A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series)

by Robert N. Macomber

  In the next several days Canton stopped at Caralaya, Río Grande, Huanclua, Huaonta, and Puerto Cabeza with similar results. No one had seen the pirates, and no one wanted the foreigners around. Wake had the same eerie feeling he got when he had seen the star off Panama, as if some type of fate was drawing him northward faster and faster.

  “All right, set a course for Punta Gorda. We should see Sirena soon.”

  34

  Destiny of Honor

  The Moskitia Indian village of Uani was a crude collection of twenty-two thatched huts, three clapboard structures, two open-sided sheds filled with fuel cordwood, and a rickety dock. The dark jungle was stark against the white sandy beach in the waning moonlight. El Gringo Loco had been there before and greeted as a friend, since he always brought gold to buy the food and items he sought.

  Been a while since I was on a raid myself, he mused as he steered for the beach. A leer crossed his face. They won’t think of me as a friend anymore.

  The five boatloads of men grounded their craft on the beach and ran ashore, bursting into each hut and rousing the families out at the point of a cutlass. It was accomplished in minutes, without any bloodshed. When all the villagers, mostly Indian but with a few mestizo, had been assembled on the beach and were under guard, the loading of the wood and food commenced. Several of the outlaws eyed the girls longingly, but the gringo had only to glare at them and they got back to work. He forbade any fires to illuminate their work, worried that any patrols along the coast would see lights and wonder why. The moonlight was enough for their purposes.

  But not all the villagers were captured. Consuela and Pietro Estelo, ages eleven and nine, slipped out of the back of their hut in the confusion and ran away from their parents, who were now frantic with worry. The siblings hid under a bush and watched the rounding up of the people. They had never seen anything like it before. These were the dreaded pirates they had heard the adults speak of, the ones who had been friends, but then had done bad things to other villages on the coast. They also knew that something bad, very bad, was going to happen here, to their family, their friends.

  Consuela turned to her little brother and put a shaking hand on his shoulder. She was frightened but tried to sound brave. “We have to run to Dacura and get help. They will know what to do. We have to run fast, little brother. Now. Keep up with me.”

  Consuela didn’t wait for a reply, but started running down the path to the south, toward Dacura village and help. Pietro followed with a quiet yelp and both were soon gasping as they followed the winding path through the coconut trees, just inland from the sandy shoreline. Consuela didn’t know how far it was to Dacura, she usually rode on the donkey cart that took coconut husks there, but it was the closest village she knew. When she heard a scream from their village behind them she made sure Pietro was with her, then kept on running.

  After many minutes they reached the hut of a fisherman and fell through the entryway, waking everyone inside. As the fisherman lit an oil lamp, his old wife immediately gathered the two children to her, sensing they were frightened to death and calming them enough to tell their story. It was a wild story, but the old couple had heard of the pirates and believed the tale.

  “It will take too long to run the path to Dacura,” the fisherman said to his wife. “I’ll go there by boat. Much faster. I will take the children too, so they can tell the story to the alcalde in charge there.” He looked at the woman he had shared life with for more years than he could count and grimly added, “I want you to take our things and hide among the trees and bushes. Wait until I come back. Do not come out until you see me.”

  The sun was lightening the sky when the fisherman slid his cayuca into the water and paddled his way out beyond the reef. Once there Consuela helped him step the tiny mast and raise the husk cloth sail. A moment later they were moving briskly southward.

  ***

  “Nothing to report, sir,” declared the young ensign as Toledo and Kramer emerged onto the main deck of Sirena. The sun was just coming up, illuminating the lush green-clad hills on the coast a mile off to the west.

  “Position?” inquired Toledo.

  “Twenty miles or so south of Uani, sir.”

  Toledo considered that. They had taken three days to transit through the maze of reefs from Cayo Muerto to Cabo Gracias a Dios, far longer than he had anticipated. From the Cape they had taken two days to search the shoreline southward, seeing nothing of value. During the night they moved slowly, ever alert for the grinding jar of Sirena finding a coral reef, by necessity farther offshore than he would have liked.

  Had they missed something in the dark, especially this far away from the beach? Should they go back and search closer in the daylight? Toledo had a feeling he couldn’t define, but just knew in his guts that the pirates would be here, on this coast, its remoteness the key to their escape and survival.

  Toledo was searching the shore behind them, to the north, when the shout came down from aloft. “Deck there. Small sail ahead one league. Looks like a fishing cayuca.”

  To the ensign’s questioning glance he nodded, and Sirena altered course two points to the starboard to come alongside the canoe in the distance.

  “About twenty minutes at this speed, sir,” said Lieutenant Dulce, the executive officer who had arrived on deck in response to the lookout’s report.

  “Very well. Have the fisherman brought aboard and treated well. I want to know what he knows.”

  Toledo turned to Kramer. “I trust a fisherman more than one of the chiefs or a government man. The fishermen have no political agenda, John. They just want to be left alone to catch their fish and feed their families, and frequently speak the truth more than the landsmen I meet.”

  Good point, thought Kramer, impressed one more time by the Spanish officer who had become his friend.

