The Moskito coast was in a continual state of insurrection from the governments in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. The British alternately supported and abandoned claims of independence by the English-speaking settlers and Indian people of the coast, depending on their impressions of the likelihood of a trans-isthmus canal through that area. Currently, he explained, it looked like the canal might be in the Panama province of Colombia, and be constructed by the French.
Monteblanco laughed and said that whole area made Venezuela look tranquil in comparison, but Wake was still bewildered a bit by it all. He thanked the young diplomat for the instruction in the area’s political situation and said he hoped to solve the problem without antagonizing the countries there.
Monteblanco held up a finger for emphasis and said, “That is the point I am trying to make here, Lieutenant Wake. El Gringo Loco is now hated by everyone. He started out working for the revolutionaries on the Moskito coast, but now is on his own. They all want him dead. Decisive action by the U.S. Navy now will gain the respect and amity of all the legitimate parties in the area. Kill him, Lieutenant Wake.”
Wake thought that this was probably the time to bring up a painful subject. “You haven’t told me about your parents, Don Pablo. I was sorry to learn of their death. Do you have any information regarding that . . . horrible event . . . that would assist me? I regret having to ask, but I need as much information as you can give.”
Monteblanco lowered his head. “Yes, but it is only a little bit of information. Some of my mother’s jewelry, a necklace with a large emerald, was sold in Cartagena. Our Venezuelan consul in the city heard of it and arranged to obtain it. He sent it to my brother the priest in Caracas. The man who sold it in Cartagena goes by the name Rosas and has a trading schooner he sails in the area. He has disappeared, according to a letter I received just before I left Washington.”
“Any other jewelry recovered, Don Pablo? Do you have a list of her jewelry?”
Monteblanco looked intensely at Wake, “Nothing else was recovered, and yes, I do have a list. Do you want to make a copy of it?”
“Yes, sir. It might lead us to someone who knows where this pirate is located.”
Monteblanco stared at Wake, his eyes beginning to fill. “You are the first norteamericano that has asked, señor. I do believe that you truly care. I tried to tell Captain Terrington all of these things I’ve explained to you this morning, but he said it would make no difference. That I should go home and live life. I found his attitude offensive, Lieutenant.”
Wake didn’t know what to say. Terrington’s attitude didn’t surprise him. “Don Pablo, I can only say this. I will do my best to get justice for you and the many other victims. That this pirate is apparently a former American is a stain upon my country’s honor. That he has hurt your decent and honorable family is a wound on my heart. I will do my best, sir. I can promise no more.”
“And I can ask for no more, señor. I am grateful to you for your efforts. I have no doubt at all that they will be successful, and I will ask my brother to have a special mass to ask for God’s protection for you and your men in this quest.”
Monteblanco turned away suddenly and descended the hatchway to his cabin below, leaving Wake gazing out at the distant horizon to the south, toward his future rendezvous with an American renegade that had turned into an animal. Wake wondered how he was going to fulfill the promise just made to a victim of that animal.
Especially, he realized, with a man like Captain Parker Terrington in command.
13
The Old Fashioned Way
May 1869
The voyage from Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas to Punta Maisi at the eastern end of Cuba was a long hard slog to windward against the trades. Canton smashed into the waves at seven or eight knots on the good days; on the others she was reduced to three or four knots. They still had to round Cuba, double the southwestern cape of Haiti, and steam into the trades along the southern coast of Hispaniola Island before they could ease off and head south toward Venezuela, hopefully with the wind far enough aft on their port beam that they could set some sail to assist the engine and make some better speed.
Chief Engineer Winter had expressed concern to Wake about the fuel consumption so far. They had filled the bunkers at Jefferson, but were using it very quickly. He didn’t think they could make Venezuela before exhausting their supply of coal at this rate. Wake knew the U.S. Navy had a coal contract at Santo Domingo, on the southern coast of Hispaniola, so decided it would be better to get some more there before heading south. But that meant advising the captain.
