To Honor We Call You: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 9)

by Scott Cook

  He sighed, “Yes. And what is worse, my being Cuban only adds to the problem. The last thing I want is to be associated with drugs. There is already a stigma associated with Cubans and cocaine, and not only because of Scarface. A good movie, to be sure… but I don’t want and cannot afford to be seen as a modern day Tony Montana. Many of my business contacts would shy away if there was even a hint of something so heinous.”

  He seemed genuinely upset. I couldn’t blame him.

  “What made you suspect your water-borne businesses started dabbling?” Pops asked.

  “Small things at first,” Tavares said. “The captain of my cargo vessel recently bought an expensive car. All of the men in the crew have been seen spending a great deal of money, or so I hear. Two weeks ago, one of my shrimp trawlers deviated from her planned fishing route and stayed out three days longer than she should have. I became suspicious and left the Monroe County Sheriff’s department an anonymous tip. They went aboard and searched the vessel not long after she docked and found only a few ounces of marijuana on board in baggies. The captain and first mate quit immediately afterward.”

  “A lot of people smoke weed for recreation, Ray,” I said.

  “Si… that’s true, and I have no issue with that,” He said. “But trafficking using my ships is unacceptable!”

  “Anything come of the search and the discovery of the whacky tabaccky?” Pops asked.

  Ray smiled thinly, “No. No one would claim the weed and Sheriff Pelton didn’t really think it worth pressing. I agreed and was grateful. He said he’d keep his eyes open, of course, but…”

  “So you want me to try and ferret out the smugglers?” I asked.

  “I would be most grateful,” Tavares said. “It’s not for me to tell you how to proceed… but perhaps you might consider coming to work for me as a deck hand or fisherman. Get into the group and investigate from within.”

  I nodded, “Not a bad idea. Would it be possible to do so as a shrimper and crew aboard your cargo vessel?”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged,” Tavares said. “I understand you’re a skilled waterman, no?”

  I nodded.

  “Then that makes things easy,” Tavares said enthusiastically. “I don’t wish to interrupt your weekend, however. Could you come down to Miami perhaps Monday or Tuesday? I’ll be happy to fly you down from Orlando, provide you with lodgings and a vehicle on top of your normal rate. Which is what, may I ask?”

  “Five hundred a day and expenses,” I said. “That covers me and my assistant, if she chooses to work on the case with me.”

  “Ah, the lovely young lady in blue?” Tavares asked. “She is of Cuban descent as well I understand. That could be useful, considering. I don’t suppose you have the Spanish?”

  “I have the Spanish,” I said. “It’s helpful to be sure.”

  Tavares rubbed his hands together, “Excellente! Thank you, senor, thank you. With your help, I’m confident this will be resolved. Now, let us leave business aside and enjoy the evening and these fine cigars.”

  “Hear him! Hear him!” Pops cheered.

  4

  October 11th, 1797

  The storm finally expended the last of its fury during the night. Although a steep sea still ran, the morning sky shone brilliant and clear. The first rays of the sun illuminated two vessels, riding at their anchors in the relatively protected waters of an inland lagoon somewhere along the nearly virginal and untamed southeastern coast of Spanish Florida.

  Epée de Vengeance and Whitby Castle were just beginning to come to wakefulness as the rather sedentary crew of the privateer reluctantly began their day. A day that would see long hours of back breaking labor and was looked forward to by none.

  The hands and passengers of the brig were kept below hatches by a well-armed prize crew. Although in truth only twenty of the brig’s crew still lived, and of those, perhaps half thirds were laid up with battle injuries. Some of these would heal, yet there were several cases for which hope, while not entirely absent, was quite thin on the ground.

  The brig’s passengers, on the other hand, more or less led by Mr. Bentley, were unscathed, save for one, of course. These passengers were allowed to keep their cabins and as yet, their personal possessions had not been looted or plundered in any way. Catherine Cook didn’t believe that this would last. In her view, the only reason theft and even wanton abuse of the female contingent had not occurred was that there had just been too much work to do simply getting the damaged vessels through the storm and into some inland refuge that offered both sufficient protection as well as sufficient depth for the brig, which drew a dozen feet abaft. With anchors set and prisoners under lock and key, however, Kate worried that things would go from bad to far worse in short order. For her part, as de facto leader of her people, she had been informed by Meraux that she would be allowed the freedom of the brig for the purpose of seeing to the wounded this freedom was allowed only after she gave her parole that she would not make any attempt at insurrection while out of her cabin.

