A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

Borie turned his attention back to Carter. “Admiral, are you sure this ship—Canton was it?—can do the job?”

  “No, I’m not sure, Mr. Secretary. Several larger ships would be much better, but she is it—all that is available. Of course, she is new and in good shape, and Commander Terrington here is an experienced man.”

  Borie did not seem convinced to Terrington, who was now starting to get angry at the conversation referring to him as if he weren’t there, and that his ship was incapable of handling whatever they had in mind. He was about to speak when Borie addressed him directly.

  “All right, Terrington. Here is the situation. One or several of your former brother navy officers are down in the Caribbean playing pirate or something and stirring up the people down there. Those people are causing problems for the U.S. and saying we can’t handle our own renegades in our own backyard. So you are going to go down there and end this problem one way or another, without antagonizing our Latin American neighbors any more than they are already.”

  Carter held up a hand. “Are you familiar with the situation the secretary is speaking about, Commander Terrington?”

  Terrington had read something during the last few months about the revolutions in Central America but had thought nothing of it. They were always doing that down there. But he also remembered hearing the talk among other officers that some of the volunteer naval officers had gone mercenary down there following the war, after being dismissed from the navy. Actually, those men were all over the world, doing what they had been paid to do for four years for the federal government—fighting enemies. Had some really gone even further and become pirates? Complete outlaws? To Terrington’s orderly mind it seemed a bit too much. There must be some misunderstanding down there among the Spanish-speaking countries. No American would do such a thing. Not in this day and age.

  “Vaguely aware from the newspapers, sir.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll get some more detailed information sent to your ship before you depart, which will be tomorrow with the Potomac ebb, by the way.”

  The next day! Terrington’s mind started reeling with the enormity of that casual statement, but he said, “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Borie added, “And another thing. You’ll have a passenger on the trip down to that area. A Venezuelan diplomat that the secretary of state offered a ride on your boat. Evidently, his father was an important man down there and was killed by the pirates, or whatever they are. My staff aide will notify the State Department people to tell this diplomat to go to your boat tomorrow.”

  Terrington felt weak in the knees—this wasn’t getting any better—but managed to reply, “Yes, sir.”

  Carter shook his head slightly, then stood. “Mr. Secretary, I know you have a very pressing matter to attend to soon. Is there anything else for the commander, sir?”

  Borie thought of those renegades of his own that he would have to bring under control at the party meeting. “Yes, Admiral, you’re quite right. I do have to be off to the Willard and no, I don’t have anything else at this time. You and Terrington will have this matter under control, then?”

  “Well, Mr. Secretary, it won’t be me that will take care of it. It’ll be the man at the scene.” Carter smiled and gestured to Terrington. “But I have every confidence in Commander Terrington.”

  8

  Faint of Heart

  Cadena watched intently as they approached the remote island of Old Providence, haunt of the early English buccaneers, three miles distant. If any vessel larger than their own was sighted, they would turn and run. Those were El Jefe’s orders, though many aboard did not understand. Had they not been victorious over all they had come upon? But Cadena understood. El Jefe was a veteran of the great war to the north and knew much about the life of a raider, for he had been one of those in the yanqui navy who had searched for them.

  Cadena did not know much about the man he called Jefe, not even his real name, but he did know that the chief had experience in this way of life and was most certainly not a man to suffer fools. One look into those gray gringo eyes was a warning of that.

  A sailor coughed behind him, the subtle signal that Jefe had come on deck. He wasted no time in pleasantries upon his entrance. It was hot and he did not like to stand in the sun any longer than necessary.

  “Cadena, nothing in sight except Old Providence?”

  “Correct, Jefe. No sighting of the schooner or any other vessel.”

  “Very well. Remain on the west side of the island, south of the bay, one mile off shore. Tell me when any ship is sighted.”

  “Sí, Señor. Remain one mile off the island, south of the bay on the west side, and tell you when any ship is sighted. It will be done as you wish, Jefe.”

