A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  “One hundred ten. Take it or leave it.”

  “Ninety-five.”

  “One hundred ten.”

  “One hundred dollars American, in gold, and the deal is done right now, Señor Fuentes,” offered Monteblanco. “That will pay your expenses and give you a nice profit. If that is not agreeable to you, we will take our leave now. We must go before the captain sobers up.”

  Fuentes stroked his goatee again, then made a show of resignation.

  “You drive a hard bargain, but it is done. Where is your money?”

  Monteblanco smiled and shrugged. “In a very safe place, señor. Meet us at the Puerta del Reloj in twenty minutes.” He pulled out his watch and showed the time to Fuentes. “We can exchange there, in the open, for the safety of us both.”

  Fuentes nodded his assent, then listened as Monteblanco continued. “Oh, and my friend, if anyone follows us then the deal is off, and we will become angry. Very angry.”

  Monteblanco rose from his chair, dropped coins on the table for the rum and the girls, and walked away without waiting for a reply from Fuentes. Wake walked beside him as they shuffled their way through the crowd at the pit. Wake caught a peripheral glance, without intending to, of the alligator closing his jaws on the screaming dog as a shout went up from the onlookers. He gritted his teeth and kept moving, following Monteblanco out the door and into the street.

  It was hot and humid, the wind that had kept down the heat earlier having vanished. They retraced their steps quickly, repeatedly glancing behind to check for followers but saw none. Wake asked his friend if he recognized the diamond pendant and was told yes.

  When he asked if Monteblanco was absolutely sure, the Venezuelan stopped and said with barely controlled rage, “When I asked to see it more closely I saw my father’s initials on the back. He gave it to my mother for their twenty-fifth anniversary. I remember it very well, Peter.”

  Then he started walking again. When they had gone several blocks Monteblanco stopped and quickly sidestepped into an alley, explaining that here was where they would take Fuentes.

  As they waited in the darkness Wake drew his revolver from his pocket, feeling troubled that he was standing there like a common criminal, in a city of common criminals. It was as if he had become one of them.

  They heard steps coming up the street. Fuentes was accompanied by another man who walked three paces ahead of him, examining the doorways and alleys, obviously some sort of bodyguard. Wake and Monteblanco pressed themselves against the wall, in the black of the night shadows, as the first man walked by. Then they leaped out behind Fuentes, grabbed him quickly by the throat from the rear, snatched him off his feet and back into the narrow alley, choking him into silence.

  The bodyguard heard the sounds behind him, turned and saw nothing, his man gone. He ran back, pistol drawn, and turned into the alley to find himself staring at the muzzle of Wake’s revolver, inches from his eyes. Wake took the gun from the stunned man and waved him back out into the street. The bodyguard raised his hands and retreated slowly, saying, “Tranquilo, señor. Tranquilo, por favor,” until he was in the street. Then he ran away toward the Puerta del Reloj.

  Monteblanco dug the diamond out of Fuentes pocket and used the rag to gag him as he pushed him along the alley. Wake saw the Venezuelan’s eyes were even and cold. Wake’s unease was building. This was going to be murder, and no amount of explanation could justify it. They emerged on another street, Monteblanco still pushing Fuentes violently along, the man’s eyes bulging with fear above the rag stuffed in his mouth.

  At another alley, Monteblanco suddenly kicked Fuentes into the shadows and then hit him hard in the left eye, knocking him down into the gutter. Wake watched the street, trying to decide what to do. He couldn’t allow his friend to kill Fuentes, but they needed the information to stop others from being victims.

  The Venezuelan knelt and leaned close to Fuentes, his voice low and measured through clenched teeth. “That diamond is from my mother, Fuentes. Do you understand? From my mother who was on the ship that the gringo pirate took.” Fuentes started to cry, whimpering into the rag.

  “I want to kill you slowly, like they did to my mother and father. You will pay for dealing in the filthy trade you practice. You will pay for every single victim.” Fuentes began begging unintelligibly.

