Morrison’s mind registered the threat just before his eyes saw the steamer turn into the packet. The bow came around and within seconds crashed into the packet’s portside forechains, driving the Colón American over on her beam ends to starboard and knocking down everyone on her deck. The noise of the collision and subsequent smashing of the wooden hulls as they plunged northward together was chaotic and deafening.
Morrison mumbled to himself, “Oh God . . . the pirate steamer from Moskito coast.” Then his wits returned and he yelled to the men on his watch. “Break out the small arms!” but he saw it was too late, for a dozen evil-looking men were already coming across onto the packet’s foredeck and more were following. Shots popped forward and the packet’s crew were dropped where they were, gunned down immediately without chance for surrender.
Morrison grabbed a belaying pin, but only made it a few feet when he was shot by a tall pale man dressed in white who loomed up suddenly in the darkness. He fell to the deck doubled over, clutching his guts to try to stop the spasming pain. The flash of the gun had blinded him, but he could hear the pale man calmly shouting orders amidst the noise of screaming and gunfire. Then he was roughly picked up by another man and heaved over the bulwark and down into the dark sea.
Once the main deck was cleared of the packet’s men that had been on watch, by shooting them and throwing the bodies overboard, Cadena took his men below through the forehatch and led them aft, telling the victims to come out and surrender, then killing any man they saw by either blade or bullet. El Jefe stayed on deck and made sure the grappling lines were cast off and the ships separated, afterward turning his attention to getting the packet under control. He rang the annunciator for the engine to slow down slightly, put a man at the wheel and told him to turn to port and head south, and sent a man below to check the bilges for incoming water. Within minutes both steamers were heading toward Panama at ten knots in the starlit darkness.
Cadena arrived on the main deck from the after hatch a few minutes later, laughing insanely. The gringo turned to see the packet steamer’s captain trying to stand up, one ear missing and blood pouring from the gash.
“Cadena, you’re making a mess on the deck. Just kill the son of a bitch and pitch him over.”
Underhill was attempting to talk, but words wouldn’t come out. When the ship lurched he fell down again and started to babble about international law. Then the cutlass in Cadena’s hand sliced down into the base of Underhill’s neck and the babbling stopped. The body was dumped over the stern like refuse as Cadena cackled in delight.
“Jefe, we did it. The Panama packet is ours! She is absolutely loaded with luxuries we can sell. We will all be rich, Jefe. Rich!” In his crazed excitement, Cadena reached out and grabbed the arm of his leader.
Instantly he was spun around, felt a stiletto pricking into his nostril, and saw that the blade poised to pierce his brain. The swaying deck caused it to begin to cut into his nose, but Cadena said nothing, frightened of the look in the man’s eyes that were inches from his. The voice of Cadena’s jefe came out as a hiss.
“I told you never to touch me, you filthy piece of rotting garbage. Next time I will just end my misery and kill you.”
He flicked the stiletto out and down, ripping open Cadena’s nose, then flung him down to the deck.
“Now, I want both ships going through the reef at Cayo Holandes at sunrise. Head south for one hour, then southeast.”
Without looking back, El Gringo Loco descended the after hatch ladder, to see what he could find in the packet captain’s cabin.
Cadena held his face, trying to stop the bleeding and avoid the eyes of the men around him. El Jefe had insulted him many times before, but had not gone this far. Cadena stood, attempting to regain command of his dignity, and said to the man at the wheel. “You heard el Jefe. Steer south.”
***
Ricardo thought perhaps he was imagining the vision before him. To the west, in front of the schooner, he saw two ships, one from the right, which he remembered would be the north, and the other from the left, or the south. They were steamers and they appeared to be heading for each other—way out here in the middle of the sea. He called down below for his uncle to come up.
Gomez woke out of a lusty dream, rubbed his eyes, and made his way up the ladder to the deck where his nephew was yelling something about ships colliding and guns shooting. Then he saw the flashes himself, just two hundred meters directly in front of them! It took several seconds for him to register what was happening. When he realized it was a battle, he also knew there were no naval wars going on in this part of the sea, and that meant only one thing.
