Another hit, and the woman’s upper body, her great breasts swinging, surged upward. This time blood fountained around her and arced in a scarlet fan above her head.
Hattie disappeared under the water. After what seemed to Battles an eternity, she broke the surface again. But this time her left breast and arm were missing, leaving only raw meat and shards of white bone.
She sank once more, and this time she didn’t reappear.
The Lila was now far out to sea, and Battles shifted his attention to Warful.
The man had witnessed the slaughter of his lady wife, and he stood on the dock, staring out at the water, unmoving.
Durango stepped close and said something, but Warful did not react.
He kept his gaze turned to the sea, like a man staring down an empty, leaf-tossed road, waiting in vain for his lover to appear.
Battles lowered the telescope and rubbed feeling back to his eye socket. It was only then he became aware that Molly Poteet stood behind him.
“I’m sorry I saw it,” she said. “Nobody deserves to die that way.”
Battles nodded. “She surely died hard.”
The woman stood closer to the window and looked at the dock.
“What will he do now?” she said.
“I don’t know.” Battles shook his head. “He’s crazy, so I really don’t know what he’ll do.”
“The ship is gone and with it the gold,” Molly said.
“Seems like.”
The woman turned and looked at Battles. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Maybe you’ll stay on at Eugene de Montijo.”
“And do what? I’m a lawman. It’s all I know. I’d be no good at anything else.” He smiled. “Besides, I’m also an American and when my time comes I want to be planted in my own soil.”
Battles looked down at the dock. Warful still hadn’t moved, standing still, like a stone statue.
After thinking for a while, he said: “I reckon Warful will do one of two things: The death of his wife could drive him so insane, he’ll be incapable of doing anything at all.”
“And the other?” Molly asked, after a silence.
“He’ll go through with his plan to become king of this ... whatever it is.”
Battles smiled. “Of course his hired guns and King Brukwe will have something to say about that.”
“Men will fight for treasure,” Molly said.
“That’s the carrot Warful is dangling in front of them,” Battles said.
The woman smiled. “Except there is no treasure and never was.”
Molly Poteet read the puzzled expression on Battles’s face and said: “Matt, there is no King Brukwe. He died years ago and the French put their own man in his place, a small-time, crooked bureaucrat by the name of Marcel Toucey.”
The woman waved Battles into a chair at a table close to the window, and sat on the one opposite.
“All those tales you’ve heard about Brukwe being winched onto his women, or the Iron Handmaidens committing suicide to show their loyalty, is just that—sailors’ tales.”
“You mean, Toucey rules the whole shebang?”
“Yes, but under French supervision and they make him account for every cent. Eugene de Montijo is a gold mine, and Paris wants to make sure its entire cut keeps coming. The soldiers and the Iron Handmaidens are paid with French francs to keep the peace and make sure everybody pays their taxes.”
Molly pushed a stray curl of brunette hair from her forehead.
“When someone refuses to pay the French their dues, he’s put in the cage as an example to others,” she said. “But King Brukwe is a convenient scapegoat for French ruthlessness, so they’re happy to keep alive the myth that he exists.”
“Damn, that’s why there were no Afrikaners,” Battles said. “Toucey never tried to hire them. He wanted a share of the gold all right and pretended to go along with Warful’s crazy scheme, but at little risk to himself. And the reason Durango failed to find him was that he couldn’t search the palace.”
“Toucey lives in the palace all right, but not like a king. He has an office and from there he runs the port to the advantage of French West Africa.”
“The profit from slavery is dirty money,” Battles said. “I’m surprised the French accept it.”
“Officially they don’t,” Molly said, “at least as far as Europe is concerned. What happens in Africa is a whole different story. The lives of black natives don’t count for much, and slavery has always helped finance empire building.”
Battles rose, stepped to the window, and trained the glass on Warful.
The man still stood, staring out to sea. But now he’d been joined by half a dozen gunmen who were talking with Durango.
They looked like a crestfallen bunch.
“Nothing happening down there,” Battles said. “It seems like—”
The words died in his throat as feet pounded on the stairs and the door to the room burst open.
“There he is!” Hassan yelled, pointing to Battles.
Chapter 43
A Sea Chase
Matt Battles went for the gun on the windowsill, but Marcel Toucey’s voice stopped him.
“I wouldn’t, Mr. Battles,” he said. “My men can cut you down right where you stand.”
Battles’s hand froze and he turned slowly.
Marcel Toucey, flanked by two of his soldiers with bayonets fixed, stood in the middle of the floor.
“You will come with me, Mr. Battles,” the Frenchman said. “Now.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll kill you.”
Molly Poteet glared at Hassan. “You little weasel.”
“Don’t blame the boy,” Toucey said. “He is one of my spies and was only doing his duty.”
“Damn it, Toucey, the man you want is down there at the dock,” Battles said. “He plans to be king here, not me.”
“Yes, yes, I know, become king and kill all the Jews. He told me. But at the moment I need you, not Monsieur Warful.”
“Need me for what?”
“Later.” Toucey waved a hand toward the door. “Please, come with me. And you may bring your revolver, if it pleases you.”
