“Toro, you know that the captains and cargo shippers trust me. And, of course,” he waited a moment for effect, “you know that I am the official consul in this port of the United States of America, and represent our government. It is a diplomatic post of great importance, backed by the authority and power of my country.”
Toro let out an ugly deep grunt. “This is what I know, Swan, you gusano. I know that you do not live in the United States of America because there is some kind of warrant for you under your real name. I know that you are a thief and a cheat, just like me and everyone else here in Cartagena. I know that you cheated somehow to get named to this position. And I know that if the money you owe me is not in this hand,” he thrust his right hand to within an inch of Singleton’s face, “within two hours, that the exalted and powerful United States of America will be short one consul in Cartagena, Colombia. And also, mister official representative, I know that they will not even care a goat’s ass.”
Then he brought his fist down on the table, cracking the wood, and walked out.
Singleton looked down and saw his hands shaking. This is what he had feared for three years—that the veiled threat of using his official American position would someday no longer work. He had always attempted in his dealings with the Colombians, through innuendo mostly, to equate the U.S. with the other great imperial powers and himself as the front man for that empire. It gave him value and a degree of protection, and had worked for some time, but obviously no more.
He sat there thinking, remembering that he had cheated prison or death several times before in his life when all looked bleak. Of course, Singleton had the money. Everyone in Cartagena had money hidden somewhere for times like this. He would have to use his concealed stash of contingency money to pay off Toro, but he knew that the animal smelled blood and would not back off. The demands would get worse, and then when they stopped—he would die.
Singleton analyzed his strengths and his weaknesses, and a plan began to form in his mind. Yes, he would pay Toro the money—to buy time. Time to exploit an opportunity to use the empire he represented. Time to communicate. After all, Washington only knew him as a hard-working consul ensuring that trade was not interrupted in a volatile corner of the world. A man to be trusted, and supported.
By force if necessary.
He needed Fuentes the property dealer to get hold of Rosas, wherever the hell he had gotten off to lately. Rosas still owed Singleton money for arranging the sale of some of the latest loot he had brought in, which hadn’t been easy because of the unique value of the jewelry and the obvious identity of the previous owner. No, Singleton decided, he wouldn’t take the money from Rosas, but he would take a favor instead.
A grin flickered on his face as he thought the plan through to the end. It would be dangerous on several levels, but it would have an especially satisfying end.
15
All Roads lead to Colón
The packet steamer Colón American blew off her pressure in a blast, startling Kramer and setting off a cacophony of shrieks from the howler monkeys in the jungle nearby. The dark laborers trudging up the gangway under their load of sacks never slowed during the burst of steam; they just kept moving, eyes down, shuffling one foot in front of the other. Their work went on for twelve hours, six days a week, at the same pace, rain or shine. After this steamer was filled, within an hour they would be loading another ship at the docks on Front Street, in the town of Colón, which the gringos called Aspinwall, in the Colombian territory of Panama.
The steamer was nearly loaded and Captain Underhill, his foot nervously tapping to an unheard beat, wanted to use the ebb and be gone. He was already two days behind schedule because the railroad from Balboa, over on the Pacific side of the Isthmus, had broken down again, for the third time in a week. It drove him mad with frustration sometimes.
Captain Underhill’s packet ran a regular route from Mobile to Panama and back and was known for its reliability. Shippers and insurance companies trusted Underhill, a rare thing in the Caribbean. John Kramer particularly appreciated Underhill’s reputation for efficiency, and the profits he generated for the American Transit Company of Panama, for he was the president of the company.
The warehouses at both ends of the fifty-mile-long narrow gauge railroad that connected the Pacific and the Caribbean were always full, ensuring the company always had money coming in. But the expenses were enormous. It was the most hostile working atmosphere that Kramer, who had run enterprises all over Latin America and the Far East, had ever known. In addition to the deadly diseases, exhausting climate, and constant mechanical breakdowns, Kramer had to deal with bizarre Indians, recalcitrant black laborers, incompetent Colombian bureaucrats, transient European shysters, disgruntled American mechanics and engineers, and lately in addition to everything else, pirates.
And these were not the usual thieving scum who could be bought off, but lunatics who struck terror into the employees of the company and would not negotiate. For six months they had periodically come in from out of nowhere, killed and looted at Nombre de Dios and Porto Bello and Colón, and escaped to places unknown. The word along the coast was that a crazy gringo was their leader, but Kramer doubted he was really an American. The stories were too grisly for that.
A few minutes later Kramer watched as the gangway to the ship was being dropped onto the dock. At least the packet had escaped so far. Her top speed, sixteen knots, was such that most ships could not catch her. In fact, she was thought to be the fastest steamer in that part of the Caribbean. Even her average speed on the route, twelve knots, was impressive. Two and a half days after leaving Colón she would be recoaling in Jamaica; four days after leaving Jamaica she would be recoaling in Key West; and three days after that she would be in Mobile, Alabama. She carried not only commercial cargo north to the United States; she was trusted enough to carry the mail from all over eastern Central America and northern South America.
