by Drew McGunn
When the door opened, Will was sitting on a bunk in the small cabin he shared with Javier Morales. Sergeant Jensen had joined him and the young lieutenant as they examined a borrowed map of the Isthmus of Panama.
As he followed the midshipman up to the deck, Will’s mind was still analyzing the map. The isthmus was barely fifty miles wide but consisted of some of the worst jungles and swamps in Central America, as he recalled from the history he had studied before the transference. While a railroad had been built a few years after the California gold rush, the construction of the Panama Canal had been a harrowing experience for the men who created it. As he stepped onto the deck, Will recalled the French had failed in their attempt to breach the isthmus and had lost as many as twenty thousand workers during their unsuccessful effort. And if, as he suspected, Charlie’s captors had taken his son across the isthmus, there was no choice but to follow.
Captain Jones handed him a spyglass and pointed toward a ship riding at anchor in the harbor. Wishing for his binoculars, Will looked through the monocular and found the American flagged schooner. Rope swings hung over the side of the ship. Men, clinging to the swings were working on the hull.
“What are they doing?”
Jones said, “It looks like they’ve just finished repairing the hull. Go too long without scraping the barnacles from a ship, and they can foul the bottom so bad that it slows you down to a crawl.” He offered a half smile, “You probably got lucky. If the captain of the Orion hadn’t decided to use Panama City for repairs, he’d have been gone for a while.”
Will glowered at the distant ship. “We’ll have to pay him a visit and thank him for waiting.”
Jones offered a warm smile. “I think we can arrange that. Let’s discuss our options in my cabin.”
Windows along the ship’s stern let ample light into the captain’s cabin. Compared to the tiny cabins for the ship’s other officers, the captain’s cabin, despite its low ceiling, felt palatial. A table was fixed in the middle of the cabin, large enough for the captain and his officers to fit around. With just the two of them, the table felt wide open.
Jones took a chair at the head of the table and said, “It’s a good thing the Orion is a US flagged ship. We’ll be well within our rights to search it under maritime law.”
Will flashed a nasty grin, “When me and my boys get ahold of the bastard captaining that ship, I’ll make him tell me exactly where Charlie’s been taken.”
Jones raised his hand, as though flagging Will to stop. “Let’s not invite more trouble than necessary, General. I can justify a search under the law, but to let six angry Texians board a US flagged ship, I’d rather not have to explain that if things get ugly.”
Will frowned. His instincts were to race ahead. His men were professionals. In a firefight, he’d trust them above the sailors and Marines of the USS Cyane. When he told Jones that, the captain shook his head and said, “I’d feel the same way if I was in your place. However, on my ship, I’m god. We’ll do this my way.”
Will bit back an angry retort, realizing the US naval officer was right. He didn’t have to like it, but he and his men were guests. “What do you have in mind, Captain?”
“I’ll send over a squad of Marines under the command of Lieutenant Chambers. Pick one of your men, and the two of you can accompany them. Be ready to go at dawn.”
Will’s voice couldn’t hide his disappointment, “We could be ready to go within the next hour. Why wait?”
Jones walked over to the stern windows and looked out on the falling twilight. “How often would you order a night attack, General?”
Will grimaced in chagrin. He’d not, unless it was absolutely necessary. “I take your point. Why take unnecessary risks? We’ll be better rested at dawn, anyway.”
Jones slapped him on the back, “That’s the idea. In the meantime, I’ll make sure the night watches keep an eye on the Orion. I doubt they’ll try to leave, but if they do, we’ll be on them before they clear the harbor.”
The next morning, Will sat in the Cyane’s longboat as it sliced through the harbor’s still water. Next to him sat Jesse Running Creek. The young Cherokee Ranger examined his revolvers again. While the percussion caps were waterproof, the black powder charges were anything but. Will approved of the young man’s diligence. The boat was crewed by a handful of sailors, the Marines crowded the inside seats, their bayoneted rifles pointing to the sky.
Will tugged at the revolver he wore on his belt. He had checked it before climbing into the boat. As agreed, he would scramble aboard the Orion last. Will respected the American captain’s calm demeanor and desire to avoid escalating a high-risk encounter.
