179 Under Cover, Out of Sigh

His head hurt. His head was fucking splitting! He had been unable to sleep most of the night. He had stayed out on the deck until he was so tired he was tripping over his own feet. Then he gritted his teeth and went inside his cabin, and spent ten minutes carefully arranging his body on the narrow bunk before finally falling asleep.

He woke up in the middle night with a headache of monumental, I-got-really-drunk-last-night proportions. The stink of tar and wood resin in the tiny cabin made it difficult to breathe. He got out of his bunk forgetting about the low ceiling, and hit his aching head hard enough to raise a bump.

Cursing under his breath, Kirk exited the cabin and climbed the short staircase to the deck. His sudden appearance greatly discomfited one of the two night watchmen who had been discreetly masturbating on the poop deck. Hurriedly stuffing his gear back into his pants, he took a look at the dark figure approaching the gunwale, and called out softly:

"Hey there! Is everything all right?"

"I'm fine," snarled Kirk. His voice made the watchman realize who he was talking with. He froze, with one hand still stuck inside his pants. Kirk glanced over his shoulder at the motionless silhouette standing on the poop, and repeated:

"I'm fine. Carry on with whatever you've been doing."

"Yes, sir," said the watchman in a shaky voice. For a moment, he wondered about taking the governor's remark literally. But no; the old coot was still on deck! And anyway, the magic moment had passed: he had lost his erection. He'd just have to wait for the old bastard to get back into his cabin.

But the old bastard had no intention of returning to his stuffy cabin. Kirk stood with his hands resting on the railing that ran atop the gunwale, staring out into the night. Angel Island loomed darkly about half a mile away. Small waves splashed rhythmically against the hull: there was a breeze coming from land, carrying a faint, tart scent.

Craw had ordered the crew to drop both anchors even before the sun had set completely. They anchored a mile away from the entrance to the narrow strait between Angel Island and Tiburon Cape, with Kirk protesting mildly.

"Surely there's enough light left to keep sailing a little longer," he'd said to Craw. "We must be quite close to Alaya."

"We are, and that's the problem," Craw told Kirk. "It's easy to run aground in those waters. True, it seems the bay is much deeper than it is back home. I guess there isn't so much silt. But I don't want to take the risk. This literally is a new world. Who knows, there might be a few rocks underwater. We'll get going again at dawn, as soon as the lookout in the bows can see what things are like."

The introduction of tobacco into the New World had been a divisive issue. Many people argued it was the height of stupidity to introduce the devilish, poisonous plant into the pristine paradise of the New World. A tumultuous meeting at the Lander mansion had discussed the subject, and ended with Kirk saying:

"I'm fucking sick of this. Get this into your heads: wild tobacco grows naturally in this part of the world. It's most likely present in the corresponding part of the New World, too. Lung cancer? You think that burning all that wood and charcoal won't cause cancer, but smoking a pipe will? You're out of your fucking minds."

"But that doesn't mean we should add another health hazard," piped up Karen. Kirk looked at her with hate. Karen was always after him to give up cigars, and was given to enacting small dramas whenever she entered his study and found it full of smoke.

"I am importing tobacco seedlings into Fort Baker," he'd said. "And I know Bernard will be importing some into Fort Lander. You can ban smoking in that settlement of yours, Karen, if you like. See where it gets you."

Karen didn't speak to him for a couple of days after that.

Yes, a cigar would have done a lot to relieve Kirk's misery as he waited for the sun to come up. He sat down, then tried to lie down on the deck, but when his head was next to the wooden boards the tar-and-resin stink hit his nostrils again. In the end, he sat down on the steps leading up to the poop deck on the starboard side of the ship.

The single most important trait of any leader was an infinite patience. Kirk reminded himself of that repeatedly while he waited for the night to end.

A dozen miles to the southeast, Morales and his men were engaged in a similar activity. Untroubled by the dangers of running their boat aground, they got aboard and resumed their journey as soon as the dark sky began to lighten.

When the sun came up, they had already traveled a considerable distance. The mood on the boat, initially subdued after the night's events, gradually returned to normal. But it didn't improve much for Morales.

Morales was worried. It was increasingly clear that there was a morale problem. Killing a thief wasn't a valid reason for the air of despondency that hung over the crew earlier that morning.

