Royal Infantry Lieutenant Leonardo Inzunza stood atop the ruins of an ancient pyramid dedicated to Kukulkán, which rose near the cliff's edge. From there he commanded a view of the walled ceremonial complex of Xul-Kan, With his single eye, he could see the ruins the pirates had converted into storehouses and dwellings. Along the edge of the cliff, cranes rose high, hoisting the cargo upward.
The Spanish troops were bringing the settlement to heel at musket-point. Among the prisoners there was a bit of everything: Indians, runaway slaves, a few Spaniards and… pirates. Men predominated, but there were also women clutching their children, shielding them in panic. From time to time shots cracked and thin pillars of smoke marked stubborn pockets of resistance. The officer smiled, satisfied to see the assault had been carried through with success. Then he turned his gaze to the Caribbean, stretching away—immense and imperious—its turquoise waters beyond a bar of sand and palms that sealed the estuary off from the ocean. After that he looked towards the estuary's mouth, where, upon a rocky outcrop above the palms and foliage, another ceremonial group rose, with a tower the locals called the lighthouse.
He was watching the horizon when a soldier, panting, clambered to the pyramid's summit.
"Lieutenant, I report the population has been subdued," said the newcomer, a young mulatto in an ensign's uniform.
"No one matched the description of our suspect?" Inzunza asked, his boot resting upon the carved head of a stone idol as he looked out to sea.
"Negative, sir—but there's something you should see."
"What is it?"
"We found certain items in the warehouse…"
"Gold?"
"No, sir… remnants of a galleon's cargo—the Santa Carmen."
Inzunza chose to follow the ensign, leaving another man to keep watch over the horizon. Down the steep steps they went and along the causeway, temples flanking it on either side—temples now turned to depots and dwellings. Prisoners huddled fearfully to either side until they came to a relatively modern building guarded by soldiers. At the entrance stood a ragged, trembling pirate and three other men: one bare-chested beneath a torn shirt, tattoos sprawled over chest and face; another in a battered tricorne and worn frock-coat; and a black man who regarded them with a severe, steady gaze. There was also a woman, broad-hipped and full-bosomed.
"Who are these?" asked the lieutenant.
"The pirate keeps the inventories, sir. The other three are Spaniards accompanied by their slave."
"And the woman?"
"I am Catalina de Alarcón, officer," the woman answered at once. "Wife to this man. Go on then—present yourself to the officer," she said, giving the man in the tricorne a brisk pat. He looked visibly alarmed.
The man removed his hat and stammered, "Yes, my lady—er—yes, sir." He clenched the tricorne's brim in both hands. "I am… I am… Manolo Alarcón, and this gentleman"—he flicked his eyes towards the tattooed man, who offered a little bow—"is Pancho Aguirre, a kinsman."
"We're from Cádiz," the woman cut in, "and we trade out of Puerto Caballos, where we reside."
The lieutenant's mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "You sound more like smugglers than merchants—and that is treason against the Crown."
"We are faithful to our king; we only distribute goods—hard enough to receive them on time. We take rum to Puerto Caballos and Laguna Verde… we've even left casks at the very gates of the Bacalar presidio, Lieutenant. We'd be more than happy to furnish a couple of courtesy barrels if we're allowed to go."
All fell silent. The men trembled, watching the lieutenant, who pursed his lips at the woman, hands now planted on her hips.
"It will have to be four barrels," he said. "Let them go—but the negro stays."
The woman arched an eyebrow. "Tomás is our property; he helps with the cargo. If you want the barrels delivered to the presidio, we shall need him."
"Then make it seven barrels of rum—and a fine for your dealings with pirates."
"We can always replace the negro," she said, with an indifferent little grimace.
"Very well. Ensign Yanga, seize this slave and add him to the others. They'll all be confiscated and sent to Campeche."
"What do you intend to do with them?" her husband asked meekly.
"They will become property of the Crown and be sold at auction," said the lieutenant.
The Spaniards muttered among themselves. The black man turned his head to the woman.
"Very well," Catalina said at last. "We'll leave the cargo—but we'll take Tomás."
The lieutenant smiled. "The negro carries an extra cost—and I know you have the means to pay it." Inzunza extended his hand with elegant languor.
The woman snorted softly, lifted a brow and drew a leather purse from her bodice, which she upended: a doubloon and fifty-three reales. The lieutenant took the coins and pocketed them while Ensign Yanga watched with discreet attention.
"I find it unjust to extort people who only wish to work," the woman said crossly, while her husband hissed at her to hush.
The officer's look turned dry. "I applaud your boldness, Doña Catalina—but I suppose that's what comes of wearing the breeches at home." He glanced once at the two men, then, without turning, gave his order to the ensign: "See them off. Make certain they take nothing."
At Yanga's signal, two soldiers escorted the Spaniards down to the beach beneath the cliff, where their sloop lay. When they were gone, the ensign cleared his throat.
"Beg pardon, Lieutenant. By the code, those Spaniards are criminals for smuggling."
The lieutenant fanned himself with his tricorne, listening without looking at him.
"And what would you have us do, Ensign?"
"Ideally, arrest them and take them to the presidio."
The lieutenant turned to his subordinate. "By royal decree they have a right to a hearing and to counsel; which means their case must be tried in Guatemala. Do you propose to take them there yourself?"
"And fugitive slaves? Do they not also have a right to be heard?"
"They are different. They are property that fled their legitimate owners—rebels in the making. With no claimant, they revert to the Crown. The presidio may take a share for their recovery. Or do you object?"
The ensign nodded and inclined his head. "Understood."