  ***

  “Don’t just stand there, get the last of that wood in the boat. We need to go, the sun is rising and I want to be gone from here.” The norteamericano was in no mood to tolerate any slackening of the pace of loading. Some of the village prisoners were pressed into loading the boats too.

  Finally the boats were loaded and floated in shallow water. Cadena limped over to the gringo. “Witnesses?”

  The one word answer was what he expected.

  “No.”

  Cadena said nothing, walking over to his men and whispering. The villagers were taken to the far side of the huts, put in a line and told to turn around and walk into the jungle and hide, not to come out for an hour, by which time the raiders would be gone. Some of them believed they were going to be let go, others wondered what was going on.

  Standing in the water by a boat, El Gringo Loco heard the ragged volley of gunfire, then a few isolated shots. The men coming back to the boats were neither excited nor depressed, it was part of their life and they understood that leaving no witnesses meant they might live a little longer.

  “That took too long, Cadena. You’re getting weak-willed as well as crippled.”

  Cadena looked at the man he followed, but also hated. The morning sun made the red sunburned splotches on his face and arms stand out. It will be a pleasure to kill him someday, Cadena imagined as he replied.

  “I am still strong enough to kill, Jefe. There are no witnesses.”

  “Good. Let’s go. I want to be back by late morning so we can load the food and wood and be gone this afternoon.”

  “I thought we would leave tonight? The men will need rest.”

  “You thought wrong, Cadena. We’ll leave this coast as soon as we can. We just killed the last friends we had here.”

  ***

  “Uanlay? And where is this village?” asked Toledo of the fisherman sitting at his table, downing his third glass of rum in five minutes. The children, wide-eyed at the commotion and machinery of the ship, stood beside the wrink
led man, nodding their agreement as he told the story they had told him.

  “It is named Uani, Captain. About two leagues to the north. You must have passed it in the dark. A small fishing village. My brother married a girl there and his family lives there. Please go quickly.”

  “We will, sir. We will go now.”

  Amid the subsequent calling of bosun pipes and shouting of orders, Toledo stole a glance at the fisherman and the children as they carefully climbed down the side of the ship to the cayuca, laden with canned food from the galley. He hoped the children would find their family safe and was glad they were in the care of the fisherman. The old man had a quiet dignity and reminded Toledo of his own father back in Spain. Beautiful, civilized, and majestic Spain. How he wished he were there, with his parents, sipping wine on the patio and discussing events around the world.

  “Full speed, sir?” asked Dulce, breaking Toledo’s trance.

  Full speed was very dangerous on this reef-filled coast. What good did it do to go fast if you wrecked and never made it? And what if you got there slowly but safely, but everyone was dead and the pirates gone?

  “Yes. Full speed ahead. Triple the lookouts for reefs.”

  ***

  “Row, you bastards! Row like you’re men, dammit.” The sun was making the gringo feel uncomfortable, clammy and baked, even though he had covered his arms and neck, wore a broad-brimmed hat, and had an awning spread over his seat at the stern of the lead boat.

  They were heavily loaded with cordwood, the food stacked on top of that. Several of the cayucas from the village were taken and carried the extra members of the gang and even more food. Cadena, on the last boat in the line, was urging his men to keep up with the rest. They had all gradually slowed down though, the heat and exertion taking its toll.

  Cadena stood up and looked ahead, seeing far up the coast the slight point of land that sheltered the mouth of the river. The whole flotilla, laboring hard in the rising sea breeze and accompanying waves, was now only three miles from Bomkatu River and safety. It looked like they would make it.

  ***

  Hamilton Fish, newly appointed secretary of state since March, stroked his jawline beard and looked across the massive desk at the newly appointed secretary of the navy, George Robeson, who had been in that capacity all of five days. Robeson had just moved into the office and was pleased to host Fish when the secretary of state had sent a note saying he had something to discuss.

  Fish, a consummate Washington politician from his decades in Congress, didn’t want to give the bad news up front. Better to be gentle, play the role of elder statesman and start with good tidings.

  “Congratulations on your appointment, George. Very glad to see you here in Washington. We can certainly use some new blood from beyond the District. New Jersey’s loss is our gain.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I must admit, after finding out the mess Borie made while here I don’t know if it’s much cause for congratulations, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Yes, well, old Adolph had some problems that Sam didn’t know about when he nominated him,” said Fish, referring to Adolph Borie’s prodigious drinking and President Grant. “I think the incident with the Parisian was the final straw, though I don’t know if it’s true, of course.”

  “Yeah, well he wasn’t even competent here in this office. He only lasted, what, three months? But did he ever cause problems here. None of the senior staff respected him—you should hear what Porter says about him. Now I’ve got to get things back to normal around here.”

  “I have no doubt that you will, George. But I’m afraid I have to add to that burden, my friend.”

  “Oh? How so?” Robeson grew wary. He didn’t have to be a Washington veteran to know that Fish wasn’t there just to say hello. Something was wrong and the secretary of state was probably going to dump a load of manure in the navy’s lap to take care of.

