The Garnor reached the cove at dusk, hidden among dense mangroves.
Sammy watched it with suspicion; the image of the ghost felt like a bad omen to her.
"Do you think…?" Kayin said, making Sammy whirl around in alarm.
"Damn it… you scared me."
"Easy. You look like you've seen a ghost," he said. "I was asking whether you think we should go back for Cody."
Sammy pressed a hand to her chest, then glanced around.
"The captain wants to," she said, lowering her voice, "but Mr. Trumper insists they're already dead. I'm sure they're not."
"What makes you so sure?"
Sammy remained silent, staring at the jungle—still and black.
"Kayin… if I trust you with something, will you understand?"
"I think I have all this time, even if it hasn't been easy. What is it?"
She drew a deep breath.
"I think… Price's ghost is following me."
Kayin looked confused. He was about to ask something when the boatswain began shouting orders to start the operation.
From the aft castle, Captain Skippy scanned the horizon through his spyglass.
"I don't see any Spaniards," he said.
"I can confirm it, Captain," the pilot said, "not a single settlement for miles around. If those bastards wanted to come this far, it would take them more than a day."
Skippy snapped the spyglass shut and turned to the crew.
"All the more reason to hurry the repairs… Trumper!"
"We await your orders," the boatswain replied.
"Strike the canvas and drop anchor."
Trumper began barking commands. The bell rang, and frenzy swept across the deck.
The pirates climbed the rigging—among them Kayin, who preferred that task to continuing at the exhausting bilge pump, its creaking mingling with the rest of the maneuver. Once aloft, they moved along the lines and, at Pete's signal, began gathering the sail, lashing it down in a steady rhythm.
With all sails secured, the anchors were released, plunging into the water with a dull splash.
The boat was hoisted alongside the hull. First they lowered the pilot—who had to be helped due to his weight and obvious drunken state, lest he tumble into the water—then Sammy, several men to row, and finally the captain, determined to inspect the operation himself.
At a signal from the boat's coxswain, the oars dipped into the water and the craft pulled away from the Garnor, slipping into the cove. No sooner had they passed the entrance than land enclosed them completely: thick mangroves on one side, dense jungle on the other, from which rose the nocturnal sounds of birds and insects.
At the southern end they spotted the remains of a wrecked ship, reduced almost entirely to ruins. It had once been an imposing three-masted vessel, but after years of abandonment, algae and branches hung from its frame like great green cobwebs.
"I think our carpenter can make good use of some of that," Skippy said.
"Isn't that bad luck, Captain?" Sammy asked.
"Bad luck would be not finding it, Mr. Worthy," Skippy replied.
The captain studied the surroundings with a calculating gaze, mentally noting every detail.
According to the chart and what the pilot had confirmed, the Garnor would have to advance about two miles. The navigation was delicate: the approach to the anchorage was not only narrow, but shallow, with a treacherous bend. To enter, the ship would have to be handled with extreme care. Beyond the anchorage stretched a sandy beach, ideal for executing the grounding maneuver and establishing camp.
They returned to the ship. The crew waited expectantly on deck while Skippy reviewed the plan with the boatswain, the carpenter, the pilot, and the heads of each section: the master-at-arms, the gunner, even the purser.
Sammy followed the meeting from a corner of the cabin, memorizing the instructions. From time to time she was called upon to check notes on the nautical chart or consult the maritime almanac to adjust the tidal calculations.
Once the details of the operation and the camp's defense were reviewed, Skippy ordered the Garnor prepared for grounding at the next high tide.
The men dispersed to relay instructions. The pilot withdrew, followed by Sammy.
"Mr. Worthy," Skippy called suddenly.
Sammy returned to the cabin. The pilot paused at the doorway, visibly uncomfortable.
"Close that door," Skippy ordered.
She obeyed, shutting it in Mr. Wells's face, and approached the captain, who was watching the cove through the skylight.
"I need you to keep strict watch over the pilot," Skippy said. "The moment you see him raise a bottle to his mouth, you come and inform me. From today on."
"Captain, I will… I just hope Mr. Wells doesn't take offense."
