David Wood
Dourado
For my wife Cindy, my number one reader, critic and fan.
Prologue
And David said, “There is none like that; give it to me”
The precious dream fled like the last mist of morning before the rising sun. Another wave broke against the side of the Dourado, the resounding crash booming like thunder in the tiny cabin. Monsieur le Chevalier Louis Domenic de Rienzi clutched the side of his bed to steady himself against the pitching and rolling. He had been dreaming of a triumphant return to France, where he would display the fruits of his years of hard work. He tugged the damp, musty blanket over his head, but it made a pitiful barrier against the shouts that penetrated from above. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to force himself back to sleep, but to no avail. Muttering a curse, he pushed the sodden covers down to his chest and stared up at the aged wooden ceiling.
A man of his standing should have finer accommodations, he told himself. Of course, this was the best the captain had to offer. When he got back to France, when they saw what he had recovered, then he would be an important man. He would have only the finest lodgings. He smiled. For a moment, the aged wooden cabin was transformed into a luxurious berth on the finest ship.
Another wave sent the ship tilting like a drunkard, and his imagined stateroom dissolved in a dizzying roll. Rienzi held on until the ship righted before rising to don his boots and coat. The shouts on deck grew strident, tinged with an urgency that had not been there before. The storm must be more serious than he had believed.
He spared a moment to glance in the tiny mirror nailed to the wall opposite the bed. He was no longer a young man, but age was blessing him with a touch of the dignity he lacked in his youth. He had left home a young man, but was returning as a seasoned adventurer with a fabulous story to tell.
His cabin door opened onto a narrow hallway. A petite woman in a dressing gown peered out of the door directly opposite his own. Her nightcap was askew, giving a comical bent to her pinched features. Their eyes met and she gave a little shriek before slamming the door. Rienzi chuckled and made for the narrow stairwell leading up to the deck.
Tangy salt air filled his nostrils as he stepped out into the chill night. Fat raindrops struck his face, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. A crewman bustled past, jostling Rienzi in his haste. The sailor muttered something that might have been an apology, but Rienzi’s Portuguese was very limited.
Angry black clouds proclaimed the ferocity of the storm that assailed the ship. The brig surged through waves that broke across the deck like hungry fingers clutching its prey. He drew his coat tighter around him to fight off the chill wind that sliced through him and thanked the Blessed Mother that it was summertime here on the bottom half of the world. What might this storm be like at home in the heart of a French winter?
With a fencer’s grace, he stepped out onto the deck, keeping himself balanced on the tilting platform. Deckhands scurried about, obviously trying to put on a brave face in front of the knot of passengers who clung together near the mainmast. Strange that people felt safer on deck, where an errant wave might sweep them away, than down below where it was warm and dry.
He soon found the captain, Francisco Covilha, who was fighting with the wheel and simultaneously barking orders.
“Captain,” he shouted, “may I be of assistance?” Rienzi had some knowledge of sailing, though certainly not as much as the veteran sailor. Yet, it seemed proper to at least make the offer.
The Portuguese sailor shook his head, and called back in heavily accented French. “I am sorry, Monsieur. I must keep us from the rocks.” Maintaining his grip on the wheel, he nodded forward and to port.
Rienzi spun and saw with alarm a jagged line of rocks protruding from the sea, the faint glow of dawn illuminating their jagged features. Despite the crew’s best efforts, the Dourado hurtled toward certain peril, borne on the crest of deadly wind and waves.
There was no helping the captain and crew, nor did he hold out much hope that the ship would avert her impending doom. But there was, in fact, something Rienzi could do. Reeling with each ebb and swell, he made his way to where the frightened passengers huddled in fearful disarray. Taking him for someone in authority, they all began calling out questions.
Most of them spoke English, but a few were French. Rienzi could speak the uncultured tongue of the oafs from the north side of the channel, but he would not do so unless it was absolutely necessary. He did have his reputation to consider.
“Do not speak,” he shouted over their confused questions. “There is little time.” Though his words were in French, everyone seemed to grasp his meaning and fell quiet. He stole another glance at the looming rocks. They looked like the teeth of some primordial beast, ready to crush their fragile vessel. There was no time to get the others below, and should the crash be a serious one, belowdeck would not be the safest alternative.
He found a length of rope lashed to a nearby rail. It was one used by crewmen to secure themselves to the ship in just such a situation. He sat the passengers down and showed them how to double the rope around each of their arms so they all could tie on to the same rope. One of the Englishwomen complained about the cold and the rain, but he ignored her. When everyone was secure, he wound the end of the rope around his wrist and dropped to the deck, waiting like a condemned prisoner for the guillotine.
My treasures! The sudden thought pierced the veil of apprehension and embedded in his heart. A cold sliver of fear soured his stomach and sent a tremor of fear through him. Priceless, irreplaceable artifacts representing a lifetime’s work were stored below. How many years had he spent collecting them? Above all others, one item in particular could not be lost.
With that thought in mind, he rose up from the deck to look out at the ocean. The rocks still loomed perilously close ahead, the waves crashing over them sending up gouts of foam that put him to mind of a rabid beast. They now seemed farther to port. Was the captain gaining some control of the craft? They flew faster toward the far end of the line of rocks, the cold rain now stinging his face. He held his breath. Were they going to make it?
Unwinding the safety rope from his forearm, he belly crawled to the side, and clutched the rail, watching as the dangerous objects flashed by, the gap between the Dourado and these sentinels of doom ever narrowing. The last rock flew past with scarcely a foot to spare.
And then the world exploded.
A loud, ripping sound filled his ears, and everything somersaulted. He tumbled toward the bow, pain lancing through his cold, numb flesh as he half-rolled, half-bounced across the hard, slick deck. He crashed into the foremast with a breathless grunt and a sharp crack to the base of his skull. Dizzy, he struggled to stand. His feet and hands did not want to work, though, and his head seemed full of sand. Surrendering with an agonized groan, he closed his eyes.
“I have no choice, Monsieur Rienzi. I must give the order to abandon ship.” A barrel of a man, Francisco Covilha stood a hand shorter than Rienzi, yet managed to appear as if he were looking down his nose at the explorer. The moonlight accentuated his crooked nose and lined face.
“Captain, you cannot be serious,” Rienzi pleaded. “You have kept us afloat since morning. Surely we can hold out until help arrives.” He rubbed his head, which still throbbed from the blow that had rendered him unconscious. He had tried drowning the pain with wine, but had managed only to dull his senses to the point of being an annoying distraction.