The Brave New World - 178 A Handful of Corn

It was Morales himself who ordered the landing. At that point, he and everyone else had spent over ten hours in the boat. Everybody was glad to stretch their legs, and several crewmen also had other pressing needs. They disappeared into the bushes beyond the beach while the rest of the crew made the boat secure.

“We could rest a little, and then sail up the coast a little before it gets dark,” the captain told Morales. “When we were getting close, I spotted the ideal spot to spend the night.”

“Oh? What makes it better than this spot here?” asked Morales. He didn’t really want to board the boat again, at least not until the next morning.

“A stream,” said the captain. “Fresh water.”

Morales nodded.

“I see,” he said. He could, of course, order everyone to set up camp where they were. They had enough drinking water for a full day, and could refill their water bottles when they passed by the stream in the morning. No, he couldn’t do that. It would be a sign of weakness.

Morales sighed, and said:

“Please tell me when we’re ready to leave.”

“Of course, senor. I estimate we’ll be ready to leave in something like ten minutes.”

“Excellent,” lied Morales, and sauntered away walking along the water’s edge. The coast sharply swerved west just beyond the beach, and he tried to spot the stream the captain had noticed earlier. But he couldn’t see it, not even when he reached the end of the beach and climbed onto higher ground.

He remained standing there for a while, scanning the horizon. There was no sight of the ship that had pursued them earlier. They’d lost visual contact a good couple of hours before they reached the island. La Flecha was truly an arrow, and Morales decided he’d order the construction of several more pirogues. A pirogue with outriggers and a platform could carry a serious cargo load, too. Yes, the pirgoue was the ideal water craft for operations in the bay. Much better than the lumbering ship that had foolishly attempted to chase La Flecha.

He turned and began to walk back to his men, and not a moment too soon: he saw that the captain was waving, signaling their approaching departure. Well, they’ll be stopping again, this time for the night, in less than a couple of hours. He’d survive.

He raised his arm, and gave his captain a cheery wave.

* * *

“That’s Mount Livermore. Angel Island, sir,” captain Craw said, pointing at the horizon.

Kirk blinked, then blinked again. He couldn’t see a fucking thing.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “How much longer is it going to take to reach Fort Ayala?”

“We won’t get there before dark, sir. We’ll have to stop outside the port, anyway. I don’t want to risk of running us aground.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Jesus!”

“We wasted a couple of hours chasing that boat,” Craw said. “And when we changed course, we lost the stern wind.”

“Why did we change course? Aren’t we sailing to Angel Island?”

“We are. But Alaya Bay and Fort Alaya are on its northern shore. That boat we were chasing was sailing south by southeast. It took us off our course.”

“Why the hell did we locate our settlement there? It should be on the western shore. Shorter travel time, better communication.”

“Alaya Bay is the best natural harbor on the island. And it’s just three miles off the Tiburon Peninsula, under an hour’s sailing time with good wind.”

Kirk knew better than pursue that argument. He decided to be partially honest. A little honesty – not too much, just a little – a little honesty had often helped him get out of awkward situations. Kirk said:

“Hell, I was hoping to lie down in a bed tonight.”

“You could retire to your cabin, sir,” Craw said helpfully. “I know there are two bunks in there, but it’s all yours.”

“Ah, my cabin,” said Kirk. “Yes, of course.” He dimly remembered the narrow, grave-like space that he was shown after stepping on the board of Albatross. It really wasn’t much bigger than a grave; the dim light coming through the single tiny porthole had revealed two narrow racks set against the opposing walls. If Kirk lay down on his side, he just might fit in provided his knees were slightly bent.

“It promises to be a beautiful night after a beautiful day,” he said to Craw. “I think I’d like to sleep under the stars. Could I have a hammock slung out on the deck?”

Craw looked uncomfortable.”

“We don’t have any hammocks, sir,” he said. “I was told there was a shortage of rope.”

“Everyone sleeps on bunks?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re rested in the morning?”

“Well, we haven’t really tried it out, sir. This is the first time we’re going to spend a night out on the water.”

“Ah,” said Kirk, making a mental note to conduct an close examination of the cog’s crew in the morning. He smiled at Craw.

“The cabin it is, then,” he said.

A few hours later, as the sun began to slide out of sight, the Albatross passed within a couple of sea miles from where Arturo Morales was enjoying a tortilla stuffed with roast goat and chili peppers. Hidden in the glare of the setting sun, it remained invisible to the men on the beach.

