Out of fuel, for they had not had time to completely load her at Bomkatu, they were limping northeastward under jury-rigged sails into the shipping lanes outside of Jamaica to wait for the crew of a merchantman to come along and rescue them. That would be no problem, for they would portray themselves as the victims of—a sly smile crept over his face as he thought of the delicious irony of it—a pirate attack. He did not think they would have to wait long either, the area between Rosalind Bank and Jamaica was a major thoroughfare for shipping. And as he well knew, seamen always stopped to help brother seamen in distress.
Yes, once he got off this tub and had another ship, they could have some fun along the coast of Jamaica, maybe three days’ worth before the Royal Navy got word. And by the time the Limey sailor boys got to where he had been, El Gringo Loco would be long gone, heading to his new home base—a place totally new and unexpected. He wondered how his crew would like it there and realized with a grunt that they would like it anywhere they could get drunk and laid.
He admitted grandly to himself that he liked the plan, especially the impudence of it. The brass bottoms in Washington and London would be clutching the ulcers in their guts when they heard of his escape and raid along the Jamaican coast. He hoped the pompous fools in the Navy Department would be apoplectic.
And his new hosts and countrymen? They would welcome his money, probably more money than most had ever seen in their miserable lives. He would live like a king among the natives. Ah yes, a great white king.
As his men strained at the pumps nonstop to keep the ship afloat, he sat there in the shambles of his cabin grinning to himself at the vision of his future.
Exactly how is it that you say El Gringo Loco in French, he wondered?
***
Wake and Russell decided to split up. Each gunboat could handle the lone packet now, if not with speed, definitely through gunnery. Canton would search from the islets at Serrana Bank northward to the coral cays of Serranilla Bank. Plover took Cay Gorda at Gorda Bank to Roselind Bank. In four days they would rendezvous at Southwest Rock on Pedro Bank, after having searched the entire area north and east of Cabo de Gracias a Dios as well as they could.
The nights were filled with self-doubt for Wake, particularly when he was alone in his cabin. In the confines there, by the dim light of the swaying lantern, he was given to reflection, which was not a positive pastime lately. Everything had gone wrong on this operation. What started out as a simple mission to apprehend maritime outlaws had become a chase in which the enemy left a trail of dead bodies. The grisly results of Symons’ path through the lower Caribbean were disgusting, but a constant spur to persistence and vigilance. They must continue and find him.
Then Wake thought about his other problem. Terrington had been quiet. Too quiet. The ensigns reported that he was racked with incessant pain from being deprived of the laudanum, but that he had tried no escape or violence. To his repeated pleas for medicine they said no, that they were not allowed. Now he wasn’t even asking. He was eating less and less and getting quieter and quieter. Wake wondered what was going on in the man’s tormented head.
The other prisoners were quiet too. Kept far forward in the lowest, darkest part of the ship, they survived on the same rations as everyone else, but were cut off from the rest. The crew had no sympathy for them.
Unbeknownst to Wake, over the past months the crew had heard from Durling and Rork of the lieutenant’s concern for his crews in the past, his intense loyalty to those who served with honor, and his ferocity when aroused to anger. The men were willing to back Wake and follow him, even through this bizarre voyage, the likes of which none had ever seen. No one in the crew had ever seen a captain relieved of duty, and they were awed by Wake’s decision to do it.
As he sat in his cabin writing his log and reviewing reports, Wake did not know what the men of the Canton thought of his actions. He only knew what their behavior displayed, and that indicated that they were as anxious as he to find the pirates and end the terror. He realized it was their reputation on the line as well as his. For years in the future, in sailors’ haunts at navy ports the world over, the men of the Canton knew they would be asked, “Say, were you aboard her when they went after that madman pirate back in sixty-nine?”
He remembered what he saw happen to the men of the Sacramento, three years after she and another warship had refused to respond to the challenge of a lone Confederate raider off Spain in ’65. The barroom fight was quick and vicious after they had been called incompetent cowards. The accusers had lost, but Wake never forgot the look on the face of the Sacramento’s crew when it had been brought up.
And this was even worse, for innocents were being slaughtered. He would find Symons and kill him, Wake vowed with a tightening grip on his logbook—not for bragging rights or honor, but to prevent future victims.
***
All was ready. The name Colón American on the transom had been painted out and replaced with Lorena. The men had hidden their pistols in their pockets and were looking despondent, which the gringo thought with a grin was very appropriate, for the water in the holds was gaining and the few sails they could set were barely moving the ship. The ruse was perfect.
The merchant steamer approached with her boats swayed out and lowered in the falls, ready to assist in any way. She stopped her engines and drifted alongside, the captain leaning over the rail with a speaking trumpet.
“Ahoy, Lorena. What say you, sir? Do you need assistance?”
“Aye, we do,” shouted the gringo back. “We’ve been destroyed by a pirate gang off Nicaragua and are sinking. Can you help us, for the love of God, sir?”
There was a hurried discussion on the other ship. Then the pirates saw her boats being dropped into the water and knew it had worked.
“Of course, Captain! We will be right over,” the other captain shouted into the trumpet.