Inzunza then looked to the pirate, who had remained some way off against the wall under a soldier's guard. With a small gesture he had him brought forward. The fellow came close, blue eyes fixed on the lieutenant with a kind of expectant dread.
"What's your name?" the officer asked.
"Larry Down, sir," the man answered in Spanish. "From Bristol."
"Ah. Another Englishman illegally on our soil."
"Driven by circumstances, sir."
"We've several of your friends in the Bacalar presidio, haven't we, Ensign?" Inzunza said, turning to Yanga.
Yanga inclined his head.
"If you don't wish to end like them, waiting for the gallows, I advise you to cooperate," said the lieutenant.
"I'm only a runner here, sir… The men at the redoubt handled the accounts."
The lieutenant's mouth curled in disdain and he stepped into the warehouse. Light filtered through high slits, picking out crates and barrels. At the back lay a heap of pine boxes, many prised open, full of objects and furnishings. All bore the same stencilling, the letters blackened by damp and sand:
R.D.S.M. (Royal Donation of His Majesty)
GALLEON "SANTA CARMEN"
SEVILLE → VERACRUZ
FOR HIS EXCELLENCY THE VICEROY D. MENDOZA Y LÓPEZ
CONT.: SACRED OBJECTS.
YEAR OF OUR LORD 17…
When one was opened, the smell of brine and old timber gave way to something else: beneath a dense cap of straw lay bottles of wine. The officer took one up and examined it.
"French and Portuguese wines—very fine… and forbidden," he said.
Meanwhile the ensign had opened other boxes with the same pious labels; all were filled with luxuries: fine silks and lace; in others, furniture of French make, dresses, silverware and jewels, and pocket-watches; and in yet more, fine swords and fowling pieces. In another case the lieutenant found books banned by the Index. He crouched, lifted a few and read their titles off the warped covers: De revolutionibus orbium; The Spirit of the Laws; La Celestina; and a novel by Eliza Haywood. Then he picked up a sodden, unravelling volume whose title caught his eye: The Legend of the Uncharted Island.
He cocked an eyebrow. "Adventure trash to glorify these dogs. No doubt they take their inspiration from such rubbish," he said, glancing sidelong at the pirate standing a few paces off.
"I was reading it to pass the time," the pirate replied. "But it's not wise to read it at night—or in storms."
"Does it make you nostalgic for your villainies?"
The pirate's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Oh no, Your Honour. That novel—written by some hack trying to imitate the great Balin Van Buuren—speaks of the Verbeck's ghost, and that brings ill luck."
The lieutenant pressed his lips together; a smile crept across his face. "Then consider your luck come due—and very ill indeed for you and yours," he said, amused. He rose and flicked the book to the floor; it skidded to the ensign's feet, who read the cover with a curious tilt of the head.
"Costly goods," the lieutenant observed.
"Plainly smuggled—hidden as a sacred consignment," Yanga said.
"Just so. The explanation is simple: dodging customs—and the Holy Office as well," Inzunza went on, drawing a snuff-box from his belt. He opened it and took a pinch. "The pity is that no insurance against loss to privateers will cover even a sliver of the value of undeclared goods."
After several pinches he sneezed, produced a lace handkerchief and wiped his nose. Then he turned back to the pirate, who stood silent, wringing his hands.
"How did all this booty come here?" he asked.
The man swallowed. "A pirate ship brought it…"
"Which ship?"
"I don't remember, sir," Larry said.
The lieutenant drew his heavy pistol and levelled it at the man's face.
"I think I remember now—the Garnor," Larry blurted, suddenly nervous. "She's been very regular in her dealings. She comes, trades her plunder for Azure Ore… In fact, we're expecting her."
"Who is her captain?"
"His name is Hunka."
"Hunka? What sort of name is that?"
The pirate shrugged. "He's northern, sir… Scandinavia or beyond. But in the trade we all call him Skippy, for the way he slips out of the worst scrapes."
"I see. Perhaps his luck is about to turn."
The lieutenant regarded the cargo for a moment. "You told me the men at the redoubt handled the base's profits, did you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And yet they say you did."
The man fell silent.
"What can you tell me of Kwame Baptiste?" the lieutenant asked.
The man shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell, sir."
Once more Inzunza raised the pistol a fraction.
"I remember now… Only that he was a runaway slave."
"What else? By our reports he ran this whole operation. Don't pretend you know nothing."
"Who says so?"
"Your friends. Rafael and Derek… and one Toby," the lieutenant said.
The man swallowed again and licked his lips. "In fact—yes. He managed the transactions and the takings that were later taken up to the redoubt."
"What became of him?"
"We haven't seen him since the last time he went out with Toby—the one in charge."
"According to Toby, he received him at the redoubt. You contradict one another."
"Well, yes—what I meant was, he went out with Toby, who was the man at the redoubt. My Spanish isn't good—you know, the tenses, the conjugations…"
"Enough. And Rafael's part in all this?"
"He was only the spiritual guide. Kwame did all the trade."
The ensign pressed his lips thin. Lieutenant Inzunza made a small sign that the interrogation was over.
"Permission to speak, sir," Yanga said, following his superior as the latter strolled between the boxes, examining their contents. "These men are trying to pin it all on this Kwame. The English are covering for each other."
"What makes you think so?"
"It's plain they're using him as a scapegoat—crediting him with crucial operations, when you know no negro would be entrusted with the administrative charge of an enterprise like this."
The lieutenant sighed, weary. "I'm not sure I credit it, Ensign Yanga," he said in a pompous drawl. "In the meantime, gather the prisoners."
With that, Lieutenant Inzunza made for the warehouse door, drawing out his lace handkerchief to blot the sweat, the ensign falling in behind him while the soldiers shoved the pirate along.