Singleton tried not to show the abject terror welling up inside him, but he saw that his hands were trembling as he put them up in supplication. El Gringo Loco had somehow gotten the letter and knew. “No, Jefe. You do not understand what has been going on here since your last visit. I had to write that letter. Toro is out of control. He is alienating the ship captains and the city people. He has gone crazy with power and will ruin it for us all.”
The pale man raised an eyebrow. “Crazy, Singleton? Some have called me crazy. That is their name for me.”
“But not me, Jefe,” Singleton pled. “I see your wisdom, your vision for making money.” He was trying to speak without fear, but his voice was cracking. He had to hold together. There was one more asset that he had. It was time to use it, and he summoned up all of his abilities.
“And, there is an American warship that came into the harbor this afternoon. Obviously not in response to my letter. She is here on anti-piracy patrol to investigate the rumors. Of course they contacted me and asked my opinion, as the official representative of the American government. I told them that the rumors were exaggerated about a former American running the . . .” he tried to think of an appropriate word, “enterprise, and that once Toro was out of the way, things would return to normal. I told them he was the leader, and they are going to take care of him. Tonight in the harbor, they will eliminate him. We will be free of his bungling and the Americans will leave, knowing they have solved their problem.”
Singleton felt more confident as he talked. The lunatic gringo robber was listening intently. The shyster knew he had turned the corner and would live. “I have given you a chance to escape, Jefe. And to increase your profits. It has worked out well, for my official position here is very valuable for us in the future. The American navy will believe anything I say.”
“I agree, Swan. Until they find out who you really are, they will believe you.”
“They won’t find out,” replied Singleton. “I don’t know your real name,” he said, trying to sound sincere, “and you don’t know mine. Besides, this captain, named Parker Terrington, is an idiot. He believes me completely.”
That got the lunatic’s attention, Singleton saw.
“What was his name did you say?”
“Terrington . . . and in a way, he sort of looks like you.”
El Gringo Loco’s mind was working rapidly. His finger was tapping on the table as he mulled over the situation. This latest information about the American captain was unexpected, shocking. What were the odds of that happening? But, he realized calmly, it could all work out very well. He was glad he came personally to Cartagena. Anyone else, like Cadena or Rosas or Romero, would not understand the ramifications, would not know what to do.
There was a thud at the door. The owner shouted that he wanted his kitchen back, they had people waiting for food. Then another thud on the door.
Singleton relaxed, the danger was over. This would pass. He smiled and moved toward the open back door, gesturing to the other man.
“Come on, Jefe, let’s go have a drink and something to eat. We can think of more ways to make money. I will buy!”
“I think not, Swan. But thanks for the information,” muttered the gringo pirate as he pulled out the Navy Colt from his waist in a smooth forward motion and put one round into Singleton’s face, splattering the back of his head against the wall while the body fell back onto the floor. The thudding against the door stopped.
“Besides, as you said, Swan—only an idiot would believe you,” said the gringo as he stepped over the twitching body and dropped the consular letter down in the widening pool of blood, on his way out the back door of the cantina.
***
Rork was nervous for his old friend. Wake had gone ashore without him, but instead with the foreigner diplomat. And dressed as common sailors. The whole crew was speculating about their mission, most of the conjecture gruesome. Then, after the executive officer had departed the ship, word came below decks for the gunner to send four of his best small arms men aft to Lt. Connery’s cabin.
And now Rork, Connery, and the four sailors were drifting in the dark by a point of land, waiting for a pirate to appear. All of them except for Connery, who was wearing a brown shirt and not his uniform, were lying down in the bilges of the launch, so it would appear that the lieutenant was alone and a potential victim. It all sounded like folly to Rork, but the lieutenant appeared to be in favor of it and told the men that when the pirate showed up to rob him, they would suddenly stand up and shoot before he could be shot.
The sounds of revelry drifted across the harbor, punctuated by screams and threats that no one in the boat understood. After an hour, they heard the splash of oars alongside and a Spanish-accented voice calling out in English, “Swan? Is that you? You hijo de puta! You had better have a good reason for this. I was about to go to—”
“Now men!” yelled Connery and the sailors stood up and fired a volley into the other boat, shattering the night air, the flash blinding all of them.
“Rork, search him,” ordered the lieutenant as they regained their vision and their wits. Rork climbed over into the smaller boat. The man was dead from three rounds into his chest, which the bosun noted with satisfaction were in a small shot group, but wondered where the fourth had gone. He examined all of the pockets, finding a pistol stuck down in the waist and a knife in a pocket, then looked around the boat. He found no papers, nothing else.
“Dump him over, men,” said Connery. The sailors exchanged looks, then went over to the small boat and heaved the dead weight over the side, watching it sink down into the scummy harbor water. They looked to Rork, who shrugged and nodded as the lieutenant ordered them back aboard the navy launch.
“You did well, men,” Connery told the sailors. “One less pirate to worry about, but there are others out there to deal with. We’ll go after them too.”
When they returned to the Canton and had gotten everything squared away, the sailors went below, ordered strictly by Connery to tell no one what had happened, for the other pirates in the area would be warned. Rork stayed up on deck and stopped Connery just as he was about to report to the captain.