  Monteblanco produced a small pocket knife, flicked the blade out and put it to Fuentes’ throat. “I will gut you and bleed you out like an animal. But I want to hear you beg first.”

  Then he took the rag out, holding it in readiness, and Fuentes choked out the words, “Please. Please. I am sorry. I was not there. I did not know.”

  Monteblanco rammed the rag back in and sliced the knife lightly along Fuentes’ neck. Wake moved closer, about to intervene as his friend continued.

  “But you do know. You know a lot about El Gringo Loco and how he works. Do you want to live, with your face intact? I have waited for this exact moment. To avenge my mother and father, and you are my target. You will pay. Now.”

  Fuentes nodded his head, kept nodding and whimpering until Monteblanco released the rag slightly.

  “I . . . will . . . tell,” he gasped. “I will tell what I know. Please let me tell,” he begged.

  “You are going to tell me everything you know.”

  “Yes, I will. Please let me live. I did not know. I swear I did not know it was from your parents.”

  “You have five minutes to convince me to let you live.”

  Fuentes could barely speak from terror, but he gradually explained that El Gringo Loco had several dealers in Cartagena that he worked with. One was Fuentes, who only occasionally dealt in the pirate’s stolen jewelry. Another was the American consul, Singleton, who dealt in ships’ cargo that was taken from the pirate’s victims, and the third was a man named Rosas, who sailed a schooner called Abuela, and who dealt in stolen ship’s equipment and sometimes jewelry.

  He said Rosas’ schooner was in the inner harbor, but the man was missing. Everyone assumed the gringo had killed him somewhere and taken the boat. There was also a rumor that earlier that very evening someone had killed Toro Caldez, a man who transported much of the gringo pirate’s loot out of the city and who made a deal to exempt Cartagena vessels from being victimized. Caldez got away with it because of his relation to the city’s leaders.

  Wake was astonished as Monteblanco translated Fuentes’ narration. The American consul was part of this? And the pirate’s schooner was here?

  In response to Wake’s and Monteblanco’s questions, Fuentes said he had met El Gringo Loco three times, many months ago. The rumor was that the man had skin that could not stand the sun, so he stayed off the deck in the day, only coming out at night or for capturing a ship. He did not know the man’s name, but believed he was a former naval officer in the yanqui navy, who came to the area as a mercenary for the English settlers on the Moskito coast after the war between the American states. When they could pay him no longer, he went out on his own, captured a steamer, and started to plunder ships.

  Fuentes said that the gringo had a man named Cadena who was his number two and was like an animal. The girls in Cartagena refused to service him because of his cruelty. He also had a man named Romero, who was as bad. There were maybe thirty men with the pirate, perhaps a few more. Fuentes thought they were based somewhere on the Moskito coast north of Limon, in Costa Rica.

  “Is he here in Cartagena now?” seethed Monteblanco in Fuentes’ ear.

  “I do not know, but Rosas’ schooner came in this morning, so he might be on her.”

  Wake asked, “The American consul, where is he?” Fuentes gave them the location of his office and a few places he visited often.

  Monteblanco shifted the knife in his hands, his eyes never leaving Fuentes, then moved closer to the man. Wake realized what was about to happen and pulled M
onteblanco up from Fuentes, who was crying and babbling in terror.

  “Pablo, don’t do it. It will be murder, and then you’ll have descended to their level.”

  Monteblanco regarded the quivering shape in the gutter. The knife was still clenched in his hand, next to Fuentes’ carotid artery. Wake saw the muscles in his jaw tense. Abruptly, Monteblanco exhaled loudly and walked away into the street, leaving Wake with Fuentes collapsed on the stone pavement.

  Wake took the rag and put it back into the man’s mouth, then ripped Fuentes’ shirt off and tied his hands behind him. He dragged him to a post and lashed him there. Holding a finger up to his mouth, he said, “Silencio . . .” to Fuentes, who nodded quickly. Then Wake left to find his friend.

  He caught up with him a block away. They walked briskly toward the docks.

