It was battery-powered, for there was no electricity. Evidently the captain enjoyed music enough to carry a phonograph with him wherever he went.
A large kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling and there were several books on the table below it. Alec picked one up. It was on horsemanship and had been written by the captain himself. Since it was in French, Alec didn’t attempt to read much of it, but he was very impressed.
Had he allowed himself to give way to needless fears? Alec wondered. The captain was a professional horseman like himself and, according to the blurb on the jacket of the book, was the world’s foremost authority on dressage.
Never in his life had Alec failed to get along with someone who loved horses. It was too strong a tie to be marred by his apprehensions, let alone fear. He had been ridiculous to believe otherwise, he told himself.
Another book Alec found on the table dealt with the Spanish conquest of Florida. It was for the serious student of history, being an English translation of Spanish documents written in the late 1560s. He noted penciled notations in French in the margins and wondered what they meant.
Alec put down the book, a little self-consciously, when the captain appeared carrying a wooden tray, which he placed on the table. There were many kinds of canned meat as well as fresh fruit, and Alec suddenly realized how hungry he was.
The captain motioned Alec to a chair and sat down himself, his back as straight as it had been in the saddle. For several minutes they ate in silence, then Alec asked, “Are you a student of Florida history as well as a professional horseman?” He nodded toward the books.
“Only recently,” the captain answered. “I have learned from Odin that my people lived side by side with white men during the Spanish conquest of Florida. Of course it was as slaves,” he added. There was no bitterness or hostility in his voice, only acceptance.
Alec waited expectantly, hoping the captain would tell him more of his own accord. He did not think it best to press him.
“In fact, one of my great ancestors was chief guide to the Conquistador Pedro Menéndez de Avilés,” the captain continued after a short pause.
Alec detected the pride in the captain’s voice.
“De Avilés was the founder of St. Augustine,” the captain explained. “Unknown to most historians, he also did a considerable amount of exploration here in the Everglades, which could not have been done without the aid of my ancestor, who was a Carib warrior.”
Alec was unable to keep the surprise from showing in his eyes. Was this why the captain was here then, to retrace the steps of an ancestor dead over four hundred years? He studied the man’s face, noting again the strong blending of African and American Indian features with hints of still other strains.
The captain gazed back, his eyes as intent as Alec’s. “You look surprised, Alec,” he said quietly. “I might even say frightened. There is no need to think of one of Indian or, for that matter, African ancestry as a villain.”
He paused before going on. “It is true that the Caribs were no less warlike than the Conquistadores. For they, too, were raiders, coming from the interior of the Guianas and as far south as the Amazon jungle. They invaded Haiti and the other islands before becoming slaves themselves. No different,” he added, “from the Africans brought to the New World by the Spaniards to work the mines.”
The captain stood up and began clearing the table. The conversation seemed to have come to an end. Suddenly he stopped and sat down again.
“So it is that I am of Carib origin as well as African and Portuguese and French and Haitian. Truly a strange mixture, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, smiling broadly for the first time.
“Oui, Captain,” Alec answered, hoping that the tension between them had come to an end.
“Comprenez-vous French, Alec?”
“Un peu.”
“Beaucoup more than un peu, I’ll bet,” the captain said warmly.
Alec helped take the dishes into the kitchen. His feeling of apprehension had been greatly relieved by the friendly exchange.
“Your English is perfect,” he said.
“Thank you.
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