Cadena staggered around behind the hut, looking for the schooner’s boats, but they were gone. He made his way into the water, collapsing in the shallows. Suddenly a flash of flame erupted from the schooner, the lantern oil cask having been opened and poured on the deck. Within seconds the rigging and sails were ignited and the whole vessel was a floating bonfire, illuminating the scene on the island.
Cadena thought it a scene from hell. Painted savages were running around crazed, hacking the pirates’ bodies into pieces. None of Cadena’s men were still standing. One ancient man, nearly naked, was standing in the middle of it of all, singing at the top of his lungs, clearly urging the Cuna on in their search for any who had not yet been found and killed.
Cadena knew he had to get away quickly, before they found him, and slid further into deep water. The pain was excruciating now, the salty water entering his body, but he forced himself forward through the water until he was in water he couldn’t stand up in. Slowly he swam, every stroke bringing a gasp, gaining more distance from the nightmare of the island.
A plank from the schooner floated into him and he thanked God aloud, not even registering the incongruity. Using it for flotation, Cadena was able to increase his speed away from the screeching and yelling still coming from the island.
***
The sayla first tended gently to the women, his joy at seeing that none were killed almost overcoming him. He told them how much he respected and loved them, how all Cuna would also. Several were injured with cuts, some had bruises, all were shaking with the memory of the monsters and were given the special drink that would calm them and take away the pain. Cayucas came from the nearby island and took the women to safety, honored heroes who would have their own chant for generations of Cuna to hear forever.
Then the sayla turned to the grisly task at hand. All the monsters had been taken by surprise and killed. Most without even a fight. It had been easier than he had thought possible. No hunters were killed, for which the sayla was very grateful. Two of the hunters were injured by knives, but none of the monsters had been able to use their guns.
The sayla gathered the hunters and told them what must now be done. He ordered that the bodies of the monsters were to be cut into pieces and put into the cayucas, then taken out to the reef in the morning and fed to the fishes. All of the items that belong to the monsters, including the dreaded guns, were to be taken out to the deep blue water and dropped in. Even the blood-soaked sand from where the monsters were killed was to be dug up and taken out to the deep water also. The monster’s big boat was to be destroyed completely, the last remaining parts that could not be burned to be taken out to deep water too. Nothing showing there had been a battle at the island was to remain. Every vestige of the monsters was to be purged from the domain of the Cuna. The work of carrying out the sayla’s orders was given to the young hunters, so that they could see what their elders had done for the Cuna people.
And finally, the sayla ordered that the island would never be inhabited again by the Cuna, that it would forever be a shrine, a sacred place, and that no one would ever go ashore there again.
After all the men had started on their tasks, the sayla sat down on the sand, his strength ebbed. He cried for his women, but knew he had done the correct thing.
The prophecy was right, the worms could kill the giant bird.
***
“What the hell was that God-awful noise?” said the gringo as he emerged on the deck of the captured packet steamer and looked around. His pale skin, accentuated by the sunburned face and arms, made him look ghostly in the dark.
“We do not know, sir.” The lookout was peering across the bay. “It’s coming from the island where Cadena took the lucky ones tonight. Something is going on there. Maybe the party is getting better!”
The noise coming across the water got louder, a mix of rage and fright. Suddenly a light erupted on the horizon. The old schooner was in flames. The renegade American instantly knew the party wasn’t getting better.
“Get steam up. Now!” he said as he dashed below to his cabin for weapons.
“Yes, Jefe! We will start the fires and get the boilers stoked immediately!” cried out the leader of the anchor watch to El Gringo Loco’s back.
The gringo got dressed and put on his pistols and daggers. It would take almost an hour to get the boilers steamed up enough to get under way, and in that time they might be attacked. By whom, he did not know, but he was going to be ready. Was it Indians? Could Indians overwhelm armed men like Cadena’s? That damn fool Cadena had somehow walked into a trap and endangered all of them. Worse, he had taken almost half the men with him, so the two remaining steamers would be shorthanded if those men couldn’t get back. He roared out a graphic epithet as he slammed a fist down on his table, splitting the wood.
***
Cadena could see the steamers now. The loss of blood and the pain had halved his ability to make speed, but he kept paddling with his arms while riding on the plank. He saw movement on the decks and knew that they had been alerted by the schooner going up in flames. Even now they are probably getting the fires started. I have to make it to the ship, he told himself. The ebb tide is helping me. I just have to stay strong. If I am caught here in the daylight those Indians will kill me.
He clenched his jaw and pushed himself harder, grunting with the pain, each grunt becoming part of a rhythm that kept him moving, his eyes always on the ship anchored closest to him, the packet steamer.
***
The gringo paced the deck, almost growling with anger at their inability to move until the boilers had enough steam. The old steamer anchored close by was already getting some steam in her pipes, the capstan starting to clank up the chain as they weighed anchor. He had told them to go ahead and get out of the anchorage, get away and meet him out at sea.