Pirates . . .
The two ships had turned and were heading southward rapidly, steaming next to each other and already several hundred meters away from the schooner. Gomez could hear the screams even at that distance. There was not any time to lose, they must get away from this place.
“Quickly, Ricardo, get the others on deck. Do it quietly! We must turn and sail north—it will be our faster point of sail. They have not seen us. We can escape in the dark.”
The fourteen-year old dropped down through the hatch and got the others to wake up, whispering to them that pirates were out there. When he came on deck again with the other three men in La María Alicia’s crew, Gomez held a finger up to his mouth, signaling that they should be quiet.
The captain had already swung the tiller over, bringing the foresail across the deck so that they were on a starboard tack broad reach, sailing fast to the north and directly away from the steamers. The schooner heeled over from the increased wind and speed, her leeward deck nearly awash. Gomez watched the steamers astern, terrified, waiting for the pirates to notice them, turn, and come to kill everyone aboard La María Alicia.
Suddenly Ricardo pointed at something in the water just ahead of the schooner. It was the form of a man waving for help. The boy went forward on his own with the boat pole and Gomez faced a quick decision. If it was a trap to get pirates aboard—and he had heard stories of such—they might all die.
But what if it wasn’t? To die alone at sea at night, with the sharks coming for you, was a sailor’s worst nightmare. He turned to the men on deck who were waiting for his judgment.
“I will steer for him. All of you help get that man aboard. Maybe we can save him.”
It all happened fast in the dark, their speed making it unfold in a chaotic instant. The man was snagged in the clothing by the boat hook, swung around into the arms of two of the men who heaved him halfway up out of the water, the boy and other man pulling him the rest of the way onto the deck of the schooner.
They all sat there for a moment, stunned with how close they had come to losing him, then the crewmen went over and examined him, stripping off his clothes. He was dressed like a norteamericano and had a bad wound in the stomach. He looked almost dead. They carried him below to the captain’s crude berth and dressed his wound with a relatively clean cloth, bringing him hot coffee. The wounded man managed to utter a few words before he collapsed unconscious back into the bed.
“Morrison . . . of . . . the Colón . . . Ameri . . . can. . . . Pirates . . . Gringo Loco . . . killed them . . . all.”
The words were not all understandable to the men of La María Alicia, but they did understand the tone. And like most of the seamen of the coast, they had heard the stories of El Gringo Loco.
Gomez made another quick decision. This man needed medical help quickly. Sailing south toward the pirates was no longer an option. Sailing west would take too long, and there were no real doctors on that coast. Sailing east, against the wind, back to Colombia would take far too long. The only real choice they had was to continue on their present course at this good speed. In three days, with God’s grace, they might make Kingston in Jamaica, where there were good doctors.
Gomez knelt down next to the man i
n his bunk and said a prayer to the Virgin Mary, to please help this victim of pirates live until Jamaica.
And to keep those pirates heading south.
17
El Hermanidad de Marineros
The sun was rising off their port bow when Wake asked Lieutenant Connery, the officer of the deck, the bearing on Cap Tiburon, farthest tip of Haiti’s southwestern peninsula. When Connery replied, Wake suggested that it would be a good navigational exercise for the ensigns to plot a running fix of their position, then the course to the next headland on the south coast of the island, Cap Gravois. Connery grinned and said that yes, the young gentlemen should certainly do that, with breakfast afterward as a reward only if they were accurate.
As Connery sent a messenger down to rouse Moe and Noble, the lookout called down from aloft. “Deck there! Vessel under sail by the shoreline, three points off the port bow. About four miles distant.”
Connery swung his telescope toward the sighting. Wake used the ship’s binoculars, newfangled things that took some getting used to. Connery reported while still focusing on the ship, “Steamer with her sails up, but they don’t appear to be helping her much, sir. Look at that leeway.”