The boat thumped against the schooner’s hull, and Will watched the Marines with their muskets slung on their backs, climb the ship’s ladder. By the time Will and Running Creek reached the deck, the Marines had their weapons pointing at the ship’s crew. From below decks, a Marine half carried, half propelled a man before him. Shaving lather covered his face.
“Lieutenant, here’s the ship’s master.”
Lieutenant Chambers, wearing a dark blue fatigue jacket of the Marine waited until Palmer was standing before him. Once the Marine let go of him, Palmer wiped the lather from his face and glared at the officer, “What it is the meaning of this, Captain?” His voice echoed across the ship.
“That’s Lieutenant Chambers, sir,” the Marine officer stressed his rank. “By orders of Captain Jones of the USS Cyane, I’m to inspect your ship to confirm you’re in compliance with public law nine-dash twenty-two.”
Palmer wore a look of incredulity. “In Panama? I ain’t ever shipped slaves aboard the Orion. You can search my ship until Gabriel blows his horn and you’ll find nothing.”
Chambers waved a couple of Marines to check the hold while the rest watched Orion’s crew. Will took that as his cue, and approached Palmer and said, “You wouldn’t happen to have any information about four pirates with a redheaded boy in tow?”
Palmer’s eyes grew wide at the question before he looked down and studied his shoes, “No, why?”
Before Will could continue his questioning one of the Marines checking the hold tossed a long wooden rod and a coil of rope onto the deck. When the rod clattered onto the planking, Palmer flinched. A moment later a tin plate and a battered cup landed next to them.
From the hold, a voice echoed, “Hey, Lieutenant, someone was kept down here. There’s a bucket of waste here.”
Will lashed out, striking Palmer in the nose, knocking the stunned man to the deck. “What the hell do you know about my son?”
Palmer’s eyes were crossed, and flecks of blood in his spittle covered his chin. As he regained awareness of his situation, he stared daggers at Will.
Will reached to grab Palmer and found Running Creek’s iron grip on his arm, “General.”
The words barely reached him as rage blurred his vision. This piece of filth had been aware of Charlie’s capture, and he had provided his kidnappers with a means to escape Los Angeles.
The Marine lieutenant stepped between him and Palmer, “Sir, look to your hand, you appear to have cut it.”
Palmer scrambled to his feet, “Are you going to let him hit me? I’m an American citizen.”
The officer turned on Palmer, “The deck’s slick, mind your step. It’d be a shame if you fell again.”
With a firm grip on Will’s arm, the young lieutenant guided him toward the ship’s port side. “A wooden stave, ropes, and human waste in the hold. It’s Captain Jones’ call, General Travis, but we’re either looking at slavery or piracy.”
Will wasn’t so sure about either, but he was sure Palmer knew more about his son than just the rod and rope on the deck. “Do you think either will stick?” Will said.
The other man shrugged, “Maybe, but what matters is what the Orion’s master believes.” He turned away from Will and ordered his men to secure Palmer. They eventually shoved a gag in his mouth when he wouldn’t stop cursing them. A cor
poral’s guard was left on board the Orion, and Will and Running Creek returned to the Cyane with the rest of the Marines and their prisoner.
Once back on board the US warship, Will watched the hapless Palmer dragged before Captain Jones. Will wanted nothing more than to beat the answers from the wretched man, but the authority Jones held aboard his ship was absolute.
“Mr. Palmer, my officer tells me that you’ve been transporting slaves in your hold. You realize that subjects your ship to seizure by the United States Navy.”
Palmer rubbed his jaw, before he said, “I ain’t ever trafficked in negro slaves. The risk just ain’t worth it. My ship is my livelihood. Why’d I risk that?”
Jones paced in front of his prisoner, eying him each time he turned around. “If not slavery, then you’ve aided pirates.”
Palmer tried to say something, and with his open palm, Jones slapped him across the face. “Shut up.”