On the eastern horizon he saw that the fire had died away and no sounds came from the island where Cadena had taken his men. Dark and silent. What happened over there? A voice disturbed his thoughts.
“We have steam up, Jefe. We are ready to engage the shaft.”
He looked at the mechanic in front of him, wanting to kill him, to kill someone. The man shrank away in fright as the norteamericano hissed a reply.
“Then get the damned shaft engaged, you idiot. Get it the hell done.”
***
The sayla heard one of his men call out and point. He looked at the anchorage where the monsters had their large engine-driven ships. One was leaving and the other had lights and movement. Good. By the sun’s arrival this would all be over.
He was tired and wanted to lie down, but he had to stay up, walking around and encouraging the others, as an example to the younger men. He sighed with the effort.
***
It had been a long time but he was making it, now only a cable’s length away. Cadena heard the old steamer, his steamer, weigh anchor—each clank of the chain in the capstan pawls another spur to make him keep up the pace of his paddling. Then he saw his steamer slowly move, bound out the channel, for a moment coming closer to him before they made the curve around to the north toward the open sea. Then they were past him, gone into the dark northern horizon. The packet steamer with el gringo aboard was also now hauling its anchor.
They were leaving him.
He yelled, “Stop, I’m Cadena!” at the top of his lungs, but ended up with a mouth full of salty water. Crying out in pain he tried to paddle the plank faster, desperate to close the gap between him and the departing ships.
He kept screaming and finally saw a man’s head turn, then an arm point in his direction, but the packet didn’t slow down. They were a hundred feet away now, coming toward him in the channel bend. He screamed out with every stroke, lashing the water and driving the plank forward, using his rage to get him closer.
“I’m Cadena! Pick me up!”
The ship was charging along now at five knots, about to run him over. Cadena could see the razor sharp barnacles slice into his arms as he pushed himself up off the plank and lunged toward the main chain plate on the starboard side, the bow wave lifting him up. He hung there, one arm crooked around the rigging chains, trembling with the effort and the pain, bleeding from the hole in his back and the gashes on his arms, as the water rushed by inches below him.
“Help me!” he cried out, but no one came down over the side from the main deck to assist him up. Cadena looked up and saw them leaning over, watching him. He thought he heard a laugh, a bet on how long he could hold on. That was a mistake, he promised silently. I will make you pay for that. A surge of malevolent energy filled his arms and he propelled his body up, arms locking over the gunwale at the main deck. With his last ounce of strength and a primordial scream, Cadena pulled himself over the gunwale and fell in a heap on the main deck, gasping for air. The crowd around him was merely staring and no one was helping. He heard someone order full speed ahead and he knew they were past the reefs and safe at sea. He had made it. Survived.
El Gringo Loco had a sneer on his face as he walked up to Cadena and kicked him over onto his back. The crowd of seamen closed in to watch what was about to happen. No one moved to Cadena, who lay there limp, only his eyes moving.
“You’re late, Cadena, you stupid piece of dung. You just wasted half our men, killed by tiny Indians half your size.”
Cadena tried to explain, the words hoarse, weak.
“Nightmare . . . all dead . . . savages . . . painted savages.”
“Leave this worthless piece of trash right where it is on the deck. If he’s still alive in the morning I might let him live until noon.” The American then spit on him and walked away.
Cadena saw them all turn away as he was still trying to explain, but they weren’t listening.
“No . . . no. You don’t . . . understand.” He struggled for air, desperate to breathe.
“Painted . . . savages. They came from the ground.”
30
The Demons Within
The sun was still more than two hours away, the dark of the Caribbean night cloaking the sea. Canton charged onward to the east, the bright star having risen in the sky until it was now high above the foremast. Wake paced the deck, debating what to do with Terrington during the coming battle. He could not call for a meeting of the officers—the debate in his mind would be called mutiny if expressed aloud. So he paced the deck and tried to reason it all out.
He understood that Terrington was in no shape to command during an engagement, and even if ignored and left in his cabin, would probably burst onto the main deck and interfere once the guns started firing. The guns would wake him even if he was passed out on the laudanum. He would likely interfere, contradicting orders and raving like a lunatic. The crew would be confused, the officers humiliated, the fighting efficiency of the ship destroyed, and American sailors killed or wounded because of it. And, in the process, Terrington himself might be killed.
Two hours to decide. What could he do? What should he do? Logic and reason, he counseled himself. Do the logical, reasonable, and right thing.
Terrington would only stay out of the way if he was unable to get out of his cabin. That meant locking him in. That was either helping a sick man by protecting him from harm, or it was mutiny against the captain of a vessel of war. And that conclusion would be made by a court-martial, months from now, back in the United States, far away from the danger and uncertainty, and long after what I do this morning. Would they understand?
“Are you all right, sir? You don’t look well.” Connery, the officer of the deck, had come up to Wake unnoticed.
Wake looked at the gunnery officer. It wasn’t anyone’s responsibility but his. Connery could not make the decision or even know of it beforehand. “Just thinking about some decisions this morning.”
