From that point on, everything was done earnestly. We were increasingly penetrating Spanish waters. Only one person was truly elated by this: Estaban. The rest–including the captain–were more than a bit apprehensive. For Annalea, her apprehension was caused by the knowledge that her separation from Estaban was approaching. For the rest of us, it was the discomforting thought of being surrounded–smothered–by our enemies. Placing ourselves at the mercy of the merciless Spaniards. What were we thinking?
'Twasn't long afore our anticipation was realized. Early in the morn–the day after we transferred the Oglethorpes–came a shout down from the crow's-nest: a Spanish galleon was spotted off the starboard bow. 'Twas moving across our horizon, and away from us. We could not know if she'd spotted us, as well. 'Though the anticipation had ended, the suspense grew over the next two days. During that stretch of time, we spied five Spanish ships–on five separate occasions. The second "visitor" was spied off the stern–seemingly approaching, as if in pursuit, and then veering off to a radically different heading. Most perplexing. The rest came upon us, made a modest approach, sailed near parallel for a few hours–as if studying us, carefully–changed course and went off. Most perplexing and harrowing!
Finally we were met by four Spanish war ships. They were not gaming. They approached–came straight at us–surrounded us, and made plain their intent; their guns were trained on us, threateningly. A shot placed 'cross our bow made clear their intentions. We struck our colours, to indicate we would yield–and soon we were boarded. They put aboard so damn many heavily armed soldiers, I near expected to be treading water as the ship sank and the ocean rose!
And the way those Spanish bastards eyeballed us. They figured we were English–and probably English pirates, to boot. So, in their eyes we were no more than scum, as they were in our eyes. The Spanish soldiers anxiously awaited orders to slaughter us; and we ached to kill them. The tension aboard that vessel was incredible–and near unbearable!
Their officer approached our captain, selected by dress and demeanor as the only obvious leader. But Estaban stepped forward, apparently introducing hisself in the Spanish babble. That officer–and most of the soldiers whose faces I studied–were taken aback. This was obviously unexpected and presented them a dilemma. They listened intently–curiously–to Estaban's story.
The Spanish officer asked him many questions–which he responded to quickly and courteously, 'though I could sense that Estaban was losing his patience with the man. Eventually they did stand down–a bit. I began to believe that episode would pass without bloodshed. The Spaniard ended the dialogue with what seemed a rather curt declaration. He then went to instructing his troops.
Estaban returned to where the captain and I were waiting, "It will be alright. I am certain he understood our situation. Of course, they have no authority to act on anything, they can only escort us back to port. But I am certain it will be alright."
"Escort," indeed! They commandeered our vessel, placing their own man at each station, and retaining sufficient armed guards to prevent our interference. I was bound to be a most reluctant visitor to the Spanish territories–as were we all, save Estaban. And even he'd lost the look of enthusiasm. Now that had me concerned. But he just kept insisting, "It will be alright!"
And so we endured this most humiliating passage. We displayed the disposition of a people enslaved: black and white. Soon, land was spotted on the horizon. Instead of the jubilant feeling of a homecoming, or the exhilarating feeling of an imminent attack, or the sensation of eager anticipation when approaching an undiscovered landfall–all familiar emotions I'd experienced at first sighting of land–I had, instead, a sinking feeling and a sense of dread. As the coastline grew on the horizon, it appeared to me as the gaping mouth of a monster–set wide to swallow us whole!
This was a most ominous perception. I was near consumed with foreboding–for all of us, but mostly for Annalea. How could I have allowed her to be placed in such peril? Of course, 'twas the confidence of the captain and the assurances of Estaban which made me acquiescent; but me confidence was rapidly dwindling. Our situation was ambiguous–and that was unsettling. I knew not what to expect and, therefrom, how to respond.
We were met on the dock by even more armed Spanish military. We were literally surrounded, three-to-one: six-to-one, if you included spectators. A rather senior looking authority approached Estaban, and the jabber began again. Our lot stood on the docks–baking in the hot sun, sweating in the oppressive humidity–while those two palavered amiably, but endlessly.
They were still jawing as the rest of us were herded off–urged by pike and sword–down the dusty trail, toward the walled city, oddly set at some distance from the port and their coastal fortifications. I definitely felt a prisoner–not a guest–as we were brought to a halt afore the massive gate that provided the only entrance to the city. Our guards were ever watchful and prepared to act with violence upon any slight provocation. Once inside, we were herded into a circle and guarded closely. From the tightness of quarters–the proximity of prisoner and guard and spectator–I could not get a reasonable view of the layout of the city. The sun was still baking us, and the humidity was still oppressive. And I hated Spaniards!
Eventually, we discovered the reason we were all just standing about. We had to await the arrival of Estaban and the Spanish official. Estaban came directly over to Annalea–and indirectly to where the captain and I were standing, and stewing.