And they had all been so enthusiastic at the beginning of the expedition! They'd even played a little game as the pirogue sailed out into the waters of the bay. Everyone tried to guess what they'd find while exploring. Someone suggested a settlement inhabited solely by young, attractive women, and everyone agreed the right course of action would be to have plenty of sex with them, by force if necessary, and subsequently turn them into slaves. They had all been full of merriment when they arrived at this conclusion.

The captain of the pirogue touched Morales' arm, interrupting his thoughts.

"Pardon, senor," he said. "I think I can see something interesting. Could I ask you to come with me to the front of the boat?"

They moved to the bows of the pirogue, stepping awkwardly over the legs of the men catching up on missed sleep.

"There," said the captain, pointing.

Morales looked in the indicated direction. About a mile ahead, the coast curved out west and ended suddenly with a sharp tip. Morales said:

"Where's the settlement?"

"A settlement?"

"I thought you spotted a settlement. I thought you wanted me to have a look."

"No. I spotted a ship."

"A ship!"

"Yes. It's too far away to make out any details, but I think it may be the ship that tried to chase us yesterday."

"Where is it? I can't see it!"

"Just a finger's width from that tip of land there."

"I still can't see it."

"No matter. You'll see it in a moment when we get a little closer. What are your orders, senor?"

Morales hesitated. Then he said:

"I remember you saying yesterday that the people aboard that ship weren't able to see us even when we could see them. On account of our boat being much smaller."

"That is correct, senor. I don't think they can see us now."

"Then proceed on the present course until there is a danger they might spot us. We need to find out whether it's indeed the same ship."

"Yes, senor."

"One more thing. You saw nothing of interest along the shore? No buildings or any activity, not even a wisp of smoke?"

"Nothing at all, senor. But I beg you to remember that we thought the area around the stream was uninhabited when we set up camp yesterday. So there might be people hiding from us somewhere on that shore."

"Why would they hide?"

The captain shrugged, and Morales answered his own question.

"Yes," he said musingly, "It's not impossible that I would hide too, in their place."

"We could land, and send out a search party."

"No. I want to find out more about that ship. Ah! I can see it now!"

What both Morales and the captain saw wasn't really the ship: it was its big sail, which was the size of a small postage stamp at that distance. They both stared at it as their boat got closer. After maybe fifteen minutes the hull came into view, and the captain said:

"It's the ship from yesterday, I'm sure. And it's sailing east."

This was very bad news. Continuing east would bring the ship into San Pablo Bay. Continuing east even further would allow it to discover the Morales colony.

"We must keep an eye on that ship," said Morales. "I depend on you to maintain the right distance. We must know where it's sailing to."

"Yes, senor."

"One more thing. I want you to give a pep talk to the crew. A little later, when everyone's awake. Remind them that we are all in the same boat, literally. They need to give their best effort if they want to be pleased with the outcome. I'll be giving rewards for outstanding performance, and handing out punishments for those who don't make the grade."

"As you wish, senor."

"I'm going to sit down in the stern to think things over. Alert me to any developments."

"Yes, senor."

Morales picked his way to the rear of then boat, considering the options available if the mysterious ship indeed sailed across San Pablo Bay, and discovered his colony. It would be another two or three days before it arrived anywhere nearby. He had two or three nights to make sure the Morales kingdom remained undiscovered.

They could approach under the cover of darkness, and stay undetected while they performed an act of sabotage that would force the ship to abandon its journey. Damage its rudder? Set it on fire? Or maybe simply cut the anchor ropes if and when it stopped for the night? There was a good chance setting it adrift would make it run onto one of the numerous shallows scattered around San Pablo Bay.

However, even if they were successful it was a short-term solution, at best. He needed a long-term plan. A few years down the road, no one would be surprised to see a well-developed colony in the New World. He had to think of a way to delay any government exploration efforts.

Morales sat down on the bench in the stern, forcing the helmsman to move a little to the side. He put his hand over the side of the boat - they were sailing really fast! The water frothed around his submerged fingers.

Enough of this doubt, of this uncertainty! He would win. He always did. He gave the helmsman a stern look.

"Did you wash at all today?" he asked sharply.

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