he added.
“Likely the sorry sod was caught in the storm,” Rosario surmised. “Could have been drifting for weeks. Lucky for him, he happened this way.”
How lucky or unlucky the man is remains to be seen, Bartolome thought coldly.
This side of the island was unprotected by the reef. At high tide, the surf reached all the way to the leggy roots of the trees. But now, at low tide, a narrow ribbon of sand was revealed. On it lived sand fleas. The tiny bugs skittered away from their exhaled breaths only to come crawling back once they inhaled.
In and out. Back and forth. Like the sea herself.
Bartolome paid the creatures little heed. His entire focus was fixed on the boat’s prow as it plowed onto the thin stretch of beach, hissing its arrival as it made contact with the sand.
The lone crewman jumped onto dry land, immediately falling to his knees and kissing the ground beneath him. When he straightened, he raised his arms toward the cloudless sky and yelled, “Praise you, oh Lord!”
Rosario sucked in a ragged breath. With a curl of his lip, he spat one word. “Englishman.”
“Stay here,” Bartolome commanded after curling his fingers around the conch shell half-buried in the sand beside him and jumping to his feet. He headed in the direction of the island’s newest arrival.
Bedraggled and sporting many days’ growth of beard, the fisherman blinked and rubbed his eyes when he saw Bartolome striding his way. After he convinced himself he was not seeing things, he pushed to a stand. A huge smile spread across his face.
A softer man might have been swayed by that smile. But years in the armada had successfully killed any softness that might have once resided inside Bartolome.
“Hello!” The fisherman lifted a grubby hand in greeting. “I thought for certain this island was uninhabited. But I am so pleased to discover it—”
Bartolome saw the instant the man realized his intent. It was the instant before he brought the conch shell down on the fisherman’s temple.
Whack! The sound was both solid and oddly wet-sounding.
Bartolome half expected the shell to shatter in his fist and did not relish the thought of finishing the task with his bare hands. But, thankfully, the conch remained intact.
Despite his wounds and weeks of starvation, he still had the strength to drive the man to his knees with his first strike. Whack! His second split the fisherman’s skull clean open.
With a startled gasp, the newcomer tipped sideways, spilling a portion of his head’s contents onto the sand, twitching once, twice, three times, and then falling still. Bartolome waited until the last light drained from the man’s eyes before hoisting the corpse over his shoulder and closing his nose to the smell of damp flesh and urine. The instant the fisherman’s soul had left his body, his bladder had released.
Death is such an indignity, Bartolome thought as he hastily tossed the body into the boat.
A cursory inspection showed that, indeed, there was a small hole in the hull. There was also fishing gear and a few other odds and ends that could be quite useful. But he resisted the temptation to seize them.
The presence of new supplies would raise too many questions among the crew.
Instead, he used the last of his strength to push the little vessel back into the surf. The waves tugged at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist. The salty water angered the still-healing wound on his thigh.
When he was chest deep, he sent the boat into the currents, grateful the tide was still going out. It caught the craft and tugged it back in the direction from which it had come. Bartolome knew it would stay afloat long enough for the sea to carry it to deep water. There, it would breathe its last of clear, bright air before slowly sinking into the cold, dark heart of the ocean.
“No!” Rosario splashed into the surf beside him. “Capitán! I know he had to die. We do not have enough food to feed ourselves, much less an English dog. But we could have used his boat. We could have repaired it. We could have sailed it to Havana and—”
“No.” Bartolome shook his head. “We would never make it with so many pirates and privateers looking for us. We would surely be discovered. And how long do you think any of us would last if our enemies keelhauled information from us?”
“The men will not be happy.” Rosario’s expression was mournful. “What if that was