Chapter 6 — The Wreck

The first impact threw Tomasa out of the bed. She struck the floor on one shoulder and slid until the wall stopped her. Micco came down beside the overturned stool a heartbeat later as the Concepción heeled so sharply that the drawers tore open and spilled clothing across the cabin. Something enormous struck above them.

The sound did not resemble thunder. Thunder passed through the air. This traveled through the ship itself, a blow in the bones of the hull. Tomasa pushed herself upright. “Micco?” Another roll sent a trunk scraping against its restraints.

“Stay down.”

“The lieutenant!”

Tomasa crawled toward the door and shouted his name. No answer came from the passage. She called again, louder. Only wind answered, a continuous roar broken by water hammering the deck overhead. Micco reached the door first and tried the latch. It moved an inch before the ship lurched and forced her against the frame. She pulled back.

“Do not open it.”

Tomasa stared at her. “Why?”

“Because I don't know what is on the other side.”

That frightened Tomasa more than if Micco had pretended to know. The lamp swung in its bracket. Its flame flattened almost sideways inside the glass. Micco looked around the cabin. The bedpost. She grabbed the sheets, tore them free of the mattress, and wrapped one length around Tomasa's waist. Tomasa caught her wrists. “What are you doing?”

“Giving us something that does not move.”

Micco pulled her toward the post and looped the sheet around it. The ship climbed again. Both women were lifted onto their toes before the bow dropped and the deck seemed to disappear beneath them. Tomasa made a sound Micco had never heard from her before. Not a scream. A breath cut short by terror. Micco tied the sheet harder.

“Around me too.”

“You cannot tie both of us.”

“Watch me.”

Tomasa obeyed because there was no room left for argument. Micco passed another length around her own waist, then around the post and Tomasa, binding them close enough that the wood took part of their weight when the ship rolled. Tomasa gripped the post above Micco's hands.

“Is this what you remembered?”

Micco knew what she meant. Florida. Turmoils. The old people tying roofs while the sky was still blue.

“No.”

Tomasa's face was pale in the swinging lamplight. Micco forced herself to meet her eyes.

“This is worse.”

The truth steadied them both more than another lie would have. They held on. Above, the Concepción fought the sea.

Diego could no longer tell rain from spray. Both came horizontally. He stood braced beside the helm while three men fought the wheel, their hands layered over one another because no single man could hold it when the stern lifted. The lantern lashed near the binnacle had gone out. Mateo shouted headings Diego could barely hear even when the pilot's mouth was near his ear. A crack split the darkness forward. The foretopsail yard dropped out of sight. Men scattered before the broken spar came across the deck trailing line.

“Cut it free!”

Two sailors crawled toward it rather than stand. One reached the tangled rope and began hacking with a knife. A wave buried them. For a moment Diego saw neither man. Then one rose on his knees. The other did not.

“Get him!”

There was no time to learn whether the missing sailor had been swept overboard or pinned beneath the spar. Another wall of water came over the bow and drove everyone backward. Mateo caught the rail.

“We are losing east!”

Diego already knew. Every effort to keep the Concepción from the coast had been reduced to degrees. The wind had turned the five leagues Echeverz ordered into a narrowing margin that no chart could restore.

“How much steerage?”

The helmsman shook his head, water streaming from his beard. “Barely, Captain!” Diego looked into darkness where Florida waited. He could not see land. He could hear it. Beneath the storm was another sound now, deeper and more regular. Breakers. Not close enough to see, close enough to matter. Mateo heard them too. Their eyes met. Diego did not waste breath on the obvious.

“Strip what canvas remains. Keep her bow to it as long as she answers.”

Mateo moved. Diego tightened his grip on the wheel. Something rough brushed his wrist. The cloth Micco had given him was still knotted there, dark with seawater and almost indistinguishable from the sleeve beneath it. He had forgotten it.

The thought of her cabin came so quickly he pushed it away just as quickly. He had men on deck. A ship beneath him. An order to survive the next wave. He could not be captain from two places at once. Another sea struck. The Concepción rolled farther than before. For an instant Diego believed she would not come back. Then the hull shuddered and fought upright. He shouted until his throat burned.