  “Complaints from the Caribbean, George. Colombia to be exact. Seems their ambassador got word from their president to send a protest to our diplomats about an American warship that went to Cartagena and started killing people that might possibly be pirates.”

  “What? You must be joking!”

  “No, actually George, I’m not. The USS Canton is one of your boats, I believe. She was in Cartagena a while ago and assassinated a local—according to the Colombians, really assassinated him, as in ambushing him in the harbor one night in a small boat—then fled the scene before any investigation could be done. The ship then showed up at their district in Panama looking for more people to shoot.”

  “This is ridiculous. Preposterous.” Robeson couldn’t believe it. Assassination ordered by an American naval officer?

  “Perhaps, but the gentleman diplomat from Colombia is rather upset and says that they demand the captain of the ship be sent back for trial on charges of murder. Evidently that man they shot was a prominent citizen and family member of the senior authorities there. Their ambassador says honor is at stake.”

  Robeson started to speak, but Fish raised a hand.

  “I explained to him that I was not in charge of sailors and ships, but I would surely pass along his complaint to the man who was, which, of course,” Fish smiled sympathetically as he laid the protest document on the desk, “is you, George.”

  “Gee, thanks, Hamilton.”

  “Oh, by the way, I haven’t told Sam about this yet. Thought since it’s your bailiwick you’d want to do that.”

  Robeson studied Fish, whose face showed only apparent sincere concern for his fellow cabinet member. Robeson had the sudden urge to reach across the desk and hit him.

  “This is just the last of several complaints I’ve gotten in the last three days,” said Robeson. “The Spanish are angry about some damned sailor brawl at Cadiz, the French have told us to stay out of Marseille because of a perceived insult we did to their women, as if that is even possible, and the Brits are in a twit over some problem we caused in Honolulu with a native king, of all things.” Robeson moaned. “And now this.”

  Fish stood up, waving a hand in pleasant farewell. “Well, I must be off. Again, good luck, George. I’m always here if you need help. I’ll see you around. Maybe drinks over at the Willard some evening? I’ll buy.” And with that he exited the room before the brand new secretary of the navy could think of an appropriate response.

  Robeson summoned his naval aide, an addled commander on temporary assignment, asked him for the current orders and disposition for a ship called the Canton, and settled back in his chair, wondering why he had ever agreed to Sam Grant’s request to come to Washington and run the navy for him.

  When the aide returned with the paperwork Robeson scanned it quickly and saw that, yes, the ship was assigned independently to go after pirates, possible ex-Americans, in the lower Caribbean and that it had been down there for months.

  “Get a recall order out to that ship,” he ordered the aide. “And when they get back, I want to see that captain. There’s no telling what else has gone on that we don’t even know about yet.”

  “Ah, sir, they aren’t anywhere near our regular dispatch routes. It may be a while.”

  Robeson took in a deep breath. “Commander, just do what the hell I say.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  ***

  It was high noon when they got back to the steamers, collapsing on their oars and drifting the last few feet. The gringo was miserable, getting burned badly in spite of his precautions, and in a foul mood when he climbed up the side of the Colón American.

  “You there! Get these poxy-brained idlers working!” he yelled to the man in charge of the deck, who promptly yelled at the men who had not gone on the raid to begin unloading the boats. The skin on his face was already blistering when the renegade Yankee shouted across the deck to Cadena on the old steamer.

  “We leave in fou
r hours! No more. Get ’em all working—every damned one of them!”

  The crew stared at him as he disappeared below. They hated him and he knew it, but he had kept them out of gaols and off the gallows, given them women and gold, and a sense of power they had never felt, so he knew they would take his abuse and get the job done. They might even do it faster because of the hate.

  When he got down to his cabin he stripped off all of his clothes and lay naked on the bed, the small waft of air through the skylight cooling his ravaged skin. He closed his eyes and remembered a night in Havana when a soft-skinned girl with an angel face had caressed him with a botanical lotion, soothing his sunburned body until he fell asleep. She was a prostitute but not predatory like the rest, and he wished she was here now.

  ***

  The village of Uani was empty, the huts with items strewn about, as if ransacked and hastily abandoned. Toledo walked around, pistol ready, getting angrier by the minute, but there was no one to fight. The whole place was devoid of people.

  It was clear that the cordwood in the sheds had been stolen. The locals stored it there to keep it drier during the rainy season and sometimes to sell it as fuel. The food stocks were also gone. Lieutenant Dulce walked up to Toledo and Kramer, stretching his arms out.

  “No one, Captain. Everyone is gone. Would they kidnap them?”

  “Maybe they escaped after the children ran away?” offered Kramer.

  “It is possible, but not likely, John,” said Toledo. “Why would they not return then? Especially when they would see us arriving here as protection.”

  A petty officer on the jungle side of the village groaned loudly, causing the sailors to look his way. Then he called for the captain, saying that he had found them, the whole village.

  “Oh God. Oh merciful God.” Toledo was almost overcome by the sight. Men, women and children. Families huddled. All were dead. Tears flowed down his cheeks as the Spanish captain walked among the bodies, muttering “Why . . . why?”