Renegade 32

by Lou Cameron

  ‘Pooh, for why would los Anglos wish for to kidnap an innocent pearl fisherwoman? La Señorita is not British. She told me her people no longer live under any flag but their own. I have seen it. It is a blue banner with a white cruz de San Andreas on it, see?’

  ‘Yeah well, I think the Royal Navy might have something more like a Union Jack in mind. That’s why we have to get there before Flora talks.’

  ‘Pooh, La Señorita will never tell them the location of New Dunmore. She is muy macho for a white woman!’

  He sighed and said, ‘I noticed that. But Greystoke of British Intelligence is a very persuasive guy. He won’t torture her. He won’t have to. He’s even gotten me to make deals with him, and I know the son of a bitch!’

  Maria looked unconvinced. She asked, ‘For why do los Anglos wish for to bother the whites around New Dunmore now? La Señorita told us their old country gave us all claims in the Gulf of Darien long ago, in the grandfather times.’

  He said, ‘Let me guess. You and Conchita dive for this pearler, right?’

  ‘Si, when we are not acting as crew for La Señorita. What of it?’

  ‘I stayed with pearl diving Indians down in the San Blas Islands a while back. They had a mess of pearls. Even the little kids wore ’em.’

  ‘San Blas are muy malo. They eat people and tell many lies!’

  ‘I didn’t see ’em eating anyone, and I saw their pearls with my own eyes. They were white pearls – all of them. I’d have noticed if anyone had been sporting pink or black ones.’

  She sniffed and said, ‘Of course, you silly Yanqui. Everyone knows the pearls of the Caribbean are white. For to find colored pearls one must dive on the Pacifico side, mostly in the Gulf of Panama, for the best Oriental pearls. Again, so what?’

  ‘So at least a quarter of Flora’s pearls were Orientals. She said she’d gotten them from someone else to sell. Have you ever been across the skinny isthmus to dive, Maria?’

  ‘No. Why should I? There are plenty of pearls on this side, and the jungles between the seas are muy pelegro.’

  ‘Not by boat. What if there’s a way to steam up the Atrato through the spinache to where, say, some other uncharted river runs west to the Pacific? Rivers get sort of confused in lowland jungle, you know. A boatman who knows the way can work from the headwaters of the Orinoco to the Amazon basin. I know because I’ve done it and, Jesus, what if all this time they’ve been trying to punch through the hills of Panama there’s a sea-level way through the unexplored tangle further south?’

  ‘I do not know. I have never been all the way up El Atrato. What could los Anglos do if there was such a route? The land, though unexplored, is claimed by Colombia, no?’

  He smiled thinly and answered, ‘Want to bet? If Queen Vickie was willing to share a handy-dandy ready-built shortcut to the Pacific with her American cousins, I imagine old Cleveland could overlook the Monroe Doctrine just this once.’ He steered closer into the trades as they began to freshen a bit and added, ‘Yeah, that has to be Greystoke’s angle. The local English-speaking squatters used to be British subjects, after all, and it seems only right the mother country would want them back in the fold if they had something that yummy to tax! I hope I’m wrong. I hope your mistress was just snatched by simple criminals.’

  Maria gasped and asked, ‘How can you say such a terrible thing! Banditos would surely kill her, or worse!’

  ‘Nothing’s worse than getting killed. A lady I rescued from Apache told me, one time. I said I was sorry about Flora. But if the Brits beat this slow tub to New Dunmore, a whole mess of people could be in trouble. For one thing, no royal governor’s about to let you Ciboney run around bare-ass, and both Floras told me the rustic whites down there value their own freedoms. So no kidding, Maria, why don’t you help us find the place before the Brits do?’

  She pouted and said, ‘Never. I was sworn to secrecy when I signed aboard this vessel.’

  Before they could argue further, Gaston and Conchita came topside to rejoin them, carrying tin plates of stew and a pot of coffee, bless their hearts.

  As they all dug in, Gaston said, ‘I find I can get this pretty savage to help if I point and growl a lot. But she cries every time I point at her adorable shaven species of snatch.’

  Captain Gringo told him to knock it off, in English. The Indian girls must have known that trick too. Conchita was tree frogging at Maria about something, and they both stared thoughtfully at the crotch of his pants from time to time. Gaston took a seat on the far side of Captain Gringo, ate a few bites, staring absently astern, then swore and said, ‘Regard, behind us, and tell me that is only a species of spouting whale on the horizon!’