Below Deck 3:10 a.m.

The lamp died without ceremony. One violent swing snapped the flame against the glass, and darkness filled the cabin before either woman understood what had happened. Tomasa's fingers closed over Micco's wrist.

“Do not let go.”

“I am here.”

They could no longer see the room moving around them. They heard it instead. Wood struck wood. A drawer slid open and slammed shut until whatever had been inside scattered across the floor. Glass broke near the washstand. The bedframe groaned each time the hull twisted.

Micco learned the rhythm of the post against her arms. When the ship rolled one way, the sheet cut into her waist. When it rolled back, Tomasa's shoulder drove against hers. She adjusted by feel, moving her hands before the next surge instead of after it. Time lost its shape. They might have been tied there twenty minutes. They might have been there half the night. Tomasa stopped crying long before she stopped being afraid. Her forehead rested against the side of the post.

“Do you think he is alive?”

Micco knew who she meant. The lieutenant had been outside their door. But Tomasa had not said the lieutenant. Micco tightened her hold.

“Diego knows this ship.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No.”

Tomasa's breath hitched once. Micco closed her eyes against darkness that was already complete. She remembered Diego at the rail: I can promise what I will do. Promises sounded different when a man was somewhere above you in a storm that might already have killed him.

“He will do everything he can,” she said.

Tomasa did not ask whether everything would be enough. Neither wanted the answer.

Aboard the Concepción 4:35 a.m.

The mainmast went with a sound like a tree splitting in winter. Diego saw the black shape begin to lean.

“Down!”

Men threw themselves against the deck. The mast came across the port side, taking rigging, rail, and two men with it. The hull dipped under the weight. Sea rushed through the broken rail in a solid sheet.

“Cut it away!”

Mateo was already moving. Diego left the helm for the first time in hours and crawled toward the wreckage. A sailor was trapped by the leg beneath a spar. Another pulled at him without effect. Diego got one shoulder under the timber.

“When it lifts.”

The sailor nodded. The ship rolled. For half a second the broken mast shifted enough. Diego heaved. The trapped man screamed and came free. They dragged him toward the hatch. A wave struck from starboard. The Concepción turned almost broadside. Diego hit the deck hard enough to lose his breath. The water carried him until his hand found a cleat. When he looked up, the man he had just freed was gone. No one saw where. Diego stayed on one knee.

He had commanded ships in battle. Cannon smoke at least allowed a man to identify the thing trying to kill him. Here there was only force. Mateo reached him.

“Captain!”

Diego followed the pilot's pointing hand. Ahead, between curtains of rain, a pale line appeared and vanished. Not sky. Surf. The coast. Too close.

“Sound it!”

A sailor fought his way forward with the lead line.

The first cast disappeared into black water. The answer came back and changed every face within hearing. Shallow.

The next was shallower. Diego climbed toward the helm.

“Everyone who can swim strips boots and coats now! Keep the wounded inside until we know where she settles.”

Mateo stared at him. “You think she will ground?”

“I think we are out of alternatives.”

The breakers became visible again. Closer. Diego looked once toward the aft hatch. Tomasa. Micco. He had stationed the lieutenant outside their cabin. He had told himself that was enough while the deck still required him. It was not enough anymore.

“Mateo.”

The pilot turned.

“You keep the men moving. If she grounds, get whoever can leave over the lee side. Do not wait for me.”

Mateo understood at once.

“You're going below.”

“Yes.”

“Diego-”

“That is an order.”

Mateo's jaw tightened. Then he nodded. Diego went for the hatch.

The sea struck bottom before the ship did. Micco felt the change through the post.

One moment the cabin was falling with the same violent rhythm it had endured for hours. The next came a long grinding shock beneath them, deep enough to make the timbers vibrate against her cheek. Tomasa cried out. The Concepción lifted. Then came down onto something that did not move. The impact threw both women sideways despite the sheets. The ship rolled and stayed there. Not flat. Not upright. Held at a severe angle that turned one wall partly into a floor. For the first time all night, the motion stopped being endless.

