A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  Connery joined the group. “Those old walls were pretty good defenses until rifled artillery was placed aboard ships, Don Pablo. A modern rifled gun, even a small one like ours, would make short work of those fortresses.”

  Monteblanco gave him a questioning look, then glanced over at Wake. “Really, Lieutenant Wake? These are massive fortresses. The very biggest I have ever seen. You will be impressed.”

  Wake nodded in agreement with Connery. “During our late war, Don Pablo, the Confederates were holed up in some massive fortresses and thought themselves impregnable. The United States Navy showed them otherwise. Lieutenant Connery here was at Savannah when they reduced Fort Pulaski and it surrendered. He saw it firsthand.”

  “That I did, sir,” said Connery. “Went ashore with some other officers afterward to examine our work. Incredible what rifled shells can do to brick or even stone.”

  They could see the walls surrounding the city six miles away as the Canton steamed past Isla Tesoro and into the narrow channel at Boca Chica, still not challenged by a coastal patrol. But then they saw the red, blue, and gold Colombian flag soar up the poles at the two forts that flanked the entrance.

  Monteblanco pointed to the forts and explained, “The one on the left is Fuerte San Fernando and the one on the right is Fuerte San José. This is the bottleneck of the route. Both of these forts are covered by the large one up there,” he indicated a hill on the large island of Tierra Bomba, “called Castillo San Angel. And there are many others.”

  Wake saw what he meant, in addition to the ones he had described—San Angel was huge—there were smaller forts everywhere.

  Custen asked Monteblanco if the forts were manned, and if yes, by what type of soldiers.

  “Very good question, Mr. Custen. They are impressive-looking, but the quality of the armaments and soldiers has diminished since the Spanish left. Only a few regular artillery men and some militia doing their annual duty are in the forts. Unless, of course, an alarm is sounded, then all of the area’s militia will rally to their local fort.”

  Wake was intrigued. “Don Pablo, this is the only way in or out of the bay, and the city, by water?”

  “Yes. There is only a meter of water above most of the underwater wall at the Boca Grande entrance. It is an illusion—a trap. You do not see the underwater wall. This is the only way out. You are thinking of something?”

  “Well, you never know. That is an important fact to know. What kind of artillery do they have at these forts we are approaching that cover Boca Chica?”

  Monteblanco shook his head. “They are old. I know not the details.”

  Connery looked at the forts through the telescope, then at Wake. “Can’t tell for sure, sir. But I’d wager they’re some old iron muzzle-loading 32-pounders, the bigger ones’re maybe sixty-fours. Probably from the colonial period. Very likely unserviceable except for rendering low-charge salutes. I wonder how long since any have fired a real shot?”

  “The war of independence, when the Great Liberator, Bolivar, defeated the Spanish in the city,” offered Monteblanco. “Forty-eight years ago.”

  “And I wonder how many people know the real condition of the forts? I agree, Don Pablo, they do look impressive,” said Wake as he ordered Custen to render honors to the forts as they passed. Soon shots boomed out across the five-hundred-foot-wide channel.

  Connery said, “I was right. Sixty-fours, and old by the sound of them. Even if they can fire shot, I’d not put more than half a charge in them. Range would be a mile, if that.”

  Custen glanced at his friend and laughed, “So you think they could do the five hundred feet?”

  “You’re right on that one, David,” admitted Connery. “They may not be big or modern, but they don’t have to be to cover this channel. They could do it with half-charged grapeshot.”

  Once through the narrow entrance they continued east into the huge Bahía de Cartagena, sheltered from the Caribbean by Isla Tierra Bomba, then proceeded northward the six miles toward the city itself. Inside the bay were hundreds of small fishing sloops and coastal schooners in dozens of smaller bays and coves. From out at sea the coast by Cartagena had looked sparsely populated, now Wake could see that it was a huge sprawling city.