Connery smiled, thinking of the coming fight. “Yes, sir. It’ll be a very decisive morning!”
Wake returned the smile, nodded, and went down the after hatchway. It was time to get it done.
He went into the petty officer mess and told the steward to pass the word for the surgeon’s mate to meet him at the captain’s cabin in ten minutes, exactly. Then he went aft and entered Terrington’s cabin. Lighting all the lanterns, he turned to his captain, who was sprawled on his berth, an empty rum bottle below rolling with the motion of the deck.
“Get up, sir. I need to talk with you.”
Wake shook Terrington’s shoulder until a grunt was heard. He shook it again until finally the captain opened his eyes, leaned up on his elbows, then fell back face down. Wake shook him one more time.
“Who is it? Wake?” mumbled Terrington. “Wake, is that you? What the hell are you bothering me for?”
“Captain, we need to talk.”
“Get the hell away from me, you fool. Wake, just get the hell away and leave me alone.”
Wake took both of Terrington’s shoulders in his hands and forcefully lifted the captain up. Terrington’s eyes were unfocused, his hands trembling.
“What’s going on? Gawd, give me my medicine. I need my medicine! Where is it? There!” His fingers reached out to the shelf above the bunk for the little blue bottle. He poured the thick liquid into a glass, then raised it, quivering, to his lips. Groaning, Terrington drank it in one gulp while Wake watched.
“What in hell do you want now, Wake?”
Wake glanced out the stern gallery and saw the sky was lightening. He needed to get back on deck. They would be getting close and this had to be done.
“Captain Terrington, you are incapacitated by your illness and it is not reasonable or professional to expect you to be able to fulfill your responsibilities of command. You need expert medical care, sir, and we can’t give that to you until we reach home, after we’ve accomplished our mission—”
Terrington’s head swayed as he held up a hand and interrupted him. “Gawd, Wake, can’t you talk slower? I can’t understand a damned thing you’re saying. In fact, just stop talking altogether and leave me alone. Get the hell out.”
“No, sir. I’m not leaving until you understand that you are no longer in command. I am relieving you as of this moment because of your illness and inability to function as captain.”
Terrington cocked his head and leaned forward toward Wake. “You are doing what?” he asked, incredulously.
“Relieving you, sir. You are sick and no longer in command.”
Terrington’s eyes went wide and he launched up out of the berth, his body trembling with anger as he pointed a fist at Wake.
“The hell you say!”
Terrington stumbled and sat down again, his face grimacing in fury. “How dare you even think those words, much more say them. By God, I will see you hanged for that comment. Hanged!”
Wake expected it would unfold this way. He sighed and pulled out of his pocket a piece of paper, then laid it on the berth. Terrington glanced at it, not comprehending.
“What is that?”
“A dishonorable discharge of commission from the United States Navy. It belongs to the renegade American naval officer we are looking for. I found it in Cartagena at the office of Singleton, the consul. Evidently the note in the margin stating that it’s El Gringo Loco is Singleton’s. Read the name on the discharge. I think you know it well. I think you’ve known about this the whole time.”
Terrington picked up the paper, the anger in his face disappearing, replaced by dread. He dropped the document to the deck; which Wake immediately picked it up.
“Captain, the name on this document is Presley Theodocious Symons. The description listed is the same as that of the pirate. And of you. Even a shared susceptibility to sunburn. The wounded merchant marine officer in that Jamaican hospital said the pirate looked j
ust like you. And your middle name, sir?”
Wake pulled over a chair and sat directly in front of Terrington, who was sitting there mute, his eyes moist.
“What is your middle name, sir?”
“Parker . . . Theodocious . . .”
Wake reached over and put his hand on Terrington’s shoulder. “Parker, Symons is your brother, isn’t he?”
Terrington slumped down, tears flowing, his voice muffled between sobs.
“My half brother. We share a father. You don’t have to tell anyone, do you? Please don’t tell anyone. . . .”
“Tell me what happened, Parker. According to the note in the margin, Presley went to the academy, just like you. He graduated three years ahead of you, in fifty-eight. What happened?”
Once he started, it came out in a torrent, like an emotional dam had burst inside Terrington. “He was always bad. He was smart, smarter than me, but looked at everything different, like he was angry at everything. Always in a lot of fights. He liked to hurt them, you could tell. He liked to hurt me, too. Father got him into Annapolis through his political friends, but he barely got through, so many infractions.
“In the war he did well at first, then they gave him his own ship, a gunboat. Did some sort of assault on a sailor, beat him nearly to death for some minor thing. Removed from command, then worked ashore at Farragut’s depot at Ship Island. Got caught doing something sick with a boy seaman, hurt him too. They kicked him out. Didn’t want a public trial.
“I heard he was in Mexico in sixty-five but the French didn’t want him. Lost track of him after that. Hoped he was dead. God help me, I hoped my own brother was dead.”
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 20