That frightened Micco more. The hull creaked around them in long, strained complaints. Water sounded somewhere it had not sounded before. Inside. Tomasa whispered, “What happened?” Micco tested her weight against the sheet.

“We hit something.”

“Land?”

“I don't know.”

Her arms had become numb. She changed her grip and pain flooded back into her hands. Tomasa was partly above her now because of the angle. The sheet between them pulled hard against Micco's ribs.

“I need you around the other side of the post.”

“How?”

“One hand at a time.”

“Micco, I can't.”

“You can.”

There was no gentleness in it because gentleness would not move Tomasa's body against gravity. Micco freed one hand and pushed at her hip.

“Reach behind you. Find the post.”

Tomasa groped until her fingers closed around wood.

“Got it.”

“Now your leg. Hook it around.”

“There is nowhere to put it.”

“There is. Find it.”

Tomasa shifted, slipped, swore under her breath, and tried again. Micco almost laughed from relief when the pressure on her waist eased.

“Again.”

Together they turned Tomasa around the leaning post until she could brace on the upper side rather than hang against Micco. Micco flexed her fingers. She could barely feel them.

“Now I am going to undo the sheet.”

Tomasa looked down toward where Micco's voice came from.

“You cannot see the knot.”

“I tied it.”

Micco found it by touch. The knot had tightened until it felt like carved wood. She worked one fingernail under it. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. A new sound came from the passage. Bang. Both women froze. Another. Not the hull. The door. Tomasa shouted. “Lieutenant!” The answer was another impact. Micco heard a voice this time, faint beneath wind and timber. Not the lieutenant. Diego. She had never been so certain of a human voice in her life.

“Captain!”

The door shook.

“Move away from it!”

Micco looked at the sheet around her waist and almost laughed at the instruction.

“We can't!”

There was a pause. Then another crash. The latch splintered. A wedge of weak light entered the cabin as the door forced inward against the angle of the ship. Diego appeared above it, one arm through the opening and a lantern tied to a line behind him. For a moment he only looked. Tomasa above the leaning post. Micco below her, bound against it. Both alive. The relief on his face was so naked that Micco forgot the storm. Then it vanished beneath action.

He lowered the lantern until it rested against what had become the lower corner of the cabin and climbed through.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Micco said. “The knot won't move.”

Diego tried to climb toward her and slid back.

“Take this.”

He pulled his knife and stretched as high as the angle allowed. Micco released one hand from the post. The ship shuddered.

“Wait.”

Diego planted both feet and reached again. The cloth she had given him was still tied around his wrist. Dark. Torn at one edge. Still there. Micco saw it only because his hand was directly beneath hers. She caught the knife.

“Tomasa first,” she said.

Tomasa looked down. “No. Cut yourself. You are underneath me.”

“If I drop first, I can catch you.”

Diego nodded. “She's right.” Tomasa drew one breath and stopped arguing. Micco sawed through the sheet around her friend's waist. The fabric parted suddenly. Tomasa grabbed the post with both hands.

“Hold there.”

Micco cut her own binding. Gravity took her before she was ready. Diego caught her around the ribs and both of them slid into the lower wall. His shoulder struck first. Micco landed against him. For one suspended second neither moved. His arm was still around her. Her hand was against his chest, feeling the hard, rapid beat beneath soaked cloth. They looked at each other.

Alive.

That was all the moment could hold. Tomasa's voice came from above.

“I would appreciate being rescued too.”

Micco almost laughed. Diego did.

“Slide when I tell you.”

He and Micco braced below the post. Tomasa let go. She came down fast, striking Micco's shoulder before Diego caught most of her weight and lowered her into the corner. The three stayed crouched together while the hull groaned around them. Diego looked toward the door.

“The ship is aground. She's flooding.”

Tomasa stared at him.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we leave now.”

“In the boat?”

Diego's expression told her before he spoke.

“There are no boats left.”

Tomasa's face emptied.

“Then how?”

“We swim.”

Her answer was immediate.

“No.”

“Tomasa-”

“I cannot swim.”

Diego shifted closer so she had no choice but to look at him.

