The soldiers marched into the plaza, at whose center rose three carved stone stelae.
In front of them stood an altar shaped like a warrior turned with his back to the world, his torso carved into a blackened sacrificial table—its surface darkened by centuries of fire. The grooves where blood had once flowed could still be traced. The idol's head, turned toward the temple of Kukulkán, seemed to watch them in silence.
The prisoners were gathered before the stones. At first came a murmur of dread, mixed with the clinking of chains and the dragging of feet. A single shout from the soldiers was enough to bring silence. The lieutenant stepped beneath the shadow of one of the monuments.
"As you all know," he began, "you are criminals against the Crown and will be judged by the Regional Audiencia for your crimes. But your sentences may be reduced… if one of you tells me where Kwame Baptiste is hiding."
A restless murmur swept through the group.
The lieutenant scanned their faces with his single eye, measuring each man.
"None of you knows?" he asked.
All heads lowered.
"We haven't seen him," said one of the pirates.
"Do you confirm he was in charge of the operation?"
Silence. Only the caw of a crow broke the heavy air.
"Ensign," ordered the lieutenant without looking away, "choose one—whichever you please—and lay him on the sacrificial stone."
Inzunza called for a whip and rolled up his sleeves in anger. They chose a tall, gaunt English pirate with graying blond hair. He was dragged to the Mayan altar, whimpering, muttering pleas in his own tongue. The soldiers forced him face-down upon the stone, tearing the back of his shirt. There, tattooed upon his skin, was an image of the Virgin Mary. A murmur rose among the men; they looked to the lieutenant, who merely narrowed his eye.
"They're Protestants," he said with disdain, and struck.
"I'm Irish!" cried the pirate, his voice mingling with the hum of cicadas.
The lieutenant turned to the rest.
"Well?"
No one spoke. The pirates swallowed hard; the natives and the blacks remained still, their eyes fixed on the ground.
"Won't you decide?" he said, cracking the whip again.
Seeing their stubborn silence, Inzunza lifted his arm once more. The lash hissed through the air before landing on the man's back with brutal force.
"I could spend the whole day and night flaying this infidel," he said, his voice taut, almost savoring the cruelty, "until his bones show—and then I'll start with the next of you."
"Kwame, sir!" shouted one of the men. "Kwame—with Toby's help!"
Inzunza clenched his jaw and struck the prisoner again. The man screamed.
"Kwame and Toby were the ones carrying the barrels and the money to the redoubt," another pirate blurted, "but in the last runs, under Rafael's orders, the black man hid certain treasures in a secret place in the jungle."
"Why him, and not you?"
"He was discreet—and honest," Larry replied.
"And can you tell me where that place is?"
Silence returned. The lieutenant raised the whip again.
"Only they knew," said a red-haired pirate, "but you can be sure Kwame will come back."
"Why?"
"Because he's loyal to his own people," said another, nodding toward the group of chained blacks at the far end—heads bowed, eyes resigned.
Inzunza handed the whip to his ensign, brushed the dust from his hands, and straightened the lace cuffs of his sleeves before buttoning his coat.
"Take them to the warehouse," he ordered.
The prisoners were dragged away amid shoves and curses.
The ensign followed the lieutenant into the shade of a thatched hut. There, Inzunza uncorked a bottle of wine and drank a slow sip before speaking.
"I have a plan," he said in a low voice, almost as if thinking aloud. "We've found the cargo of the Santa Carmen, and by duty we should report it to the Visitor from the Council of the Indies. Believe me, Yanga, those men are like dogs to the king—loyal, ruthless, and merciless, even to the viceroy himself. But… as a gesture of goodwill, we shall inform His Excellency first. I'm certain he'll reward us handsomely."
"For recovering it?" Yanga asked.
The lieutenant shot him a cold look.
"No, Yanga. For keeping our mouths shut." A crooked smile crept across his face. "It might even earn me a promotion for my loyalty," he added, winking with his single eye.
The ensign arched a brow discreetly.
"With due respect, sir—why would His Excellency do that?"
Inzunza took a pinch of snuff and sneezed delicately before replying.
"Listen, Yanga. Do you know the difference between you—son of a guard at San Juan de Ulúa, as I understand—and me, trained at the Military Academy of Engineers in Madrid, born to a family of hidalgos?"
The ensign held himself straight.
"No, sir."
"Men like me—those born to command—are taught from childhood to move through the web of intrigues and favors at court," he said, inhaling another pinch. "It's a game of cards, Yanga: knowing when to show your hand to win."
He paused, lowering his voice. "And this, my good man, is one of those moments."
Another graceful sneeze, then a flick of his hand.
"Proceed with the inventory of the cargo. I want that list as soon as possible."
Yanga saluted and turned to go.
"Ensign," the lieutenant added quietly, "not a word of this—or there'll be consequences."
The young man nodded and left. His face remained composed, but inside, he carried a heavy unease.
From atop the temple came a sudden cry that split the air:
"Ship on the horizon!"
