“Miguel,” Harry interjected. “Father Miguel was serving here in 1811.”
The two Spaniards exchanged what Nick thought was an odd look.
“Si, he was here. He left when the shelling began. The Frogs came into the harbor and set off their cannons, day and night.” The next statement from Boina slipped back into Spanish, a slur on each of the French sailors’ parentage, and Nick was glad Harry didn’t speak the language. Though given her wide eyes, perhaps she recognized the root words and had figured out the nature of the insult.
“Do you know where Father Miguel went?”
Mustache shook his head. “As soon as he saw the flags on the masts in the harbor, he finished carving the last headstone and left with what he could carry on his horse.”
Nick wanted to ask if the priest had any paintings, statuary, or other treasure-like large objects strapped to the horse, but resisted. “He took the time to carve a headstone?”
“Si. In the graveyard, behind the church.”
Jonesy and Nick started walking toward the graveyard. Harry hung back. “Why have you had much practice speaking English today?”
“You are not the first to ask about Father Miguel,” Boina said, sliding his beret further back on his head.
“No one has asked about him for five years,” Mustache added, “and today there are four.”
Nick and Jonesy abruptly returned, flanking her.
“Three others have asked? Just today?” Nick said.
“Si.”
Mustache stroked his upper lip. “May have been today. May have been yesterday.”
“Or the day before.” Boina squinted and tilted his head to one side. “Come to think on it, one of them looked a lot like you,” he said to Nick. “But older. Maybe your father?”
Nick felt the words like a blow. Took him a moment before he could draw breath to speak. “My father is dead.” He kept his voice flat.
Boina shrugged. “All you English look alike.”
Harry stepped forward. “Do you know why these Englishmen asked about Father Miguel, or where they went?”
Boina pointed downhill, toward the marina. “Probably to the cantina. They were very thirsty.”
“And dirty,” Mustache added.
Jonesy looked toward the marina. “A drink sounds good.”
“After we see what the padre carved,” Nick said.
Harriet barely heard them, as she was already walking toward the graveyard. “Gracias, señores,” she called over her shoulder.
Just past the bombed shell of the church, farther up the road, the graveyard stretched for several acres, row after row of headstones in varying degrees of succumbing to the elements and the occasional cannonball crater.
Jonesy looked out over the rolling field in dismay. “How are we going to figure out which headstone the padre carved last?”
“Someone already did.” Harriet marched directly to a grave three rows up, four stones over from the edge, her heart pounding, her fists clenching and unclenching in a very unladylike show of anger. She could not have come this far, endured almost drowning in a storm at sea, only for someone else to have taken the treasure before her. No!
“No wonder they were thirsty,” Sheffield said, eyeing the recently dug grave. The hole was empty, dirt haphazardly piled beside it.
“So that’s it? The treasure is gone?” Jonesy rested a hand on Sheffield’s shoulder. “Sorry, Cap’n.”
Harriet refused to believe this was the end. Papa meant for her to have half the treasure, not some random Englishman. Even one who looked like Sheffield. Then she remembered what the Spaniards had said, or rather not said.
“The señores didn’t say the Englishmen looked happy when they went to get a drink,” Harriet said. “If they’d found the treasure, they’d have been crowing in triumph.”