“You will not have to. You hold on to me.”

“In that?”

A crash above them punctuated the question. Diego did not soften the truth.

“If we stay here, this cabin fills.”

Tomasa looked at Micco. Micco remembered the water she had heard entering the ship. She nodded.

“We go.”

Tomasa closed her eyes once. Then opened them.

“All right.”

Diego climbed first through the broken doorway and turned back. He pulled Tomasa up by both forearms, then reached for Micco. When his hand closed around hers, Micco noticed he did not ask whether she could manage the climb. He simply gave her leverage. She used it.

The lantern showed them why the lieutenant had not answered. He lay against the lower wall of the passage where the ship's angle had thrown him, one side of his head dark with blood. Tomasa stopped.

The young man who had blushed when she asked his name, who had stood outside their door through every boring afternoon of the voyage, was utterly still.

“No.”

Diego put himself between Tomasa and the body without pretending it was not there.

“We have to pass him.”

She shook her head. Micco took her hand.

“Look at me.”

Tomasa did.

“Only me.”

Together they moved along the slanted passage. Two of the queen's guards lay farther ahead. One had been crushed beneath a broken beam. The other floated partly in water that was rising from the lower end of the corridor. The door to the adjoining cabin had split open.

Inside, the plain wooden chest that held the queen's necklace was still strapped beneath the bunks. Diego saw it. Micco saw him see it. For the first time since he had entered their cabin, the king's treasure stood within reach. Diego turned away from it.

“Keep moving.”

No hesitation. Micco remembered Governor Torres's room, the necklace blazing beneath afternoon light while Diego looked at her instead. Now the necklace was still there in darkness, worth a fortune, and he left it because three living people were trying to escape. The thought lodged somewhere deep and permanent. Water reached Micco's calves by the time they reached the companionway.

Above them, morning had begun without sunrise. The sky was a gray wound behind rain. Diego went up first. What remained of the deck looked nothing like the ship that had sailed from Havana.

The mainmast was gone. Part of the rail had been torn away. Rigging trailed into the sea. Men moved where they could, some crawling, some helping the injured toward the lower side of the grounded hull. Mateo saw Diego emerge. His expression changed when Tomasa and Micco appeared behind him.

“Shore is there!” he shouted, pointing through the rain.

A pale strip existed beyond the broken water. Closer than Micco expected. Farther than Tomasa could bear. Diego looked over the side. The Concepción had grounded at an angle. The lee side lay low enough that waves washed over part of the rail. Beyond it, surf ran toward shore in violent white lines. Men were already abandoning ship individually, choosing moments between breakers. Diego turned to Micco.

“You go first.”

She shook her head before he finished.

“No.”

“You can swim.”

“I know.”

“Then go. I'll bring Tomasa.”

Micco looked at Tomasa, then at Diego.

“I stay behind you.”

“Micco-”

“If she loses you, I can reach her. If you lose her, I can reach both of you.”

The argument was practical enough to survive his rank. Diego looked toward the sea again. Then nodded.

“Behind us. Not beside us. If a breaker takes you, do not fight across it. Let it carry, then angle in.”

Micco almost smiled despite everything.

“Captain, I learned to swim before I learned to read.”

“Then today I am happy to be outranked.”

Their eyes held for one brief instant. Not Spanish captain and servant. Two people about to trust each other with everything. Diego stripped off his coat and boots. The cloth remained tied to his wrist. He turned to Tomasa.

“Arms around my shoulders. Not my throat.”

Tomasa looked at the water and went white.

“I cannot do this.”

Micco stepped close.

“Yes, you can.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know you.”

That reached her. Tomasa wrapped her arms around Diego. He tested her grip.

“Looser. I need to breathe.”

She loosened it by almost nothing.

“More.”

Micco touched Tomasa's hands and adjusted them lower across Diego's chest.

“There.”

Tomasa nodded against his shoulder. Diego looked at Micco one last time.

“Wait until I clear the hull.”

“Go.”

He lowered himself over the side. The sea took him immediately.