  Captain Gringo turned to stare soberly aft, spotted the same steamer plume, and growled, ‘Thanks a lot, Maria. How long have you known we were being tailed?’

  She shrugged and replied demurely, ‘You did not ask me. I hope it is a gunboat. When men are hanged, it is said they die with an erection, and I can hardly wait. Conchita says you have a huge one.’

  ‘Sweet kid,’ sighed Captain Gringo as Gaston suggested, ‘Do we make a run for the shallows to our lee or try to outrun a steam screw with these all too visible sails, Dick?’

  ‘Neither. If she’s a gunboat, we’re already in range of her fire. If not, she ought to pass us by soon enough. Let’s just pretend we haven’t made her out for now. She’s more likely to make a hostile move if we start acting suspicious, and shit, we don’t even have a rifle aboard to fire back at her! Did you look for those charts I asked you to?’

  ‘Oui. There are none. Perhaps Flora navigates with the help of Druid spells, hein?’

  ‘More likely she brought along her charts in her luggage. That’s where I'd keep them if I didn’t want anyone else making a copy while I was ashore, and shit, that means whoever has her has any charts showing the way to New Dunmore!’

  Gaston swallowed more coffee as he stared soberly aft at the distant smoke plume for a time. Then he said, ‘I do not think so. If the other side knows the way, why would they be following this sailing ketch at a crawl instead of simply steaming past us full steam ahead?’ Captain Gringo nodded and replied, ‘When you’re right, you’re right. Try it this way. Flora might not need the location of her home port even if she carries charts showing the way to other ports along this coast, right?’

  ‘True, but is that any reason to grin like an idiot? If that is Greystoke following us, I see nothing to be amused about. The cochon is très tough, and there is no way on earth we can shake him off our all too slow tail, hein?’

  ‘Not in broad-ass daylight. So here’s the plan. We’ll hold this course until sunset, pretending we’re innocent or blind. Then, as soon as he can’t see these fucking red sails against the night sky—’

  ‘Ah oui, say no more, my sneaky child,’ Gaston cut in, adding, ‘Skipping our petite keel across the reefs of the shoreward shallows sounds like fun, unless we wind up shipwrecked in the dark off a très unfriendly mangrove shore. If we can find a cove to put into among the mangroves...’

  ‘I thought you said we both had the same plan,’ Captain Gringo cut in, adding, ‘Finish your grub and go below for some sack time for now. I’ll hand this helm * back to you around noon, okay?’

  ‘Merci, I need a suntan anyway. Conchita here seems to be wary of white men. I tried to explain to her that French loving is the best, but alas, the language barrier...’

  ‘Are you going to talk or eat, goddamnit?’

  Gaston finished his coffee, rose, and said, ‘Both, with any luck. Then he grabbed Conchita’s brown wrist with his free hand and led her, protesting in tree frog, below.

  As soon as they were alone again, Maria asked, ‘Oh, is he going to rape her now?’

  Captain Gringo grinned crookedly and said, ‘I’m not sure just how you’d define old Gaston’s approach, but he seems to find it effective.’

  Maria got up to follow the other couple below. Captain Gringo started to order her back, then shrugged and
concentrated on more important matters. The steamer ghosting just over the horizon behind them wasn’t moving closer or falling back. He couldn’t see her no doubt bare masthead against the horizon haze at this range, but he assumed they had a lookout keeping the tops of his red sails in view as they tailed Murrighinn. The smoke was white and thin. They were trying to keep it that way by running with as little fuel as possible, the pricks. He wondered if they really thought he was too stupid to look aft at least once in a while. Maybe, since it was the best they could do, they were just hoping a lot too.

  Maria came back, sort of blushing all over despite her tawny complexion. She sat down beside him again to demand, ‘You must do something! That nasty old Frenchman is doing terrible things to poor Conchita!’

  ‘How do you know? Did you peek?’

  ‘I did not have to. Conchita told me, through the panels, when I demanded for to know what she was giggling so about! Your friend is a sex pervert! He and Conchita are committing crimes against nature right now, this very minute, and you must make them stop!’