  “You did the right thing just then, Pablo. Your father was a man of peace. You did tonight what he would have wanted.”

  “Yes, perhaps, Peter. But it was not what I wanted.”

  Wake put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know, Pablo. I know . . .” Wake continued, trying to change the subject, “And now we need to get back to the ship and report. This situation is far worse than I thought. What a mess this place is in. Is this entire city sick, Pablo? Is no one here decent?”

  They were at the old docks by the Muelle de Los Pegasos. Monteblanco stopped and surveyed the scene around them.

  “It is especially ironic, Peter, how far this city has sunk in human nature. It was once the most famous city in all of Latin America for its pride and honor. In fact, the Great Liberator, Bolivar himself, gave this city a name of honor because of the thousands who died here for independence. I am afraid that he would not recognize it today by its behavior, for it has lost all of its honor.” Tears filled Monteblanco’s eyes as he turned to his friend. “And do you know what Bolivar named this city, Peter?”

  Wake shook his head in silence, transfixed by the grief welling up in Monteblanco for the lost honor of two generations earlier.

  “He proclaimed it La Heroica. The Heroic City. It was the model for all our people, everywhere.”

  Monteblanco sighed and descended the steps to a dory where an old man waited to ferry sailors out to their ships after a night ashore. The Venezuelan uttered one last comment as he sat in the stern of the dory and waved his arm over the harbor of Cartagena.

  “And just look what greed and avarice have made it now.”

  25

  Moskito Coast

  Captain Russell threaded Plover through the maze of reefs along the Nicaraguan coast carefully, for the charts were notoriously inaccurate and the currents confusing. At Punta Perla, Green Corn, and Blowing Rock he was met with distrust from the Anglos, who felt abandoned by their mother country, and apathy from the Indians, who couldn’t care less which whites claimed the coast—they suffered under all of them. Both the Anglos and the Indians the British encountered had heard of the yanqui pirate, speaking of him with respect in their voices, but none of them had seen or knew anything in detail. Russell did not believe them at all.

  When he questioned them further about the American originally fighting as a mercenary for them in ’66 and ’67, they feigned ignorance, even when he told them he had proof. He had the strong impression that they were in fear of the American’s wrath. But still, he could get no one to talk, so it was only his impression.

  Russell documented each encounter along the coast, made his required promises and gifts, and moved on down the coast to Bluefields. At that larger settlement, almost a town, he found more enthusiasm for the Royal Navy, particularly among the Anglo merchants. The animosity against the Nicaraguans was palpable because of their exorbitant taxes, which had never been the case under the British. The local Nicaraguan government tax collector had to be guarded by a company of troops brought in from Managua, and all of them were regarded as occupiers by the local English.

  The Anglos were upset that the British had given them to the national government and ended the official recognition of their fledgling colony of Moskitia in 1867, but were encouraged by the potential for a return to the empire represented by Plover’s visit.

  Russell then heard the locals’ scheming—a canal could be dug starting just south of Bluefields at the San Juan River, going up to Lake Nicaragua and crossing over to the Pacific. British and American surveyors were already plotting out elevations and routes for competing companies, and there was eager speculation on how much money could be made by everyone from a canal. However, the merchants told him, in the current political climate the construction of a canal couldn’t be done as the situation was just too confused by various treaty limitations, financial concerns, and the Managuan government’s corruption. But, they said, if only the British Crown would reassert control over the coast, then perhaps the political climate would be stable enough to allow the project.

  Russell found himself becoming more intrigued by the idea. It would be one of the wonders of the world, saving shippers months of time and sailors the perils of rounding the Horn. He now understood the glint in the eye of the foreign office man at the Admiralty House that night. The possibilities were incredible, but he knew also that he was on dangerous ground and must not give the Nicaraguan authorities on the coast any reason to be suspicious of his presence. To them he repeated his explanation that he was merely there to search for pirates, a scourge that affected them all. The Nicaraguans, plagued by American and British interlopers for decades, did not appear convinced.