Cold water erased every sound except breath. Diego came up with Tomasa clinging to him and kicked away from the hull before the next breaker could throw them back against timber.

“Hold!”

Tomasa's face vanished behind spray. He turned so his body took most of the next wave. Behind them, Micco entered the sea cleanly from the lower rail and disappeared. Diego saw nothing but gray water for several seconds. Then her black hair broke the surface farther astern. She was swimming. Good. He faced shore.

The first twenty yards cost more strength than he expected. Tomasa was not heavy on land. In water, fear made every part of her oppose him. Her legs dragged. Her grip shifted upward each time a wave struck. Diego had to stop twice to pull her arms away from his throat.

“Lower, Tomasa!”

“I am trying!”

“I know. Lower.”

She obeyed. Another breaker lifted them and carried them forward. For one hopeful moment Diego thought the surf would help. Then the backwash pulled at his legs with equal force. He kicked harder. His muscles had been working since dawn the day before. The storm had taken sleep, food, heat, and everything that made strength feel renewable. Now it demanded what remained. He kept moving. A wave broke directly over them. Tomasa's arms tore free. Diego surfaced alone. His heart stopped before his body did.

“Tomasa!”

He turned. A hand appeared between foam. He lunged and caught her wrist.

The next wave struck him broadside. Tomasa's weight yanked his shoulder as the water tried to separate them. He refused it. She surfaced coughing.

“I have you.”

She wrapped herself around him again, this time so tightly his airway closed. Diego shoved one arm between her grip and his throat.

“Tomasa. Listen to me. If you hold me there, we both drown.”

Her eyes were wild.

“I can't-”

“You can. Hands lower.”

She forced them down. Diego turned toward shore. He could no longer tell whether they were closer. His arms felt filled with sand. He kicked. Nothing about his body answered quickly enough. Another wave passed beneath them. For the first time he thought, with absolute clarity, I may not make it. Not fear. Calculation. He had enough strength for perhaps another minute at this pace. Maybe less. Then something seized the back of his shirt. Diego twisted. Micco.

She was close enough that he saw the concentration in her face, not panic. One hand held his shirt high between the shoulders. The other cut through the water.

“Kick with me!”

He did. The difference was immediate. Not miraculous. Not easy. Enough. They moved as a crooked three-person body through the surf: Diego bearing Tomasa, Micco taking part of Diego. A breaker hit. Micco released him before it could twist her arm, disappeared beneath the foam, then came back and caught his shirt again. Diego stopped wasting breath on gratitude. He saved it for swimming. They gained another stretch. Tomasa coughed against his shoulder.

“I'm sorry.”

“Later.”

Micco heard him and almost laughed, though no sound survived the water. The bottom found Diego's foot unexpectedly. Sand. He pushed down. A wave lifted him off it. He tried again. His toes struck bottom.

“Ground!”

Micco lowered her legs. Her feet touched too. They were still chest-deep between waves, but the sea could no longer take every ounce of their weight. Diego stood long enough to breathe. Micco moved to Tomasa's other side.

“Give me her arm.”

Tomasa protested weakly. “I can walk.”

“Then prove it.”

Her feet found sand. Together they staggered forward. Each retreating wave pulled at their knees. Each incoming one shoved them toward shore. When the water dropped below Diego's waist, his legs began shaking. He did not notice until Micco tightened her grip on his arm.

“Stay up.”

“Excellent advice.”

“I learned it from a captain.”

He looked at her. Even exhausted, she had found that. The laugh that escaped him became a cough. They reached wet sand. Tomasa fell first, onto both knees. Diego let go only when he knew she was above the wash of the next wave. Then his own strength ended. He dropped onto one hand and rolled onto his back. Rain struck his face. He had spent the entire night trying to keep the sea beneath him. Now he had never been so grateful for earth.

The Beach Shortly After Sunrise

Micco gave herself less than a minute. That was all the body wanted to allow, and all she could afford. Tomasa sat bent over on the sand coughing seawater. Diego lay several yards away with one arm across his eyes, his chest rising hard beneath his soaked shirt. The storm had not finished with them.