Captain Terrington had been surprisingly pleasant for the first few days outbound from the Tortugas, complimenting Wake on his resourcefulness in obtaining supplies and fuel and handling the social obligations of the ship. The man never mentioned the episodes in his cabin or his drinking. Wake did not see another hint of alcoholism or animosity in Terrington’s behavior and was beginning to doubt his own sanity of recollection. Was this the same man? What had brought about the change? Or was it Wake who had overreacted to a sailor’s temporarily excessive indulgence in rum?
Then, one morning at sunrise off the northeast coast of Cuba by Puerto Padre, Terrington had stormed up on deck and without warning accused Wake, in front of the change of watch, of stealing his navigation instruments.
“Those were given to me by Admiral Goldsborough himself, and you damn well better have them on my chart table in five minutes, Wake. And next time you’re in port buy your own set.” Then he marched back below, with a stunned Wake standing there.
Wake sent for the captain’s steward immediately.
“Morely, have you seen the captain’s navigating instruments, the parallels and dividers and such?”
Morely looked amused. “Yes, sir. They’re where the captain told me to put them, in their special box in the sea trunk in the hold. Said he would use the ship’s and didn’t want to lose them. I think he got them from an admiral.”
“When was that?”
“At Tortugas, when we was at that Fort Jefferson place coaling, sir.”
“I see. Well, go below into the hold and fetch them for the captain. He needs them.”
Morely’s amused face turned to fear. “Sir, I’ll have to ask him for the keys to the trunk.”
“All right, Morely, I’ll go with you to the captain’s cabin while you explain to him.”
The relief on Morely’s face was apparent, but what worried Wake was the fact that the captain evidently had not done any position checks on his own for the last week, something that most captains did.
When Morely explained to Terrington in front of Wake what had happened, it was as if the captain were a different person than the one who had been up on the deck thirty minutes earlier. “Yes, well, quite all right then, Morely. Here are the keys. Go and bring those to me. I do like to use them for sentimental sake. Admiral Goldsborough gave them to me when he commanded the Med Squadron on Farragut’s triumphal tour of Europe, you know.”
Then Terrington shifted his gaze to Wake. “You see, Mr. Wake, I do know when things are missing from my cabin. Good thing this was not of mal intent, and merely a misplacement.”
Wake’s eyes met his captain’s. “Yes, sir.”
“Anything else, Lieutenant?”
Wake remembered the coal problem. “Yes, sir. Mr. Winter says the coal is getting low faster than expected due to our headwinds, so I suggest we put into Santo Domingo to top off before heading south across the Caribbean. We’ll also get a better angle on the wind from there.”
“Santo Domingo? Who do they belong to these days?”
“Themselves, sir. The Spanish left the second time in sixty-five. They’ve been independent since then.”
“So it’s a gaggle of criminals too, just like every other tin pot country down here.” Terrington paused, a sneer
forming on his face. “No, Wake. I don’t feel like dealing with any peasants masquerading as civilized people. We won’t go to this Santo Domingo. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. We’ll sail down to Venezuela and drop off the fancy pants man. Then we’ll find this renegade and shoot him and return to the Home Squadron. And we’ll save money, which the Navy Department looks very kindly upon. Admiral Porter disapproves of using engines exclusively, says a sailor should sail. I, of course, agree with that belief, so yes, we’ll sail her down. You know how to do that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Wake answered, trying to keep calm. “That will leave us with very low coal supplies for our operations in Central America, but maybe we can get some at Cartagena.”
“Just follow your orders, Wake. You’re not the captain of this ship.”
Wake’s hand balled into a fist. He stood silently, glaring into Terrington’s eyes. The captain sighed and sat in his chair, looking out the stern ports.
“I gave you an order, Wake. But I haven’t heard you acknowledge it.”
“Aye, aye . . .” Wake paused until Terrington turned around to face him—“ . . . sir.”
