Treasure of the Dead

Prologue

Alonso Sanchez paced the deck of the El Señor San Miguel. He scanned the waters ahead of them, searching for signs of the other ships in their fleet. The captain’s decision to leave Havana for Spain after taking on supplies had seemed to be a sound one, for the terrible storms in this part of the world known as hurricanes were not usually known to happen this early in the year. Yet here they were, barely two days out of port, and the weather had taken a severe turn for the worst, heavy rain pelting the ship’s wooden decks, thunderclaps booming in the distance.

They had first lost sight of the fleet about half a day ago, when one of the smaller masts had snapped in the storm. Unable to fully control the ship, they had slipped off course. At the time it had seemed an event of little consequence. All of the fleet’s dozen ships — eleven Spanish and one French — were heading for the same destination, after all. The San Miguel’s crew would make repairs as soon as weather allowed and they would catch up. Sanchez had lost count of the times inclement weather had caused them to become separated from their sister ships. But those separations from the fleet were usually a few hours at most. To lose sight of eleven ships for half a day could mean only one thing: they had fallen irretrievably off course and were now lost. Separated. On their own.

This prospect sent a most uncomfortable chill coursing along Sanchez’s spine. No fewer than half a dozen European nations had warships plying the seas looking for Spanish treasure ships, particularly those making the return voyage to Spain, which would be laden with gold, silver and untold jewels. Even when part of a fleet, they were a target worth pursuing. But a lone treasure ship, holds brimming over with riches such as the San Miguel’s was now? She was a type of vessel known as a carrack—both lighter and faster than a galleon, but also relatively unarmed, meant to be escorted by a fleet, and if necessary, to flee.

Sanchez crossed himself against the terrifying notion. Like all Spanish sailors, he had heard tales of what fates befell Spanish seamen captured at sea, and none of them involved anything other than unyielding torture and eventual death. Many a man would throw himself into an angry tempest of a sea rather than be taken alive by an English ship, or even worse, rogue pirates.

Sanchez turned around and stared nervously into the gray soup that was the northern sky. If they turned around now they could get back to Havana, wait for the weather to clear and then join up with another friendly fleet returning to Europe. Sanchez knew he was but a lowly rank-and-file sailor, though; his opinion mattered not at all to the Crown and the captains to whom they entrusted their precious treasure fleet. He stood and watched as the San Miguel sailed on into the confusing gloom. He thought he could make out a mountainous landform in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure with the swirling clouds and pelting rain.

Making matters worse, Sanchez flinched with a sudden flare-up of pain in his lower jaw. He’d been experiencing an agonizing toothache for the past several weeks, and the ship’s doctor had continually promised to look at it without actually doing so. Sanchez decided to take his mind off of their problematic navigation by going to see him now. He worked his way along the deck, grabbing onto ropes here and masts there for support against the forceful elements, until he reached the entranceway to the rear belowdecks. He descended the ladder and held his breath against the stench of vomit from seasick sailors holed up against the weather.

The ship’s doctor, one Cristobal D'Avila, kept a small private room that doubled as his quarters and office. Many times the crew had been reminded how fortunate they were to have an actual, trained physician on board as opposed to a barber who acted as one simply because he was in possession of cutting implements, as was often the case on many a ship. Yet, Sanchez reflected as he took in the line of men camped outside the doctor’s door, this physician never seemed to be available to help. Sanchez brought his hand up to the outside of his mouth where the pain manifested.

“Who is he seeing?” he asked his fellow sailors who waited by the door.

One of the men, a youngster from Seville, Spain who sought treatment for fever, answered Sanchez. “He has been with the captain for some time now.”

“What ails the captain?”

No sailor liked to hear his captain was anything less than one hundred percent. Especially when things had already gone south.

“Nothing anyone can tell. It seems more like they are having a meeting. I hear it might be to discuss—”

Suddenly they heard, and felt, the sound of wood grating over coral reef. It was a sensation sailors who ventured to this part of the New World had grown to fear with a vengeance. If they were lucky, the bottom of the hull would barely scrape over the reef and they would soon be on their way none the worse for wear. But as it happened the ship ground to a halt and Sanchez was thrown into a bulkhead, making it abundantly clear that this time they would not be so lucky.

“We’ve run aground!” one of the men shouted. He pounded on the door to the doctor’s office. “Captain! We’ve run aground!”