Silence fell. All eyes turned toward the sanctuary. Then came a stir of voices—even the prisoners began to whisper. The lieutenant climbed the pyramid stairs at once, Yanga at his heels. From above, spyglass in hand, he scanned the horizon: the masts barely pricked the blue line of the sea.
"Is it the Garnor?" he asked.
"Hard to tell, sir," Yanga replied. "It's distant. Perhaps someone with a sharper eye could recognize it."
Inzunza rested a boot upon the idol and squinted at the horizon. The sea breeze stirred his coat.
"Find one," he ordered. "Recruit a lookout among the pirates."
Yanga descended with two soldiers to where the chained men were kept. He stopped before them, their eyes a mix of fear and defiance.
"I need a lookout who can recognize ships," he said.
Murmurs. Heads shaking. The ensign frowned.
"Must I use the whip to make you cooperate?"
One raised his hand—a one-eyed man, his other clouded by a milky glaze.
"You?" Yanga asked. "You think you can spot a ship from that far?"
"I've but one eye, sir," the man replied, "yet I see more than many with two."
"Can you recognize the Garnor?"
"Any ship in the world… especially that one. I've seen her come too many times."
Yanga nodded. The soldiers escorted him to the top of the pyramid.
When Inzunza saw him, he barked a laugh.
"That's your lookout? A one-eyed man?"
"He claims to have experience, sir."
The lieutenant handed him the spyglass.
The prisoner grinned slyly, pulling a battered spyglass from his ragged coat.
"I've my own," he said, and raised it to his face. "They're sailing fast," he added after a moment, "but in a couple of hours, we'll know who they are."
******
Meanwhile, as all eyes were turned toward the sea, a young boy who had been hiding in a cistern crawled out and ran toward the wall. He found a crack wide enough to squeeze through and slipped into the jungle beyond.
He had to hide—Spanish soldiers patrolled the perimeter. He waited until they passed, then darted through the thick foliage. From the shadows of the trees, he looked back: the old smuggler's base rose dark against the sky, the pyramid towering above its weather-stained walls.
Suddenly, a hand clamped over his mouth. The boy struggled.
"Easy, Yax. It's me," said a deep voice he recognized at once.
"Kwame!" he whispered, relieved. "By all the thunder… what are you doing here?"
"Long story, Yax," the man said. "Tell me what happened."
"What everyone feared—the Castilians came. They arrested everyone."
Kwame exhaled, lips pressed tight.
"Where were you going?"
"To Ch'en Sasil, to ask for help."
"Don't. The Spaniards have already taken the village. Go to Playa Conchas, find the fishermen there, and have them take you to Xcalak. Stay hidden."
"You think they'd help us if I warned them?"
"That would only bring more reprisals," he said calmly. "There's another way—smarter—to save the day."
He lifted his gaze toward the pyramid.
"What's happening up there?"
"They've spotted a ship. They're planning an ambush. The leader—Inzunza—wants to capture the pirates for the reward."
Kwame nodded slowly.
"Then go, Yax. Before they find you. Tell the people of Xcalak: any move against the Spaniards could cost us dearly."
Yax nodded and turned to run, then hesitated.
"Kwame… the English blame you for everything. They say you kept the gold—the profits—and that the Spaniards are waiting to catch you."
The man said nothing, staring into the dark undergrowth.
"Go, Yax," he said at last. "Run."
The fugitive waited until the boy vanished among the trees, then started off himself, pushing through the brush, parting the vines. He moved cautiously, slipping between roots and shadows, until he reached the edge of the ruins of lighthouse compound.
From the thickets, his keen eyes caught movement—Spanish soldiers guarding the perimeter. A man seasoned by years of piracy, he read their strategy at once. Quietly, he withdrew and crept through the undergrowth until he came upon a fissure in the ground.
He tied a liana to a rock and descended carefully into the depths. At the bottom lay a narrow cavern. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and walked a few paces before stumbling upon an old wooden chest. Opening it, he took out a flint and, with a scrap of tinder, struck a spark that lit a small oil lamp resting beside it.
A damp smell enveloped him; the drip of water echoed through the dark. He followed a faint stream, climbed over a pair of rocks, and entered a tunnel that opened into a chamber filled with boxes and chests.
Kwame crouched before a small one, lifted its lid, and examined its contents: clothes, some pipes, a worn Bible, and a tiny leather pouch sewn with vegetal thread. He held it gently. Inside, he found sand from the Senegal River, fragments of bone, and a strip of indigo-dyed cloth. It was his gris-gris charm—the last memory of his homeland.
Setting it aside with care, he rummaged until he found a mirror. Then, lamp in hand, he crossed the chamber toward another tunnel. As he passed, the light caught the coins spilling from an open chest, scattering golden reflections across the stone.
The passage narrowed until he reached an opening where the murmur of the sea echoed faintly, carrying the scent of salt. He emerged into a cave beneath the cliff. The low tide allowed him to step to the entrance. From there he looked out at the vast ocean. The waves broke softly against the rocks, and the wind stirred in him, for a fleeting instant, the need to pray for his ancestors' help in what he was planning.