A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  ***

  “We’re towing the Spanish gunboat off the lee shore, Captain. They were about to wreck.”

  Terrington glanced at the Sirena, then back at Wake. “Who gave you permission to risk this ship, a United States warship, on a stupid trick like this?”

  Rork, standing six feet away, shouted at his men to take the strain easily, to put their backs into it, then walked forward and lashed down the hawser end in a double hitched bowline around the mainmast. Custen moved to the leeward deck and Connery walked aft. Monteblanco stood by the mizzenmast, watching the scene. Wake saw the sailors also move away from the captain, averting their eyes from the confrontation between captain and executive officer.

  “I had the authority and I used it. Sir,” said Wake, still looking at the hawser between the ships.

  Canton jolted temporarily as the strain went on the line. Wake heard a cheer from the Spanish sailors as the Sirena’s bow turned away from shore. A responding cheer went up from the Americans, grinning and slapping shoulders all around.

  Terrington’s face was crimson and he was shaking with rage. “You should have asked permission, Wake. Goddammit all to hell, Wake—I am the captain of this ship!”

  Terrington stopped, as if stunned by his own words. His eyes looked out over the sea, but they were vacant. Monteblanco walked up to Wake, ignoring Terrington, and shook his hand.

  “That was one of the bravest actions I have ever seen, Lieutenant Wake. You saved the lives of those Spaniards today, and I will make sure my government hears of this gallant action by you and your men.”

  The diplomat then addressed Terrington. “Captain, your officers and men are heroes, which will, of course, reflect greatly upon their commanding officer. You will also be mentioned in my report, as their leader.”

  Terrington seemed as if he had physically deflated, his tone dejected as he muttered toward Wake, “You should have asked, . . .” and walked aft to the hatch where he climbed down the ladder.

  Wake suddenly felt exhausted. He gave orders to continue the tow southerly for two miles to seaward, then told Custen he still had the deck, and went below. He was heading for his cabin, but knew that after Terrington’s outburst on deck he had to go aft to the captain’s cabin. They had to get this solved. Now.

  He knocked at the door and entered without permission. Terrington was at his small desk reading a paper, apparently a letter.

  “Captain, we need to talk, sir.”

  Terrington’s voice was oddly plaintive, almost juvenile. “No, not now, I’m busy with this correspondence. Maybe we can talk later, Wake.”

  Wake was caught off guard. He had expected hostility, maybe even violence. “No sir. Now. And it’s Mister Wake, at least in front of others, Captain. You might not like it, but in the eyes of the U.S. Navy I am an officer and a gentleman and will be treated as such by everyone, below and above me . . . sir.”

  The captain turned and smiled, as if seeing Wake for the first time that day. “Yes, of course, Mister Wake. You are right, of course. I have been sick lately, and perhaps a bit testy. No hard feelings?” And with that Terrington shocked Wake by offering his hand.

  Wake shook it and cautiously responded. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps I have not been as understanding of your illness as I should have been. Can we start from here, sir? We have a good crew and a tough assignment, but we can do it.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Wake. Start from here. Start fresh, as it were.”

  Something wasn’t right, Wake could tell. But what? “Yes, sir.”

  Terrington nodded and reached into the desk drawer, pulling out a rum bottle. “A toast to new beginnings between us, Mr. Wake. And to the good and jolly crew of the USS Canton.”

  Wake submerged his disgust and merely said, “No, thank you, sir. I’ll be getting back up on deck now and leave you to your paper work. Thank you, Captain.”

  He closed the door behind him and tried to calm down. The captain was a drunk, but there were a lot of drunks in the navy—the life bred that. This was something more, something insidious. Wake didn’t know what exactly it was, but knew he would have to figure it out—the lives of the men aboard the Canton were at stake.

  ***

  With Monteblanco as the interpreter, Captain Toledo expressed his appreciation for the fourth time to Captain Terrington, who offered another round of rum in celebration.