“Ah, Lieutenant, sir. Could ya give me an idea o’ what we just did out there? The lads an’ me are a bit confused.”
“We shot a pirate, Bosun Rork. Simple as that,” replied Connery in a harried tone as he climbed down the after hatch.
Rork watched him go and said quietly to himself, “It didn’t look that simple to the likes o’ me, Lieutenant.” The bosun shook his head sadly. “Aye, not that simple at all.”
***
El Gringo Loco heard gunfire as he rowed his own boat in the darkness through the harbor back to his schooner. A volley of rifles he guessed. Somebody was shooting somebody in the harbor. Perhaps the end of Toro Caldez, as Swan Singleton had suggested? If so, then Parker was more stupid than he remembered.
The Abuela was just ahead, in the inner harbor, but he rowed past her. He wanted to see the American warship. Finally, he saw her anchored close to shore in the outer harbor, deck lanterns glowing. He could see men moving about on her, the anchor watch probably, and he rowed around to her stern and looked her over from a safe distance in the night. She looked new. Relatively fast. And more importantly, she had those new rifled breech loaders.
He turned his rowboat around and pulled for his schooner, thinking about what the U.S. Navy could do to his operations with a ship like that, then shook his head and laughed out loud. It didn’t matter what kind of ship they sent, for as long as she was commanded by the one and only Parker Terrington, she would be no threat to him at all.
El Gringo Loco ruminated on it all, as he eased his oars going alongside the stolen schooner he now called his. What a very odd twist of fate that they should have sent Parker here . . . to get me.
24
La Heroica
The tavern was like a hundred others Wake had seen in at ports during his time at sea. It had the same girls sitting along the wall, with the same vacant eyes evaluating the wealth of each customer as he entered, the same tired barmen pouring rum and ignoring complaints, and same angry doorman pushing drunks without money out the door.
The false gaiety and affection of the girls, which lasted as long as the customer had coins in his pocket, gave the room a seething appearance. Behind it all, he saw the same kind of bossman, watching the action without emotion from the corner, that he had seen in so many other places. This saloon did have something unique, though. Wake saw that in the middle of the room, dimly lit by lanterns from the ceiling, was a pit, ten feet across and surrounded by a three-foot-high stone wall.
Monteblanco and Wake made their way across the crowded room, coming close to the mass of men and girls yelling in at least four languages as they watched something going on five feet below them in the pit. Wake looked down as he passed and saw a large caiman alligator chasing a tiny dog around, thrashing its tail as the terrified dog ran this way and that, trying to get away from the snapping jaws. Wake looked at the frenzied faces of the people cheering and tried hard not to show his disgust.
They got a rough plank table near a corner, along a moldy stone wall. A girl came over immediately, introduced herself as Bonita, asked what kind of rum they wanted, and went to fetch them two glasses and a bottle of Diablo. Arriving back, Bonita sat without invitation on Monteblanco’s lap, took off his straw hat and stroked his hair, whispering things in his ear that made him laugh. Seconds later, another girl came over and sat in Wake’s lap, caressing him while she felt his pockets for money. She said her name was Flora and squealed with delight when she quickly determined he was a gringo, for he would probably have more money than a local sailor. A shout went up by the gator pit, and the group of spectators returned to their tables, money exchanging hands, presumably because the dog had finally lost.
The four of them sat there and drank the dark syrupy rum, the girls drinking out of the men’s glasses in order to drain the bottle quickly and get more. Two bottles into the evening, Wake was beginning to doubt the wisdom of their plan as Flora fondled him while she whispered things in Spanish in his ear. He looked to his partner for an idea of what to do, but Monteblanco was engaged in a serious conversation in Spanish with Bonita. Wake tried to figure out what to do with Flora, whose putrid breath was about to make him gag, in addition to her making him nervous with her hands.
Then he saw Bonita stand up and leave, winking at Flora, who also got up and disappeared. He turned toward Monteblanco. “What was that about?”
“She is going to get the bossman, who will know where you—the man who wants to know—can find someone who will sell certain jewelry for sale at a good price. You want to take it to the States to sell. I am your interpreter.”
Wake tried to think of all the potential avenues of negotiation, the time they had to do it in, and the many dangers to which they were now wide open. He spoke in a low voice to Monteblanco just as Bonita returned. “Tell them the money is not on me tonight, or we’ll never get out of here alive.”
Monteblanco nodded his agreement as the girl squirmed her way back onto his lap and told him that the bossman was coming. A moment later a stocky man with a ragged scar from his nose to his left ear, and the long straight black hair of an Indian, arrived at the table. He pulled a chair out from under a man at the table beside them, gave him a menacing look, and sat in it across from Wake and Monteblanco. Bonita, staring at the bossman, quickly got up and disappeared.
He had the improbable name of Jesús and the continual habit of bringing his hair out of his eyes and sweeping it behind his head. Jesús said nothing for a moment, examining the two men, gauging them with dark narrow eyes. Then he spoke to Monteblanco in the Creole patois of the coast.
