Lucius lumbered along malevolently, kicking up sand with every step. His pace was slower than that of the women, whose skirts were hitched up about their knees. He watched from behind, and for some elongated seconds, he became distracted by the sight. Evelyn’s well-formed calves had adopted the muscular chisel of running, and some of her hair had come undone. Lucius’ heart rate increased, and it was not because of the exertion.
They joined the crowd of transients at the banks of the canal, where a foul smell permeated the air. Human excrement and fish carcasses polluted the water, where half-shaded bungos, long, narrow, flat-bottom rafts, were readied to take the greenhorns upriver to Gorgona. Some were already slipping away, each with a pair of boatswains standing upon the bows using long, carved poles to push them along.
Brock barged like a juggernaut through the mob, with Evelyn and the others close behind. Protests arose and there was a great deal of pushing and shoving, a scene much akin to the helter-skelter they had left aboard the Steam Rose. The crowd swelled as men attempted to swarm the bungos, and, with waning patience, the natives pushed back. They had grown accustomed to this sort of business, and they were not about to allow a crowd of determined white men to bully their way upriver. Fares must be collected and the boats must be filled but not overwhelmed.
These white men were motivated by fear and impatience, both of which were unaccustomed to bowing in favor of order and reason. The natives had learned this well, and they had capitalized on it even better. There was almost nothing the travelers would not pay to ensure transportation on anything other than their own two legs.
Mr. Donnigan shouldered his way up to one of the natives, meeting him nose-to-nose. Evelyn remained a few paces behind Brock, where she was just barely able to see over his shoulder and into the native’s stoney face. Before today, she had never seen such a people. The Panamanians’ skin was a radiant golden brown, their faces strongly sculpted with long, bold noses and dark eyes that narrowed with an outward slant. They were beautiful, graceful, and from an entirely different world than any to which Evelyn had ever been exposed. To her, this made them both intriguing and frightening.
Towering above the native, Brock demanded passage upriver, to which the surrounding men shouted in protest. The native’s expression remained unchanged while the other travelers attempted to shove Brock out of the way. He stood solid as a brick wall, and they quickly gave up in favor of complaining to one another. A few hurled vicious insults, which were met by various forms of agreement and nods of approval.
Happy to leave Brock in charge of negotiations for the moment, Lucius sidled up to Evelyn, who was watching the display with increasing anxiety.
“Don’t be frightened, lass,” he told her. “I’ll make sure we make it through this all right.”
Evelyn took in his wild appearance: windblown hair, heaving chest, bloodshot eyes. He had only just caught up with them, and had not yet recovered his breath.
“Oh, really?” she asked. “I don’t see you doing much to alter our current predicament.”
He waved a hand though the air.
“Sometimes,” he replied, “things simply work themselves out.”
“You can’t always trust your luck, Lucius.”
“It has never failed me before.”
“Indeed,” she said, wryly. “You should be dead, yet here you stand.”
He reached up to tip his hat, but realized he had forgotten to wear one.
“Well, thanks to you, m’lass, I am alive and well.”
“I have no faith in talismans, Mr. Flynn, and I am nothing of the sort. Without a good course of action, nothing is accomplished. I suggest you desist this ‘luck’ silliness and join Mr. Donnigan in his negotiations.”
“I was just on my way.”
“Of course you were.”
Like a prancing cock, Lucius advanced through the crowd. He felt the strangest desire to impress Evelyn, a desire more often reserved for far less dignified, far more experienced women.
He contributed it to her damn legs. They had done him in.
And besides, it was high time Brock Donnigan stepped aside and allowed a man of business to do the talking. Through the years, Lucius had done his fair share of negotiating, bargaining, and persuading, and the poor Australian seemed to be failing miserably at all three.
Lucius had nearly reached him when Brock produced a bargaining chip he had previously withheld, causing Lucius to stop in his tracks.
It was a revolver.
“Do you know what this is, mate?” Brock asked the native, pressing the cool steel barrel against the man’s forehead. “No doubt you two have recently become acquainted. I want two boats, and I am through asking nicely.”
