reached the edge of the square.
"Rafael, men… my daughter, there," said the cacique in halting Spanish. "You, help… my daughter, need you."
Hans feared the worst.
"They've taken her," he said to himself. "Any plan?" he asked, looking to the cacique and the men, but they shook their heads, not understanding.
Hans started to step forward, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"I wouldn't try it… those lads are firing at anything that shows itself," said a voice behind him.
He turned to find a soldier watching him with an easy, almost breezy air. The man wore a battered tricorn, a short wool coat the color of dust, boots worn to the knee, and his gear strapped tight: a sash at his side, a crossbelt, and a leather cartridge box with bright buckles; a short sabre hung at his belt. Behind him stood barely half a dozen men—three musketeers, a lancer, and an indigenous scout—each with a musket slung and clothes grimy from the day's march.
"Glad to see you alive, Father," said the soldier, as Hans stared in confusion.
"Good heavens! Who are you?" Hans asked.
"I'm Sergeant Miguel Legazpi Tovar, in charge of this detachment assigned to the Presidio of Santiago de Bacalar," the sergeant said with a brief bow.
"By heaven's mercy, I'm glad you're here!" Hans said, smiling with a sigh of relief.
"We thought a caste revolt had broken out… but we've found another kind of trouble," the sergeant remarked.
Hans cleared his throat, trying to recover his composure.
"I am a Jesuit missionary; my name is—"
"Father Hans von Lübeck, we know," the sergeant cut in.
Hans stared, swallowing.
"How do you know my name?"
"We patrol the region because of the uprisings, and on our way back to the presidio we stopped at the Convent of Santa María de los Ángeles of Xkan-Ha," said the sergeant. "The Mother Superior told us of you and had a feeling you were in danger."
"And she was not mistaken… but how did you get here?" asked Hans.
The sergeant smiled, reached to his belt, drew out a coin, and placed it in the Jesuit's hand. It was a shilling bearing the Latin legend REX DEI GRATIA and the bust of the king of England.
"A shilling? How did this come into your hands?" Hans asked, puzzled.
"A native youth we met a day ago gave it to us; we suspected at once it meant something… and we were right."
Hans showed the coin to the chief, who nodded.
"Do you know who those people are?" the sergeant asked, looking toward the redoubt.
"They're English pirates who passed themselves off as religious guides and exploited the townsfolk," Hans said.
"Troubles aplenty in these parts…" the sergeant muttered.
"What's the situation, Sergeant?" Hans asked.
"They've barricaded themselves inside the buildings, ready to withstand an assault," he said, weighing his words. "And they've taken the chief's daughter hostage."
Hans pressed his lips together and frowned.
"Damned heretics of—" He stopped himself before profaning. "What are we going to do?"
"They're asking for terms: the girl for gold and a safe-conduct to the coast. But we will, of course, make no bargain with them," said the sergeant.
A knot tightened in Hans's throat. The soldier made a sign, and he and his men withdrew into the shade. The village women brought them tortillas and beans; the soldiers ate while talking quietly among themselves, muskets within reach. No one spoke in the square. Only the clucking of hens, the distant sounds of the jungle, a murmur of prayers, and the soldiers' voices arguing. Hans stood watching them in distress. They were men hardened by many fights; their minds, cold and calculating. That was what troubled him.