“The sirena’s dirge.” Sanchez crossed himself. “Said the Howlers sunk every ship.”
Salvador clenched his fists. “And the waterspout?”
“Well, those Howlers?” He stabbed the ladle to the horizon. “That’s their marker. They’ve tagged us. They're coming back to finish the job.”
Salvador’s face flushed dark red. Capricho slapped Salvador lightheartedly on the back. “Easy, cousin. What else would you expect from Sanchez? Come. Whatever it is, it’s not bothering us.”
At that moment, the distant pillar shifted from crimson to sapphire, then sunk back into the sea. Capricho took it as a good omen. They walked alongside the gunwale, both silent.
Sanchez got the last word. “La sirena . . . she also sang about you, Captain.”
Capricho shuddered, the scent of the tarred deck sharp in his nostrils. He touched the spot where a silver cross hung under his shirt.
He did not look back.
Within the captain’s cabin, the approach of evening brought welcome relief from the day’s sweltering heat. Mullioned windowpanes ran the length of the stern, propped at an angle to partake of cool breezes. Shafts of setting sunlight passed across the narrow gallery outside and glittered through the panes, gilding the cabin’s mahogany bulkheads and richly set table in warm amber hues.
Beeswax candles set in the table's silver candlesticks flickered in the breeze—extravagant, but the rancid scent from smoky tallow candles spoiled good meals in Capricho's opinion. Besides, this was a special dinner. There would be no dining with the other officers tonight—Capricho needed to consult with Salvador alone, and there was nothing better to soften the hard man's disposition than good fellowship under the glow of a warm meal. And wine. Lots of wine.
Capricho took a careful sip of the red from Rioja, his precious private stock. He savored the black cherry flavors that swirled over his palate before swallowing. “I am not saying I believe Sanchez's wild story, but I tell you, Salvador, that storm is stalking us.”
Salvador hoisted a chalice to his lips, drained half the bowl without a thought. “And I say again, this talk is loco. We should turn back! It is dangerous to travel alone, crazy storm or not.”
“No, Salvador.” Capricho jabbed his fork in accent to his words. “She—is—stalking—us! This gale hunts us like a predator. She is behind us. I feel it in my bones.”
Salvador grunted, stabbed his fork into a steaming piece of turtle meat drenched in olive oil.
“We sail on to Havana,” Capricho said.
Salvador said nothing, wolfed away at his meal.
“You still aren’t in agreement?”
Salvador grabbed the pitcher, refilled his chalice. “You still aren't listening?"
Capricho scowled, waved a hand to continue.
Salvador gulped more wine. "Dangerous, sailing alone to Havana.”
“We have no choice.”
“We could turn back to Cartagena, join another flotilla.”
“But we’re halfway to Havana! The fleet gathers there.”
“Better wind going south.”
It would be safer turning back. It just irked Capricho to tuck tail and come about. Batten down and hold fast, that was his motto, and he drilled it into his men. Stubborn pride, some called it. Capricho called it tenacity, but he knew both terms were close cousins. Like the line in points of sail between “close-hauled” and “in irons.” With the difference of a few degrees, any ship could slip from swift forward momentum of close-hauled trim into the dead stall of being shackled in irons.
Human nature was no different. Capricho knew that by the variation of a few degrees, any man’s strength could become his weakness.
Hmm. A different tack might make Salvador come about. “Cousin. When we make Havana, we join the armada to head for Spain, for home.”
“Don’t,” Salvador said.
“Remember the feeling when we spill treasures on the quay before King Philip’s courtiers? Philip jigs for joy when he hears of our arrival.”
“Stop.”
Capricho twisted his mustache. “The clip-clop of hooves as chargers prance those cobbles. The smell of suckling pig roasting in fat vendors’ stalls. And cooing women everywhere, hungry for rugged men of the sea, like your Angela.”
“How I miss home!” Salvador cried. “Stop! You torture me, you beast!”
Capricho smiled wickedly. “Good.” He stood. “One moment. I live for this.”
Turning to the windows, Capricho looked at the ocean beyond, drawing the fresh sea air deep into his lungs. He watched the crest of the sun descend. Almost there, almost there . . . ahhh.
An emerald flash. The last bit of molten orb slipped beneath the ocean. Capricho sighed, returned to his meal.
Salvador stared into his cup as if seeing visions in the reflection. “Por favor, Capricho, forgive my rant. I just miss Angela. I want to make it home alive.”
“Returning to the bosom of your lady, that I can understand.”
Relief flooded Salvador’s face. He looked up. “Why not take a bride, Capricho? More than one man would feel better knowing you’ve got a lady to return home to.”
Pain lanced Capricho. “I will never love again.”
Salvador cleared his throat, entered dangerous waters. “You have to let her go, Capricho. Her memory suffocates you.”
Capricho carefully set down his fork and drew bead on Salvador. His voice rang like steel, cold, deadly. “Diedre’s memory is all I have.”
Salvador lifted his hands as if to say unarmed. “I am first to say she was the wind in your sails. But she clings to your heart now like an anchor.”
“Enough.”
“No, it’s not enough!” Salvador leaned forward, pleading. “Open that door, Capricho. Let it out. Deal wi—”
Capricho slapped his hand on the table. “Enough!” He took a deep breath. If he lost his temper now, he’d lose the whole objective of this meal. He forced a smile. “Not tonight, por favor. Enough tension for one day.”
Salvador stared Capricho down, finally shrugged, sat back with a grunt. “As you wish.”
Capricho nodded, reached out, hoisted the pitcher. “More wine, cousin?”
“Always.”
He filled Salvador’s glass to the brim, set the pitcher aside. Awkward silence hung in the air; Capricho tugged at the ruffled sleeve protruding under the cuff of his waistcoat. “Well then, it has been decided.”
“What has been decided?”
“We do not turn back to Cartagena. San Mateo and the Espírito Santo were blown off course, and will no doubt make their way to Havana. We will wait for them there, where the convoy gathers. I pray the squall does not double back, but I fear this prayer will fall on deaf ears.” Capricho slapped his left knee. “Bones do not lie.”
Salvador softened a biscuit in his wine, popped it in his mouth, took a long time chewing it. He washed it down with a swig of more wine before looking up. “You’re the captain. Do you wish to meet with the other officers?”
Capricho leaned back, elbow resting on the padded arm of the chair, fingers twisting an end of his mustache as he studied Salvador’s eyes. “Trust me on this one, cousin. We’ve circled back and come round again—we should have spied their masts. We’ve waited too long already. We set course for Havana. Tonight.”
Salvador rubbed a finger under the broad tip of his nose, the perspiration glistening in the lamplight. He straightened in his chair and nodded. “You’ve steered us true so far. I’m behind you. I’ll see to it the men are as well.”