“We’ve got water in here!” called a sailor from another part of the ship’s hold.

“Captain? Doctor!” the men continued knocking on the door to no avail. Sanchez pulled a blunderbuss from a scabbard he wore around his waist, one he’d taken off a pirate he’d killed in close quarters battle, and wielded the long gun butt first. He looked to the door, then to his fellow sailors. They nodded in return. “Break it. If something happened in there, we need to know.”

Sanchez backed up with the weapon. He was about to ram the butt of it through the door when the ship canted violently to the port side. Unbelievably, water poured in from above them; a gaping hole in the starboard side of the hull was now exposed to huge breaking waves rolling over the foundering vessel. Two of the sailors ran out past Sanchez, heading for the main deck. One of the two remaining again pounded on the door and tried the knob, but after receiving no response, he, too, turned and fled for safety.

Sanchez also recognized that his life was not worth staying behind to raise the captain. For all he knew, their commander might not even be in there any longer. Holstering his blunderbuss, he high-stepped through the incoming water just as the ship rolled some more.

Any hope he harbored of the situation being improved by being out on deck was dashed the second he thrust his head into the open air. Although mid-afternoon, the sky was dark, making it difficult to see where exactly they had come to lie. Sailors’ screams carried over the crashing of waves against the ship. Many men were washed off the vessel’s tilted decks onto the razor sharp reef where they were shredded to pulp by oncoming seas before being swept away to drown. Sanchez was sure he was about to share their fate when a flash of cloud-to-ground lightning illuminated a shocking sight: trees, not far away. Land! They had not struck some oceanic shoal or shallow reef, but had come to an actual island.

Sanchez gripped some remaining rigging with his eyes fixed on the tree line he had seen, now in darkness once again. He dared not move his head for fear he would lose the position. He waited for one more thunderous wave to explode on the San Miguel, timing his exodus from the ruined vessel. He clutched the wet ropes, knowing that to let go now would mean being carried away to his death. He heard the cries of sailors who had either not managed to find something to hold onto or who had been washed away, regardless.

Rushing water cascaded over his body and then drained off, leaving him still clinging to his precarious hold. He filtered out the screams of the dying in order to listen for another approaching wave. Unable to hear one coming, he leapt from his perch into the water. He was a poor swimmer and so exulted in the feel of the uneven reef beneath his feet. Clutching a loose piece of wood for support and to use as a shield from wayward debris, he began slogging his way toward the dark and mysterious shoreline.

He did not know what island this was, knew only his general location, somewhere in the Caribbean. Behind him, he could hear a few other sailors following in his soggy footsteps, shouting and calling to one another. Sanchez remained quiet for now, terrified that he would lose his fix on the tree line and end up walking to a watery grave.

The sea grew shallower as he made his way, and then it became apparent to Sanchez that others had made the shore before him. He could see people walking in front of the trees. They staggered, no doubt exhausted and injured from their trying ordeal, as was he. He headed for them, pleased that at least some of his shipmates had survived, that he would not face the trials and tribulations of this strange new land, no doubt populated by savages, alone.

“Hey! It’s me, Alonso!” He stepped from the waves onto the coral shore and walked up the beach until dry sand caked his wet feet. “Carlos? Is that you?”

No one answered him. The wind must be carrying my voice away, Sanchez thought. He stepped closer to the trees, beyond which he could make out nothing but impenetrable darkness. One of the figures turned toward him and began to walk away from the trees, an ungainly ambling.

“Let me help.” Sanchez ran to his shipmate’s aid. He reached out for him to lend support, but his hand froze when a bolt of lightning cast the man’s face in an otherworldly glow.

“My God, what happened to you?” Sanchez withdrew his hand, wondering if this man had some sort of communicable disease. But before he could arrive at an answer, the castaway swiped at Sanchez aggressively. Sanchez reached for his blunderbuss only to pass a hand over an empty scabbard. The gun had been ripped away during his escape from the ship.

The assailant lunged at Sanchez, mouth open, eyes wide. His grimy fingers passed through the sailor’s hair and Sanchez spun away from his attacker. He made up his mind right then that flight, rather than fight, was the preferable option here.

Sanchez dashed into the woods, outpacing his strange pursuer, but aware that other figures lurked in the shadows.