It pleased Battles. He stuck the gun in his waistband and followed Toucey downstairs. Behind him he was aware of Molly wringing her hands and looking distraught.
For some reason Battles was happy that it wasn’t the woman who’d betrayed him.
Toucey led the way to a section of the dock that was cordoned off by at least fifty soldiers. Warful and his gunmen stood only yards away, but the Frenchman ignored them, though Battles was aware of hard stares from Durango, Lon Stuart, and others.
As for Warful, he looked neither to his left nor right, gazing out at the turquoise sea where the quick, gleaming sharks glided.
Prodded by bayonets, Battles boarded a flatiron gunboat with a massive, twelve-inch cannon mounted in the bow. There was no rigging, but twin screws could drive the boat at a steady nine knots and it carried a crew of thirty, all of them bare-chested natives with a single white officer in command.
Toucey barked a command and the gunboat cast off, her screws churning as she reversed from the dock and then pointed her bow seaward.The Frenchman beckoned Battles to join him near the cannon’s armored shield forward where the racket of the steam engines was less.
“Captain Rawlings thinks very highly of you,” Toucey said. “Or so I’m reliably informed. Is this the case?”
“We weren’t exactly huggin’ kin,” Battles said. “But we got along.”
“Good, because you will help me talk Rawlings out of this present madness and return to port.” He turned and looked at Battles. “That’s one reason I didn’t shoot you out of hand.”
“Shoot me, but let Warful go?”
“No, I’ll deal with the madman on our return.”
The Frenchman was silent for a while, studying the choppy sea ahead of him. As yet, there was n
o sign of the Lila.
Finally Toucey said: “There’s another reason I didn’t want to kill you, Mr. Battles, though I believe you are as big a rogue as Warful and the rest.”
“My good looks and sparkling personality?” Battles said, not liking this man.
“You saved the life of Rabbi Jacob Bensoussan,” Toucey said. “The old man is very dear to me and I appreciate his wisdom. He says you saved him from the madman’s rope, he and three others.”
Battles nodded. “Warful planned to hang them because they were Jews. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”
Toucey shook his head. “Where does it spring from, this hatred of Jews?”
“I can’t answer that, but in Warful’s case he says they were jealous of his business success and had him thrown out of San Francisco.”
“So he made Jews a scapegoat for his own failures?”
“Seems like.”
“Then thank God that kind of mad thinking is confined to America and will never take hold in Europe,” Toucey said.
The gunboat made fast progress, and Toucey ordered the big gun at the bow loaded, expecting he’d overhaul the Lila soon.
Despite the lowering sun, the day was hot and the sea breeze that streamed the tricolor at the stern did little to cool the deck.
An hour after the boat left port, the forward lookout took a telescope from his eye and yelled something in French and Toucey said to the officer: “Le Lieutenant Laurent, tenez-vous prêt votre fusil.”
Toucey turned to Battles. “The Lila is in sight and I ordered Laurent to stand by his gun. She’s under full sail and she’s got half a league in hand, but we’ll catch her, never fear.”
The Frenchman looked through his glass and after a moment said: “There, she’s flung aloft her royals and she’s flying fair to the wind.”
Battles scanned the horizon, but because of the haze, he saw nothing but a pale blue expanse of sea and sky.
Toucey called for more speed, but the engineer shrugged and spread his hands. The gunboat’s boiler seams were already strained, and the possibility of an explosion was an ever-present danger.
The sun hung like a copper coin in the sky and was setting fast, and Toucey kept casting worried glances at the western horizon.
The gunboat was not equipped for a night action, and if he didn’t overtake the bark soon he’d lose her in the dark.
The Lila was visible now. There was only a mile of sea between her and the gunboat, and the Frenchman did a little jig of anxiety on the deck.
“Lieutenant Laurent, can you do anything with the gun?” he said finally.
The young officer stared at the Lila, as the roughening sea threw spray over the gunboat’s bow.
“The range is extreme, sir,” Laurent said, his face streaming water. “But I’m willing to give it a try.”
“Then do it,” Toucey said.
This exchange was in French, a language Battles did not understand, but he caught the gist when Laurent barked orders and the gun crew scrambled to the cannon.
The big gun was fixed to the boat’s deck and could not be moved latterly, but it was capable of being elevated.
“Across her bow, Lieutenant, if you please,” Toucey said.
The big gun roared and the recoil almost brought the tiny gunboat to a shuddering halt.
Battles watched for the fall of shot, and a moment later saw an exclamation point of white water erupt about fifty yards abaft the Lila’s stern.
“Once again, if you please,” Toucey said. “Across her bow.”
The day shaded to lilac as the sun lowered and to the north a single star heralded the coming of night.
“You’re running out of daylight, Toucey,” Battles said.
“Never fear,” the Frenchman said. “We’ll find the range soon.”
Chapter 44
Slaughter on the Deck
The gunboat’s cannon fired again, spiking flame and sparks. The sixteen-inch ball splashed into the sea about twenty yards off the Lila’s starboard beam.
“Once again, if you please,” Toucey said.