He stopped and stood toe to toe with his prisoner, “Which is it? Did you transport a slave from Los Angeles or did you consort with pirates, who raided and killed in Los Angeles and help them flee justice?”
Fear filled Palmer’s eyes as he stammered, “I didn’t do either of them.”
Jones said, “Piracy it is.”
He ordered a rope thrown over one of the yardarms before he turned back to Palmer. “Slave running is illegal. If we caught you trafficking in slaves, we’d haul your ass to Newport and convene a trial. If found guilty the government would seize your ship.”
He waited until both ends of the rope snaked across the deck. “Piracy, though. That’s different. Pirates I can take care of myself. Maritime law allows me to try and execute you here and now. I have the testimony the men you aided killed a former United States congressman and kidnapped his grandson and used your ship to escape. That’s piracy, plain and simple.”
A boson’s mate tied a noose on one end of the rope while Jones spoke. “Do you have anything you wish to say before sentence is carried out?”
Will saw the horror in Palmer’s eyes, “Dear God, man, you can’t be serious. I didn’t do anything other than take a few passengers to Panama City. You can’t hang me for that. I had no idea they had killed some muckety-muck.”
Jones frowned, “They killed David Crockett, man.”
Blubbering, with tears streaking down his weathered face, Palmer said, “I had no idea. They didn’t tell me. They just said, they’d pay me good to take them to Panama and ask no questions about the boy.”
Jones waved the bosun’s mate forward, and the sailor looped the noose around Palmer’s neck. “I swear, I didn’t do anything. The man you want is Obadiah Jenkins and his crew.”
The sailor tightened the noose, and as the hemp rope scratched his neck, Palmer said, “Jenkins and his men took the boy into Panama City. I was curious, so I had one of my crew keep an eye on them. They hired a guide to take them across the isthmus.”
“When?”
“Heaven help me, it’s been almost three months.”
Jones motioned for the bosun’s mate to remove the noose and Palmer collapsed to the sloop’s deck, sobbing uncontrollably. He beckoned Will over, “Is that enough information to go on?”
Will was stunned at how quickly Palmer had crumbled under the threat of hanging for piracy. “Uh, yes. I thought we’d have to beat the information from him. But, my God, he’d have confessed to anything.”
As Jones and Will left the still sobbing Palmer on the deck, Will asked, “Would you have hung him if he hadn’t talked?”
Smiling sheepishly, Jones said, “Not unless I wanted to face a board of inquiry when this cruise is over. No United States court would have bought the slaver argument and proving Palmer was complicit in the crimes committed by his passengers would be nigh on impossible to prove. But he didn’t know that.”
Will shook his head in admiration at the naval officer. “What’ll you do with him?”
“I should toss him overboard. But, however loathsome he may be, he’s still a United States citizen, and there are forms to observe. I’ll send him back to his ship. He’ll thank his lucky stars he escaped with his life and tomorrow, I suspect he’ll take his ship to some other town that isn’t on the Pacific Squadron’s ports of call.”
Before the sun had set, Will and his companions were ashore, hunting for the guide who took Jenkins’ crew across the isthmus of Panama.
Chapter 9
8 November 1843
Will slapped his neck and looked at the mangled remains of the mosquito. Apart from an early rain shower, the day had been bright but humid. He had stopped wearing his jacket within a few hours of disembarking from the Cyane. Worse, the humidity forced him and his men to oil and clean their weapons more often. Now, five days later, their guide said they would reach Chagras in the afternoon.
Fifty miles in five days should have been easy. Will was no stranger to forced marches or long days in the saddle. But the isthmus of Panama was mostly jungle. The first three days had been hiking along a barely maintained trail until they arrived on the Chagras River. The last two had been on the river.
Will fretted about the malarial swamps they passed through. Every time he heard a buzzing near his ear he swiped at the insect. Will lost count of the mosquitos he’d killed. Unlike the men who traveled with him, he knew the cause of malaria and yellow fever. Until he had faced the prospect of traversing he had never thought about pointing Texian doctors like Ashbel Smith in the direction of the cause.