  She’d given her word, and had asked for his in return. His word that no one among the Whitby’s passengers or crew would be harmed or abused in any way. He’d done so with a smile. A smile whose falsity could not be overestimated in Kate’s opinion.

  For the moment, she was in the brig’s small sick berth, assisting the surgeon, Evan Miles, with his nursing and care of the wounded. The small cramped space below the focs’l was overcrowded and poorly ventilated. In addition to the brig’s nine wounded, there were twice as many of the privateer’s crew invalided as well. Miles had engendered some good will with the young French captain by declaring that he would care for any wounded man regardless of nationality.

  Miles was a lean man of perhaps forty. He was kind, quiet and competent, and yet he suffered from the same malady that oppressed so many of his breed. His breed being a ship’s surgeon and his malady being that of the overindulgence in strong drink. His narrow face was often florid before the noon sights were taken. On this morning, things were no different. Perhaps worse, in fact, as he’d begun rather early to brace himself up for the unpleasant tasks of the day.

  By the time the sun had risen, Miles had already performed three amputations. The left arm of a Whitby Castle sailor, the right leg of one of the privateers and the left foot of another of the Frenchman as well. All in all a fairly light butcher’s bill, considering. Of course, among the other men, there were minor to life-threatening splinter wounds, a wide array of sword, cutlass, pike and even knife wounds from battle. There were also half a dozen pistol or musket wounds that needed surgical attention to round things off. Most of these were being dealt with in order of severity, the worst cases having been seen to during the night, naturally. The splinters had been drawn, several but not all bullets extracted, the wounds stitched and the men given a double tot of rum for the pain. For those whose suffering exceeded what little comfort rum could provide, a healthy dose of the alcoholic tincture of Laudanum had been administered.

  “How does he come along, doctor?” Kate asked as she and Miles stood over Andrew Danvers.

  Danvers had been struck down with a pike thrust that had gone clear through his thigh. He had been struck by a musket ball in the shoulder as well, yet this had proven to be a mere grazing wound and of little consequence. Kate had been surprised at how vehemently he had fought beside her. Especially after his resistance earlier to her taking command of the gun crews.

  “He’ll do,” Miles said in his heavy West Country dialect. “The thrust was clean, breaking no major vessels and missing the femur, thank heaven. Barring any infection, he should mend rather well. A day or two in this cot and he might even be released for light duties.”

  Danvers’ eyes fluttered open as their voices roused him from a fitful sleep. He blinked in the gloom of the berth and then focused on Kate’s face, “you’re all right, Miss?”

  “Yes, thanks to you, Danvers,” She said gently, patting his shoulder.

  “And
I thank ye, as well,” he said with a smile. “its right kind in ye’ to look after us so, Miss.”

  “The least I can do,” Kate said. “Get some rest now.”

  “Aye…” he said softly and closed his eyes again. Danvers had been among those who’d received the mercy of Laudanum.

  Near the end of the berth lay captain Woodbine. His sleep was deep and partially induced by a double dose of Laudanum. He’d received no less than six sword wounds and a pistol ball had burrowed into his belly. Miles had yet to operate on this most dangerous wound.

  “How is he?” Kate asked.

  Miles sighed, wishing at that moment for a hip flask of brandy, “I’m not hopeful, Ms. Cook. That belly wound…”

  “Can the ball not be extracted?” She asked.

  “It can…” Miles replied in a less confident tone than Kate would have liked. “But once a belly is pierced… the likelihood of recovery without suppuration is low. From the entry wound, I believe the ball has most likely damaged several organs and may even have punctured his stomach…”

  “So what are you saying?” Kate asked. “That you won’t even make an attempt?”

  Miles bristled at the implied reproach evident in her tone, “Young lady… the very act of opening his gut may very well kill him immediately.”