  Wake also sat at the table in Terrington’s cabin. “But now what will you do, Captain Toledo?” he asked. “Your ship can’t get to your squadron at Puerto Rico. It’s more than four hundred miles upwind.”

  Toledo looked out the stern ports at his ship hove to a short distance away. Once the hawser had been cast off, he had been rowed to the yanqui ship to offer his sincere thanks. He brought his best bottle of rum, which Terrington was draining steadily.

  “I do not know, my friend. Sirena is a good ship, but she sails poorly. The nearest replacement part for the engine is in Havana, seven hundred miles away.”

  “But what about Jamaica?” Wake suggested. “Kingston is less than two hundred miles from here. The Royal Navy is on good terms with the Spanish Navy. They could help with the part, perhaps.”

  Monteblanco spread his hands up, signaling he had an idea. “Why not continue the tow over to Kingston? I do not mind the slight delay, and I think it would serve all three countries very well for their navies to cooperate in such a manner.”

  Terrington, his words sluggish, said, “Well, I don’t know about doing that, Monte, ol’ boy.”

  Monteblanco continued. “Captain Terrington, you have already scored a great honor for your country by saving the lives of Captain Toledo’s men. Why not cap that with a gesture of friendship, a feat that will be celebrated in Madrid, London, and Washington? Did I not tell you that I know the great Admiral Porter from my days in Washington? He would be especially impressed with your feat. And this tow would take, what, a day or two?”

  Toledo did not understand the exchange in English and Monteblanco didn’t translate it for him. Wake marveled at the way Monteblanco led Terrington into the idea.

  “You know, Monte, maybe you’re right. Porter, did you say? A great gesture of friendship, celebrated in Washington. Yes, I can see that. And it’s only a day or two. What the hell. Mr. Wake, what say you?”

  “It can be done, sir. Sirena could set some canvas and we’ll set ours, helping the speed. We could be in Kingston in around,” Wake spread his fingers as ad hoc navigating dividers and measured off the distance on the chart before them on the table, “approximately thirty-four hours at five to six knots average, or at about sunrise two days from now.”

  Terrington, sounding grandiose, waved a hand and said, “Then make it so, Mr. Wake. Make it so.”

  When Monteblanco translated the idea to Toledo, another burst of thank-yous came forth from the Spanish naval officer, with pledges of eternal friendship and brotherhood. Then Toledo stood and proposed a toast to the president of the United States, the great uniter of his nation, Grant, which even Wake felt compelled to join in. Terrington proposed a counter-toast, with a giggle, “to whoever the hell is in charge of Spain these days,” which Monteblanco translated diplomatically for the Spanish captain.Toledo, overcome by emotion and the fact that his life and career was just saved by these strangers, made the last toast with tears in his eyes. “A ustedes, mis compañeros, y al hermanidad de los marineros por todas partes del mundo.”

  Terrington, who was on the verge of laughing, suddenly got quiet and asked Monteblanco what the Spaniard had said.

  “He made a toast ‘to you, my comrades, and the brotherhood of sailors everywhere in the world,’ Captain Terrington.”

  Terrington stared at Toledo. “By God, Mr. Wake, I think the silly old bastard actually means it . . .”

  Wake slowly shook his head at a stunned Monteblanco,
then looked at his captain, who was pouring another glass of rum. This will be a long voyage, Wake rued. I just hope my discipline holds.

  18

  Naval Goodwill

  HMS Plover lay on her hook at the Port Royal fleet anchorage. Captain Russell was about to descend to his gig for the row to Admiralty House when he heard the officer of the deck exclaim, “Look at that! A Yankee gunboat towing a Spanish.”

  Russell stared like the rest of them as the Canton steamed by, towing the Sirena into the general anchorage off Kingston proper. Naval gun salutes started to echo off the hills around the bay. Further in, the German patrol gunboat Meteor and the French aviso gunboat Bouvet added their powder to the salutes.