He swatted again, muttering, “If I survive this, I’ll definitely get Dr. Smith to study the damned mosquito.”
From the front of the canoe, Running Creek said, “Supposedly bear grease keeps the mosquitos away.” He whacked at his exposed neck, “But the stuff smells something awful.”
Will steered the canoe around a log, “I don’t suppose you thought to bring any?”
The Cherokee chuckled as he dug his paddle into the water, “Sorry, General. Left it in my wigwam.”
Will laughed. The Cherokee in Texas lived in villages similar to their white neighbors. Over the past few weeks, Will had gotten to know his traveling companions. Running Creek’s father was a prosperous merchant, with a house more substantial than Will’s place in San Antonio.
Thinking of San Antonio, his thoughts went to Becky and his kids. He missed Liza and little David only slightly less than he missed his wife. He hoped that things were going well for her, as he tracked his son’s kidnappers halfway across the continent. He knew his pay would stop. Lorenzo had been in such a pique, he had no doubt his pay at the end of September would be the last. But he had left a sizable balance in the Commerce Bank, which she would be able to draw upon as needed. Even so, he offered up a prayer for her wellbeing.
The lead canoe drifted to the shore, and their guide climbed out. Will beached his canoe next to the guide’s. He watched as the old, leather-skinned Panamanian called out, “We have a couple of more hours ahead. This is as good a place as any to stretch our legs.”
Will mentally translated his words. He didn’t speak Spanish often enough to gain Running Creek’s fluency. He resented the guide’s frequent stops along the river. What he wanted was to hasten toward the town of Chagras. What he needed to do, he set off for the tree line.
As Will walked back toward the canoes, the guide stepped out from the tree line and waved toward him, “Señor, you asked about the guides who led the men you’re following. I think I found them.”
Will followed the old guide back into the tree line. A few yards into the dense jungle Will came upon a shallow grave. Animals had disturbed the site. There were skeletal remains of two bodies.
In careful Spanish, Will said, “How do you know these were the guides?”
With a look of distaste, his guide knelt by the grave. He pulled a knife and used it to shift a bit of cloth away from the neck of one of the bodies. There was a small medallion made of iron on a chain. He slid it over the head and set it at Will’s feet.
“
I’d recognize that anywhere. It’s St. George, the patron saint of explorers. I gave this to my nephew, Alessandro on his sixteenth birthday.”
Will shuddered. He was no expert, but the bones gave up the trauma of the men’s deaths. The guide said, “The men who took your son, they are the same men who killed my cousin and his son.” His voice shook with emotion. “Find the men who did this and kill them.”
The rest of the trip into the portside town of Chagras was uneventful, but the empty sockets staring back at him from their disturbed grave bothered Will. What did this mean for Charlie? The men who kidnapped his son had killed his father-in-law for no discernable reason. Now, when they were within spitting distance of Chagras, they murdered their guides. The escalating behavior of Charlie’s kidnappers left Will sick to his stomach.
Was one of their number a deranged homicidal maniac? Will wanted to dismiss the idea. But the evidence was too compelling to ignore. By the time he had paid off the guide, he was ready to find a ship and sail off in pursuit. The problem was there were no ships in port.
***
Will shaded his eyes from the sun as he scanned the houses along the harbor. They were thatch-roofed, wooden shacks. He frowned as he watched young children splashing in the water where the Chagres River flowed into the Caribbean. Their mothers watched them as they washed laundry. His thoughts turned to Charlie. Where was he now? He burned to know where the murderers had taken his son.
That they had come this way was undisputed. The impoverished town’s harbormaster had confirmed their departure two months before. The redhaired youth had stood out in the harbor master’s recollection. Will replayed the scene, “Señor, they arrived without a guide and stayed long enough to take passage on a ship to Havana.”
Will shook his head, his eyes burning at the memory. Worse, there were no ships in the harbor to ferry him and his companions after Charlie’s abductors. Despite the harbormaster’s insistence on Chagres’ importance to the trade route across the isthmus, which cut three months off the travel time around the Cape Horn on South America’s tip, there was no telling when the next ship would arrive.