The effect of this aggressive demand was somewhat muted. Everyone watched in confusion as the native’s face remained stoic.
Brock Donnigan was not the first to use a firearm as currency in these parts.
From where she stood, Evelyn’s eyes widened. Brock had never said anything about using a revolver as leverage. The gesture was alarming, and Evelyn realized she had stopped breathing. She found herself hoping this was only a prop. A ruse. The gun couldn’t possibly be loaded, could it?
The crowd continued to swell as the ferries made more deliveries, and several newcomers wondered about the hold-up. There was some shouting from the mob’s rear, and curious faces rose on tiptoes to peer above the throng.
“I’m waitin’ on an answer, mate,” Brock demanded. “You wanna tell
your fellas-”
He did not finish, for a shot cracked through the hot, humid air. Immediately, a gasp ensued, followed by a thick hush.
The Australian withdrew the barrel, still cool, and turned to see what had happened.
His finger had not moved. His gun was indeed loaded, but he was not the one who had fired.
Another native stood a slight distance up the canal, a smoking barrel held aloft in his hands. His eyes were sharp, his patience was exhausted, and he was tired of standing by while these white hustlers bullied his people. It was high time they knew with whom they were dealing.
He had fired with intentions to kill Brock Donnigan, but these damn Yankee contraptions were so disappointingly inaccurate.
In consequence, the bullet found someone else.
Chapter Seventeen
Stephen Whitfield looked down at his chest, where a tiny black hole bloomed into a morbid red rose.
He fell backwards, but the sudden ordeal came as such a shock that no one caught him as he dropped to the ground.
For a moment, no one said a word. The mob was subdued, and the natives were content to have made their point.
Adele looked unblinkingly at the collapsed form of her husband, her mouth set in a straight line.
The baby began to cry.
Adele flexed her fingers, noticing the absence of her husband’s hand in hers. Slowly, ever so slowly, she reached down to reclaim it; yet he lay unmoving, oblivious to her touch.
“Stephen,” she murmured.
Those around her watched in humbled silence, removing their hats in respect.
Her hand crept across the breadth of his soiled chest, his blood spreading at an alarming rate. She searched for life, finding only stillness.
Those nearby shuddered, fearing some dark witchcraft afoot. This land’s reputation as a gateway to hell was thoroughly deserved, for only a demon could have steered that wayward bullet to the precise bull’s-eye of Stephen Whitfield’s heart. There were none present who had not encountered his radiant warmth and gentility aboard the Steam Rose. He was a student, a philosopher, a man of peace. Surely God had no reason to shower his wrath upon such a blessed soul.
No one knew what to say or do. Brock’s transaction was on hold, Evelyn’s hand was clamped over her mouth, and Lucius felt strangely empty, as though it were his blood draining from the hole in Stephen’s chest. The cloud of intoxication, the drive of ambition, the fires of anger and desire abandoned him to a s
tate of utter sobriety.
For a moment, the world ceased to turn, in honor of the man who had received the death intended for another.
Adele’s eyes glassed over, as if she were caught up in a dream.
Josephine released the wailing Bartholomew to Evelyn and dropped to her knees beside her mistress, tears readily pouring onto the soulless body of her former master. With pleading eyes, she searched Adele’s face, taking the woman’s pale hand and pressing it to her breast as if begging for some sort of request or demand. Adele looked on, however, oblivious to the maid’s presence.
The stoic native had not moved throughout the course of events, but chose this moment to speak.
“Now,” he told Brock, whose back was facing him, “you give me weapon. You get in boats.”
Brock turned around, mentally struggling to remove the image of Stephen Whitfield from his thoughts. There was still business to be conducted, and the options remained as stark as life and death, with the former’s going rate fixed at the weapon in his hand. Death came at the cost of the jungle, and Brock was still decidedly against that avenue.
The Australian parted with the revolver, his eyes narrowing at the receiver.