  At Bluefields he also found more information about El Gringo Loco, who the Anglos said was based to their south, in Costa Rica. The man had not raided their town, but they were concerned he might in the future and wished Plover good hunting in her endeavor to end the problem. Piracy was very bad for business, especially business at a potential entry port to a transoceanic canal.

  Plover resumed steaming south and entered the anchorage at San Juan del Norte, a small town with a Nicaraguan government outpost that was most definitely not happy to see the Royal Navy. The town was situated at the mouth of the strategically important San Juan River, future gateway to a canal and a very sensitive area for the Managua government.

  Russell spent most of his time explaining to government officials that he was merely looking for the gringo pirates and had no designs on controlling the coast—a goodwill mission. The commanding officer at the outpost looked doubtful at the explanation.

  Russell asked about pirates in the area. The Nicaraguans reported that yes, the gringo loco had been there, originally as a fighter for the Moskitia rebels—who were mainly British settlers trying to add a colony to the empire, they added cynically—but he was now a pirate stealing anyone’s cargoes and killing men in the process. His last raid was a month earlier. They would kill him if they found him, but as they had no real ships of their own, they had to wait until he attacked a coastal town and hope they could get there in time. Russell thanked the officials and wished them good fortune. They merely stared at him and said good day. The British captain knew they had seen through the ruse, and Managua, and eventually Washington, would be receiving a report of his presence and activities.

  Plover left the Byzantine world of Nicaragua and made her way southeast into Costa Rica with Russell feeling relieved that the covert part of his mission was completed and that now he was getting closer to his true quarry, El Gringo Loco. He also noticed that the further south he went, the more victims he found and the more information he received about the pirates.

  Evidently, the international renegade had been moving his hideous operations steadily toward Panama, Russell surmised as he studied the chart before him. Perhaps we and our American cousins, and the Spanish allies, can arrange a surprise of our own for this outlaw when we find him. That is more in keeping with the Royal Navy’s mission, Captain Russell decided, reflecting back on his attempt to parley intelligence al
ong the Moskito coast. Yes, he thought, fighting is what we do best.

  ***

  Sirena was not welcome anywhere, Captain Toledo was finding out. They had met with the Indians, who traditionally had favored the Anglos over the Hispanics, and gotten nothing from them. Toledo had not expected much, but hoped he would receive a little information about El Gringo Loco. That the Indians were protecting the man who had fought for their area’s independence was obvious, and it made Toledo wonder why.

  Had the gringo been decent to them? If so, his reputation for inhuman acts must have started after he left the Indians. It was something he would keep in his mind.

  When Toledo’s ship finally made her way down the Nicaraguan coast, filled with treacherous reefs, to Bragman’s Bluff, they came into contact with the first English. Not the sophisticated men of Jamaica, quite the opposite. The settlers on this coast were the rough descendents of the famous buccaneers of the Caribbean, of Drake and Morgan and Vernon—all of whom the Spanish-speaking peoples in the region considered pirates.

  So Toledo was not surprised to get little information from them too, more of a polite curiosity. It had been many years since a Spanish warship had visited that particular coast and the obvious reason why was not readily accepted.

  When Sirena arrived at Punta Perla he noticed a difference in the reception. The Anglos seemed amused, the Indians perplexed. Finally, a Nicaraguan told the Spanish Captain the reason. A British ship had just been there, inquiring about the relationship of the Anglos to the central government and if they wanted the home country to come back into control of the coast. Obviously some sort of English plot was going on, the Nicaraguan opined, then went on to tell Toledo the name of the British ship, the Plover. Toledo acknowledged the information but kept his reaction silent about the British activities.

  At Bluefields, Great Corn, and Monkey Point it was the same story. The Anglos were polite, but with a cocky edge, and eventually a local Nicaraguan would tell of the Plover’s visit a week earlier and her promises to the local English. Toledo also heard of British plans for a canal, possibly in competition against the Americans, which was in violation of the treaty they all signed.