“You want jewelry? No problem. And what ship did you tell Bonita you were from?”
“The Condor,” Monteblanco explained, “just in tonight from Maracaibo. We leave tomorrow for Kingston, then Mobile.”
“I see, señor.” Jesús scrutinized Wake. “And your friend here, he is the captain?”
“No, no. He is the mate,” Monteblanco corrected. “The captain is drunk aboard and doesn’t know about our little business. We need to be quiet about such things. He thinks we went ashore to get provisions only.”
Jesus nodded, understanding their situation completely. The loud mouth Manuel would be the man for these two. He handled jewelry, among other things.
“You have the money?”
Monteblanco looked askance. “Yes, of course not with us. No offense, my new friend, but some of your patrons do not look trustworthy.”
Jesus gave a grudging nod. “Wait here. I will return.”
Monteblanco translated the conversation for Wake, then looked up as Jesús returned, standing there with a smiling man who introduced himself as Manuel Fuentes, purveyor of all things. Fuentes was the opposite of the menacing Jesús and spoke in a breezy pretentious tone, his hands gesturing all of the time.
“My good friend Jesús tells me you are looking for some jewelry to take with you to the United States for resale. Emeralds perhaps? Colombia is famous for our emeralds placed in beautiful gold settings.”
Monteblanco replied, “Yes, jewelry. But particularly we are looking for diamonds, large diamonds. One set as a pendant. Those do well these days up in the States.”
Fuentes stroked his goatee, then said, “Yes, I know of one. You require this tonight, Jesús said?”
“Yes, we are under obligations to leave and must conclude the transaction tonight.”
“I will return in one hour,” Fuentes said pleasantly. “Stay here and kindly order another bottle of rum from my friend Jesús. He needs the business, for he has many mouths to feed, some of which are even children.”
Monteblanco ordered another bottle as Fuentes left, then explained to Wake that his mother had had a large diamond set in a pendant on a necklace. There couldn’t be that many in Cartagena and he would recognize it instantly if he saw it. They could conclude the deal, then take Fuentes out somewhere and get the information from him.
“I would take it as a great favor if you would allow me the pleasure of getting the information from him,” requested Monteblanco. “I think you know why.”
Wake did indeed, and said, “That is no problem, Pablo. No problem at all.”
***
By Wake’s pocket watch it was two o’clock in the morning—two hours and two more bottles later—when Fuentes returned to their corner table. The girls spent the time vividly describing various pleasures they could give the men, while downing rum along with them. Jesús watched the four of them the whole evening from his perch in the far corner. Even at two in the morning, the place was full and noisy, and English and Spanish and Dutch and French all could be heard in the din.
Wake felt light-headed and uneasy. He looked over at Monteblanco, who appeared untouched by the strong cane alcohol. “Are you all right?” he said, glancing at the bottle by Monteblanco’s hand.
“No problem, mi amigo, Peter. When you are born to drink rum it does not hurt you so badly,” replied the Venezuelan as Fuentes sat down with a flourish across from them.
“My wonderful new friends! I have something like what you seek. It is beautiful and very special, having been in the dowry of the daughter of the viceroy when we were still a colony of the empire of Spain. But alas, my friends, it is not cheap,” reported Fuentes as another bottle arrived and the girls disappeared again.
“We do not have much money, Manuel Fuentes, but we are here in good faith and will see your offering,” countered Monteblanco.
Fuentes looked furtively around them, then pulled a dirty rag out of his pocket and unfolded it in his lap. He held it under the
level of the table so that the other two could see that a large diamond pendant, secured to a gold necklace, was resting in the rag. Wake glanced at Monteblanco for any sign of recognition, but saw none.
“Let me hold it and check the weight, Manuel, my friend,” asked Monteblanco.
Fuentes hesitated, then allowed him to hold it. Monteblanco examined it more closely, finally asking, “It is not as heavy as I was hoping. Americans judge their diamonds by weight. How much for this piece of stone?”
“For you and your friend, señor, a mere one hundred and seventy dollars. In gold, of course. It is obviously worth so much more, but unfortunate complications prevent me from selling it for its true value.”
Suddenly a shout went up from the crowd around the pit—another tiny dog had been dropped in and the betting on his time to live was heated. Fuentes immediately snatched the diamond pendant from Monteblanco and placed it back in his pocket.
“Yes or no, señor? I have other buyers waiting and must not be rude to them.”
Monteblanco translated for Wake, who then shook his head and told him to negotiate on his own initiative. Wake observed Fuentes listening closely and wondered how much English the man understood. In seaports many people understood at least a little English.
“No, Señor Fuentes. We do not have that much, but sixty-five dollars would be feasible,” said Monteblanco.
Fuentes stopped smiling. “One hundred fifty.”
“Unfortunately no.” Monteblanco shook his head. “But perhaps seventy-five?”
“Far too low. I have expenses I must pay, my friend—one of which is that evil-eyed Jesús. One hundred and twenty-five. No lower.”
“I am sorry, but that is too much, Manuel. We are poor sailors, not rich businessmen like yourself. Eighty-five dollars is as high as we can go.”
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 15