  ‘Did Conchita ask you to run for help, Maria?’

  The Indian girl looked away and murmured, ‘Not exactly. She told me to go away, as a matter of fact. But is it not obvious she has been driven out of her mind by his perverse lust?’

  ‘A lot of dames seem to be. But don’t worry. Once he gets her warmed up with that French lesson, I feel sure they’ll settle down to old-fashioned fornication.’

  ‘Oh, may Atabeya curse you so that even when they hang you it will never be possible for you to get an erection again! You are both monsters! Listen! I can hear them all the way back here!’

  Captain Gringo could too. There wasn’t much privacy aboard a forty footer, and old Conchita was yelling like a tree frog in heat as Gaston did something awful, or something she liked an awful lot, up in the crew’s cubby. He recognized the same word in her babble and asked Maria who the hell Atabeya might be. The Ciboney swore in her own lingo before saying grudgingly, ‘Atabeya is the goddess of love, of course. But how could Conchita love a dirty old man who puts his tongue in a woman’s private parts?’

  ‘Maybe it’s an acquired taste,’ he suggested.

  She didn’t get it. She moaned, ‘Oh, now he is really doing it to her and he is much taller than he appears, too!’

  ‘Is Conchita complaining about that or bragging about it? All I can make out are confusing shouts and giggles.’

  Maria dimpled despite herself and said, ‘Alas, I fear she is showing off, the wicked thing. Usually, I get the men first, for because I am so bonita, so I do believe she is trying for to tease me.’

  Captain Gringo glanced aft at the mysterious smoke plume, had another look at the sails above, and said, ‘Well, we can’t go below and leave this helm completely unattended. But I guess if I lashed the rudder as is, she’d hold steady for a while.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, you brute? Do you think I wish for to have your wicked tongue in my private places?’

  ‘My tongue wasn’t what I had in mind. Why don’t you go below and fetch us some seat cushions. We wouldn’t want you to get splinters in your bare behind, you know.’ Maria sprang to her feet, but stamped a bare foot and said, ‘I am going below indeed, for to lock myself away where neither of you wicked hombres can get at me! I curse you, curse you, curse you, and the opeyas of my ancestors curse you too!’

  He guessed she meant it as she flounced away, naked as a jay, damn her sweet hide. He shrugged and lit a claro as they sailed on. How bored could a guy get with a good smoke and smoke chasing him hull down on the horizon?

  Bored as hell, he saw, as nothing happened for a while. Then Maria came back, carrying two blue canvas seat cushions. She said, ‘I hate you, hate you, hate you, but a woman has feelings, and Conchita keeps boasting and boasting about one orgasm after the other, so..

  ‘Just spread that padding on the bottom of the cockpit while I lash the helm, doll. I hate to hear a grown woman cry.’

  ‘Very well, but I warn you, I shall expect you to stop as soon as you satisfy me once, and after that I shall never speak to you again! This voyage has turned out terrible. Nobody said anything about us getting sexually abused by pirates, damnit!’

  A few minutes later, aboard the H.M.S. Wappentake, a junior officer entered the lounge, where the skipper and Greystoke of British Intelligence were lounging with gin and tonics in hand, to report, ‘Lookout just spotted something rather odd aboard that ketch ahead. There seems to be nobody at the helm.’

  ‘Has she changed course?’ asked the skipper.

  The younger bridge officer shook his head and tried not to grin as he replied, ‘She’s sailing steady as she goes, with the helm lashed. But you’ll never believe why!’

  The rather snippy Greystoke asked, ‘Well, are you going to tell us or do we have to guess?’

  The junior officer smirked and said, ‘Lookout says the big one, the renegade Yank called Captain Gringo, is screwing one of those Indian girls in the cockpit, out in front of God and everyone!’

  ‘How romantic,’ sniffed Greystoke as the skipper laughed and said, ‘I doubt they know God and the R.N. is watching, then. I was right. The horny buggers haven’t made out our thin smoke after all, eh what?’

  Greystoke looked pained, took a sip from his glass, and said, ‘Don’t be an ass. I know Dick Walker, and he doesn’t miss much. He knows we’re following him.’

  ‘You mean the rotter simply doesn’t give a damn?’