  I wonder what the story is behind that affair, pondered Russell as he resumed his journey ashore. Knowing that it was customary for visiting naval officers to always call on the local naval authority immediately upon arrival, Russell surmised that he might have the story pretty soon.

  ***

  The guard boat for Kingston Harbour directed Canton to a mooring spot in the anchorage between Plum Island and the city’s docks, then departed to report to the naval headquarters. Soon the whole harbor was abuzz about the Yankee and the Spaniard nested together at anchor. The tavern keepers of Kingston sensed a good night coming, as did the chandlery owners and wherrymen. Bumboats were already closing in on the Canton and Sirena, and Wake remembered to tell Custen and Connery not to let the bumboat vendors get too close or the men would be drunk in ten minutes.

  “Sir, what about the Spanish sailors? Our boys will get rum from them,” said Connery.

  Wake thought about that for a moment, then chuckled. “Put Rork on the first watch, stationed on the side with the Spaniards. Tell him my orders are ‘no trading.’”

  Terrington was passed out in his cabin again, so Wake prepared to make the official arrival call ashore, accompanied by Monteblanco and Toledo. He invited them to ride in his launch, to which they enthusiastically agreed.

  As they rowed past the ships anchored in the harbor, Monteblanco pointed out the German and French vessels. “Odd seeing them anchored close together. If only their countries were that close.”

  Wake did not understand. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “The German federation and the French republic are upset with each other. It is getting hostile between them in Europe, but here they at least appear to be friends, as it should be.”

  The launch took them past the anchorage for small trading vessels, including one which Toledo gestured toward and said had a very pretty name, La María Alicia. The schooner had her mainsail up, ready to weigh anchor and return to sea.

  ***

  “A most fascinating tale, Lieutenant Wake. I am glad it turned so well for everyone,” said Commodore Mason Forester, commanding officer of the Royal Navy’s West Indies flotilla of the North American station.

  “Lieutenant Wake demonstrated skill and courage, Commodore. I was there and saw it, and will make sure it is known in Washington,” added Monteblanco, to Wake’s embarrassment.

  Forester chuckled at Wake’s blush. “Every naval officer could use a little help that way, Don Pablo. Now, if you will excuse me, there is an urgent matter I must attend to, but I want to once again personally invite you to a reception at seven o’clock this evening at Admiralty House that the governor is putting on for naval officers. All of the foreign vessels are invited to send three officers.

  “And Don Pablo, I would very much like it if you would honor us with your attendance as well. After what you witnessed, I do believe you are, at the very least, a naval enthusiast now!”

  Wake, Monteblanco, and Toledo accepted with thanks, then walked out of the naval headquarters past a line of British officers waiting for their time with the commodore.

  Five minutes later Commodore Forester was sitting at his desk as the flotilla’s flag lieutenant reported on his follow-up to a disturbing report that had come in the previous evening from the hospital.

  “Commodore, it’s true. I spoke with the man this morning. He is still in mortal danger from a gunshot wound in the abdomen, but was lucid enough to answer my questions.”

  “Very well, out with it. What happened?”

  “The man, a Jeffrey Morrison of a place called Tonawanda in the state of New York, was brought in last night from the harbor guard boat. They got him from a Barranquilla schooner that picked him up in the water and sailed him here for help. The schooner’s captain confirmed Morrison’s story—he sailed up on the battle in the darkness.” The lieutenant took out a pad of paper and went through his penciled notes.

  “Morrison is the third mate aboard the Panama packet steamer, the Colón American. She was ten hours out from Colón several days ago, bound for this harbor on her usual route, making fifteen knots or so due north, when Morrison saw a dark shape on the horizon ahead of him. He was the officer on watch at the time . . .”

  The lieutenant proceeded to relate Morrison’s story, along with Captain Gomez’s last view of the two steamers heading south, toward Panama. When he was done, Forester asked if there were any other known or possible survivors.

  “No sir. And that fits what we’ve heard via rumor for the last several months—no witnesses. This man Morrison is an anomaly, sir.”

