Nicolas asks me to wait on shore, and I do not wish to agree, but this is the practical solution. He wades to the boat, swimming if necessary, and then rigs up a rope to send goods down to me on the beach, where I can collect them. There is little point in both of us making our way onto a badly damaged ship, especially when only one of us knows our way around it.

The only reason for me to go onboard would be to speak to Andrés, but the boy can still communicate with me—as best he can communicate—by gestures from the ship. I have little else to ask him at this point. He confirms that he seems unable to leave the ship, which is concerning but not unexpected. I assure him we will find him, even if the wreckage is removed. Given how slowly they have tended to the ship thus far, I doubt anyone will be towing it soon. The true issue will be scavengers, and we are doing what we can to minimize that loss.

It is a slow process. Some of the items cannot be transported on our makeshift pulley line, and Nicolas must bring them out by hand. Fortunately, he has found a path that allows him to do so by wading up to his waist, the objects held over his head. He brings various imported goods, such as spices and textiles, and some local ones. And he brings rum. All of the rum.

When we have finished, I insist he warm himself by a fire. Then we divvy up the “treasure” between the three caves and hide the entrances. We consider taking refuge in one ourselves, but if anyone comes to raid the ship, we do not want to give away the location of the goods with smoke or sound.

We take one bottle of rum, a few foodstuffs and dry clothing. Nicolas also brings a satchel. I ask him what’s in it, but he replies in French, and we are not getting into that again, so I refrain from demonstrating any further curiosity.

We return to our original cave, and Nicolas relights the fire. Then we open the rum, and he digs out a round of cheese. We pass both back and forth a couple of times before he says, “Would you like to know what is in the satchel, crécerelle?”

“Love letters, I presume. Letters from you to a fair English maiden. You wooed her with French poetry, and she sent them all back with a single note. I cannot read these, you lout.”

“I deserved that, I suppose. Mais non, they are not letters to or from a lover.”

“Pornographic sketches, then. To keep you warm on long voyages across the bitter—and bitterly lonely—seas.”

He grins. “Non, though I am certain I could have found those onboard. The men often asked me to—” He stops short and waggles the satchel. “While you were undoubtedly being sarcastic, you did approach a truth, and so I shall grant you that answer.”