Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

“Out of the way, Pascual!”

Blue sparks flew from the steel, but the ax blows could barely be heard above the growing clamor of the storm. At first, nothing happened.

Then there was a crash.

The deck shook as the raft, freed from its moorings, rose up and splintered against the prow of the Esperanza. The captain leaned over the gunwale, certain that all he’d find would be the dancing end of the ladder. But he was wrong.

The shipwrecked man was still there, his left hand flailing, trying to regain his grip on the rungs of the ladder. The captain reached down to him, but the desperate man was still more than two meters away.

There was only one thing to do.

He put one leg over the side and grabbed the ladder with his injured hand, simultaneously praying to and cursing that God who was so determined to drown them. For a moment he almost fell, but the sailor Pascual caught him just in time. He descended three rungs, just enough to be able to reach Pascual’s hands in case he lost his grip. He didn’t dare go any farther.

“Take my hand!”

The man tried to turn his body around to reach Gonzalez, but he couldn’t make it. One of the fingers with which he was clinging to the ladder slipped.

The captain forgot all about his prayers and concentrated on his curses, albeit quietly. After all, he wasn’t so unhinged as to taunt God even more at a moment like that. However, he was mad enough to take one step farther down and grab the poor fellow by the front of his raincoat.

For a second that seemed eternal, all that held those two men to the swinging rope ladder were nine fingers, the worn sole of a boot, and a mountain of willpower.

Then the shipwrecked man managed to turn himself around enough to cling onto the captain. He hooked his feet onto the rungs, and the two men began their ascent.

Six minutes later, bent over his own vomit in the hold, the captain could scarcely believe their luck. He was struggling to calm down. He still wasn’t quite sure how the useless Roca had managed to get through the storm, but already the waves were beating less insistently against the hull, and it seemed clear that this time the Esperanza was going to make it through.

The sailors stared at him, a semicircle of faces filled with exhaustion and strain. One of them held out a towel. Gonzalez waved it away.

“Clean up this mess,” he said as he straightened up, gesturing toward the floor.

The dripping castaways huddled in the darkest corner of the hold. It was scarcely possible to make out their faces in the trembling light of the cabin’s only lamp.

Gonzalez took three steps toward them.

One of them came forward and held out his hand.

“Danke schon.”

Like his companions, he was covered from head to toe in a hooded black raincoat. Only one thing distinguished him from the others: a belt around his waist. And shining in the belt was the red-handled knife he had used to cut the ropes that had secured his friends to the raft.

The captain couldn’t contain himself.

“Damned son of a bitch! We could all be dead!”

Gonzalez swung his arm back and struck the man on the head, knocking him down. His hood fell back, revealing a head of fair hair and a face with angular features. One cold blue eye. Where the other should have been there was only a stretch of wrinkled skin.

The shipwrecked man got up and repositioned a patch that must have been displaced by the blow over the socket. Then he put his hand on his knife. Two of the sailors stepped forward, fearing he would rip the captain apart there and then, but he merely drew it out gently and threw it onto the floor. He held his hand out again.

“Danke schon.”

In spite of himself, the captain smiled. That damned kraut had balls of steel. Shaking his head, Gonzalez held out his hand.

“Where the devil did you come from?”

The other man shrugged. It was clear he didn’t understand a word of Spanish. Gonzalez studied him slowly. The German must have been thirty-five to forty years old, and under his black raincoat he wore dark clothes and heavy boots.

The captain took a step toward the man’s companions, eager to know whom he’d gambled his boat and crew for, but the other man held out his arms and moved to the side, blocking his way. He planted his feet firmly, or at least he tried to, as he found it difficult to remain standing, and the expression on his face was pleading.

He doesn’t want to challenge my authority in front of my men, but he’s not prepared to let me get too close to his mysterious friends. Very well, then: Have it your way, damn you. They’ll deal with you back at Headquarters, thought Gonzalez.

“Pascual.”

“Sir?”

“Tell the navigator to make for Cadiz.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” said the sailor, disappearing through the hatch. The captain was about to follow him, heading back toward his own cabin, when the German’s voice stopped him.

“Nein. Bitte. Nicht Cadiz.”

The German’s face had altered completely when he heard the city’s name.

What is it you’re so terrified of, Fritz?

“Komm. Komm. Bitte,” said the German, gesturing that he should approach. The captain leaned in and the other man began begging in his ear. “Nicht Cadiz. Portugal. Bitte, Kapitan.”

Gonzalez drew back from the German, contemplating him for over a minute. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to get any more out of the man, since his own grasp of German was limited to “Yes,” “No,” “Please,” and “Thank you.” Again he faced a dilemma where the easiest solution was the one that appealed to him the least. He decided that he had already done enough by saving their lives.

What are you hiding, Fritz? Who are your friends? What are four citizens of the most powerful nation in the world, with the biggest army, doing crossing the straits on a little old raft? Were you hoping to get to Gibraltar on that thing? No, I don’t think so. Gibraltar is full of the English, your enemies. And why not come to Spain? Judging by the tone of our glorious Generalisimo, we’ll all be crossing the Pyrenees before long to give you a hand killing the Frogs, chucking stones at them, most likely. If we really are as thick as thieves with your Fuhrer… Unless you’re not so keen on him yourself, of course.

Damn it.

“Watch these men,” he said, turning to the crew. “Otero, give them some blankets and get something hot inside them.”

The captain returned to the bridge, where Roca was plotting a course for Cadiz, avoiding the storm that was now blowing into the Mediterranean.

“Captain,” said the navigator, standing to attention, “may I just say how much I admire what…”

“Yes, yes, Roca. Thank you very much. Is there any coffee?”

Roca poured him a cup and the captain sat down to savor the brew. He took off his waterproof cape and the sweater he was wearing underneath, which was soaked. Fortunately it wasn’t cold in the cabin.

“There’s been a change of plan, Roca. One of the Boche we rescued has given me a tip-off. Seems there’s a band of smugglers at the mouth of the Guadiana. We’ll go to Ayamonte instead, see if we can steer clear of them.”

“Whatever you say, Captain,” said the navigator, a little put out at having to plot a new course. Gonzalez fixed his gaze on the back of the young man’s neck, slightly concerned. There were certain people you couldn’t talk to about certain matters, and he wondered whether Roca might be an informer. What the captain was proposing was illegal. It would be enough to get him sent to prison, or worse. But he couldn’t do it without his second in command.

Between sips of coffee, he decided that he could trust Roca. His father had killed nacionales after the fall of Barcelona a couple of years earlier.