“You drive a hard bargain, mate,” he told him.
“You offer,” the native retorted, holstering the weapon in the leather band around his waist, his only form of attire.
With a long swing of his leg, Brock stepped into the bungo while two porters loaded the company’s belongings. Keeping his thoughts on the business at hand, Brock helped the porters arrange the trunks near the bow, making certain there was enough sitting room for the passengers towards the rear. After some moments, he looked to the others, who remained clustered around the Whitfields.
He shook his head. There was no time for mourning. That Whitfield woman would have to continue without her husband, or else be left behind and die of Chagres fever. Either way, it didn’t matter to him, as long as Evelyn Brennan came along. The others could follow if they wished, but they needed to make up their minds, and quickly. The mob was subdued because of the preacher’s death, but they would not remain so for long. Soon they would remember why they were here, why Stephen had died, and they would be damned if they didn’t get off that god-forsaken beach as fast as their money could take them.
“We’ve run out of time,” he announced to the others. “We’ve got our transportation, now let’s get out of here.”
Lucius turned and cast his former friend a look of absolute malice.
“Are you suggesting we just leave him?”
“You and I both know there is no other option.”
“He should be buried, Mr. Donnigan,” Evelyn replied, eyes swollen with grief. On the dawn of her wedding day, she could not have foreseen the many haunting images she would encounter along the road to California. She had seen many dead men in the past week, but none of them had become so at the hands of another human being. This sudden brutality was traumatic, inhumane. Surely such injustice could not be repaid with dishonor. Stephen Whitfield must be laid in the ground. His soul must be blessed.
But who would bless him? Who but Stephen Whitfield was qualified for giving such a eulogy?
“If we linger,” Brock continued, “we forsake our passage upriver. By remaining in Chagres, we’re asking for the same fate as that poor fella. Now let’s get a move on.” He stretched out a hand towards Evelyn. “Come, Miss Brennan.”
She hesitated, torn between following him and remaining. None of the others had moved; not Josephine, not Adele, not even Lucius. Not even Lucius! He looked stricken, disbelieving. He was not so quick to recover as Brock Donnigan.
What was she to do? She could not very well leave her friends. But Brock was her… her… what? She was drawn to him. He had a power over her than no man had previously possessed. She could not simply let him get away…
But it was not simple. There was nothing simple about this. Her dearest friend had just lost her husband. Stephen Whitfield was dead.
And yet, Brock was right. If she remained, if any of them remained, they might not live to see the morning. The danger of Chagres was the same as the cholera; it was in the air. In a way, Stephen was fortunate to have died so quickly. The Chagres fever was a swift killer, but not so swift as a bullet to the chest. It was rumored the sickness had killed men mere hours after arriving at port. It was an enemy to consider.
And Evelyn considered it. She should follow Brock, then perhaps the others would follow her.
“Miss Brennan,” Brock repeated, his patience waning.
She was obedient. She advanced towards the boats, but her feet dragged with every step as she watched over her shoulder, eyes locked upon her widowed friend. Bartholomew was still in her arms, and he continued to cry. Perhaps he did not know the gravity of the situation; perhaps he did not know that this was the last he would look upon his father. But he was a perceptive child, and he could sense a pain of loss he did not understand.
Evelyn took him with her to the raft, and felt a dreadful sort of person for bringing this irreversible distance between father and son.
Lucius felt helpless. Once more, he looked down at the tragic spectacle, his heart burning with some forlorn idea that perhaps the man was not dead, only wounded. His eyes met with Josephine’s, whose expression seemed to encourage the thought. Though wrought with pain, she beseeched him to hope, to dream, to imagine, in that silent way in which she communicated all things.
Lucius gritted his teeth against this folly and knelt beside the child. Fingers tingling with doubt, he stretched forth and touched Stephen Whitfield’s throat.
He sighed in resignation.
It was as he suspected. There was no pulse.
Josephine offered him her hand, but Lucius shook his head and stood, his mind settled. Stephen Whitfield was no longer alive, and his remains were to stay in Chagres. His wife and maid were not.