He reported, "I am certain it will be alright. These are most peculiar circumstances. They seem to be having some difficulty understanding–or believing–all which I have told them. The majistrado wants me to clarify these matters. And he will need to verify my documents, statements–and position. I am afraid we will all be detained until this is resolved. But I am certain it will be alright."
I heard the captain of their guard shout, "Vámonos!"
'Twas the only Spanish word I recognized, having heard it over and over since first we became acquainted with our most hostile hosts. And the repetition of that singular word had eventually moved me from annoyed to nauseated. It had also caused me to be moved to this place in time, and an uncertain future.
So once again, we were being herded along–those Spanish sheepdogs nipping at our hooves. Estaban moved in step with Annalea until a guard stopped him in midstep and pulled him away from the flock. In a minute, he ran back to catch us up, and walked alongsides–'though this time, he was on the other side of the guards who flanked our ragged column.
"Apparently, the majistrado wishes to conclude our discussion, now. This is a good sign! But it shall take some time, and I cannot continue with you, now. So go along, my friends, to your accommodations. And please, try to relax–and enjoy your stay. You shall see that my people can be most hospitable. I shall finish this business and rejoin you, soon. I am certain it will be alright. Hasta luego!"
Now, I had come to know and respect–and appreciate–Estaban; I knew he was not a liar. Nor could I attribute ignorance, cowardice or vengefulness as intrinsic to his character. I could only assume that a natural affinity and trust for people of his own race allowed an inordinate gullibility to cloud his judgement and mitigate his caution. For the reality of that day, when contrasted with his words, would reveal him as the knave or the fool.
As we were herded alongside the stoutly constructed, defensive, outer wall, and deeper into the city, we were funnelled through what appeared to be their marketplace. I remember the sounds of squawking chickens being pushed from underfoot–and the sounds of squawking Spanish peasants, as we were pushed along through their midst, interrupting their mundane activities, and thus annoying them, greatly. I remember thinking I could not separate the squawking chickens and the squawking Spanish peasants from their sound, alone. Only should the rocks start flying at us, I would know 'twere not the chickens!
Safely through the marketplace–and once again hugging the outer wall
–I spotted a long row of cells, fronted and enclosed by thick, iron bars. Their construction appeared to be as almost an outcropping of the massive wall; but their purpose was unambiguous. I could even spy a few dismal souls, sprawled or squatting in the dirt, locked-fast behind them iron bars. A quick estimate told me they could readily pack a dozen "visitors" into each cell, if comfort were not a concern. I approached these "accommodations," apprehensively, and moved passed them, gratefully.
We continued along towards the far end of the city. I could glimpse the top of the far wall. On the inside, 'twas roofed and there were several windows and some balconies evident, already. Their plan became apparent to me. Doubtless, they'd hold us up in those rooms–mayhaps, with guards posted on those balconies–while they investigated Estaban's story. 'Twas unlikely there'd be windows–or any other source of egress–on the outer face of that great wall; so they'd have little concern for our escape.
As if we'd want to escape into that desolate, Spanish-held countryside. But me only concern–at that moment–was whether the rooms would be cool and soothing and the beds soft and comfortable, as I'd great need of rest and recuperation. Finally, we reached the far wall. As I gazed across the span of the wall I could see from that end of the city, I noted–far to me left side–a large, panelled, ornately decorated door, made of a rich, dark hardwood–mayhaps mahogany. At the centre was a staircase, fixed of iron and climbing to a balcony–providing eventual access to those rooms that awaited us, above.
Lastly–far over to the corner, on me right side–was a gate constructed of wide, crudely-hewn planks, bolted to thick-block crossmembers and secured with an iron latch. Once opened, we were hustled through this gate. We were forced down into a dank, dark, windowless pit that had been cut into the ground, under the inner façade and against the outer wall. A group of me mates who were nearest the still open gate, led by Orke, turned on our Spanish captors–unarmed 'though we were–and made an attempt to withdraw to freedom. Orke had already relieved the bastards of a pike and a sword–and was about carving us an egress, straight through the Spaniards–when the captain shouted him and the others down.
Now, Orke was not an easy man to halt in mid-rage, but he had unconditional respect for the captain, and an unquestioning obedience to his orders. As the startled, frightened, Spanish soldiers withdrew beyond the gate, Orke and the others did not pursue them. Instead, he spit at them and threw down the pike and the sword. In their haste to retreat and close and latch the heavy gate, the Spaniards did not delay long enough to retrieve those weapons.
Whereupon, Orke picked them up again, turned his back to the gate–to face us–and raised the weapons up over his head, as in a display of victory! He actually had a broad smile on his face. We all applauded his victory with cheers and laughter. Considering our circumstances, that must have unnerved our Spanish "hosts," considerably. Well, to hell with them! (Whither they all were destined, anyways.) I cared not how many grizzled old campaigners there were amongst them; I was certain that none of them had experienced what our lot had struggled through, fought through and lived through–the women as well as the men! And, because of that, we could laugh at anything–in the face of anything, and especially in the faces of these mule-ignorant, Spanish bastards!