“Where are you bound?” the American renegade said as innocently as he could.
“We are the Diana, sir, bound for Kingston with a load of cane and corn from Belize. We’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Thank God for you, sir,” said El Gringo Loco, as he cocked an eyebrow and realized how much his relief was real.
The Diana’s men were almost to them when he pulled aside Bajo, his new Cuban number two since that idiot Cadena had been killed at Bomkatu.
“Remember, wait until we get up on their deck and I give the signal.”
Bajo acknowledged the order and went forward as the rescuers climbed up, amazed at the wreckage and staring at the men aboard. The gringo hugged the one who looked to be in charge and cried out, “You saved us. We’ll live now.”
The crew of the Diana were mainly black Jamaican and Belizean and were happy to be hailed as heroes. They helped the men carry bundles of personal possessions down into the boats and rowed them over to the smaller steamer, where her captain greeted them. The gringo could feel his skin already burning in the glare of the noonday sun.
“I’m Captain Collins, sir. Devon Collins, from Exeter. “What do you want to do with your ship, Captain . . .?” The steamer’s skipper asked the gringo as the other stranded men were helped up on Diana’s deck.
“What? Oh, yes, well I’m Captain . . . Darien. And we can leave her. She’ll be under in an hour now that the pumps aren’t being worked.”
“Yes, yes. Well, come below, Captain Darien, and we’ll get a spot of rum in you. Do you good after what you’ve been through. Now tell me about these pirates, sir,” said Collins as he led the way. The gringo stopped and looked forward to his men, catching Bajo’s attention. He nodded, saw Bajo’s nod back, and turned around to see Collins waiting by the after hatchway, waiting to hear his story.
“Well, Captain Collins, these pirates are the kind of scoundrels who would pose as victims, then kill everyone in the ship that rescued them.”
&nb
sp; The confusion on Collins’ face lasted a fleeting second—his look changing to terror as the man he had just saved raised a large revolver and shot him twice in the chest.
Shots banged out on the deck for a few seconds. Then several of the gang went below to the crew’s berth while others went charging into the engine rooms. None of the victims had a chance. Within a minute, every man in the Diana’s crew was dead.
A cheerful Bajo reappeared on deck, reported to his leader that the entire ship was theirs, congratulated him on his victory, then received his orders—steer north to the coast of Jamaica, fifty miles away. El Gringo Loco gazed around the horizon, stopping to watch the packet steamer as she settled lower in the water and wallowed in the swells.
“You served me well, bitch,” he muttered to the wrecked hulk, “but this little darling will serve me even better.”
As he descended the ladder he called out to Bajo and pointed to Collins’ body.
“And get this mess cleaned up, Bajo. I like a clean ship, damn it.”
“As you command, Jefe,” responded Bajo quickly, knowing enough to never question the norteamericano, whatever the hell his real name was.
***
“I need to go to Kingston, Peter, and report in to my commander. Why don’t you come there too. You can reprovision and communicate with your superiors,” suggested Russell as he sat on the bench seat in his cabin, the Canton visible out the gallery ports. Once the ships met at the reef at Southwest Rock on Pedro Bank, Wake and Monteblanco had been rowed over to confer with the British captain.
Days had been lost on fruitless searches of the small islands off Nicaragua and the men were in low spirits. None of them had a strong theory on where the gang had taken the packet steamer. The pirates had disappeared.
“I hate to waste any more time, though, Rodney. Symons already has a week or more on us,” replied Wake, clearly frustrated.
“Peter, I need to go into Kingston also,” Monteblanco said gently. “I have delayed my return to Caracas for some time now, but I need to go home and report to my own government. It is time for me. I truly think you need to do the same, my friend.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “For you have more to report than all of us.”
“Yes, you’re both right, of course,” Wake sighed. “I’ll take you into port at Kingston, Pablo. Canton can reprovision and fill her bunkers and I’ll report in at the consul general’s office and tell them what’s happened so far. They’ve already received my initial report about Captain Terrington and have forwarded it to Washington, I imagine.”
“It is best,” agreed Monteblanco.
“And after my ship is readied and I’ve sent my report off, Canton’ ll go back out and search again for Symons,” added Wake in a determined tone, causing Monteblanco and Russell to exchange glances.
“Peter, old chap,” said Russell, “I appreciate your persistence, as does Pablo here—who has the most serious reasons to gain justice of any of us—but remember to think clearly. You need to resolve some of the other issues you’ve got to deal with also. Namely, removing your captain from command. Some uncharitable gentlemen might consider that mutiny, my friend—even in your rather enlightened navy. Going off half-cocked is not the answer and will only lead to your dismissal, or worse. Your navy, or ours, will get Symons and soon. I have no doubt.”
Wake smiled. The British captain was being polite, but he was right. Wake needed to take care of the issue he loathed thinking about—Parker Terrington.
And then he would resume his search.
***
The Diana was drifting five miles offshore of Black River on the southwest coast of Jamaica the next sunrise with the gringo standing on the main deck surveying the horizon with a telescope. He was just tightening the focus on an object to their west when the lookout called down, reporting it.
