The boat glided over the calm waters of the estuary until it drew close to the base of the cliffs. Everyone was surprised to find the place so silent: there were always fishermen around; even now, fishing nets lay abandoned and tangled along the beach. Smugglers, lookouts… and yet, that afternoon there was no one.
Mr. Knox ordered everyone to stay alert.
The bottom of the boat scraped the sand and the men jumped out to start unloading the barrels, sweating as they set them in position so they could be hoisted up by the cranes.
But no one came out to meet them.
Cody looked around, uneasy.
"Mr. Knox… this looks suspicious," the boy said.
"Mr. Harris, speak only when you're allowed to," Knox replied coldly.
"Mr. Knox," one of the pirates chimed in, "this really does look suspicious… you think they're on Sabbat or something?"
The assistant drew in a long breath.
"I agree with you. Something's not right," he said.
Knox let out a sharp whistle and shouted:
"Kwame! Larry! Toby! Or whoever's up there! We're here, haul up the barrels!"
But no answer came.
"Mr. Harris," Knox ordered, "you're in charge of the boat and the cargo. The rest of you, with me."
They all started up the stairway — the wooden ladder nailed against the cliff, creaking under their boots.
Cody stayed by the boat, looking around in fear. All he could hear was the gentle slap of the water, the distant murmur of the jungle, and the cries of the seabirds.
The minutes crawled by. Cody sought out a patch of shade and sat down beside the barrels. He started drawing shapes in the sand with his finger; he even yawned from boredom—until a sudden roar made him leap to his feet: gunshots.
His heart thundered in his chest.
The men appeared, scrambling down the stairs as fast as they could. Cody froze, paralyzed by fear.
Suddenly, Knox's body came tumbling down from the top of the cliff. Cody took a step to run toward him, but his legs simply wouldn't respond.
"Run, Cody!" Hatcher shouted as he climbed down—just before he tripped and fell, dragging down those in front of him. Some of them plunged into the void.
The rest made it to the beach, but up above, Spanish soldiers appeared and opened fire without mercy.
Cody ran toward the cliff wall, his heart pounding, and threw himself behind some rocks.
He watched as several pirates tried to push the launch into the water, but it was useless: the gunfire from above forced them to duck and flatten themselves on the sand.
Cody tried to escape along the shoreline, but the tide was high and blocked the way. He crouched down among the cracks in the rock and waited for his chance, watching—heart in his throat—as the soldiers came down and captured the survivors, marching them back up to the top of the cliff.
The golden light of late afternoon was pouring in through the cabin skylights when someone knocked at the door.
Skippy was going over numbers with Mr. Paine after a videoconference with the governor.
"Captain," said the first mate, Trumper, as he stepped inside, "the party that went to deliver the cargo hasn't returned."
The secretary looked at the captain, worried. Skippy, leaning back in his chair, pressed his lips together and sighed.
"Mr. Trumper… we'll wait one more hour," he said. "If they don't come back, send out a scouting party."
Trumper cleared his throat.
"Captain, it might be a good idea to go into the estuary and keep watch from the safety of the ship."
Mr. Paine frowned, even more anxious now.
"Mr. Trumper," Skippy replied, "the tide is going out… and I've no intention of getting stuck inside that estuary."
"But the men…"
"Just do as I said."
Trumper left the cabin. Skippy went back to the documents.
"Anything on your mind, Mr. Paine?" the captain asked.
"I'm worried about that cargo… it's already committed. And who knows what might have happened."
"I understand," Skippy said. "What do you suggest?"
"Perhaps it would be wise to do what Trumper proposed."
The captain picked up a pencil and jotted a few notes in the account book.
"I understand your concern, but we have to take care of the ship as well. I'm not going to risk her. We'll send a party… but we are not going into the estuary."
"And the cargo?"
"We'll know in an hour. In the meantime, go over these figures," he said, handing him the ledger.
The whole crew was on edge, staring toward the line of palms and trees that hid the estuary from view.
Sammy and Kayin watched in silence. The girl was especially uneasy.
"Something happened," she murmured. "I can feel it."
"Oh, so now you're a medium?" Kayin asked.
"Can you stop busting my balls for one second? I'm worried about Cody and the others."
"If you agree that the lot of them on that boat were a bunch of idiots…"
Sammy was about to answer when Trumper arrived.
"What the bloody hell is going on here?" he barked, seeing everyone gathered around. "Is this a tea day in Hyde Park? Back to your posts, all of you!"
"Mr. Trumper, what's the captain's plan?" Sammy asked, with the rest of the crew watching closely.
Trumper shot her an irritated look.
"We'll wait one hour. Then we'll put together a party. I'll tell you who's going."
"Obviously we'll be going armed," one of the pirates said.
"No, Mr. Bridges," Trumper replied with heavy sarcasm, "we'll be taking flowers and a nice picnic basket."
The laughter broke out at poor Bridges' expense.
"May I come along?" Sammy asked.
"Mr. Worthy, the best help is the kind that doesn't get in the way. You're staying here. Back to your work."
The sun began to sink. Once the hour had passed, the second boat was lowered into the water.
The chosen crew started climbing down the side of the Garnor.
The last one to go would be Trumper himself; the captain hadn't been happy about sending him, but it had to be done.
Skippy and the secretary watched from the deck.
Sammy walked up to the captain.
"Captain… I request permission to join the party."
"What did the first mate tell you?"
"That I should stay here."
"Then you already have your answer. You may go," Skippy said without looking at her.
Sammy went back over to Kayin.
"Well?" he asked.
"If I'm still here, you already know the answer," she growled.