Capture the Colours

Chapter 1

Zapatero, a tus zapatos.

That was a good proverb to live life by. Shoemaker, to your shoes. Mind your own business.

Francisco had this proverb branded bright and bold in his mind because it had been told to him a great many times, by a cast of characters most often led by his own father. Indeed, Francisco would heartily agree with it—in theory.

The jailer on duty on that fine Jamaican night, sitting behind a large intricately carved desk, was a young lieutenant with fair hair and large blue eyes. He looked as bewildered by the situation as Francisco was resigned to it. His deep red uniform was brand new and well-ironed. He looked like he had just stepped out of his childhood bedroom. They certainly recruited them young in England.

Yes, he finally said, taking pity on the poor boy. I did start the brawl. That was me. That wasn’t so much the truth as a rather creative interpretation of it, but it would do.

The person who had in fact started the brawl had been the woman he had jumped into the brawl in aide of, but she had slipped away in the confusion and Francisco wasn’t about to tell on her. He suspected the woman did actually live in the small port town. Surely a reputation of trouble making would make her life difficult, whereas he expected—hoped—to leave soon enough.

The young man blinked slowly. Tavern brawls are punishable by two nights in jail, he said, apologetically.

Yes, Francisco said patiently. I have been told.

It is unfortunate, for a gentleman to be thrown in a jail cell with the rabble…

Francisco said nothing. He didn’t think there was anything he could say to either better his own situation or relieve the young man’s growing distress. The law was the law; and in any case Francisco was not in the strictest sense a gentleman. He had left that behind in Valladolid, along with his rightful inheritance and his status in society.

It is only two nights, the boy said at last.

I’m sure I’ll do well enough, Francisco said kindly.

Do you need to be seen to? the boy asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Francisco’s face.

Oh. Francisco felt the painful swelling across his cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. Someone had landed a good one on him.

No, it’s all right. It’s only a bruise, with no fracture.

All in all, he’d escaped the mess of it having paid a rather low price. He had been punched in the face, yes, and he was looking at two nights in a dank cell sleeping on the floor, true, but it could have been much worse.

The lieutenant sighed and nodded morosely. Then he gestured to one of the guards standing behind Francisco, closer to the door. Put him in the upper cell with the rest of the night’s catch.

The guard saluted and pulled the door open. He gestured for Francisco to precede him outside.

You’ll have a long one, I fear, he said to Francisco conversationally as they wound their way through labyrinthine stone hallways. One of them in there is drunk as a bad dog and singing about it.

Is he any good? Francisco asked curiously.

If howling is to your liking.

Ah. Francisco dragged a hand down his face, feeling the stubble along his upper cheeks where he had not shaved this afternoon. His moustache and the beard along his jaw and chin still felt neat and tidy, though.

Why did you start the brawl?

It seemed like a good idea at the time, Francisco confessed. It wasn’t even a lie. He’d thought it only right to put himself between a drunk brute and a woman, despite the fact it had been the woman who had first initiated the violence by breaking a bottle across the man’s head. Well, perhaps he had deserved it. Francisco hadn’t had the time to ask.

To his family’s enduring dismay, Francisco was the sort of man who would jump to someone’s help and only investigate the situation later. He rather figured a misunderstanding could be sorted out later, so long as everyone involved was capable of speaking; he’d seen tavern brawls take lives before.

Might want to have better ideas in the future if you want to make a life here.

The guard seemed friendly enough, so Francisco smiled crookedly. I’m only passing through Jamaica. I’m heading south to the Colonies, final destination Cartagena de Indias.

Meeting family? The guard arched his brows and then wiggled them. "Or escaping family?"

Francisco laughed quietly.

The latter, rather. I am a doctor. I intend to open a practice there.

They had arrived at a series of cells as they spoke, and the soldier paused in front of one of them, keys jangling. From inside, someone was indeed attempting to sing something, although they possessed little musical talent. Francisco tilted his head to listen, but he couldn’t even make out what language the song was in. French, perhaps? It was hard to tell, as a lot of it was warbling.

The soldier stilled, as if he’d only just understood what Francisco had said. He looked up, eyes narrowed.

A doctor? he repeated.

Francisco nodded. Physician, yes. Not a surgeon.

The soldier continued to stare at him. He appeared to be labouring under the stress of hasty calculations of some sort.

Do you need a doctor? Francisco asked, frowning. He scanned the man up and down quickly in search of wound or ailment, but he was steady enough on his feet and round in the middle in a way that suggested life was not a hardship. Gout would be a likely candidate, given his colouring and complexion. But he had not noticed a limp, or any difficulty in his movements.

Maybe, the soldier said at last. He finally found the right key and inserted it into the door, pulling it open with a loud metallic screech. Get on inside.

Francisco would have much better liked to be told at once if someone needed his attention, but there was nothing for it. He walked into the cell and glanced around.

There were three occupants already in it, strewn like the wood of a shipwreck on the floor. The aspiring singer was slumped against a wall in a way that could not be helping his air intake for the long notes. It really did sound like French, distorted by drink and ineptitude.

The room was not too different from the hallways and wards of the poor hospitals he’d trained in: bare, cold stone, damp to the touch. In Valladolid the weather had been bitterly cold in the winter; he was glad that at least here the stone only passed along vague warmth and scent of mold.

Francisco walked across to the only window, heavily barred and with no glass. The prison was built closer to the jungle than the shore, but the town was small; from this window he could still see the Caribbean Sea, stretching into the distance like a vast calm lake. The stars seemed brighter here than they had in Valladolid. He leaned against the high windowsill for a moment to glance up and study them, wondering if even here he would be able to see the constellations his mother had taught him. It seemed mad to him that even the stars were different here. How different would it be further south?

Different enough that he could live his own life peacefully, he hoped.

The last words his father had thrown at him as he left for Cartagena had lodged in his chest like an arrowhead.

¡No vuelvas de rodillas cuando fracases en esto también!

Well, chances of that were slim enough. If he failed at this whole endeavour, there would be no crawling back anywhere; he’d more likely die wherever he wound up, whether that was somewhere in the Caribbean or as far south as his intended goal in Cartagena de Indias.

Oh, his father would buy passage back for him should he write and grovel, he was sure of that. He was also sure he wouldn’t do it.

He turned around and crossed the room to one of his cellmates, sprawled on the ground on his back. He crouched down and felt around his throat, studying the rise and fall of his chest. He seemed quite drunk indeed, but not in medical distress. Carefully, he rearranged his limbs to prevent cramping in an awkward position, and then went to check on the other man. This one was awake and aggravated at the proximity; he snarled something in wine-soaked English. Francisco put up his hands and backed off, heading back towards the window. The singer he left alone; on the one hand because he seemed well, and on the other because he didn’t want to experience the music at full volume up close.

A loud metal whine announced the door being yanked open again. The singer trailed off in apparent confusion as a young lieutenant stepped inside.

Apologies, sir, I did not know you to be a physician, he said softly to Francisco. Would you be willing to give some assistance to an unwell prisoner?

Francisco blinked. Of course. I do not have equipment, but I will try my best. What seems to be his problem?

The lieutenant shrugged lightly, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what the problem was. Perhaps he thought the prisoner was playing up a minor pain for sympathy. Francisco had heard that jailers often believed this to be the case back in Valladolid. It was not, in his opinion, a valid reason to deny someone treatment, but his opinions had been hotly debated in Valladolid, and few if any had shared them.

He was escorted by the lieutenant and the soldier out of the dungeon and up