“Mrs. Whitfield, we must go,” he told Adele, his voice struggling to remain firm for threat of pity.
Adele did not move, but sat still as a corpse beside her husband.
“Mrs. Whitfield, there is no more time. Stephen would want you to continue without him. Come, Josephine; help me to collect your mistress.”
To Lucius’ dismay, the girl shook her head, her countenance collapsing into sorrow.
“He should be buried,” Adele said quietly.
As Lucius had no heart to argue with the Englishwoman or her inconsolable nurse, he quietly bent down to gather Adele into his arms. To his surprise, she did not resist him, nor did she help him. Her mind had grown absent.
He carried her to the bungos in hopes Josephine would follow, but when he turned back, the child was still crumpled in the mud, weeping.
His chest ached at the sight of her, and for a moment, he battled tears of his own. He would have insisted she come along, but his voice betrayed him.
So, distraught, he turned away.
No one knew or understood the inward battle Josephine fought in those moments. Perhaps, in her naivety, she imagined she could somehow bring Stephen Whitfield back to life. Perhaps she regarded his wound as she had regarded the sickness of the cholera victims aboard the Steam Rose. Perhaps she believed that if only she gave him a draught of water, he would breathe anew. But she had no water, she had no hope, and the others dared not lend any of their own. From the instant the bullet found Stephen Whitfield’s chest, despair reigned, leaving no room for hope, no room for victory.
This battle was lost, and it was with the heaviest of hearts that Josephine rose from the mud and continued on to the boats. And though she did not speak, the others could swear they saw her lips moving.
Did she silently breathe a lament? Or was it a blessing? Perhaps it was a combination of the two.
The mob watched as the company reassembled. Brock Donnigan had collected Evelyn and the baby, while Lucius sat with the widow and her maid, a look of silent shock still upon his face. Their boatswains pushed off into the canal, and
the two bungos were soon adrift and moving: away from Chagres, away from Stephen Whitfield, and on towards the next chapter of their unknown adventure.
Simon of Mississippi was the first to look away. He elbowed the man on his right and nodded towards the corpse of the good minister.
“C’mon, boys,” he said, “let’s give this man a proper funeral.”
He moved, and so did the man beside him, but there were none else who joined them. The others were replacing their hats. Some returned to bargaining with the river men. The moment of reverence had dissipated into the urgency which had reigned prior to Stephen Whitfield’s death, and it was Simon and his friend alone who carried the dead man to that singular grave that has welcomed so many millions of souls: the sea.
Chapter Eighteen
The canal lay exposed beneath the merciless penetration of the sun. The air seemed not to breathe, and it lay damp and heavy against the skin of the travelers, causing their desperate pores to open wide in perspiration. Though they sat beneath the meager canvas shade, which was erected over the latter half of the bungo, the heat remained unbearable. The men began unbuttoning their shirts and rolling up their sleeves, while Evelyn watched with disdainful jealousy. Here, in the far reaches of the world, a man’s propriety was not required. He could leave it at home along with his work, his wife, and his children. But a lady… a lady must never consider loosening her collar or hitching up her skirts. A lady must be proper at all times, and as such, Evelyn raised her chin in defiance of the heat. She tried to remember what it felt like to be cold by imagining the breeze that flooded the black cliffs of the Irish coast. She closed her eyes, inhaled its saline taste, felt its cool fingers tugging at the loose tendrils of her hair.
It was a pleasant dream. Yet still she perspired.
After an eternal three miles, the canal emptied into the river Chagres. Hills rose up from either bank, the foliage grew dark and dense, and the song of birds filled the air while insects flitted about with insufferable deliberation. A plethora of mosquitoes was positively delighted with its fresh bounty of prey. The travelers flicked, squashed, and swatted them at first, but after much relentless badgering, they were eventually ignored. The company hadn’t the energy to confront them any longer, much to the satisfaction of the bloodthirsty creatures.
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