Wind still drove rain across the beach, sharp enough to sting exposed skin. Farther inland, the dune line offered the only break Micco could see. She stood. Her legs objected. She ignored them.

“We need cover.”

Tomasa looked up. “Where?” Micco pointed toward the dunes. Sea grape, scrub, palms bent by the wind. Familiar plants in a landscape made nearly unrecognizable by the storm. Florida. The realization came without warmth. She had returned to the land of her birth by wrecking onto it.

Micco crossed the wet sand and found a shallow rise behind the first line of vegetation. The sand there had been torn open by runoff. She dropped to her knees and dug with both hands. Not deep. Deep enough to put a body below the worst of the wind. Tomasa reached her before the hollow was finished.

“What are you doing?”

“Lie down.”

“In that?”

Micco looked at her. Tomasa looked at the rain.

“Right.”

She lowered herself into the sand without another complaint. Micco pulled broken palm fronds and broad leaves over her, weighting the edges with wet sand.

“Keep your face clear.”

Tomasa caught Micco's wrist before she stood.

“Diego.”

Micco turned. He was trying to get up. He made it to one knee and stopped there. Micco went back for him. He looked toward the wreck rather than at her. The Concepción lay offshore, driven onto her side in the breakers. Part of the hull rose black against the gray morning. The broken mast appeared and disappeared in the surf. Men were still coming from it. Some swimming. Some not moving at all. Diego tried to stand again.

“My crew.”

Micco put his arm over her shoulders.

“You cannot help them from here if you fall.”

“Mateo-”

“You ordered Mateo to get them off.”

Diego looked at her sharply.

“You heard?”

“No. I know what you would have done.”

The answer silenced him. Together they crossed toward the dunes. Halfway there, Diego stumbled. Micco caught him beneath the arm. The cloth around his wrist brushed her hand. She looked down. He followed her gaze. For a moment both remembered the cabin doorway before the storm had become this. Micco touched the torn edge of the cloth once.

“You kept it.”

Diego looked at the useless strip of fabric as though he had only just remembered it existed.

“Apparently I am sentimental when drowning.”

She should have laughed. Instead something tightened behind her ribs.

“Do not make a habit of either.”

His eyes lifted to hers. The storm still blew around them. The wreck still broke apart behind them. Tomasa was shivering beneath palm fronds ten yards away. Yet the space between Micco and Diego became very still.

“I will try,” he said.

No joke in it now. Micco guided him into the second hollow she had dug beside Tomasa's and covered him with more fronds. Diego caught her hand before she moved away. His grip was weak but deliberate.

“You pulled us in.”

Micco looked at him.

“You came back for us.”

Neither debt could be separated from the other. His fingers loosened.

“Then we are even.”

Micco shook her head.

“No.”

Diego's eyes were already closing from exhaustion.

“No?”

She tucked a leaf farther over his shoulder so the rain struck it instead of him.

“We are alive. That is enough.”

His hand fell back into the sand. Within moments he was asleep or unconscious; Micco watched until she was certain his breathing stayed steady. Then she sat between the two shallow shelters. There was no shelter for her yet. She pulled one broad palm frond over her shoulders and faced the sea. Morning slowly forced itself through the storm.

The rain weakened first. Then the wind lost its scream and became something that belonged to ordinary weather again. The world emerged by pieces. Beach. Dunes. Broken timber. A barrel tumbling in the surf. Then the Concepción. The ship had split.

One section lay nearly overturned beyond the breakers. The part that had held their cabin sat low enough that waves passed through it. Micco stared. Had Diego reached them later, there would have been no cabin to reach. She looked toward the hollow where he slept. He had told her he could not promise what the sea would do. He had promised what he would do. Now she knew the difference. Beside her, palm leaves shifted. Tomasa's face appeared beneath them, wet hair pasted across her cheek.

“Micco?”

“I'm here.”

Tomasa blinked at the brightening sky.

“Is it over?”

Micco looked toward the broken ship, the littered shore, and the water still giving back pieces of what it had taken. The worst of the wind had passed. Nothing else was over. She reached down and took Tomasa's hand.

“The turmoil is.”

For the moment, that was enough.