  ‘He no doubt gives a damn indeed. As an old pro, he knows there’s nothing he can do about us at the moment, and as a healthy young man, he takes his pleasures where he finds them. He and the little Frenchman mean to sail on as if they have the sea to themselves for now. Naturally, at sunset, they’ll make a dash for the shore and seek a hideout. So here’s what we'll do. The moment we lose sight of those red sails, we’ll simply drop anchor and wait for more light on the subject. After all, how can they slip out to sea again with those perishing red sails for us to steer by, eh what?’

  By sunset, Maria had decided maybe Captain Gringo wasn’t a pirate after all and had even volunteered to cook supper. He didn’t press her further for directions to New Dunmore, for now. They were still a fair sea voyage from the Gulf of Darien, and she’d already forgotten what she’d said about only wanting to come once. He told Gaston it was far too early to suggest swapping partners, so the four of them were behaving themselves in the cockpit, sailing the same course, when the sun flashed green and winked out like an Edison bulb, as tropic suns tend to do when the trades have swept the sky clear of all clouds by late afternoon.

  The big tropic stars of course winked on all at once, as if someone had pulled a switch behind the black velvet overhead. But the moon wouldn’t rise for hours that night, and despite the starry sky, the sea was now black ink, this far out with no chop. So the big Yank at the helm tossed his cigar overboard and told Gaston to do the same as he made a sharp change of course toward the invisible lee shore. At the same time, he ordered his pretty deck hands forward to lower the mainsail. The whole point of a ketch rig was that the jib and spanker balanced fore and aft to sail her slow as well as handy under reduced canvas. Nobody with the brains of a gnat wanted to approach an unknown shore fast in the dark. The ground swells were rolling in gently and no breakers would be sounding-off ahead as the mangroves sopped up the few waves like a long skinny sponge.

  While they still had a way to go, Captain Gringo turned the helm over to Gaston and made some other sensible moves. He dragged the anchor aft. Then he dropped a bucket over the transom on a long line to serve as a drogue that would slow them further and hold the stern steady against the prevailing current. The sails, catching the wind at another angle, allowed them to sort of crab toward the shoreline and the reefs that were sure to lie just off it.

  Then, having done all he could at sea level, Captain Gringo climbed the shrouds of the tall bare foremast to see what he could see. He could see a hell of a lot more,
with a seagull view of the already shoaling water below. The warm brine was faintly phosphorescent almost anywhere at any time this far south. Tonight, the microscopic critters that glowed ghostly green when upset by disturbances in the water didn’t seem to interested in the surface. But as always, a film of phosphorescence clung to the weeds and rocks on the bottom. So, as he stared soberly down, he could see they were crabbing across a shallower bottom than he’d expected, this far out. Brighter lines of cold green fire indicated reefs where the water upwelling over jagged coral caused the seagoing firebugs to glow more constantly. He had to call down to Gaston at the helm from time to time. He did so gently as possible, knowing how sound carried over water and not knowing where in blue blazes that other vessel was. But Gaston was able to hear him well enough to guide them around the bigger lumps on the bottom. They navigated into a darker lane, which could have been the offshore channel of a tidal creek.

  Captain Gringo had his crew haul in the drogue and conned them along the safe passage trending shoreward. This gave him time to scan the starry horizon to windward from time to time, and sure enough, a star out there seemed to wink on and off from time to time. So Captain Gringo muttered, ‘Twinkle twinkle and if that wasn’t masts and funnels between me and thee, God sure makes funny stars, lately!’

  Another horizon star winked out and stayed that way. Captain Gringo took a fix on it from the more normally behaving stars above it and had to go back to guiding Gaston along the natural channel for a time. Then the fairy glow of the bottom ahead revealed a big lump of something, probably a wreck, blocking the way.

  He called down to Gaston, ‘Heave to and drop the mud hook! We’re going to have to think about this some more!’

  He turned his gaze seaward again. The missing star was still missing. The sons of bitches had dropped their own anchor!

  He glanced down as he heard three splashes. One, as the circle of green glow indicated, had been Gaston shoving their own stern hook over the transom. There were two smaller patches of ghostly green off the lee bow below and, even as he watched, dotted lines of phosphorescence began to bee-line for the shore as Gaston called, ‘Regardez! Those mad Ciboney have leaped over the board!’