The Colón American was the most valuable ship in Central America, and Kramer hoped her luck would hold. He waved goodbye to Captain Underhill as a cloud of black smoke erupted from her stack and the ship slowly left the dock, gliding out into Limon Bay. She would make it, Kramer told himself. She had to make it. She was his lifeline with home.
***
La María Alicia was not the biggest or fanciest schooner on the coast, but she was completely owned by her captain and he loved her as he would a daughter, which was who she was named after. Captain Roberto Gomez had sailed the ship for thirteen years, paying off the amount owed until now the profits from his voyages went into his pocket, not some distant owner in Barranquilla. His current cargo was copra, coffee, and red beans. He was two days out, bound on an easy downwind run from Santa Marta in Colombia to Límon in Costa Rica. From there he would look for another cargo to take to Jamaica or Cuba or Colón, then back to Barranquilla.
It was not an easy life, and was sometimes frightening when the sea became angry, but it was the life he chose fifty years earlier and the only one he knew. And unlike so many livings men could make on land, it was clean and honest. Roberto Gomez was a man content with his place in the world.
***
Following El Gringo Loco’s orders, Romero made it in Rosas’ schooner, the Abuela, to Cayo Holandes in the San Blas Islands. The coconut palm–laden sandy island was little known and seldom visited by merchant ships. It wasn’t even located on charts of the area. The island was named after Dutch sailors who had died of disease after being shipwrecked there two hundred fifty years earlier. The native Cuna Indians, short in height but tall in stature and dignity, called the area Iskardupo and shied away during the rare times when whites were in the area.
Romero and his crew spent the days lolling around on the island, eating the few bananas and the many coconuts there. They had heard that the Cuna viewed each coconut palm in the islands as almost a sacred possession and the nuts as the exclusiv
e currency of the owner of the tree, but the renegades didn’t care. Occasionally a Cuna cayuca canoe was seen sailing among the islets around them, but the Indians never came close. The outlaws laughed about the prospect of a confrontation. Let the little savages come out and claim their nuts—Romero and his men needed some target practice.
El Gringo Loco had said to wait there, so Romero and his men waited. The first week was not so bad, but the days of inaction started to wear. They had rum but no women, and Porto Bello was so close. Romero knew he would have to watch them carefully. They didn’t know El Jefe like he did.
***
Cadena told the man on the wheel to “steer small, damn you, and stop letting the ship fall off to starboard.” They were southeast bound toward the shipping lanes from Panama to Jamaica and Jefe had told him to be at longitude 79 degrees west and latitude 12 degrees north at sunset on the second day after leaving Old Providence Island. Cadena did not know the plan—Jefe seldom told him—but he did know that the clever gringo had something profitable brewing in his mind. The sun was going down behind them and Cadena was reasonably certain his position was where Jefe wanted to be, the latitude sight had been a good one at noon and the distance run corresponded.
There was a stir among the men on deck, causing Cadena to turn aft just as the norteamericano was emerging from the deck hatch.
“We are at the position, Jefe.”
“Reduce the steam. I do not want any smoke to be seen. Heave her to with the mizzen and double the lookouts. Especially to the south. A gold dollar to the first man who spots a steamer coming up. We need to see her far off,” he swung his gaze around the darkening horizon, “so that we can build up steam to intercept her from ahead. We’ll never catch her in a chase.”
Finally understanding the plan, Cadena was instantly thrilled and alarmed at the same time. This was very audacious. Jefe had planned out the capture of the fastest and richest ship in el Mar Caribe—the steam packet from Panama. But this would be different from all of their earlier ship captures: this one would be an American ship. Incurring the wrath of that country worried Cadena, but he knew he must not show it.
“Jefe, it is a brilliant plan. It will show everyone who is the master of the Caribbean—even those arrogant yanquis who own the Panama packet will be cast in fear of you from now on.” Cadena watched the gringo intensely to see his reaction about the mention of the yanqui owners, but the reply was without emotion.
“A target is a target, Cadena. This one is faster but richer. That is the only difference. We should have taken the tub earlier.”
“We will watch with vigilance, Jefe.”
“You do that, Cadena. If you’re lucky maybe she will have some women or girls aboard for you and your depraved little friends to have some entertainment with afterward.”
Cadena felt a stir in his loins at the image of that and leered back, crooked teeth visible in the dark, his voice getting husky. “Oh yes, Jefe. That would be a great pleasure. It has been too long since the boys and I got to have that kind of entertainment.”
“Yeah, Cadena. I thought that would get you enthused.”
***
Captain Underhill was not known for kindness to his crew. He was behind schedule and time was money. They needed to get to Kingston as fast as possible to make up for lost time. The stokers were told to shovel faster and generate more heat to make more steam pressure.
The beam sea from the east was making the Colón American roll her guts out, even with everything in the schooner rig set, but Underhill saw that she was doing all of fifteen knots or more by the speed log. In smooth water she’d be making her top speed of sixteen. At this rate they would sight Jamaica the following evening. He nodded to himself and went below for dinner.
