AS THE sun set, dusk closed in around us, protective and sheltering. Twenty men, probably most of the small, fast caravel’s complement, were on our beach. They had roasted the pig, shot another, and gathered every ripe aldin in the area. Their fire was right on top of where mine had been, as if daring me to step into the wavering light and expose myself.
We crawled close enough to hear them speak and see their faces in the firelight. I kept Sun near, made him stay where I could touch him. I still wasn’t sure what he might do, but I knew he had reason to fear them, and I believed the proverb that fear makes a man do funny things. Fine trembling ran through his entire body when we were settled right at the edge of the forest, but he made no sound.
I squeezed his shoulder and settled in to find out what we needed to know.
Most of the talk was the usual—glad to be off the ship, complaining and comparing the food they’d found here to what they ate aboard, bawdy jokes about women and the lack thereof.
“Did you see anyone?” the butcher, the tall, black-bearded mulatto who prepared the pigs, asked the patrol returning from down the beach. He spoke Portuguese but with an American accent. I was somewhat surprised by how fast the language came back to me, considering the circumstances. I understood most of their talk.
“No. Nor water either.” The head of the patrol was a skinny bloke in a striped stocking cap.
“If he’s still alive, he’ll come out, Vasco.” A short, stick-armed sailor with a French lilt—who reminded me of a rodent—spoke to the patrol leader and then laughed a high-pitched chuckle.
“As you say, Weasel.” The butcher nodded at them both and looked into the forest thoughtfully, scratching his black beard.
“You think he’s our man?” Vasco watched Butcher as he spoke. He seemed to look for a signal or direction from the other man.
“He is.” He held up a charred piece of wood. It was from the bow of the Sea Swift. They’d recognized the carved feathers that had made up the figurehead’s wing. “I know this figurehead.” A rueful smile curved his lips.
I cursed myself. I should have burned that part first. They’d marked me, and worse, it sounded like these men knew what cargo I’d been carrying.
I felt our chances at rescue evaporate. Goddamn it. And if they set up a supply camp here, our peaceful life together was over. They’d find us eventually. It didn’t help that my calculations put this island along the best path for smuggling to and from Brazil, somewhere in the eastern archipelago. If they found out Dread Island had nothing to fear, they would make this a convenient stopover. There was nothing for it. It was time to execute my plan. I patted Sun on the arm and left him there.
I crept through the underbrush slowly, as silently as possible. The plan hinged on the right sounds at the right time. I remembered my first days on the island, the strange barks and grunts from the woods that fed my fear. Well, now I lived with the pigs, I understood those sounds had been turf battles and wars for dominance. Wars Ernest always won.
Finding where the pirates had thrown the waste from the two pigs they’d slaughtered wasn’t difficult. I crept close and, looking over my shoulder nervously, cut free the scent glands. I made off with them into the deeper undergrowth. I knew this part of the forest belonged to Ernest. If I’d learned one thing on this island, it was Ernest didn’t like interlopers. I made sure to put different scents on trees near each other, mingling the smells. I stank too. Poor Ernest would think there wasn’t only one interloper, there was a full-scale invasion.
And, to be honest, there was.
I thought for certain the pirates would hear the crack of a twig as I moved around the perimeter of their camp, the shuffle of sand as I rubbed the musky stink on the trees, but they continued merrymaking. Someone had brought several bottles of what must be liquor from the caravel. By now everyone was full of roast pig and having quite a good time.
Twice I heard a night bird call. It was Sun, drawing attention away from me. He was to make the call to distract anyone looking away from the fire. I finished my work, cleaned my hands as best as I could, and made my way back to him.
Tension sang through his muscles. He hadn’t moved from where I’d left him.
“Sun, what’s wrong?” I crouched close and put my mouth to his ear.
He shook his head slightly and pointed with his spear.
There was a giant in the camp.
He had to be seven feet tall, if he was an inch, with mestizo coloring and a broad face with a great beak of a nose. He wore nothing but a pair of britches without hose. His entire body was covered in thick muscles, scars, and tattoos. He wore a huge whip coiled at his belt, and I saw a glimmer when he laughed that meant some of his teeth were gold.
I looked at Sun. His eyes were bright in the reflected firelight, but there were shadows across his face that made them look as though they were floating in his head. He followed every movement the giant made, not sparing any attention for the others.
“Sun, it’s time to go.” I had to pull on his arm to get his attention, but at last, he followed me.
Our plan was only going to work if we could get Ernest to the scene of the crime.