  After they passed Isla Tierra Bomba on the port side, they saw a large gap opening the bay to the Caribbean. Monteblanco gestured toward it. “Boca Grande. That is the false entrance.”

  Wake could see no sign of the wall just below the surface of the water. Then the peninsula of Cartagena itself started on their left side, wrapping around into the bay as protection for the anchorage within. Dominating the city was the mountain of Cerro le Popa, topped by a monastery that was also a fortress, five hundred feet above the harbor.

  No harbor guard boat escorted them, only a few bumboats as they arrived in the outer anchorage by another massive fortress, Castillo Grande. The Canton continued into the harbor, letting go in ten fathoms by a small fort, named Punta Pastelillo on the chart. Further up, in the inner harbor, Wake could see many schooners and brigs anchored close in to the shore, which was topped by a thirty-foot-high wall that stretched around the city. Behind the wall, spires and cupolas could be seen. Small boats were in action all over the harbor.

  Monteblanco was completely right, Wake acknowledged inwardly, Cartagena was the most fortified city Wake had ever seen. But, he thought with a grim smile, a wall can keep a man inside too.

  The plan called for Terrington to stay aboard and handle the official greetings with the port officials and the American consul, and to tell them that the Canton was on the coast on a goodwill cruise and to investigate vague rumors of piracy. Monteblanco and Wake, dressed as common seamen, would go ashore in a bumboat that evening.

  The Venezuelan and Wake stayed out of sight while Terrington waited for the officials, dressed in his best uniform. Two hours later the delegation, including Singleton the consul, arrived and was entertained by Terrington, who was in a pleasantly gracious frame of mind, in his cabin.

  Singleton was mystified when Terrington downplayed their search for a pirate, repeatedly saying they were just cruising the area since it had been so long since an American naval ship had been there. That fooled no one in the delegation, Singleton saw, and the Colombian officials responded by being politely indefinite about the exact nature of the piracy problem on the coast. Was the Canton there because of his letter to the State Department, Singleton wondered? It was a far faster response than he had hoped for.

  The delegation, after consuming food and drink, departed the ship amidst much handshaking and bowing, leaving Singleton loitering behind. He asked for a private conversation with Terrington, and when they returned to the captain’s cabin, Singleton asked if the warship was in Cartagena in response to the letter sent to Washington.

  “What letter? I know of no letter,” answered Terrington.

  “Oh. I sent one to Washington because I know who is the number two man in the piracy gang. A man named Toro Caldez, right here in Cartagena. He sells the loot for them and has arranged,” Singleton slowed down to make sure the captain heard the next part, “for men to be killed, ships stolen, and even for white women to be taken into bondage.”

  Terrington was shocked. “Right here in this city? White women into slavery? Good God, how barbaric!”

  The captain was hooked, Singleton knew. “Oh yes, Captain. That’s why I was so happy to see your ship. The Stars and Stripes. Civilization and decency. Thank God you’ve arrived.”

  Terrington wanted to know all about this man Toro and why the authorities did not arrest him themselves. Singleton explained that they were afraid of this man, that his reputation for ruthless killing intimidated many in the city. That part of his story was true, Singleton joked to himself. He just didn’t tell the part about how Caldez paid off everyone and how his relatives controlled the government. Several were in t
he delegation that had just visited the ship.

  “He should be shot down like the dog he is, Captain. No trial for the likes of him. He would only use it to make a mockery of our flag.” Singleton stood up in his performance of outrage. “He is an animal and the sooner he is dead, the better off we will all be.”

  Terrington agreed but didn’t see how they could accomplish that, this being a foreign country. There was international law to think about.

  “There is no law here, Captain, international or otherwise. You and our American flag are the only real authority, moral or legal, in the area. It is your decision, but a small group of armed men could end this problem once and for all in Cartagena. One bullet and the problem is ended—the coast in this area is free for innocent shipping since the pirates at sea won’t have anyone to sell their loot, and the Americans are seen to be strong and just. One bullet, and your mission is completed.”