***
Gomez, like many captains who were shorthanded on crew, reduced his sail at night. It was just safer, and besides, what was another day to the coffee and beans?
La María Alicia was rolling her way slowly downwind to the west, her main and fore sails out wing and wing on either side of the vessel, with Gomez’s fourteen-year-old nephew Ricardo at the big tiller. Gomez took a look around, checked the sand glass—he could not afford a fancy chronometer—and told Ricardo to call for him after the glass had emptied four times and to wake him if anything unusual happened.
“Anything, Ricardo. Never hesitate to wake a captain. The time you do not, is the one time bad things happen and it is too late to say I am sorry.”
“Yes, Uncle. I will,” said the boy with confidence.
It was Ricardo’s first voyage, but already Gomez thought he had the makings of a good sailor. Someday he might even command a schooner.
***
“I see a light! Over there, down to the south. I saw it first, Cadena. The dollar is mine!” The shout came down from the foremast crosstrees, waking a dozing Cadena from his spot on the afterdeck. He saw a pale ghostlike shape come up beside him in the gloom of the starlight. It was the gringo without a shirt, his tone bored and disdainful.
“Eleven o’clock. Right on schedule, the fools. Get up, Cadena, and get the fires stoked. We will head directly south to her and increase the closing speed so she can’t get away once she sees us. Keep the stoke even, I don’t want a shower of sparks out of the stack.”
Cadena gave the orders to the engine room gang and went to stand by the starboard bulwark, next to the eerie white shape of his leader.
“Jefe, you knew they would be here right now, at this spot? I am amazed. How did you know that?”
The gringo laughed. “Because the stupid predictable bastards never vary. Same route, same speed, same time. They always try to leave on a Wednesday with the tide. But if they get delayed because of the train having problems, it will be on Thursday or Friday night, but always here. All roads in this part of the world lead to Colón. Even a simpleton like you could figure that out, Cadena.”
16
The Richest Prize of All
There was no name on the stern of Cadena’s steamer. El Jefe had forbidden it, saying it was too sentimental and that they didn’t have that luxury. The original name, La Creola, had been painted out shortly after they had captured her and killed the crew. She was just referred to as “the ship” by the men aboard her.
Now they were racing through the water toward the light to the south. The closing speed of the two vessels was near twenty-seven knots, and it didn’t take long for the shape of the steam packet to emerge against the stars on the horizon. They would be upon them in ten minutes, but Cadena wondered how long it would be until the packet crew saw the darkened ship ahead and raised an alarm.
As if he had read Cadena’s mind, the gringo said, “Once we are close, we’ll turn into their portside bow and grapple them, then swarm their deck before they can react. I’ll take men aft. You secure the foredeck, then go below and ask them nice and polite to come up from below and parley—then kill them. Just like always.”
“Sí, Jefe. The men have wanted a good fight. It has been a while.”
“Yeah, well, they’re gonna get their chance to prove their manhood in a few minutes. Going alongside her while she’s moving at full speed is going to be dangerous. Put Rivera at the wheel—he’s the best you’ve got. We’ll only have one chance to do this correctly. The timing on the turn must be exact.”
The only time Cadena ever saw El Jefe get obviously invigorated was when he discussed an upcoming confrontation. It was as if another person inside would come out, the man who had previously been a naval warrior. It never failed to fascinate Cadena to see it happen.
“I said, do you understand, Cadena? Stop dreaming about your future entertainment and pay attention to me.”
“Yes, of course, Jefe. It will be done as you . . . command.”
***
The third mate of the Colón American thought he saw som
ething ahead, a black shape on the northern horizon blanking out the stars. With the speed they were going and the bow plunging up and down ten feet or more, it was hard to focus his eyes on the horizon, but yes, there was something out there. A small cloud maybe? He tried the telescope but it was dancing around too much, so he called for a seaman to go aloft in the main ratlines and see what he could tell about the shape.
The seaman called down that it wasn’t a cloud. It looked too small and was probably a ship. A moment later he shouted down that it was definitely a ship, a steamer, and she was heading due south, dead ahead of them about half a mile.
The third mate immediately ordered the helmsman to turn to starboard three points, or thirty-three degrees, the usual response to this type of situation, so that the approaching ship would pass on their port side. He took a deep breath—it would be close, but they would miss each other.
He then sent word below to Captain Underhill that a ship without lights had been seen dead ahead, they had altered course to starboard to avoid her, and that they would be back on course in three or four minutes.
The old bosun strode over next to the third mate shaking his head and stared out at the approaching dark shape. “Ya know, Mr. Morrison, it’s gettin’ too damn crowded out here anymore. An’ what with the speed we steamers’re makin’ these days, by the time ya seen ’em, they’re on ya. Ah my, but for the ol’ days when ya could see what was what afore ’twas too late.”
Morrison was still perplexed. Who was that ship? Was she heading for the company docks at Panama? He was able to see her now with the glass, but didn’t recognize her. She was off the port bow a couple hundred feet away. “She’s coming awfully close alongside to pass, Boats,” he said to the bosun, using the sailor’s slang for the title. “Something’s odd here.”
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 9