Pirate

The only way out of the estuary was over the oyster bar where we grounded yesterday, but the tide was high and, even with the heavily-laden boats, we only lightly scraped the hulls as we floated over. I moved toward the bow, shielding my eyes from the rising sun, as I looked for any other boats. The Navy frigate was probably still anchored at the mouth of the harbor, about to start the search afresh with the new day. I suspected they would send boats in this direction as well. The unknown was Laffite. If the old pirate had seen or heard the fate of the Floridablanca, he would guess the Navy frigate was anchored to the north and move his ships to block the southern exit from the sound. He would then send out small parties, like the one we encountered, to search where the Navy was not yet looking. With two exits blocked, we had no choice but to abandon my plan to seek refuge in Estero Bay and make for the river. The Caloosahatchee was dangerous and unknown country, its source rumored to be a massive inland lake that had a river of grass running south into the Florida Keys. If we made it to the Keys, we could figure it out from there.

“To port,” I yelled to the men who had their backs to the bow. We crossed the channel and made for the mouth of the river. Just as we reached open water, I saw Laffite’s boat anchored where I expected it. We were too small for him to see from that distance, and I ordered the rowers into a small inlet. Not knowing if it had an exit or not, we blindly rowed south hoping it was fed from the river. I had no idea if we could make the river from here without a portage, but we needed a place to hole up and regroup. I looked back toward the rowers, and it was then that I saw the blood mixing with the water in the bottom of the boat.

“Which one of you is hurt?” I asked, looking at the backs of the two men.

“Aye, but it’s nothing,” Rhames responded.

It didn’t look like nothing from the amount of blood mixing with the seawater in the boat, and I looked for a place to land. If something happened to Rhames, I had no doubt my short tenure as leader would be over. I directed the boats toward the only dry land I saw, a small beach. I jumped out and pulled the boat onto the beach, wanting to go to Rhames right away, but also aware that would look like a sign of weakness. Instead, I waited for the men to disembark and scatter on the beach before I went to him.

The cut was long and deep across his stomach. If there were a surgeon amongst us, he surely would have stitched the wound, and if we had supplies I would have attempted the same. Instead I took off my shirt and tore several strips from the tail, helped him remove his shirt, and checked the cut. It looked clean, and I bound the linen around his body hoping to stem the blood flow. He lay down, his face pale from blood loss and exertion, and I looked at the other men, wondering what they were thinking.

10

We stood in a circle, and I watched each man as their eyes moved from Rhames, to the chests, and finally to me. It was an uneasy feeling, standing there being scrutinized, and I put on my stone face. I couldn’t afford one uneasy look or gesture. Rhames lay in the boat, moaning in pain. There was nothing more I could do for him—time would tell if he was to survive. My problem now was to keep the crew rallied around me.

“Red.” I looked at their leader. “We should scout the river mouth. We can’t stay here too long.” I looked around. There was no freshwater and starting a fire here would be out of the question. Although sheltered by the estuary, the smoke from the smallest fire would be seen by the watching eyes of the Navy and Lafitte. Without waiting for an answer, I looked at each of the men, fixing my gaze on them until they made eye contact. “You men stay here and keep an eye on him.” I pointed to Rhames, who was trying to sit upright. “No fires and keep a watch. We are nowhere close to safe.”

“You heard the man,” Red said, as he picked up his cutlass and started walking away. “You coming?” He looked at me.

I took one look at Rhames, who nodded to me in assurance. He was clearly in pain, but was sitting upright in the stern of the boat, the flintlock pistol secure in his belt.

He removed the gun and handed it to me. “Go,” he said.

I slid the barrel into my waistband and went after Red, who was already a few hundred feet away. When I caught him, he looked at me with a half-smile that concealed his intentions. The smile turned to a frown when he saw the weapon in my possession. Rhames may have saved himself as well as me by giving me the pistol. If he had passed out with the gun, one of the men would surely have shot him, and with the weapon I held the upper hand with Red.

We trudged along the bank, fighting through the calf-deep muck along the mangrove-lined shores. Although the temperature was fair, within minutes we were sweating from the exertion of walking through mud.

“How far you reckon, Mister Nick?”