Chapter Eight

August 8, 1580

For the last two days, we have been doing nothing but walking. The sun had long burned our skin, supplies were low, and the crew was moments away from completely losing it. Just as it seemed all hope was lost, we spotted the first sign of civilization.

Cutler spotted a well in the distance. “It’s a well, there must be a village nearby!” Cutler yelled, his voice rough, and horse from dehydration. He runs over, and the other men quickly follow. “Water!” Davy yells, as he pulls up the pale from the bottom of the well. He grabs the bucket, and drinks out of it. Cutler grabs it away, and does the same. The men pass the bucket around. When it got to me I did the same. Water never felt so refreshing.

After we had all drank enough water to fill our bodies ten times over, we continued walking. About half a mile down the road, we approached the village.

The villagers spotted us, and could immediately tell that we needed help; we had lost half our body weight, our clothes ripped, and tattered, our hands caked with dirt, and scars. They flocked to us like birds, and nursed us back to health.