Pirates of the Caribbean:The Spanish Prisoner (Book 2 King's Messenger Series)

A Compass That Doesn't Point North

Pieces of the Berwick's broken timbers were strewn everywhere along the shore, and the sight turned my bones to jelly. We were left with only the supplies we had taken on the previous day, which now seemed a pitifully small cargo. A sense of unreality took hold of me to think that there would be no escape for us. The food would run out, no rescue would come, and we would die here, on this tiny speck of land in an ocean of endless solitude.

Instinctively, I reached for Hector's hand. He glanced at me with an air of resolute assurance. "'Tis of small account to us," he rasped, with an impatient wave of his hand. "We'll be sighted and rescued soon enough."

It seemed just as likely to me that a faery boat would descend from the moon and pluck us off the island, but I forbore to argue. He stole another look at me, a challenging glint in his blue eyes. Clearly, he expected me to show the same stony determination that he possessed, and how could I refuse him? What would I gain by giving in to despair?

I stiffened my spine and resolved to follow my captain. "Well, let her go then," I said with far more conviction than I felt. "At least we've less to carry up the hill."

He grunted his approval, and led me back along the beach to the stream where we had quenched our thirst the day before. Tracing its course through the jungle, we made our way up a gentle slope to a large outcropping that overlooked the ocean on all sides. Just below it, we found the source of the stream, a pool fed by a small waterfall.

All in all, it was a lovely spot, with fresh water and more than enough room for our tent and provisions. A picturesque place for us to die.

- o -

By afternoon, we had set up our sleeping quarters and begun to carry up our victuals. After the third trip, Hector became unusually solicitous and ordered me to stop, on the grounds that too much work would somehow have an ill effect on me.

"Yer t' keep a lookout fer ships," he declared, handing me his spyglass. "Captain's orders."

I watched him stride off down the hill, then raised the glass to my eye. Turning slowly round, I studied the horizon. There was no trace of land in any direction, nor did I spy the mast of a single ship.

Where was this place? I had read enough of buccaneers' adventures to know that the oceans of the world were vast---beyond imagining, beyond the puny reach of man. Perhaps no one since the dawn of time had ever set foot upon this shore.

Even a glimpse of the Santiago would have been welcome. But the storm had swept away Ponce de Leon's ship, just as Maroto promised. It was luck alone that had brought the Berwick to us, but where was the Santiago? I only knew it wasn't here.

Fear snapped at my heels---a hungry cur ready to bring me down if my spirits faltered. I squinted through the lens again.

Nothing...nothing...nothing.

I lowered the spyglass, holding it loosely as I stood ruminating. Even Hector's returning footsteps failed to draw my attention, but suddenly he was there, pressing his hand over mine, reading the dismay in my face.

He brushed his fingers lightly over my hair. "No wonder ye be in low spirits," he remarked. "Look at the state yer in. But I know how t' set things right."

He brought me down to the pool at the foot of the small cataract and stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. "Try the water," he purred in my ear. "'Twill soothe ye, an' I know yer mad fer bathin'."

I smiled in spite of myself, knowing how foolish he found my notions of hygiene. "Someday you'll see the advantage in it," I replied.

"Is that so?" he asked absently, massaging my shoulders.