Will closed the doors and apologized, telling the man that they did not know what a canastillero was. “Please excuse our ignorance.”

“Sure I will. You’re yanquis—what the hell do you know? But watch out, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” He stepped into the room, swaggering like the pugnacious little cocks that crowed and strutted in the yard. “So you’re the one who speaks Spanish, eh? How are you called?”

“Will Terhune.”

“Me llamo Tío Enrique. Enrique Balbontín, esposo de Rosaria.” He thrust out a gnarled brown hand. “Soy el jefe aquí también. I’m the one who makes things happen. My nephew told me that you met with misfortune at sea and that you wish to return to the United States. Where to? I’ve heard of Texas. I’ve heard of California and New York. They’re far away. If that’s where you’re going, I cannot be of help.”

“Cayo Hueso.”

“Cayo Hueso? No habrá problema.” Pausing, Tío Enrique sat at the small, square dining table and, rubbing his bald pate, looked at the floor. His booming voice, so far out of proportion to his size that Will almost believed it was a ventriloquist’s trick, had brought Nathaniel and Eliot out of the bedroom. “It would not be a problem,” he continued, “except most of the boats around were damaged in the hurricane, and the ones that weren’t are too small to take the four of you across to Florida.” He raised his bloodshot eyes. “The best thing for you would be to go to Havana. I know you would find passage to Florida in Havana. All the world comes to Havana. Also, there are a good many yanquis there who could be of assistance to you.”

“And how, Señor Balbontín, do we get to Havana from here? Is there a coach?”

He laughed sharply.

“You could call it a coach. It’s more like a donkey cart and the road is very bad now, with the summer rains. Going by sea would be much faster. Havana is two or three days away by sea.”

“But if all the boats …” Will started to say.

“Listen. I know a fisherman. His boat is in good condition. Maybe he’ll take you when he’s in between fishing trips. Got any money?”

“Repita Usted, por favor, y más despacio,” said Will. He’d understood, but he wanted to stall before answering. The Braithwaites still had their pay from the sponge factory in Key West—fifteen dollars—and he had another three.

“Cuántos dólares tiene Usted?” said Tío Enrique, very slowly.

Will reached into his pocket and opened his palm, displaying three silver dollars. Tío Enrique took one between his thumb and forefinger and, holding it up to the fading light pouring through the open doorway, squinted appraisingly.