“Schooner to the west, tacking inshore.”
He could see that she was relatively large, heavily laden, and probably coming in from Cuba. Watching her tack through the wind and settle on an offshore course, he decided she would do and, unless some better target turned up, he would let her sail to him, then take her.
A moment later the lookout called down again. “Another one . . . no, two . . . to the east by that headland. Sailing downwind to us.”
Snapping his telescope back open he turned around and examined the schooners to windward. They were surging westerly down the waves with their sails out on either side, wing and wing, rolling in the small seas, coming around Great Pedro Bluff.
Incredible, he thought, here at Jamaica they come to you. Not even any need for searching.
37
Her Majesty’s Crown Colony of Jamaica
During that same sunrise, fifty miles to the east of the Diana, HMS Plover and USS Canton were letting go their anchors into the clear waters off the Royal Navy’s station at Kingston Harbor. Every man aboard each ship was looking forward to the possibility of going ashore and relaxing with drink and women. Wake, who was definitely going ashore, dreaded the upcoming experience, and the possible consequences.
He walked up the hill to the American consul general’s office on Oxford Road and introduced himself to the clerk, who went into another office and came out with a superior. The tall, thin man who appeared stared at Wake before speaking in an easy Midwestern drawl, an incongruous sound in the tropics of the Caribbean.
“Yes, well Lieutenant Wake . . . ah, welcome back ashore in Kingston. We met at the reception when you were here before, but let me introduce myself again. My name is Randall Collmer, from Indiana, and I’m Consul General Clingenpeel’s assistant. Unfortunately, he is away right now in Cuba, so I’ll be your liaison.
“Ahmm . . . Lieutenant, we’ve received some rather, ahmm . . . unusual . . . correspondence from the Navy Department regarding you and the Canton, and were wondering if you would come back this way. Say, were you able to get that renegade naval officer down there?”
“No, we haven’t got him, yet,” answered Wake. “I’ve come to send my report to Washington on that, and other developments, and to advise your office on the situation in connection with the pirate. We also need provisions and coal.”
“Oh, I see,” said Collmer without showing his opinion. “Well, please come in and have a chair, and I’ll find that correspondence for you to peruse. Provisions and coal we can do right away. I’d also be interested in hearing of your view on the situation in the Central American countries.”
Sitting in the offered chair as the diplomat left the room, Wake looked out at the magnificent view over the anchorage in the bay, thinking about the conversation he’d just had. Collmer was very polite and helpful, but there was something strange in his demeanor. Then Wake realized ominously what is was that bothered him—the man had never even asked about Captain Terrington. He already knew?
***
“Welcome home, Captain Russell,” offered Commodore Forester. Plover’s commander stood from his chair and said, “Thank you, sir,” as his superior entered the office and sat behind the huge mahogany desk.
“I do not see a captured vessel in the port, so may I presume the pirate’s ship is destroyed?” asked Forester pleasantly. Russell was sure the commodore already had the news from his staff that Russell had briefed downstairs, but answered the question.
“Two of the pirate’s vessels have been destroyed, sir. Captain Toledo of the Sirena was killed in the process of destroying the second one a week ago at Nicaragua, along with several of his men. The third was damaged but escaped, with the pirate leader—Symons is his name—aboard.”
“I see,” said Forester, folding his hands in a steeple and pursing his lips. “And where was his last position?”
“By Cabo Gracias a Dios, heading northeast. A week ago. We, Canton and Plover, searched the islands offshore there but found no recent sign of him.”
>
“Hhmm . . . And your opinion of where he went?” Forester’s eyes bored into the ship captain.
“Ah, I just don’t know, sir,” admitted Russell, trying desperately to project an air of professional confidence.
“Conjecture?”
“Maybe west to Yucatan, maybe east to Venezuela, sir,” ventured Russell. “He’ll not be welcomed on the Moskito or Panama or Colombian coasts, sir.”
“Oh? And pray tell why not, Captain Russell?”
Over the next twenty minutes, Russell proceeded to tell the commodore in detail what had happened with the search for Symons and his men on those coasts. Afterward Forester rose from his desk.
“One last matter, Captain Russell. Your special mission for the foreign office. What was the outcome of that?”
“My confidential report was sealed and given to your aide, sir, but the simple truth is that the English people of the Moskito coast are out for themselves, have no real economic viability, and in my opinion, are not trustworthy. They smell potential money from London in regard to a possible canal project and will tell the bureaucrats back home what they want to hear. In fact, many supported this pirate, directly or indirectly, until his atrocities on their coast.”
Russell knew what he had just said was explosive and not what was expected, but the naval officer also knew that somebody had to give the true picture of the situation. He went on as Forester digested the previous information.
“Another truth is that the Moskito Indians are simple people who just want to be left alone by everybody, English and Nicaraguan. They are subsistence fishermen and farmers, sir, nothing more.”
“And the Nicaraguans?”
“The Nicaraguans are very concerned about British movement in their area and watched our actions closely. They will not hesitate to complain to Washington if they sense we are trying to reverse the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty’s provisions, sir.”
A Dishonorable Few (The Honor Series) Page 25