In the evening shadows across the square from the cantina, two men talked quietly while they watched the guard at the door of the presidio.
As it did most afternoons, the breeze had risen, and the Mexican flag flapped in the wind. A little whirlwind of dust danced across the plaza, then swiveled and, carrying leaves with it, disappeared into an alleyway between two adobes.
“The bugger would have been better off if he had just told us what the lock hid,” Sharpentier said. “The bastard cost me a quart of pulque, and still kept his trap locked tighter than that door.”
“Has he passed out yet?” Skinner asked in a whisper.
His head nodded a few times… there, his chin is on his chest.” Sharpentier stepped quietly from the darkness of a doorway to the wall of the presidio. He paused and bent to pick up a loosened cobblestone, then followed a side wall to where the guard slept, deep in a doorway.
Sharpentier brought the cobblestone down on the guard’s head with a resounding thump. The man slumped forward, and the captain pulled the man’s Bilboa sword from his scabbard and threw it into the nearby brush.
“That should quiet the bugger.” Skinner laughed gruffly.
“I had to help him a wee bit,” the captain said, looking behind to make sure no one had seen. “Drag the sogger away from the door.”
As Skinner did so, Sharpentier used the bloodied stone on the lock. The blow echoed across the square. Again he struck it, and the old lock sprang open. Throwing the cobblestone away, he shoved the heavy door open.
Skinner followed him inside. The captain scratched a lucifer, which flared and filled the room with its pungent odor, covering that of the wet, musty room. The room lay long and narrow. Slotted boards lined the walls where muskets had once rested. Everything was covered with cobwebs. Beyond the muskets, a few long festooned lances leaned against the wall and a dozen or so Bilboa swords reflected the light of the match. But the Spanish muskets were not to be found.
“She’s empty,” Skinner whispered harshly.
“No, there in the back… ” The captain moved forward. “Damn.” Only one gallon-size keg, a powder canteen with Hudson’s Bay Company stenciled on its side, rested forlornly in the corner. It was the total powder supply for the whole garrison.
“The fools,” the captain muttered. He walked along the rear wall where four pyramidal piles of a hundred cannonballs rested on brass monkeys. “Enough balls for a bloody man-o-war and not enough powder to blow a piss ant across the road.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here, Captain, before we’re found out.”
“The damndest thing,” Sharpentier grumbled, following Skinner from the room. The guard moaned in the distance. “I’ve got a mind to bash his worthless head in,” the captain said. But Skinner steered the captain toward the cantina.
The big Kanaka who stood in the shadows wanted to go help the Mexican guard. The captain of the sunken brig had hit him very hard, and even after half an hour the man did not move. The Kanaka stayed in the deep shadows and, as always, minded his own business. Besides, if he was found near the Mexican guard, he might be blamed for striking him.
No, it would be best to stay out of sight and out of the way. Soon, another ship would be along, and he would be with some of his countrymen.
He moved his huge round body, its soft flesh belying the strength of five men, deeper into the brush. He hoped that neither the God of the missionaries nor Pele would be unhappy with him. Like the men from the sunken brig, he was a stranger in a strange land. No, he would stay out of other peoples business.