Wake agreed. She was a steamer, but there was no smoke and her sails were not giving her much headway against the eighteen-knot trades from the southeast. In fact, it looked like she might be in trouble. The angle of his vision and depth perception was such that it might be an optical illusion, but she seemed to be sliding down to leeward rapidly, toward the rocky shoreline.
“Alter course for her, Mr. Connery. She may be in trouble.”
Canton was still steaming but would soon, per Captain Terrington’s order, shut down her engine and turn south for Venezuela. Wake had estimated that they would be far enough east along the Hispaniola coast by midnight that they could make the turn and lay the course toward Curaçao, where he hoped to find coal with the Dutch. From there they would steam against the trades to Caracas and disembark their passenger.
Connery interrupted his thinking. “Sir, I think she is definitely in trouble. She’s not able to round Cap Gravois on that course and I’m wondering if they can’t get her about to tack offshore. They’re riding in toward that cliff, sir.”
Wake could see that now too. “Yes, you’re right. It looks like they may have a mile or so before they hit. Ring up full speed. Perhaps we can make it to them in time.”
The annunciator bell rang once, then three times, and Wake resumed his mental calculations of the geometry in the problem before them. It was a triangle formed by the distant ship, the rocky shore, and Canton. Could her increased speed get her there in time? It would be close.
“Mr. Connery, lay out the number two hawser aft, with the floating grass messenger line, and call for the bosun.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Ah, sir . . . should we notify the captain also?”
Wake sighed, angry at himself for forgetting that cardinal rule. “Yes, of course, notify the captain and tell him I have charge on deck and will handle the situation.”Connery’s voice revealed no opinion in his reply. “Aye, aye, sir.”
A shout from aloft shifted their attention to the lookout. “Deck there! A ship coming around the far point of land. Steamer running down fast.”
Lieutenant Custen joined them, all three officers trying to see the newest vessel.
“Getting a bit crowded around here, suddenly,” jested Connery.
Custen put down his telescope, rested his eye, then raised it again. “That damn sun is in my eyes, but I think I see the flag of the native republic on that steamer. I wonder if she is their gunboat? I heard they have one.”
“Deck there! The steamer inshore just hoisted an ensign.”
It was the white and gold of Spain. Wake switched his binoculars to the other steamer. She was flying the blue and red of the Republic of Haiti. Wake ordered the ensign sent up and a moment later the Stars and Stripes streamed out from the mizzen gaff peak.
Connery recognized the Haitian vessel. “Yep, one’s Spanish and the other is the gunboat the natives got from the Brits. She’s bigger than us. Has two four-point-sevens for her guns. Brits trained the crew. A bad mix, Lieutenant Wake. Haiti fought Spain only a few years ago, when the Spanish tried to reoccupy Santo Domingo.”
Wake put down his binoculars and saw that Monteblanco had come up beside them and was watching the ships also.
Rork arrived and reported to Wake. “Hawser’s laid out an’ ready to send. Grass line is bent an’ ready to float to them downwind, sir.”
“Very good, Rork. You are in charge of the line work on this effort.”
Rork gauged the position of the Spanish steamer and the shoreline.
“Aye, aye, sir. ’Twill be a close-run thing, but by the God o’ the Irish, we’re the lads what can do it, Lieutenant. Have no fear.”
Custen, still eyeing the Spanish steamer, spoke up. “We can dip downwind and come up their port side, sir. Stream the line right across their course, then belay it down and turn them around to the south.”
“Very good. Alter course and steer as you see fit. You have the deck, Mr. Custen.”
They were now smashing into the seas in a race against time to get to the Spaniard before she wrecked. The Haitian gunboat was closer, but making no obvious attempt to assist.
Wake said to Monteblanco. “Señor, we may need an interpreter. Would you please help in that capacity?”
“But of course, Lieutenant. Just tell me what you want to say and it will be done.”
Custen shook his head. “Good Lord, sir. She’s a Spanish Navy gunboat!”
Connery added, “A naval vessel in that predicament. Not a good day for that captain’s career.”
