From Chapter 17: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Page 241…

As darkness swallowed the last colors of the horizon, the night’s chill intensified. The icy wind pierced their clothes, making Terry shiver despite the thick garments he wore. The group, unaccustomed to such conditions, was forced to take refuge inside the vessel.

After hanging their heavy, damp coats in their cabin, they headed to the ship’s dining hall for dinner. The space was small and simple, with the smell of grease and cooked food lingering in the air. The metal tables and benches bore scratches and oil smudges from dirty hands. The walls were painted white, which had peeled in places, revealing the metal underneath. A small window, clouded by salt and time, offered a faint view of the sea glistening under the full moon, while a ceiling lamp flickered above them.

Their menu tonight, as was customary on the ship, had only one option. It was a steaming soup of vegetables and cheap cuts of guanaco meat—cuts that held no commercial value for the city’s butchers. Its appearance was unappealing, and its taste was wild and foreign to their palates. They would not have chosen it if they could have, but its warmth spreading through their insides was welcome, chasing away the cold and soothing their hunger.

The frugal meal ended quickly, leaving them to face the prospect of the long night ahead. Around nine, they headed to their cabin, agreeing to take turns keeping watch every four hours.

Alexander took the first watch. He stood on the deck, his eyes fixed on the moonlit landscape and the mountain peaks that stood out clearly against the starry night. He was wrapped in his heavy coat, its collar turned up and his head half-buried in it. His glasses fogged up from his breath in the cold air, so he took them off and placed them carefully in his inner pocket, close to his heart.

Around midnight, sudden activity on the vessel caught his attention. He heard the creak of boot soles moving hastily across the metal deck. He saw five crew members take up positions around the vessel, their movements exuding an air of tense alertness. Alexander’s mind raced, recalling historical accounts of pirate threats in these waters and the lawless tales he had read in his youth.

Curiosity gnawed at him. Holding firmly to the gunwale and moving with great care, as the vessel was rocking heavily in the waves, he approached a sailor at the stern. He asked him about the commotion, and the sailor, his speech calm and unruffled, assured him it was a routine procedure. A precautionary measure taken every time the ship entered these waters.

“When the moon is as bright as it is tonight, it’s more likely pirates will attack us. It’s easier for them to navigate their boats.”

Indeed, the brightness of the moon tonight was truly intense, bathing the vessel in an ethereal glow.

As Alexander turned to go back to his post, beneath the sailor’s fur overcoat his eye caught the unmistakable shape of a relic from a bygone era. A military-style automatic firearm! His gaze froze for a moment, and a shiver ran down his spine, shattering any illusion of a carefree journey.

“You have a gun?” his voice came out softer than he intended.

“It’s them or us, señor,” the sailor replied casually, lightly tapping the spot. “Where you’re from, thieves and murderers are hunted. Here…” he paused, looking at the wild, dark coastline, “Here, south of Punta Arenas, is their paradise.”

“Have you killed people?” he asked, disturbed and shocked by the sailor’s casualness.

The sailor did not answer immediately. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“First time in these parts, eh?”

Alexander nodded. He wrapped his coat tighter as he returned to his post, doubting he would be able to sleep after what he had heard.

The man’s words echoed the stark reality of lawlessness in the southern seas, beyond Daemon’s influence. The sailor’s indifferent demeanor implied the routine nature of such encounters, leaving him to grapple with the brutal truth. They were in a world where survival meant being the one with the deadlier tool. The high cost of their journey began to make sense.

When one o’clock came, Alexander woke Terry and shared the disturbing revelations with him. Terry, though half-asleep, listened intently to his words. The gravity of the situation shook him fully awake. Then, Alexander took his place on the lower bunk, trying to sleep.

After dressing warmly, Terry in turn went outside, observing the crew’s activity with unease. His eyes, along with those of the sailors, scanned the sea’s surface for any sign of movement. The philosopher in him found comfort in the teachings of Epictetus on enduring hardship and maintaining tranquility. Fortunately, the night passed quietly, interrupted only by the slapping of the waves against the ship’s hull.

As dawn neared, a faint orange line was painted on the eastern horizon. The tension that had seized the ship during the night began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of cautious optimism. Terry decided to stay at his post a little longer, until the growing light offered greater safety.

At six, the sunlight became strong enough to illuminate the seashore clearly for miles. The sailors who had stood guard all night withdrew, and everything seemed to return to normal.

Terry gently woke Rhea with a kiss on the cheek, without telling her what had happened during the night so as not to worry her. Rhea’s face and her almond-shaped eyes were swollen from sleep, a sign of a good rest. Then, he lay down on the top bunk to rest, and Rhea splashed some water on her face, dressed, and went outside.

When Rhea took her post, there were still about three hours of travel left, as they had calculated, until they reached Tolhuin. The day was fine, despite the biting cold that made her cheeks flush.

The ship was crossing the Azopardo Strait, an area that was once dry land where the eponymous river connected Fagnano Lake to the sea. Now, the river and lake had merged, and the narrow passage had become a channel, its width ranging between four hundred and twelve hundred meters.

The lighting conditions now allowed one to see everything with perfect clarity. To her right, Rhea’s eye caught a movement on the shore. She observed a group of about ten men moving parallel to the ship. They could not have been more than three hundred meters from the vessel. Almost at the same moment as her observation, excited shouts erupted from the crew. Rhea did not understand Spanish and could not make out what they were saying. In a few moments, crewmen with guns in their hands took up positions at the gunwale, facing the group on the shore. Without wasting time and without hesitation, they opened fire on them. The deafening crack of the gunshots tore through the morning silence.

With her heart pounding in her ears, Rhea rushed in panic to the cabin, where Terry and Alexander had already been woken by the thunderous gunshots. Panting, she described the scene unfolding outside, and together, they cautiously peeked out onto the deck to witness the chaos firsthand.

The group on land scattered, desperately seeking cover behind rocks. Two figures lay on the ground, either wounded or worse…