  Singleton knew he was over the hump, Terrington was nodding agreement with him in principal, but he just couldn’t figure out how to accomplish the deed. Singleton would help. “I’ll pass the word for Toro Caldez to meet me in his boat in this harbor. It is a red boat and he will be by himself at eleven o’clock tonight by Punto Mazanillo, just astern of you. Instead of me in a boat waiting for him, though, you’ll have a boat of armed men waiting, they shoot him—you can come up with any story convenient—and the problem is ended. Piracy in Cartagena is done. You get to go home as a man who did his duty.”

  “Sold white women into slavery, you say?” Terrington repeated.

  “A month ago, it was horrible. He’s a monster.”

  “Then the monster will die this evening. It is a duty that must be done.”

  “On behalf of the decent people of this city, thank you, Captain,” Singleton said with sincerity.

  “Disagreeable, but necessary, Mr. Singleton. Now, do you have any further information regarding the alleged American pirate?”

  Singleton gauged the tone of Terrington’s question carefully, noting the lack of conviction, almost as if he didn’t want to hear about the gringo pirate. No sense in causing problems for El Gringo Loco. In fact, with Toro out of the way, perhaps he could do more business with the strange gringo robber. Yes, to have Toro killed was one thing, but the American robber was another. Singleton could make even more money from the pirate with Toro gone.

  “I think the stories that say he is an American are exaggerated. I think there is probably an Englishman or Irishman with the pirates that these locals mistake for an American. And once their money supplier Toro Caldez is out of the picture, the pirates will probably leave the area.”

  “Really, you believe that? You feel certain of that?”

  “Without a doubt, Captain. I know these Latin people. Once they see your ship here and know that Toro is gone, they’ll fold up and go somewhere else. Don’t forget, sir, I’ve had years of experience here, as the official consul for the United States of America.”

  “Yes, well I suppose you’re right. Then by tomorrow we may have accomplished our mission.”

  It was getting dark when Terrington showed Singleton to the side of the ship for his departure. The two parted as good friends, congratulating each other on solving the problem expeditiously.

  As the captain made his way across the main deck, he saw Wake walking up to him. “Did the consul have any good information for us, sir? I see that he stayed around for a while after the others left.”

  Terrington had thought this part out. Wake was a cocky, arrogant upstart who had gotten a lot of fame from his stunt with the Spanish ship on the Haitian coast. Well, this time, promised Terrington to himself, the fame would belong to the man who really deserved it—the captain of the USS Canton. While Wake was off playing cloak and dagger games with that fool from Venezuela, Terrington would make sure that the problem was solved by action. He was looking forward to the reaction on Wake’s face tomorrow.

  “No, Mr. Wake. He just wanted to spend a pleasant evening with a real live American naval officer. Someone who spoke his own language and could tell him news from home.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wake, noting the odd demeanor of his captain and wondering if he had been in the laudanum. “Well, we’ll be leaving in a few minutes, sir. I’ll report as soon as we get back.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Wake. Take your time. I have no doubt that this problem will have a simple solution and be ended soon.”

  23

  Twists of Fate

  They certainly looked the part, dressed in dirty pants and shirts, ripped straw hats, and with grease and dirt rubbed on their skin, Wake thought, as they shuffled along the Muelle de Pegasos, the city wall by the imperial docks. It had been years since Monteblanco had been in Cartagena, but he remembered the general layout and was in the lead.

  Wake had asked his friend why they could not contact the Venezuelan consul who had found some of the Monteblanco family jewels being sold, but was told that the man had died suspiciously of a fever a month after recovering the stolen jewelry. So that option was not available. They would have to do this on their own. Monteblanco felt that more of his family’s jewelry was probably in the city, and that of other victims as well.

  “We go into Getsemani, the lower-class part of the town, Peter. That will be the area where we will find a taverna with the proper ambiance and clientele.”

  “I get the feeling you have done this before. Am I right?”

