The man who stood on the deck of the U.S. Navy’s sloop of war Kansas was dressed in the coarse black robe of a Spanish priest. That he was highly agitated was obvious, the way he kept pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as though trying to eliminate a vision that continued to haunt him.
Commander John Sherburne, just thirty-seven years old but with the lined, weathered face of the lifelong sailor, stood beside him. “Father Diaz, the villagers are sure it was slave traders and not common bandits?”
Father Oscar Diaz took his hands from his eyes, their sockets red from the pressure of his hands. “Those that are still alive say slave traders. They were all dark, bearded men and their leader wore Arab robes.”
“Four young women taken, you say?”
“Yes, including a bride who was just married this morning.”
Father Diaz, young and pleasant-faced, trembled all over, as though he stood in snow. But it was fear and shock that caused him to shiver uncontrollably, not cold.
A man with a measure of stern kindliness in him, Commander Sherburne called for a glass of rum and bade the priest drink hearty. “If ever a man needed a drink, it’s you, Father.”
The priest touched the glass to his lips, and then said, “Commander, what will you do?”
“I’ll land and see the village for myself. If it is as you say, and I’ve no reason to doubt you, I’ll pursue the pirate vessel.”
“The ship is long gone, I fear,” Father Diaz said.
Sherburne smiled. “This is the newest steam sloop in the United States Navy, Father. We’ll catch her, never fear.”
“A schooner,” the priest mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“One of the women said the ship was a schooner and it sailed away south. She is old, and may know these things.”
Sherburne nodded. “A fast ship, no doubt, but she depends on the wind and can’t outrun the Kansas, never fear.” He turned to the lieutenant at his other side and said, “Lower the jolly boat and tell Sergeant Monroe I want him and two of his marines to accompany me onshore.”
“I will go with you,” Father Diaz said.
“You’re welcome to remain on board,” Sherburne said.
The priest shook his head. “My place is with my flock, Commander. Now more than ever.” He tossed off his glass of rum and seemed glad of it.
White seagulls glided across a pale blue sky as Commander Sherburne and his men landed on the beach.
Sergeant Monroe, a profane man, cursed violently as he caught the smell of death. “Damn it. They’re rotting already.”
Sherburne heard the marine, but ignored his outburst. He jumped into the surf and walked toward the village, a couple sailors close behind him. Monroe and his men followed, their bayonets fixed and eyes wary.
The scene was as Father Diaz had described. The blacksmith’s body lay on the beach and the village was strewn with corpses, a few shot, the majority hacked with swords. There was blood everywhere, and fat, black flies gorged on open wounds. Higher than the seagulls, but gliding just as elegantly, buzzards waited and watched with their endless patience.
Women huddled in groups and wailed their grief. A few kneeled silently by the corpses of their menfolk, the restless rustle of the surging surf and the yodel of the gulls their only requiem.
Father Diaz, his face a mask of pain, said almost apologetically to Sherburne, “The women can’t bury the dead, Commander.”
For his part the captain of the Kansas was infused with a white-hot anger and, for the first time since he’d entered the service as a boy, the desire to kill the enemy. His ship carried twenty carronades, powerful, close-range weapons, and he made a vow to reduce the slaver schooner to matchwood and its crew to smears of blood and guts on the deck.
More seamen and the remaining marines were ferried from the sloop to bury the dead, a melancholy task that took until dark to complete.
Before he left for his ship, Commander Sherburne spoke to the priest. “I’ve done all I can for you, Father, and God knows it was little enough.”
“To bury the dead is a holy and honorable thing,” Father Diaz said. “And it is much appreciated.”
“I know you’ll do what you can for the women, Father. Tell them I’ll bring back the girls who were taken.” He tried to offer more words of consolation, but could find none. Finally he said. “Just . . . tell them that.”
Father Diaz bowed his head, and then said, “The village is gone and it will never come back. I’ll take the women somewhere else, inland, where they’ll feel safe.”
The commander nodded, but said nothing more.
The priest raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over Sherburne. “Go with God. And may holy Saint Brendan the Navigator protect you and all who sail with you.”