“Beyond the bank, there’s more Indians. Their women are sorting through cargo crates. There is a monk, too. He’s following me. Hurry!” Dripping wet, he panted out his news.
Sal heard a booming voice calling from the river bank. “Did you bring us the tools you promised? The anvil…” a man onshore said.
Sal struggled with the oars. He tried hard to get the dinghy underway. Dumas tugged the oars away from Sal and took control of the dinghy to begin their escape. Sal could not believe it: he recognized the voice. Brother David.
“Let’s get moving, Sal,” Dumas said. “He’s spotted these uniforms and thinks we’re soldiers from the galleon.” Sal’s rubbery arms pulled in the anchor line.
“The tools! We need them,” the man on the shore shouted.
“Nos vemos, pronto, see you soon,” Sal said. He lied, promising to return. Maybe responding in Spanish would slow the monk, maybe even get rid of him.
“What did you say to him? We’re lucky there are no real soldiers here, only a pesky monk,” Dumas said, his voice full of worry and suspicion. “We’ve got to snatch this cargo quick.”
“Bad idea,” Sal said. “The last thing we should do is return for the cargo.”
“You try to explain that to Jean Paul when we return empty-handed,” Dumas said.
“I’m not coming back here. Those Indian women will tell the men, probably the same fishermen we saw on the cliffs,” Sal said. He felt unnerved by the narrow river, the high muddy banks—worst of all, the familiar voice of Brother David, who he once considered a friend. He must never find out that Sal had become a pirate.
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