“Very good, Wake. I think I might make a good executive officer out of you yet.”
14
The Empires’ Men
HMS Plover had been stationed in the West Indies flotilla of the North American Station for a year now, but ironically had never been to most of the West Indies, only to Jamaica. Other than port calls at New Orleans and Mobile, she had spent all of her time along the coasts of Mexico, British Honduras, Guatemala, and Honduras.
But her captain, Commander Rodney Russell, had just been ordered to Kingston for repair and refit, and both he and his men were looking forward to some different scenery and some people who spoke English for a change. His original visions of spending time with beautiful, and desperately lonely, plantation daughters in Barbados, Antigua, or Jamaica were dashed early on when the ship first checked in with his commander, Commodore Forester. The commodore explained that there were already ships patrolling the Leewards and the Windwards, and the relatively new and shallow-drafted Plover was needed in a more far flung part of the empire which hadn’t seen the “red duster” ensign in a while.
So, for the last ten months Plover and her crew had steamed from Vera Cruz to Belize to sometimes Bluefields in Nicaragua, keeping the traders calm and occasionally solving local disputes. Lately, they had spent most of their time keeping things tranquil with the Guatemalans, who were upset with the encroachment near the Río Dulce by the Hondurans, who were still upset that the British acted as if Roatan Island was theirs.
Russell had met some of the former Confederates who had settled in British Honduras after the American war and thought that they might be of assistance to the colony because of their industriousness. Many had returned to their previous homes in the South, but those that remained were building large sugar cane operations. Russell had also heard about a crazed Yankee mercenary, the rumors said a former naval officer, robbing and killing on the reef-strewn Moskito coast of Nicaragua. He thought the rumors were probably the product of Latin excitement, but still, he was glad he had too much to do where he was and no orders to investigate the Yankee, for if true, the man sounded mad.
And now, finally, they were being allowed to go to a semi-civilized place. One more day and they would be there. Eight more months and Russell would be heading back home aboard a packet to Teignmouth, Devonshire, his tour of duty completed. Then he would be almost as far away from the miasmic jungles of Central America as one could get. He counted the days.
***
The imperial Spanish navy’s gunboat Sirena was only seven years old, but hard service on the Cuban and Santo Dominican coasts made her look twenty. The Caribbean sun and sea aged ships before their time, Captain Fernando Toledo reflected with a sigh as he gave the helmsman the course for the main channel leading out of Santiago de Cuba. Built in Spain in 1862, Sirena was a good ship, once pretty, but the West Indies Squadron did not have the proper funding for her yard work, so Toledo did the best he could with what he had, and she suffered for it.
Thank God they had ended that ridiculous venture in Santo Domingo. Four years of warfare to restore Spanish rule over the islanders, whom Madrid foolishly expected to flock back to the imperial colors after decades of independence, had ended with a stalemate and eventual Spanish withdrawal. Toledo had done his part in the operations, but saw from the start that it was based on false expectations.
Of course, part of that was due to the idiots who had surrounded the despotic queen, Isabella II, back at home. The mutiny of naval ships at Cadiz the previous year had hastened the downfall of Isabella, which Toledo thought was good, but he was embarrassed that Spanish sailors had mutinied. He had heard that there was still unrest back home, but felt certain it would not last long and was probably exaggerated by the newspapers he had seen. He hoped his country would be returned to normalcy by the time he returned there the year after next, after a very long ten-year colonial duty assignment.
And now problems had started here in Cuba, Spain’s “Most Faithful Isle.” On the previous October 10th, revolutionaries issued El Grito de Yara, a call for independence from the mother country. Toledo was sure the yanquis were behind it, for they had coveted Cuba for years and many of the Cuban revolutionaries were supported by friends in the United States. The insurrection was spreading across the island with a rapidity that concerned Toledo, particularly since almost all of his enlisted men were Cuban. The sentiment on the island was what alarmed him the most—the Cuban people were not rising up to defend the empire against the heretics, they were either openly against the Spanish or sullenly neutral.
