Twisted Cross

At dusk, the scenery began to change. The Channel Islands came into view, the first land like a tall ledge of rock overlooking the ocean.  

“Remember the old days when we stashed good China silks on these islands? We gave the Russians a bloody battle on their last passage,” Jacques said.

“I remember, but these men don’t—they were just children back then.” Jean Paul stood shoulder to shoulder with Captain Jacques, “Yeah, the islands—friendly natives, too. No Spanish devils to get in your way.” Did he refer to Sal?

Sal used the wadded-up monk’s robe as his pillow and tried to sleep. He imagined a sea serpent on the horizon, many times longer than their forty-foot schooner. Coiled on the ocean, the serpent’s ridged back stretched north—the rest, swallowed in fog.

“¡Ay Dios—el Diablo!” He awoke, yelling like a kid, “God chases me to the end of the earth, his serpent will swallow us.”

Jean Paul shook Sal by his shoulders. “I’ll tell your Mamà this pillow gives you nightmares. That’s not a sea serpent, that’s the ridge of our island, you idiot.”

“You mean, our bank vault in the sea,” Jacques said. He rubbed his hands together. “We’ve got treasure hidden there, son. Look below the ridge crest where seagulls flock.”

“Treasure?” Sal said. He stood at attention, ready to collect his part.

“At ease, man,” Jacques said. “All us buccaneers know the story of these islands. Even the Russians used their people, the Aluetes, to raid the el agua de los Nicoleño. Bad business for the locals.

“Keep a lookout: these days, it’s those English raiders always around scheming for our goods,” Dumas said. He guided the schooner toward a flock of gulls hovering over a cove. Hundreds of birds squawked overhead near the rocky cliffs.

“We’ll smash on the rocks,” Sal said. The ship moved too close to the gigantic rock wall.