No one questioned the captain's command to stand down–to continue to resist would have been suicide. Even if we'd appropriated more weapons, we'd've been fortunate to hack our way through that great mob of peasants, let alone an entire regiment of well armed, war-honed hostiles. What concerned me at the time was the captain's disposition. He'd not seemed nor acted hisself since first those Spaniards boarded our ship.
The captain's emotions and concerns were seldom–if ever–written on his countenance. To read the man's thoughts and feelings, you had to know him deeply–and read deeply. His natural pride and accumulated experience of leadership were always displayed in his bearing. But this reticence–this facile acquiescence, almost sheepishness on his part–this quietness, fairly shouted of internal turmoil. I feared we had lost our leader: that his mind had somehow surrendered. That thought caused me a shiver of fear: the realization that if such were true, I'd be expected to lead!
There was so much confusion and noise and anger and shouting and cursing in that black hole, you could not harness a thought and ride it completely through to the finish. At any other time, such a tempest would've been calmed by the commanding, yet soothing, reassuring words of the captain. This time, however, that did not happen. In the midst of this chaos, he seemed to be all alone, almost unawares of the presence of others–leave alone, their commotion.
Very quietly–almost calmly–he walked hisself slowly to a far point in the pit, set hisself down and leaned against that stout, outer wall. I pushed through the bodies that enveloped me, and made me way to set alongside him. I don't rightly know if me intention was to probe his mental state, or ease it–or, hopefully, ease me own mental state of self-absorbed concern; but I began to interrogate him.
There was naught wrong with the captain's faculties; he immediately apprehended the gist of me awkwardly worded questions. "Have no fear, Crockett. You've not lost a captain. But I've much to contemplate, and I must do so, alone. And I must be alone to do so. There's naught else to be done, now, anyways."
Certainly, me feelings was a bit hurt, not being taken–not being wanted–in the captain's confidence. Still, I had too great a respect for the man to allow me overly-sensitive nature should dictate a response. I left him to his thoughts and found another spot to engage in me own contemplation. While the captain remained an island amidst this sea of huddled humans, I was soon joined by Orke, Annalea, Mam' and a few others.
'Though the captain might not've been of a mind to scheme and plot our escape, the rest of us could talk of nothing else. But what did we have to our avail? A pike, a sword and a horde of angry people. Mayhaps, there was enough manpower to pound down that gate and burst through to the open air. But then what? Bloody massacre, that was what!
'Twould be best if we could depart silently–unannounced. Examining our quarters, we could see the unlikelihood of that. We were backed by that enormous, formidably thick wall that, doubtless, ran several feet further into the ground–beneath the floor level. The floor itself appeared to be of dirt–dark and damp. The moisture soon seeped through your garments and made your ass feel soggy. But damp dirt can be readily tunnelled through, with a pike and a sword!
A few minutes trowelling through this "topsoil" revealed a hard, stone flooring just inches below. We probed the diameter of our "quarters" to verify it was the same all about: solid stone! Only the wall facing into the city, itself, appeared to be earthen. And this proved–with more probing–to be true. I don't think that construction was intended to keep prisoners from escaping; 'twas doubtless intended to keep enemy sappers from gaining access to the city.
Prisoners in the pit–if that was what it was used for–were apparently welcome to use their wherewithal to tunnel back into the city–where they'd, doubtless, be readily disposed of. We could not choose to go in that direction. We continued to survey our surrounds. 'Twas evident that the only air and light to enter that burrow came through seams 'twixt the rough planks of the gate, and a small porthole–no more than the size of a man's head–carved above ground level, through the adobe façade of the inner wall structures. This was meshed with iron rods allowing a slit of an opening at the bottom–mayhaps, for delivering food and water. Hatching a plot to escape from this dungeon would require considerable more thought–and the shrewdness of the captain. But he still was marooned on his island of self-imposed isolation.
As the few rays of light that slipped through those openings grew dimmer and dimmer, there was naught to do but calm down our agitated horde and attempt to rest. Mam' and Annalea and Reena were best at this: calming and soothing and tirelessly seeing to the comforts of others. Orke and I attended to our more boisterous mates, w
ho resisted quieting–and required physical encouragement. Then–at Mam's insistence–small groups were formed and situated with instruction to huddle together, to ward off the chill and damp of the cold night.
Wrapped in Annalea's arms, with Mam' hugging me backside–and a sister on either side of us–I rose me head up to look over to the captain, and saw what I'd expected to see: ass to the cold, damp ground, back to the wall, head bent and arms folded 'round his shoulders–for warmth. He'd not sleep, that night. But I must.