42
I wasted no time in getting the boat prepared for a quick escape in the event we needed to make a hasty exit. It was near dark when we pulled in the painter, and Mason and I climbed the ladder down to the canoe. Without a word, I released the line and sat facing forward as we began our paddle toward the Gulf side of the harbor entrance. We had decided the two of us would go alone, as the rest of the crew was more well known. Lucy and Rory had shaved Rhames’s head and beard, and I had to admit his mother would have a hard time recognizing him, but I needed him in charge of the boat if something should happen. Despite being hidden between the islands, there was still enough boat traffic, mainly fishermen seeking turtles, that there was a chance we would be noticed.
We reached a beach on the north side of the point leading into the harbor and dragged the canoe ashore. After hauling it to the line of palm trees and brush, we used some downed branches to conceal it. It wouldn’t stand a hard look, but in the fading light it should suffice, as I planned to be back aboard the boat before the moon rose. Fighting the mosquitos and brush, we set out on foot to cross the small peninsula and scout out the harbor. A few minutes later we could see lights from lanterns marking the houses. I strained for a look into the harbor to see if the frigate was there, but it was too dark. Mason led, claiming knowledge of the layout of the small village, and I followed.
A small shack bordered the woods, and we stopped to look and listen for any sign of its occupants before setting foot into the cluttered clearing behind the house. We moved slowly around the piles of turtle shells until we reached the back of the house. It was covered with weathered, rough-sawn boards running vertically and had a thatched roof. There were two mismatched windows and a small chimney, more for cooking than heat, ran through the roof. The interior was dark, and we could find no sign of life as we made our way around it and onto the street. From what I remembered of London, this was more a path than a street, wide enough for a cart and rutted from the heavy rains. We stayed to the side as we walked toward a cluster of lights near the water that marked the main settlement.
“The jail would be there.” Mason pointed at a dark building with bars on the back windows.
The building appeared to have been hastily constructed and leaned slightly to one side, but was sturdy, built with what looked to be whitewashed brick construction with a wooden roof. The front of the building had a small porch and a room that I guessed belonged to whatever law enforcement the small village had. We stayed in the shadows until we reached the back of the building. The window was too high to see through, and except for the bars, was open to the air. From inside I could hear snoring.
“Red,” I whispered and waited, but the snoring continued. I picked up several small pieces of broken bricks laying nearby and tossed one in the opening. Still the snoring continued, but after several more pieces, each larger than the last, the noise stopped and I could hear someone move inside.
“Red,” I called again.
“Nick, is that you?” The voice came back loud enough to make me cringe and check the street to see if anyone had heard.
“Quiet now. Are you alright?” I whispered.
“Aye. Bastards have got nothing out of me,” he said, his voice lower.
“Good. What do they intend?”
“You know this lot. Can’t string you up without a trial. It’s the Americans, you know. If it was the bloody Spanish, the crabs would be eating my guts by now.”
“Did they tell you when the trial is?” I said.
“The best I can tell, they’re waiting for the frigate to come back. A lawyer, they promised me. Said it was in their Constitution. Silly bastards.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. He was right, two months ago, when the island had been in Spanish hands, he would have been tortured for what he knew and hung immediately. I looked carefully at the construction of the building. It suffered from poor workmanship, but was substantial enough to be secure. It would take some tools or a bit of powder to breach it. There was no guard, as we were isolated on the island where an escaped prisoner would have few choices of where to hide, and there was no way off the key itself without passing through the town.
“Hang in there, mate,” I said, to reassure him. “Tomorrow night or the next at the latest, we’ll be back and spring you.”
“Aye, Nick. I knew you was a good man.”
We exchanged a few more words on the status of the crew, but I was wary of staying too long. The moon would be full tonight, and I wanted to be back aboard the boat before its light hit the water. We still had a few hours to scout the harbor and return to the boat. If the frigate was there, I intended to pull anchor and find a safer mooring.
As we approached the pier, we heard voices coming from a building I guessed to be a makeshift bar along the main street. There were two or three buildings large enough to house a business, though none were marked. Mason and I stayed clear of the bar, went around the back of the harbormaster’s shack, and stood on the end of the pier where we had an unobstructed view of the harbor. There were several large boats at anchor and a dozen or so fishing boats, often tied three deep against the pier.
“I don’t see the frigate,” I said.
“No, but there’s a few boats here that I would take care to avoid,” he said.
“I’ve seen enough. Let’s get back to the ship and make a plan to spring Red.” I turned to walk away but stopped, as I heard voices nearby. “Quick, behind the building.”
We reached the back of the building just as two men entered the office, and light spilled from the window as a lantern was lit. I slid over to the side of the open window, anxious for news.
“You’re the agent for Warner and Mountain?”
“Name’s Greene. Colonel P.C. Green, at your service. And you represent Simonton and Whitehead?” I recognized the gruff tone of the harbormaster.
“That’s right. Seems they’re interested in how you came to be running this spit of land, as your bosses only own twenty-five percent.”
I could smell the tobacco as the harbormaster lit his pipe. “Seems you’re a bit misinformed. I’ve been here since before the Spanish. Just keeping order and collecting rents is all.”
“Well, Simonton and Whitehead will be looking for an accounting,” the stranger said.
“I’ve got it here. Let me just open the safe.”
The room was silent for a moment until the stranger spoke. “You haven’t seen or heard of any of Gasparilla’s lot, have you?”
“Why do you ask?” the harbormaster replied.
I chanced a look in the window and saw him rise from the safe with a large ledger, his hand holding something underneath it.
“Seems there was couple of longboats and empty chests that floated out of the Caloosahatchee River. The lot of it just floated into the bay after the last storm.”
I had a moment of panic and turned away from the scene in the room. The two longboats and empty chests we had left under the brush by the river had been a long way from the water level, but a storm the size of what we had experienced in the river of grass could easily have raised the water level enough to float the boats out of the depression. I cursed under my breath for not scuttling them, but was interrupted by a gunshot, and turned back toward the window.
The stranger was prone on the floor, blood pooling around him, the harbormaster standing over him with his pipe in his mouth and a pistol in his hand. Mason grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shadows as the door opened, and we watched the harbormaster haul the body to the edge of the dock and push it in the water. The light extinguished and we could hear the sound of the safe closing. He emerged a few minutes later, closed the door, and walked down the pier, where he turned inland onto the street leading to the brig.