The gun crew, soaked by flaying spray, reloaded quickly. The helmsman pointed the gunboat’s bow forward of the Lila and the cannon boomed.
This time the ball threw up a tower of water as high as the bark’s mizzen, just a few yards ahead of her bow.
It was enough.
The Lila’s royals came down as crewmen swarmed the yards. A short while later, the bark struck her colors. As the Stars and Stripes lowered, the men on the gunboat cheered.
The bark lost speed, but drifted slowly to the north, driven by the hard-blowing trade wind.
“Bring her in close,” Toucey said. “Handsomely, now.”
The gunboat approached the Lila’s starboard side, most of her native crew now carrying rifles.
When she was within hailing distance, Toucey yelled in English: “A word with Captain Rawlings, if you please.”
Men milled about on the Lila’s deck, but Rawlings didn’t show at the rail. Throttled back to a crawl, the gunboat rocked in the rising sea and Battles spread his legs wide as he fought to keep his balance on the heaving deck.
The light was almost gone, the sun now a fast-fading memory.
Toucey stood at the gunboat’s bow, cupped his hands to his mouth, his head thrown back. “Prepare to be boarded,” he yelled.
Battles saw it coming.
But he was stunned by its audacity. Or lunacy.
The starboard swivel gun on the quarterdeck was manned by Judah Rawlings and a seaman. And it was trained on the gunboat.
“Down!” Battles yelled.
He dived for the deck just as the gun fired.
A round of canister swept the boat deck. Iron balls the size of walnuts ricocheted off steel and embedded in flesh.
Battles saw Toucey and the lieutenant go down, as well as half a dozen crewmen. Blood, brain, and bone splattered around him and men screamed.
A cheer went up from the Lila as the grinning Rawlings reloaded his gun.
Horribly wounded, his face a grotesque scarlet mask, Lieutenant Laurent struggled to his knees.
As Battles watched, amazed that there was still life in the officer’s shattered body, Laurent reached up and yanked the bow cannon’s lanyard.
The effect was devastating.
The huge ball smashed into the Lila’s side and shattered its way clean through her timbers. Flying splinters of pine and oak killed and maimed men on her deck, and Battles was sure he saw Dave Noonan go down.
Driven back by the recoil of her cannon, the gunboat was separated from the Lila by ten yards of sea. The bark suddenly took a forty-five-degree list to her starboard as she took in tons of water.
Like a nervous belle at her first ball, the Lila swooned, and her foremast crashed onto the gunboat’s deck in a tangle of rigging and canvas, injuring more of Toucey’s crewmen.
Battles extricated himself from under a sail and then stood—in time to see the bark start to go under by the bow. For a moment her dripping stern hung above the waves, and then it too slid into the sea.
The Lila was gone ... taking with her many a lively sailor lad and a fortune in stolen gold.
Ten or twelve of the bark’s crewmen splashed around in the water, crying out for help. But the gunboat’s native seamen, enraged at the bloody deaths of so many of their shipmates and what they saw as Rawlings’s treachery, were in no mood to take prisoners.
They raised their rifles and shot the floundering seamen like ducks in a pond.
Battles saw Rawlings take a bullet in the head. Then the man threw up his arms and went under.
Soon there was no one alive in the sea, and the water was stained with heaving clouds of crimson.
Within moments the black-eyed sharks came.
Chapter 45
Battles Struggles with His Conscience
The steel deck was slippery with blood as Matt Battles made his way forward. The canister shot, fired at point-blank ran
ge into the boat’s crowded deck, had done great execution, and at least five men were dead and that many injured.
When he reached the gun, Battles saw at a glance that the lieutenant was dead, his entire lower jaw shot away. The young naval officer’s bravery would go unnoticed and only his family in far-off France would grieve for him.
A ball, probably the same one that had killed Laurent, had grazed Marcel Toucey’s forehead. The man was groggy, streaming blood, but he was alive, looking around him with unfocused eyes.
Battles kneeled next to him, and the Frenchman stared at him for a long time before his vision cleared and recognition dawned in his face.
“The Lila?” he said.
“She’s gone. Sunk.” Then, lest any blame fall on the native crew, he added: “With all hands. Drownin’ is a sure cure for sailor rannies with bad habits.”
Toucey blinked and said: “The gold?”
“At the bottom of the sea.”
The Frenchman was dazed and Battles helped him to his feet.
He stood swaying for a moment, looking around in horror at the slaughter on the deck.
“This wasn’t my fault,” he said. “All I wanted was my fair share, nothing more.” He sounded like a repentant sinner in a confessional.
“Man has to get used to disappointments, I guess,” the marshal said.
“It’s dark,” Toucey said. “All of a sudden it’s dark.”
“Seems like,” Battles said. “I guess we should turn this tub around and get back to the dock.”
The engineer was still alive and Toucey gave him the order.
As the gunboat turned her bow toward the land, the Frenchman rubbed his aching head and said: “I wanted to wear a top hat and ride along the Champs-Élysées in a carriage.”
Matt Battles looked out at the ink-dark sea and said nothing.
A man has to repair his own broken dreams.
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