  She rounded on him, her stature placing her half a head taller and glared at the doctor, “So you’re just giving up, is that it?”

  “Catherine…” A stertorous voice whispered to her from the cot. Kate saw that Woodbine’s eyes were open and they peered up at them. His eyes seemed glassy and unfocused, but certainly aware.

  “Captain,” she said gently, leaning in close. “How are you feeling?”

  Woodbine managed a small, wry smile, “As if I’d been shot and stabbed repeatedly.”

  Kate glared at Miles, “Our doctor says he isn’t fit to operate.”

  “That’s not so!” Miles retorted angrily, “and I take strong objection to your choice of words, Miss Cook!”

  “He’s right, Kate,” Woodbine said gently. “There’s nothing he can do for me. Do not fly out at him. Blame those damned Frogs for this… Focus your anger where it truly belongs.”

  Woodbine’s face twisted into a grimace of agony and he began to cough. Blood droplets spattered his chin. Miles quickly leaned in and dabbed at them with a handkerchief.

  “You… you were prodigious brave,” Woodbine said. “I thank you for all that you did for my ship and my men. Most uncommon conduct, I declare… capital… capital… but however, there are two things more that I must ask of you, young lady…”

  “Yes?” Kate pressed, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I’ve never seen a young woman so fierce and so powerful,” Woodbine said. “You have the head, the heart and the fortitude to lead men. And this you must do now. You must be the captain, Katie Cook. You must free my ship… your ship… and your men from these French sodomites, do you understand me?”

  “But…” Kate dithered, suddenly overwhelmed by his gravity and by the implications of what he was asking.

  It was one thing to be defiant in the face of masculine pride and prejudices against women. It was one thing to rise up and fight like a man. To her mind, these things were easy enough. Second nature, spur of the moment. Yet now she was faced with the real, long term prospect of truly filling a man’s role, and that was an entirely different matter altogether. It was simultaneously exhilarating and daunting. Suddenly the oft overused bit of wisdom about taking care for what one wished came to her mind.

  “Do not doubt yourself,” Woodbine insisted. “I know you can do this. Be the great Cook’s granddaughter. Save my men and give that Gaelic son of a bitch what he deserves! And one more thing, Kate… don’t blame Miles for this. You’ll need him and he needs you. Make your peace, now… promise me…”

  Kate’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears and it made her angry. Angry at this feminine display and angry that it was in front of Woodbine who was displaying such bottom in the face of his own imminent dissolution.

  “I promise,” She finally managed, squaring her shoulders and squeezing the captain’s hand.

  Woodbine smiled, then went into a racking spasm of coughs. He drew in several hitching breaths, his body going stiff and then he relaxed, the last of his life’s breath passing quietly through his lips before he was still.

  “Poor fellow,” Miles said sadly.

  “He was a good man,” Kate said, dashing the tears from her eyes again. “Doctor, I…”

  “Think nothing of it, young lady,” Miles said.

  “No… the Captain was right,” Kate pressed on. “I must beg your pardon for my earlier remarks… who am I to tell you anything about medicine. Please excuse me.”

  “With all my heart,” he said kindly. “In truth you’ve been a great comfort to me these last hours… undermanned and as ill-equipped as we are. We could both use a good rest.”

  Kate took in a steadying breath, “Little or none of that for the wicked, eh, Doctor? Well I’m going to look in on… our… passengers. Will you see to things here? Is there anything I can get for you? Surely I’m going to have to speak with Meraux again soon.”

  “Nothing,” Miles said. “All that can be done is being done.”

  “If you please, mum!” A small voice said from behind Kate. Young Willis was there, plucking at her coat tail. “Please, mum… the French captain’s compliments and he desires you’ll attend him in the great cabin.”

  “Does he?” Kate replied shortly, feeling a sudden surge of irritation. “Does he indeed? Well, lad, you can tell him from me…”

  She looked down into the boy’s wide and frightened eyes. Either Meraux had threatened to have Willis beaten or the boy simply feared he would be in any case.

