The Chamorro smiled wryly, his blood-red gums showing. ‘Even if we succeeded in climbing the walls, we would never manage to enter the cells. They are locked, and the prisoners are shackled. We have no experience of dealing with such things.’
It was true, Hector thought to himself. There were no doors to the houses in the Chamorro village and therefore no locks or fastenings. Nothing was ever hidden or guarded; everything was left lying about in the open and was treated as common property. If someone needed an item, he or she simply picked it up and used it.
‘Ma’pang,’ he said earnestly. ‘If you can arrange to get myself and Jacques and Dan into the fort, we can deal with the locks and chains. Jacques knows all about padlocks and how to open them. But in return you must help me contact the young woman I told you about.’
‘The one you would marry?’
‘She lives in the Governor’s quarters. I need to find her and talk to her, and if she agrees, I want her to come away with me.’
Ma’pang’s heavy eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You think she would agree?’
‘I’ll not know until I ask. Do you think the council will consent to such a plan?’
‘They don’t have to,’ Ma’pang answered without a moment’s hesitation. ‘There are six or seven men who would help me. The same ones who captured you on the beach that day.’
‘And how will we get to Aganah?’
Ma’pang rose to his feet. ‘Two galaide layak can sail across the straits under cover of darkness, and land us a few miles to the north of the town, without being seen. From there we march overland.’
TWELVE
INCH BY INCH Dan raised his head. He was crouched in the sawgrass on the hillside above Aganah. Below him lay the untidy sprawl of the native town and, beyond that, the rectangular block of the Spanish Presidio. He faced down into the valley, held his breath and opened his mouth. He kept totally still, for that was how his father had taught him to listen when scouting. It had been part of his training for slaving raids on the inland villages where the Miskito kidnapped their servants and concubines. Dan could still remember the excitement of his first raid: the cautious river journey by canoe, a landing well short of the target village, the silent march through the jungle, the lone scout sent ahead to examine the best line of attack.
Now he assessed Aganah in the same way. He’d been at his vantage point since first light, watching the houses, counting the number of people moving about, noting where they were going and how soon they returned, gauging the best route to reach the walls of the Presidio without raising the alarm. Tonight there was no moon, and if the sentries were as incompetent as Jacques had reported, it was unlikely they’d spot the raiders approaching the wall. The real risk of discovery would come sooner, while crossing the town itself. If the local residents were disturbed, the raid would be a disaster. That was why he listened so carefully, ignoring the background whisper of the breeze through the tall grass around him and the buzz and scratchy chirps of insects in the warm early afternoon. He picked up snatches of voices from below, indistinct and very faint, the thumping sound of someone chopping or pounding, the cry of a baby. For a moment he was startled by a long, hollow moan. Then he recalled hearing that the Spaniards had brought water buffalo from the Philippines as draught animals and for milk. But it wasn’t the water buffalo that concerned Dan, or the handful of imported horses, which had so terrified the Chamorro, who thought of them as outlandish monsters. Dan was listening for dogs.
They were the real guardians of the settlement, and as yet Dan hadn’t seen any. A single cur, awoken during the night and barking loudly, would wreck the entire plan.
Dan resumed breathing. At the back of his throat was the faint taste of wood smoke from the cooking fires in the houses below. He eased himself down into the grass, and crawled to where Hector and the others were waiting.
As he slithered through the long grass, Dan thought of Ma’pang and his clan. He feared they would suffer the same fate as the native peoples of Peru and New Spain, when the confident pale-skinned strangers had insisted they worship a different god and adopt new and alien ways. Unless the Chamorro followed the example of his own people, the Miskito, they would lose both their lands and their identity. They needed to arm themselves with the white man’s weapons, and draw so much blood they would always be left alone.
Once the Chamorro had their hands on enough firearms, Dan knew they’d quickly learn to look after them, as well as use them. For the raid, Jacques had drawn sketches of a set of pick-locks that he required if he was to open the door to the prison where the hostages were kept. Within half a day the Chamorro fishermen had fashioned a dozen hooked and curved tools of different thicknesses, lengths and shapes. They had made them from bone and shell and sticks of close-grained hardwood. When Jacques had decided the tools were strong enough for the prison doors, but might snap in the heavy fetter padlocks, Ma’pang had produced the bronze cross he’d been given by the missionaries. A Chamorro craftsman had reshaped it into exactly the stout pick-lock the Frenchman specified.
Dan smiled to himself, amused at the thought that the symbol of the foreigners would be used to free their captives.
He reached the clearing where Hector and the others waited. There were just five of them altogether: Jacques, Jezreel, Ma’pang, Hector and himself. Stolck had stayed aboard the galaide layak that had delivered them under cover of darkness to a sheltered bay on the northern side of the island, and would return the following evening to collect them.
‘The north wall of the fort is the best place to climb in,’ Dan said. ‘It is farthest from the watchtower where the night sentry might be. There are also huts on that side of the town, which seem to be storehouses rather than homes. They should give us some cover.’
‘What about the wall? How high is it?’ asked Jezreel.
‘Maybe twenty feet. Easy to scale,’ Dan answered.
Jacques had earlier explained the layout of the fort’s interior. Now he looked at Hector with a worried expression. ‘If we climb over the north wall, we will have to divide. I believe the Chamorro hostages are kept in the long, low building that looks like stables. The windows there have bars. Maria is in the Governor’s quarters, and they are in the opposite direction.’
‘We stick to the plan we discussed,’ Hector insisted. ‘You, Dan and Ma’pang go in search of the hostages. Jezreel stays with the ladder to secure our line of retreat. I’ll go on my own to find Maria.’
To Hector’s surprise, Dan shook his head. ‘No, I will go with you. Jacques and Ma’pang are enough to free the hostages.’
Hector saw the stubborn expression on Dan’s face. He looked at the others to see if anyone objected.
‘If that’s the way you want it, we’d better get going.’
THREE HOURS LATER Hector stood with his back pressed against the inner face of the Presidio wall. He could feel the rough coral blocks through his thin cotton shirt. Everything had gone exactly to plan. Dan’s assessment had been faultless. An hour before midnight, when the town’s folk were asleep, the intruders had stealthily made their way through a skein of back alleys without being noticed. They had then scuttled across the open ground around the fort that provided the Spaniards’ field of fire. Ma’pang had carried a makeshift scaling ladder made by driving cross-bars through a length of stout bamboo. He had set it against the wall, scrambled up and waited on the wooden walkway that ran along the inside of the top of the wall. Here the others had joined him. Then the ladder had been used again to descend into the fort itself. Now it was time for the group to split up.