Morales chewed his food thoughtfully, as did everyone else. A meal as good as this merited special attention, a certain reverence, particularly when it came at the end of a day filled with physical effort. Had any of the feasting seamen bothered to stare into the sunset’s blinding glare, then maybe, just maybe, they’d have spotted the faraway ship. But no one did.

When the meal was concluded, king Morales permitted himself a slight belch and said:

“All right. I want two sentries, two shifts. Volunteers?”

There were none. The captain had to pick the losers who wouldn’t get a full night’s sleep. When the first pair of sentries grumpily went off on their first circuit of the camp’s perimeter, Morales said to the captain:

“I am a little disappointed with the men. Their morale seems low.”

“No, no, senor,” the captain said hurriedly. “It isn’t that. They’re just tired.”

“Are they little children?”

“No, no.”

“They behave as if they were.”

Morales was partly right. Several hours later, sentries chosen for the second shift were woken up amidst plenty of soft curses and muffled thumps. They neglected to patrol the perimeter of the camp. Instead, they filched some roast meat from the stores and and decamped to a clump of shrubs nearby to eat the loot in total secrecy.

Having eaten, they remained sitting and conversing in low, drowsy voices. Several dark shapes detached themselves from the dark treeline down the beach. They slid almost soundlessly over the sand, approaching the camp.

The ghostly shapes halted a stone’s throw away from the men sleeping around the glowing embers of the campfire. Then they scurried towards the small mound of food stores that had been unloaded from the boat.

The sentries who were supposed to be keeping watch weren’t totally unobservant. They kept an eye out in case the captain or Morales woke up, and found them shirking their duties. And so they cast a glance from time to time at the campsite, and finally noticed there was suspicious activity taking place.

They got up and began trotting forward, stringing arrows on their bows as they advanced. Yes! Something odd really was going on!

“Hola!” one of the sentries shouted. The dark shapes sprang away from the plundered stores, and started running.

“Alto!”

The shapes kept moving. The captain had already jumped to his feet, drawing his cutlass. He screamed:

“What are you waiting for? Chase them ! Shoot them!”

Arrows began whizzing through the air, with freshly woken men joining in.

“Stop!” commanded Morales. A bowstring twanged.

“You!” Morales pointed at the overenthusiastic bowman. “Your food export allowance is cut in half this month. Do you know how long it takes to make a good arrow, moron? You think you’ll find them in the dark? You’re all behaving like retarded children! Captain!”

“Senor!”

“Stoke the fire, and light a couple of torches. I want a full inventory done right away. This idiot here and the two cretins who were supposed to keep watch will immediately start looking for the arrows. They are not permitted to stop until they’ve found every single one. You and I will stand watch over the campsite for the rest of the night. The men that kept the first watch can go back to sleep.”

“Yes, senor.”

The night dragged on unmercifully for Morales and his men, with the exception of the two lucky sentries who had successfully completed the first shift. When morning came, a couple of arrows were still missing. But the men who were looking for them had found something else.

It was hidden among the trees along the beach: a corpse of a young boy, thirteen or fourteen years of age. He was naked except for a half-dried vine twisted around his hips. Limp, dried out leaves revealed scrawny buttocks and tiny, shrunk genitals. The boy’s ribs showed through the dirty, scratched skin.

The arrow had struck him from the back, halfway up the left rib cage. It managed to slip between the ribs, and went in fairly deep. There was little blood around the shaft, but plenty when the body was turned around – it spilled from the boy’s mouth, quickly forming a pool on the ground.

The crew of La Flecha included a designated medic, a young man who had been in his second year of medical studies when the catastrophe took place. He examined the body with pursed lips for a while, and said:

“Punctured lung. He drowned in his own blood. The state he was in, it didn’t take long.”

“It’s good to know he didn’t suffer much,” said Morales. It was important to put a positive spin on things. He looked for a while at the corn that had spilled from the boy’s grasp when he fell. Then he said:

“Get that arrow out, and throw him into the water. Rapido! I want us to be sailing away from this place as fast as possible.”

“Will we continue to explore the coast?” asked the captain.

“Of course. There’s no reason to change our plans.”

He turned his back on the boy’s corpse and walked back to the campsite, his mouth set in an angry line.

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