  Kate sighed wearily, “Very well… I’ll tell him myself. Thank you, Willis. Stay here and assist the doctor, will you now? I’m sure he can make use of a good pair of hands.”

  Kate strode to the fore hatchway and ascended the ladder from the orlop to the accommodation deck. As a flushed decked brig, the Whitby Castle kept its guest cabins and officer’s cabins on the same level as the great cabin located in the stern. She stalked past the guest cabins and through a common mess room where the officers and guests ate and socialized. Past this was another short corridor with several cabins, little more than cupboards really, for the officers.

  Standing at the door leading into the great cabin was a sentry with a musket. The lean Frenchman leered at her, causing Kate’s gorge to rise just a little. She considered wiping the look from the pig’s face but instead she simply stopped and stared him down for a moment.

  Slowly, the sneer evaporated as the Frog grew uncomfortable under the cold glare the towering Amazon leveled upon him. Although the girl wore what looked like an unadorned English Naval uniform, it conformed to a very pleasing body. It was also a body that was capable of tremendous feats of strength, as the sentry had witnessed for himself the previous evening.

  “Announce me, monsieur,” Kate growled in French.

  The man hid his mild unease by chuckling, “why don’t you try and make—“

  He never finished his thought. Her right boot shot up and plowed into his vitals, bending him double and forcing all the air from his lungs in the process. Even as the fool dropped to his knees, trying in vain to draw a breath, Kate stepped forward and rapped her knuckles three times on the door.

  “Entrer,” A calm voice said from within.

  Kate stepped over the sentry and entered the cabin. The space, although luxurious from the standpoint of the rest of the ship was still fairly small. A curtained off sleeping space sat to her left, a small chartroom alcove was to her right and the open cabin that acted as office, dining space and drawing room for the captain occupied the rear. Its wall of angled sash windows providing a spectacular view of the placid harbor waters and the untamed barrier island beyond.

  Meraux sat behind Woodbine’s small desk, reviewin
g the ship’s documents. The brig’s purser, a lean and slightly bent old man called Wiggins stood by, appearing pinched and openly glowering with undisguised disapproval.

  “Ah, mademoiselle Cook!” The Frog captain said pleasantly, as if they were gathering for tea. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable. Wiggins, what does Captain Woodbine have on hand that I might offer the young lady?”

  Wiggins was somewhere in his early sixties. His was an angular and narrow face. A countenance upon which joviality would not sit well. Not that it had many opportunities to do so. In addition, he’d long ago lost his teeth. He rarely used his false ones, except for eating, and this allowed his gums to come together and draw his pointed nose and pointed chin into close proximity, thus further enhancing an already severe and shrewish appearance. He often munched his gums and looked cross and when he spoke, it was in a high and nasally tone that never failed to sound ill-used.

  “Which your men have gotten into our spirit room already, ain’t they?” Wiggins mumped in open reproach. “I ain’t privy to the captain’s personal stores… not being the cabin steward… and not either havin’ the opportunity to inquire of him on the subject. Because why? Because your cutthroats saw fit to knock poor Thompson on the head, that’s why. So there ain’t no more cabin servant, is there?”

  He munched, glared and generally exuded disapprobation.

  Meraux looked at Kate almost in commiseration, as if she might empathize with his suffering under such a man. In spite of his position, Meraux couldn’t quite find it in himself to lash out at old Wiggins. Perhaps the purser reminded the Frenchman of a particularly strict school master. It was certainly an easy impression to come by, what with Wiggins’ somber black trousers and coat, his tight black stock and his cold, almost reptilian gray eyes. She nearly laughed but succeeded in maintaining a stoic visage.

  “Oh, never mind then!” Meraux said in exasperation. “It’s a bit early for wine. Let us talk in private, Mr. Wiggins.”

  “Very good,” Wiggins intoned dryly. “I’ll just step down and inspect the hold, then. Someone responsible must look after things… what little might remain, in course… see to it none of your pirates have broken into the spirit room… again. Don’t knows why you young’ns can’t keep away from drink day and night… Swillin’ rum at every chance… drunk as Lords every mornin’… what it’ll come to in the end I don’t know, I’m sure… Beastly, no account pack of Goddamned…”