Wake instantly felt sympathy for the naval officer commanding the gunboat. This would be the end of his professional life, unless they could get there in time. It was only half a mile now. The Haitian gunboat was already slowing down, turning broadside to the Spanish.
The Canton kept surging forward, the crash of the seas against the cliff clearly seen and heard now—it was only a quarter mile away. The leadsman cried out from his position in the forechains that there was no bottom found. The water was deep right up to the rocks.
Wake could see the Spanish captain now, standing by the stern, grimly looking between the American warship and the rocks just to leeward. The Canton was coming up from astern and passing along the Spanish vessel’s port side, between the ship and the rocks. Custen ordered a reduction in speed as Rork, amidships on the starboard side, got ready to make the heave with a line weighted with a rope-worked monkey fist.
Wake watched Custen, pleased to see that he was calm and giving the proper orders. He also observed that the name on the stern of the Spanish ship was Sirena, and that her sailors understood what the Americans were going to attempt. The Spanish captain was giving orders of his own and sailors were standing by to receive the line from Rork.
The bosun stood up on the caprail of the starboard bulwark, his left arm crooked around a main shroud, and swung the coil of line three times with his right hand. On the third swing he yelled out in Gaelic, “Éireann go Brách!” and the monkey fist, trailed by the light line, soared through the air and across the Sirena’s foredeck, where her men quickly started heaving it in. Within seconds the heavier hawser was snaking through the water and being belayed on the Sirena’s fore bitts.
Canton overtook the bow of the other ship and forged ahead and around to the right, turning her course away from the shore. The deck was a mass of noise and movement as Rork made sure his men were ready to take the sudden strain on the hawser. Monteblanco shouted over to the Spanish captain, and Custen gave orders to the helmsman.
Then a voice boomed out above it all. “What in hell is going on here!”
An enraged Captain Parker Terrington strode directly up t
o Wake.
***
Captain Fernando Toledo thought that not only his career, but very probably his life, was going to be over in a matter of minutes. The engine, reluctant at the best of times, had completely shut down, the engineer explaining that her boiler had too many leaks to build pressure and the piston crank arm that he was always predicting would fail from metal fatigue had done just that. And, he added sorrowfully, there were no replacements east of Havana.
They had sailed Sirena many times, but the old girl just wasn’t a good sailing ship to windward, and windward was where they needed to be right now. He knew even as he ordered her sails set, that they would never get her to tack through the wind around to an offshore course. The old girl was a bitch to turn that way, too much weight aft. He tried to wear her around, turning downwind, but without sufficient speed she would not turn. So they drifted—unable to get away from the quickly approaching rocks.
Then the Americans came around Cap Tiburon and made their bold dash at full speed to try to get close enough to pass a line. Toledo knew exactly what they were trying to do, and smiled at the audacity of it. As they got closer he thought it was a magnificent gesture, alas too late.
But they made it. Incredibly they made it, and Toledo’s men grabbed the line thrown and hauled away, literally as if their lives depended on it. Within seconds the hawser was aboard and secured and everyone waited for the tension to be taken up by the American gunboat. If it broke, they were gone. If it held, they were saved. It stretched like India rubber, the water squeezing out of the quivering line until Toledo was sure it would explode in a hundred pieces.
But it held.
Sirena’s bow swung rapidly to starboard as she followed the American around and away from shore. Toledo joined the many men on the deck who were crossing themselves in thanks to God for saving their lives, afterward raising a cheer for the Americans.
As they passed the Haitian gunboat, the 22 Decembre, Toledo saw that her decks were cleared for action and the guns pointed toward him. He was, after all, illegally in their waters and the Haitians had good reasons to be suspicious of Spanish motives. Another legacy of our failed venture at Santo Domingo on this island, he said under his breath. He saluted the Haitian captain, then shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of wonderment. The black man who appeared to be in charge merely stared menacingly in return as the Spanish gunboat was towed past him out to sea.
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 10