  Cadena knew the second he uttered that word it was a mistake. The gray eyes bored into him. “I did not wish it to happen, Cadena—I commanded that it happen. I do not wish for anything. Only children and idiots wish for things.”

  Cadena knew there was only one response when El Jefe got this way. “I meant no offense, Jefe. It will be done as you commanded.”

  He breathed a silent gasp of relief as the giant gringo walked away. El Jefe always carried two pistols and a stiletto, and there was good reason why he was also known as el gringo loco. Cadena had seen him shoot a man for a perceived insubordination six months earlier, when they had started this voyage. The man had merely said good morning cheerfully, but Jefe thought he was mocking him and the man was shot without warning in the stomach. Others were forbidden to help the seaman, who stayed where he dropped, writhing while clutching his abdomen. It took him two hours to bleed out and die, moaning and crying right there on deck, while Jefe had calmly eaten his breakfast ten meters away at the stern.

  ***

  The schooner came into sight three days later and the two vessels were soon drifting close by each other. The schooner’s captain, who only went by Rosas, had had an agreement for several months with the gringo loco. The schooner would take items from him to Cartagena and sell them, then meet the raider at certain islands on certain dates to give the money earned and get more items for sale. The schooner captain got a percentage of the profits, but Rosas wished it were more, for this norteamericano scared him.

  And now, because of the notoriety of his actions, even the governments of the area were starting to talk about searching for the gringo pirate. In the tavernas of the ports it was common talk among the seamen. Everyone had heard about the pirate without a heart. It was said that he had taken forty, even fifty, ships since October. That he had killed hundreds of men, women and children. Only a few survivors had been found, people who had hidden from the pirates by swimming away to a nearby shore, and they told horrific tales.

  Many ships were now carrying more weapons, captains vowing to die by fighting rather than by torture. The earlier bragging in barrooms by some of the men who sailed with the pirate had stopped. No one was bragging now. The stories had become too gruesome. In February, one of the braggarts had had his throat slit in Porto Belo and was found the next sunrise hanging from a lamppost with a sign jammed down into the gash—“One of El Gringo Loco’s animals.”

  Rosas wanted to be done with this business. Stealing was one thing, but the grisly murders were too much, even for the Caribbean. Routine smuggling was safer. The guardia costas patrolling the coasts could be paid not to work so hard—no one got hurt, everyone made money. This would be his last rendezvous with the gringo, Rosas decided.

  Besides, sailing all over creation, to God-forsaken places like Old Providence Island off Nicaragua, took too much time and made him an easier target for a navy ship. No. This is the last time and I will tell him after I give him his money, Rosas told himself. Gently, of course, but I will tell him.

  ***

  The cabin was dark. Jefe liked it that way, for he believed it was cooler. The little light that came in through the
stern ports and the overhead scuttle also let in a little air, but did nothing to diminish the ominous feeling inside the cabin. Cadena sat on the bench in the corner and quietly watched the schooner captain enter. Rosas was acting odd today. Cadena could see that Jefe had observed that too.

  The norteamericano sat bare-chested at the small table, his reddened arms, face and neck contrasting with the brightness of his white skin usually covered by clothing. He spoke to the visitor with no warmth. “Come here, Rosas. How much do you have?”

  Rosas was used to the gringo’s lack of even the basic courtesies used by everyone in Latin America and dropped a burlap bag heavily down on the table. “A good amount this time, señor. One thousand four hundred and fifty silver Mexican dollars, one thousand one hundred gold Granadan dollars, and two thousand American in paper. Our joint efforts were very productive.”

  The reddened arms reached across a thin shaft of sunlight for the bag and spilled the contents onto the table, spreading the money around and counting as he replied. “What joint efforts? You just sell the stuff I give you to those greedy little bastards in Cartagena, and you take a quarter of the profits. I take most of the risk out here. They all are looking for me, not you.”

