Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(2)
“She is too heavy, sir!” the cook’s son yelled, clinging desperately to the railing of the quarterdeck. The fear in the young lad’s wide eyes was as stark as the choices that lay before Bartolome. “We must relieve her of her cargo if we want to live!”
Her cargo…the tons of gold and silver coins, the barrels of jewelry and uncut gems the Santa Cristina carried in her big belly. It was a treasure King Philip desperately needed to fund the ongoing fight against the English, French, and Dutch—those scurvy bastards determined to see Spain’s empire burned to ashes. A treasure the king had entrusted to Bartolome, Quintana, and the twin ships they captained, the prides of the Spanish fleet.
Bartolome knew what he must do. King and country first.
Yanking the wheel hard left, he struggled to follow the currents and pilot the ship from the deceptive safety of the deep water to the certain perils of the shallows.
“What are you doing?” the boy screeched as the ship plowed up a mammoth wave, the deck going nearly vertical before cresting the swell and plunging down the other side. “You will run us aground!”
And that was exactly Bartolome’s plan. If he stayed out in the fathomless depths of the straits and liberated the Santa Cristina of her precious cargo before sailing around to the north of the island, they stood a chance against the wrath of the storm. However, half of the wealth of his nation, the wealth his king was counting on, would forever be condemned to a black, watery grave.
“We will steer her toward the reef line!” he yelled to the lad as another wave crashed over the decks, sending his crewmen sliding and grasping for handholds, and momentarily blinding Bartolome with a face full of foul, briny water. “There will be a chance for salvage!”
“But you will kill us all!” the cook’s son screeched, and Bartolome once again viciously swiped the salt spray from his eyes, sparing the thirteen-year-old boy a quick, pitying glance.
So young to be facing the inevitability of death. Likely has not yet tasted his first woman…
The idea gave Bartolome momentary pause. But then he shook his head and pushed the thought aside, returning his attention to steering the ship through the treacherous seas. The life of a sailor was uncertain at best, and the lad had been well warned of the dangers before signing on to join his father on this voyage with the royal fleet.
“Please do not do this, Captain!” the boy pleaded, choking on his tears and the water that continued to deluge the ship as the shadowy outline of a small island appeared off their bow.
Bartolome paid the youth’s cries no heed. And forgoing the whistle of his first mate, he bellowed to his crew on deck, “Away the anchors, boys!”
If he could catch part of the approaching reef, the galleon would be assured to sink in shallow, salvageable waters and he would have done his duty. Giving his all, his life most likely, for his country and its cause.
For a split second following his order, all activity aboard the galleon came to a halt, the crew realizing his intent. He wondered if perhaps his men would mutiny. Then his heart swelled with pride when one of his midshipmen—Rosario, perhaps?—began calling out orders and the brave sailors aboard the Santa Cristina once more raced to do his bidding.
Boom! Another burst of lightning flayed open the blackened sky like a wound, spotlighting the chains on the anchors as they raced over the side of the gunwale, disappearing into the frenzied waters.
And now all that was left to do was hang on.
“Lash yourself to an empty water barrel, lad!” Bartolome shouted to the sobbing youth, keeping a firm handhold on the wheel as the anchors dragged against the sandy bottom, searching for the ridge of coral and causing the ship to list precariously as waves continued to beat against her squealing hull like giant, angry fists.
And then it happened. The anchors found purchase a mere heartbeat before a breaker lifted the Santa Cristina and hurled her against the exposed reef. Crash! The galleon split in two, water pouring into her ruined hold. Bartolome could do nothing but watch as the cook’s son, strapped precariously to the water barrel, was dragged overboard.
Good luck to you, my boy, he thought as he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the furious sky, the screams of his terrified and dying men filling his ears. Seconds later, a swell overtook him and the great ship, dragging them both beneath the raging surface of the sea…
Chapter One
Present day
10:52 p.m.…
“And the Santa Cristina and her brave crew and captain were sucked down into Davy Jones’s locker, lost to the world. That is…until now…”
Leo “the Lion” Anderson, known to his friends as LT—a nod to his former Naval rank—let his last words hang in the air before glancing around at the four faces illuminated by the flickering beach bonfire. Rapt expressions stared back at him. He fought the grin curving his lips.
Bingo, bango, bongo. His listeners had fallen under a spell as deep and fathomless as the great oceans themselves. It happened anytime he recounted the legend of the Santa Cristina. Not that he could blame his audience. The story of the ghost galleon, the holy grail of sunken Spanish shipwrecks, had fascinated him ever since he’d been old enough to understand the tale while bouncing on his father’s knee. And that lifelong fascination might account for why he was now determined to do what so many before him—his dearly departed father included—had been unable to do. Namely, locate and excavate the mother lode of the grand ol’ ship.