  Forester raised his eyebrows. “Many would call him a miracle, Lieutenant.”

  The laconic aide nodded and suggested, “Ironic, is it not, sir, that an American gunboat should appear at the same time as an American renegade pirate?”

  “And your point, Lieutenant?”

  “They haven’t sent a naval vessel to these parts in a while. Now one is here. I think they are sending them south to end the problem sir.”

  “And?” The flag lieutenant could infuriate Forester sometimes with his slow presentations.

  “And it might be a good opportunity for us to associate ourselves with the American effort and cruise the Moskito coast alongside them. We thereby lend credence to our interpretation of the parts of the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty that the Nicaraguans and Hondurans dispute—namely that we really do have a presence in that coast and therefore do have legitimate claim to the log wood settlements. And, of course, sir, it is a righteous cause.”

  Forester thought about that for a moment. It had possibilities.

  “Lieutenant, you are quite the Machiavellian. You are also correct. Make sure the opportunity arises this evening for us to talk with our American cousins about a joint venture.”

  ***

  Wake’s second call was to the American consulate. The consul was attending the party that evening as well and told Wake he would enjoy it immensely. Wake thought it prudent not to tell the man that he never enjoyed such social functions, that he thought them boring and a waste of considerable money.

  After paying his respects to his countryman he met with the Venezuelan and the Spaniard. Their consuls were going to attend that evening as well.

  “A gala international affair, a good fiesta de la noche!” said Monteblanco with obvious delight. “Peter Wake, my friend, you looked pained at the thought of a party. Really, you are allowed to relax occasionally, and the English girls, they have such a pretty accent of your language, no?”

  “Yes, Don Pedro Monteblanco, you have me there. The English girls do have a pretty accent.”

  Monteblanco rendered that into Spanish for Toledo, who laughed and gave a good-natured punch to Wake’s arm. Then Monteblanco added in English, with a mock conspiratorial air, “And Peter, I think they have other pretty things as well. . . .”

  Toledo joined Wake in a laugh when that was translated, then made his own opinion known.

  “It is all for naval good will, my friends. All for naval goodwill.”

  19

  A Myriad of Motives

  Cayo Holandes was a small island. With El
Gringo’s men from the steamer all on the island, it soon got overcrowded. The celebration lasted three days, with men drinking until they dropped, then waking up and drinking again. What they did not have for a party was women, for none were on the packet when they captured her. And that made them all drink that much more and get that much more violent when the fighting started.

  El Gringo Loco knew they would start fighting among themselves on the second day, but he didn’t care. He had too many men anyway, too many hands in the till, too many mouths to feed, and too many chances for rebellion. He didn’t mind at all if they killed off a few of their number.

  Besides, he was very busy going through what he had found in the captain’s cabin. It wasn’t loot—the valuable commercial cargo was carried forward and since there were no lady passengers there was no jewelry—no, for him it was more intriguing than that. It was the official mail, coming from ports all around the lower Caribbean. And the really fascinating thing to the renegade American pirate was that some of the correspondence was about him.

  There was the official mail from the Colombian authorities in Bogotá acknowledging the presence on their nation’s coast of a yanqui pirate and warning all port captains to be on the lookout for information regarding him. There were descriptions of him from Nicaragua and from the American company in Panama. Noticeably absent was any mention of him in letters or reports from Cartagena, except one.

  He smirked with humor as he read Swanson Singleton’s letter to the Department of State in Washington, asking as the official consul of the United States, for the assistance of a U.S. Navy gunboat in tracking down an ex-American mercenary “gone bad, very bad.” Singleton detailed how the pirate, he did not know the name, used a man in Cartagena named Toro Caldez to sell the belongings of his victims. He went on to say that Caldez periodically went to sea with the pirate and had a part in the brutal slayings of innocent women and children. Singleton said the only way the depravity would be stopped was if this Caldez was killed, then the renegade American would have no base of operations. According to Singleton, Caldez was the mastermind of the whole thing.