  “It was good they do not know about me, señor, otherwise we could not make so much money. But now, now I wonder if they are becoming suspicious of me. I do not know, but think it would be best to alter our plans. To keep the authorities from discerning our methods.”

  The American had already counted out the silver and was working on the gold as he said, “How do you want to change the plans?”

  Rosas had gone over this presentation many times in his head as he had sailed west from Cartagena the four hundred miles to Old Providence Island. It was the critical moment. The gringo must not be aroused, only convinced the change in plan would help him make more money. And in the meantime, Rosas could hope some warship, or one of El Gringo Loco’s own men, would kill him.

  “By changing our dates and locations of rendezvous, señor. Make them less frequent for the next four months or so. Instead of every three weeks, make them every two months. And make them nearer the Moskito coast, instead of out here in the middle of the Caribbean.”

  Cadena saw a smile spread on Jefe’s face. It was danger sign.

  “Why Rosas, is it getting too . . . hot . . . for you, mi buen amigo? I would think you would be used to heat, since you are a piece of stinking vermin scum that’s lived in this cesspool of the world your whole life. I would think you’d like the heat. Do you agree, Cadena?”

  Cadena leaned forward. It was time to show support to El Jefe. “Yes, of course, Jefe. Rosas is used to being on the wrong side of the law.” Cadena could see the man swallow hard. “Rosas, why the Moskito coast? The rich targets for us are all out here in the shipping lanes. We have taken all the good targets inshore along the coast. There is also freedom of movement for us out here.”

  Rosas had anticipated this question, if not the hostility in his brother Hispanic, but before he could answer, the gringo growled out sinisterly, “Because the bastard wants us boxed into that coast, with nowhere to run, Cadena. That’s why. He knows that if we are holed up there, we can’t go west or south. He also knows that there aren’t as many steamers for us to get coal from there. It would make it so much easier for the ‘authorities,’ as he so grandly calls those pompous frilly asses, to find us and kill us. And that, Cadena, would make this piece of dung’s life so much easier too. Hell, he’d probably even get a reward.”

  Rosas stood and attempted to cover his terror with outward rage, knowing that he would be dead in seconds if he did not convince this man that he was totally committed to their enterprise.

  “Señor! You have the cojones to call me, Rosas, a turncoat! The man who delivers your money to you for the last six months in spite of the many men looking to kill us both. You think I have not been in great danger all of the time because of our business efforts? Facing danger in the center of the searching forces in Cartagena! No, you are too intelligent for that—you know the danger I have been in. You know they would kill me in an instant if they found out about me. This is a business decision, not anything else. You are smart enough to absolutely know that.”

  Rosas stood there, waiting. It was silent except for the sound of wood grating on wood, as the gringo slid his chair back into the shadows. Cadena could hear Rosas breathing hard, could imagine the man’s blood pounding inside his ears. He knew there was nothing more Rosas could say or do now.

  A laugh, cynical and short, came from the shadows. Rosas no longer appeared enraged. His face was sweating profusely. He looked like he was about to cry as the gringo spoke.

  “You are entirely correct, Rosas. I do not think you have made contact with the government. I do not think you have become a turncoat. And I do not think you have cheated me out of the money due me. You are far too smart to have done that in the past, for you know that I would find and kill you if you did.”

  Rosas visibly relaxed, his shoulders lowering, his chest deflating. He smiled as he said, “Gracias, señor. I knew you would understand. Business is business. And we can continue our business.”

  The gringo moved the chair forward into the light again, gray eyes examining the man standing by the table with curiosity. “Yes, Rosas. You are right, business is business. But no, you are also wrong. We cannot continue our business. Our business is done, my friend. For while I know you have not done me wrong in the past, I am no longer certain of your behavior in the future. You see, I think you have a heart problem. I think it is growing faint.”