In fact, only months ago, in Guaimaro, the rebels had had the temerity to gather in a public assembly and adopt a so-called constitution providing for a republican government. Then they elected a man named Céspedes president—as if they were the official rulers!
Toledo was worried what side his men would be on if it came down to an order to fire on fellow Cubans. A native of his namesake city, who had been assigned to the West Indies since ’61, Toledo had come to appreciate Cuba and her people, but he was loyal to Spain. He just wished his men were too.
But for now his main problem was to get Sirena to Mayaguez, in Puerto Rico, where she would join the admiral’s squadron as a dispatch vessel during the annual maneuvers that were supposed to impress the other powers in the Caribbean. The fact that Sirena only steamed at seven knots, and couldn’t frighten anything bigger than a schooner, did not bother Toledo. He was just happy for the diversion away from Cuba for his men.
***
Swanson Singleton, known to most in the city as “Swan” because his name was hard for Spanish speakers to pronounce, shook his head ruefully. It was incredible how plans, simple logical plans, could become transformed into a completely hopeless mess with a few hours of meddling by the officials of the city of Cartagena. Of course, Singleton knew what had gone wrong and knew that it was his own fault. He had made the fundamental error of failing to include a payment up front for each person in the scheme. Singleton couldn’t believe it—he had overlooked the advance money for Toro Caldez, cousin of the city’s alcalde, or mayor, in the deal he had made for the coffee to be loaded on the Dutch ship. That was a stupid mistake, Singleton admitted to himself, for Toro controlled the cart drivers in the city.
The man was called “Toro” because that is how he reacted when angry—like a bull. And from what the alcalde had said when he had stopped by a few minutes earlier, Toro was angry now and coming to Singleton’s office.
Singleton shouted for his assistant in his crude Spanish. “Bring out the good stuff from Venezuela. Toro is coming.”
A moment later a bottle of Pampero rum, wrapped in a fancy leather bag, was put on the table in front of Singleton. He poured himself three fingers’ worth, smack
ed the cork back into the bottle, and swallowed the rum in one gulp just before the door slammed open and Toro barged in, pointing a finger at Singleton.
“Swan, you gringo hijo de puta, you think you can ignore me? You think my cousin doesn’t tell me? Are you stupid, or are you having a death wish?”
Singleton shrugged his shoulders and shoved the bottle across the table.
“Here, sit down, Toro, and hear my confession that I was stupid. I was in a hurry and forgot the advance facilitation fee for the transportation of cargo to the dock. Please accept this new bottle of excellent sipping rum as a token of my apology. It is virgin. Never been drunk.”
Toro kicked a chair out from the table and sat down. A greasy hand ripped the cork out and tipped the bottle back into his mouth, the rum spilling down over his stubbled chin. He then wiped his face on the back of his forearm and belched.
“This is good, but ten percent is your penitence.”
“Ten percent! You get five percent for the fee.”
“That is when you remember to pay me at the proper time. You forget and the price goes to ten percent. Do not forget again. Nothing moves to or from the dock in this port until that money is in my hand. Within two hours.”
“I won’t have that much money until tomorrow when I get paid by the Dutchman. This is all planned by now, Toro, my friend. Mañana there will be the money, but I do not have anywhere near that much money available to me today.”
The Colombian stood and leaned down into Singleton’s face. “You are not my friend, Swan. I do not care for your troubles. Two hours or you are finished. I am tired of having to deal with you.” Toro smiled for the first time. “Perhaps another fool could be found to be the agent for the ships.”
Singleton was a veteran of a lifetime of facing down hostility, always adhering to the rule of never showing weakness, but he knew that his was a precarious position in Cartagena. It was a very unsafe town, especially for a norteamericano. He decided to use his trump card, one that he used very sparingly but had worked in other threatening situations.
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 8