"You will do as I order, even if it bruises sensibilities. Is that clear?"
Sammy nodded and left.
She headed to the pilot's cabin. Wells was seated before the navigation chart, lit by a hanging lantern.
"What did the captain tell you?" he asked without looking at her.
"Just that I should support you."
The pilot leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a mocking smile.
"Mulatito, mulatito… do you think I was born yesterday? I know exactly what captains like Skippy and busybodies like you are up to. I've been sailing too many years not to recognize these games."
He pulled a bottle from his coat.
"You're wasting your time. I won't give you the satisfaction. And you'd better learn to choose your sides carefully—being a snitch is never good on a pirate ship. Watch your back."
He drank without breaking eye contact.
"I only suggest you temper your fondness, Mr. Wells," Sammy replied. "The captain is watching you closely."
The pilot drank again and stowed the bottle.
"Then go tattle, go on… what are you waiting for? Run!"
Sammy pressed her lips together; she was about to answer when Skippy's voice sounded from the doorway.
"Is there a problem?"
Both jumped.
"No, Captain," the pilot said, hiding the bottle. "We were discussing some calculations."
Skippy looked at Sammy, frowning.
"We were talking about the sextant, Captain," she confirmed.
The captain studied them sternly.
"I need you both on deck, with all instruments, charts, and important documents packed into crates for landing… now!"
He left.
Sammy knew Skippy was not easily fooled. She glanced at the pilot; he smiled mockingly as he produced the bottle again for a silent toast.
Once the men were organized, the ship erupted into controlled chaos. With the single boat available, they began unloading powder barrels, crates, and supplies. The secretary ran about like a madman, taking inventory of everything that came down.
"Out of the way, bookworm rat," the pirates shouted as he got in the way during the maneuvers.
"What insolence… I'll tell the captain," he snapped, pen and notebook in hand—only to be shoved aside by men hauling crates and rolling barrels.
The lightening of the ship became a noisy dance between sea and shore: shouts, the scrape of boxes, the panting of men setting them on the sand, and Trumper's bellowing cries:
"Come on, come on… we don't have until Easter! Move it, ladies!"
First the men disembarked in groups; then came the crates, the barrels, and the powder. The boat never rested, shuttling back and forth without pause, like a pendulum between the wounded hull and the silent shore.
At the carpenter's instruction, several men went to the wreck by lantern and moonlight to salvage usable planks, ancient nails, and anything else that might serve. They carried the materials to the improvised camp and then sent them back to the Garnor.
Sammy would have liked to see the sunken ship, but she was needed supervising the preparations—and she had to keep an eye on the pilot.
On land, the men arranged the cargo while establishing defensive positions. Frank and several others raised tents with tarps, shielding the supplies against the constant threat of rain.
Under one of those tarps, the pilot and Sammy packed the instruments into crates, using an empty barrel as a worktable. Then they stayed ready to board the boat when needed to escort the Garnor into the anchorage.
When the draft was still too deep, they removed two of the central cannons and set them on logs along the sand. Before midnight, the ship had been lightened enough: most of the crew was already ashore, along with provisions, powder, and unnecessary ballast.
Inside the hull, the carpenter and his helpers prepared reinforcements, wedges, and pitch for the repairs.
The camp was established, with heavily armed men patrolling the perimeter, nervous despite the apparent isolation of the place.
After midnight, the tide began to rise.
High water slipped gently into the cove.
At Skippy's signal, the ship began its slow advance through the channel.
By the pilot's order, Sammy went ahead in the boat, calling out the depths while the helmsman guided the Garnor toward shore. Skippy followed every movement from the deck, attentive to the chant of the fathoms.
"Run her aground… now," he ordered.
The helmsman spun the wheel.
The Garnor moved forward one last stretch.
The keel kissed the sand.
The ship listed, forcing Skippy and the men to grab hold to keep from falling.
From the beach rose a brief cheer, instantly stifled.
Ropes flew ashore, where they were tied to nearby trunks.
The Garnor was aground.
Now all that remained was to wait for the ebb tide to return.