  Rosas did not understand the reference to the old saying in English, but he comprehended the meaning of the sounds he heard. He held up his hands. “No, señor. Por favor, no . . .”

  The gringo shook his head. “No to you, amigo. You are now out of business.”

  The noise was deafening in the confines of the cabin—the two shots fired so close together that they sounded as one—as Rosas’s head snapped back when the .45 caliber Navy Colt rounds hit his face and took out the back of his head, chunks of skull ricocheting off the far bulkhead. He was dead even before he fell sprawled on the deck.

  Because of the concussion in the small space, Cadena could barely hear his leader say, “Get someone in here to clean this mess up. Before it starts to stink.”

  “Yes, sir. Jefe.”

  “And explain to Rosas’s crew that they have a new business leader. Me.”

  “Of course, Jefe.”

  The gringo stood and pulled on a faded blue shirt, started to leave, then stopped. “Also, tell Romero that he will be the new skipper of the schooner. I want him to take her to the San Blas Islands at Panama. Cayos Holandes. Don’t take any ships until we get there. I want that schooner to stay clean. He leaves immediately. We will meet him there in two weeks.

  “I think we need to expand our business horizons, Cadena. Our friend Rosas gave me a good idea just before we parted company. His schooner will come in handy.”

  “As you command, Jefe.”

  “Oh, and Cadena, I’ll be on deck under the awning now that the sun is low. Send up some fruit and rum for dinner. All this work has made me hungry.”

  9

  Vivid Memories

  The Powhatan had only minor repairs for the yard at Pensacola. The yard’s boiler shop was able to rerivet the plates that had warped, seal the main expansion tank, and replace two of her condenser tubes. The boat shed furnished a brand new gig and recaulked her second cutter, while the rope-walk took in the old main hawser and gave the famous ship a newly spliced twelve-hundred-foot-long towing hawser. Other equipment requests were granted and she was ready for sea even before scheduled.

  Commodore Redthorn was pleased but did not show it, acting in front of the squadron commander and the ship captain as if his backwater yard did this sort of thing every day. Th
e evening before Powhatan departed, a dinner was held aboard for the yard’s officers. Wake attended and got to increase his familiarity with the ship’s officers he had already met. They wished him good fortune in his new assignment, the junior ones looking envious, and told him they looked forward to when he would join the squadron in his new ship.

  The captain of the Powhatan overheard some of that conversation among the junior officers, came up to Wake and quietly said, “Lieutenant Wake, you are going to the new gunboat, the Canton, if I understand rightly?”

  The captain’s manner made Wake feel uneasy as he replied that he was joining the new ship as the executive officer.

  “Hhmm . . . well, here’s some information that may be of interest to you. I just got a telegram from headquarters in Washington with our orders. Included was the individual vessel disposition report for the squadron. Canton is not joining the squadron rendezvous in May at Norfolk. She is on immediate detachment and left Washington Navy Yard a few days ago, heading southbound. It didn’t say what the detached assignment was about. I presumed something in the West Indies.”

  Wake was confused. The Home Squadron met each year in May for squadron evolutions and gunnery training. Canton, as a new ship, would most certainly be wanted there. But if she had left Washington a few days ago and was headed south, she could be in Key West any day now.

  Wake thanked the captain for the information and pondered its meaning for the rest of the evening. The next day he would go on leave until departing to join his new ship in Key West in a little over a week. What was going on, he wondered.

  ****

  Two years had gone by since Wake had last been in Key West. Signs of the great fire of 1866 could still be seen around the town, but there was also evidence of new growth, mainly from fishing. With the railroads spanning the nation in the previous few years, providing cheap and fast transport westward, Key West’s crucial location on the New York to New Orleans or Galveston shipping lanes was losing its importance. But the little island was still a port of some significance for ships coming in and out of the Caribbean, particularly from Cuba. And it still had the old naval wharf and depot, though very much diminished since the war and in the charge of an old bosun and a civilian caretaker.