  Monteblanco smiled. “Of course. It is what diplomats do. Get information for their country. But I usually do it in far more gentle surroundings—parties, receptions, balls, with champagne and fine food, and dressed as a gentleman.”

  Wake nodded his understanding. “But the concept is the same.”

  “Completely, Peter.”

  Passing by the Puerto del Reloj, the original gate in the fortress walls of the inner city, where there was a huge clock, Monteblanco led them to the right, along the Calle de la Media Luna, and into the notorious district of Getsemani.

  “The name of this street means Half Moon?” asked Wake quietly.

  “Yes, it stretches in a curve through Getsemani. And Getsemani is outside the walls of the inner city, just as the original is in Jerusalem. A very difficult area. Be careful, Peter.”

  Wake noticed that they had two men following them fifty yards back. He mentioned it to Monteblanco, who replied, “They are assessing our value for robbery.”

  Rounding the corner at an ancient church, the Iglesia de San Roque, they entered a side street full of cheap bars and taverns. It looked like any other port to Wake, except that he could hear screaming and laughing in many different languages, and the people in the street looked angry, wary. The two of them walked slowly, shuffling and blending in with the others who went about with eyes cast downward, as Wake tried to find the two men behind them. They were gone.

  “We passed the first test, Peter,” Monteblanco explained. “They decided we were not worth the effort to rob.”

  Wake was not so sure, but decided to have faith in Monteblanco’s assessment.

  “Ah! This is a likely-looking place,” Monteblanco said as he led them inside a doorway. Overhead was a clapboard sign that proclaimed “Taverna Internacional” in big uneven red letters. Wake heard a roar of raucous noise as the door opened and they walked inside the dimly lit, crowded room, his senses immediately assaulted by the stench of ale, sweat, and urine.

  ***

  El Gringo Loco was still waiting. He had consumed half a bottle of rum and several ales and was almost asleep when he heard a commotion from the kitchen. The old lady came out and hugged a man entering by the side door, her words a rattle of unintelligible Spanish to the American. She was obviously happy to see the man and quickly took him into the kitchen. Then the gringo got a look at the man and smiled. It was his old acquaintance, Swan Singleton. This wo
uld be enjoyable.

  El Gringo moved among the tables and back into the kitchen. He found them in an embrace, the woman shedding her apron. She glanced up in fright at the odd-looking man approaching. Singleton turned around and stood there, stunned.

  “Go away, woman,” the pirate commanded in rude Spanish.

  She scurried out the door as Singleton edged backward and carefully, using the title the man preferred, said, “Hello, Jefe. It is good to see you again. Do you need me to sell some items tonight?”

  “No, Swan. I don’t need you to do anything for me anymore, as a matter of fact,” said the gringo as he closed and slid the bolt on the door to the main room, his eyes never leaving Singleton.

  “Something is wrong. What’s happened?” Singleton tried to maintain his sense of confidence. “Usually you use Rosas to come to me, and he hasn’t been around here lately, though I saw his schooner in port today.”

  “Rosas? Nah, he is no longer important, Swan. I left him over by Nicaragua and took his ship. He won’t be needing it anymore. Our business relationship was severed.” He slowly stepped toward Singleton, who had backed into the corner. “In fact, I am reducing the size of my staff, as it were. Weeding out those who are counterproductive.”

  Singleton knew he was about to die unless he could talk the man out of attacking him. Singleton always carried a knife, but knew El Gringo Loco was faster and stronger. Singleton had always relied on his wits. They had gotten him this far.

  “Very good then, we can make more money with fewer people taking it out of the pot. Also reduces a chance for something to go wrong.”

  “Yes, precisely. By chance, I was reading a letter by someone who was advocating that very thing lately. Of course, he didn’t say it in those exact words to the Department of State, Office of Consular Affairs, but the outcome would be the same. By the way is Toro Caldez around? I think he would be very interested in reading that letter. I know I was.”