chapter 12

Retribution

He who leads the upright astray in an evil way will himself fall into his own pit.

—Proverbs 28:10

William walked purposefully toward the dense scrub that marked the end of the beach while the porters stripped to their waists and packed the mules with goods from the Voyager’s skiffs. He was intent to rendezvous with Mr. Harold Hull at the Hotel de San Martín that evening.

The new continent greeted William with a multitude of sensations, not unlike those from the Duke of Devonshire’s stove house. In the shade, he was overwhelmed by the earthy scent of jungle vegetation. Tropical rot suffused the moist air, mingling with the odor of perspiring humans and their pack animals.

He had to clear his goods through customs. From their makeshift offices, half a dozen brokers offered to assist the disembarking passengers. William waved them off; the duke had told him a Mr. Veeborlay would be his Barranquilla contact.

Beyond the beach, in the shade of a twisted tree, stood a shed with a tin roof. Several soldiers sat in the shade, dozing. The other passengers were already gone by the time William reached the customs house. He walked through a door propped open by a rock, into a stuffy one-room office.

The sleep-eyed representative of the Spanish Viceroy of New Granada rose from his rickety chair. The man opened a large official-looking binder with a dirty cover, picked up a pen, and asked in Spanish, “Who are you, why are you here, where have you come from, and where are you going?”

Having served in the Peninsular War, Gunn, like so many other veterans, had become fluent in Spanish. The man half-heartedly scribbled William’s answers then asked, “Is there anything you would like to declare, Mr. Gunn?”

“No,” he said.

“Is that your baggage?” the clerk asked, nodding in the direction of the cart outside.

William looked out and saw that a soldier had taken an interest in his goods. With his writ of passage with the seal of the British Crown, he wouldn’t have had any concern, but he had concealed weapons among his possessions. He stepped outside, the customs clerk close behind.

The snooping soldier’s neat uniform and polished boots stood in contrast to the attire of his compatriots, who were still napping under the tree. Just what William didn’t need: a junior officer striving for a promotion.

William asked, “Can I help you?”

“Open them,” the junior officer said.

William decided not to waste time and opened the chest containing the Manton pistols, Baker rifle, knives, and ammunition.

The Spanish junior officer gave the clerk a hard look and called to the soldiers.

The clerk protested, “But, sir, you said you had nothing to declare.”

“And I don’t,” William said, producing the writ of passage signed by King George.

The clerk looked at the document, then looked at the officer.

“It is in our language, and it says he is a plant hunter, here on behalf of the British sovereign, looking for medicinal plants in our forests.”

The Spaniard laughed. “You are under arrest.”

William said, “You cannot delay a representative of His Majesty on official business. We are allies.”

The officer barked an order, and the soldiers aimed their muskets at William.

“Miguel, Lieutenant Rodriquez, what is this?” An unimpressive man dressed in a white linen suit approached. He was overweight and sweating and would have had a dangerously white complexion to match his clothing if his face weren’t as florid as a bleeding tomato. He took his straw hat off to reveal a head of wispy blond hair.

“Did I not tell you I had a most important client coming in today?” said the strange-looking man, who appeared to be as suited to his present environment as a jellyfish washed ashore. Oblivious to the muskets leveled at William, he chided the officer, “This is my client, Mr. Gunn, and his papers are perfect. He is here on behalf of His Majesty King George. The Spanish and English are friends.”

William stood stock-still, hands in the air, feeling like a fool while this unknown gentleman bargained for his freedom. Not quite the welcome to South America he’d envisioned.

The lieutenant pointed to the cart. “Señor Veeborlay, your client has enough weapons to start his own revolution.”

Veeborlay smiled and strolled into the shade with the Spaniard in tow. The Dutchman said, “I understand your position, and the difficulty of this situation.”

The officer said quietly, “One of the first passengers off encouraged me to detain this man. I didn’t know he was one of yours.”

The agent passed a thick envelope to the officer. “I am sorry I missed your son’s birthday. How are Fatima and the boys?”

The soldier slid the envelope into his jacket. “She complains. She says she doesn’t see me enough. You know how it is.”

“I do, indeed,” said Veeborlay, not bothering to strike a sincere tone.

The Spanish officer ordered his soldiers to lower their weapons. The Dutchman passed a similar envelope to Miguel, who departed with the officer.

The duke had told William everything had a price in the New World. (This had not been shocking to William, as it was the same in the Old World—the only difference being that the Old World was more expensive.)

Alone together, Veeborlay finally gave William a once-over, glancing at the Brit as though he were an afterthought. The agent possessed that air of distraction which seemed endemic among light-skinned Europeans who’d inhabited the tropics for too long. He shook William’s hand. “Call me Dutch,” he said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

William waited by a two-wheeled cab while Veeborlay paid for his goods to be moved to the nearby town of Barranquilla, where he would stay until a reliable guide to the interior could be arranged. No stranger to the dangers facing a traveler in a foreign port, William kept his Baker rifle, John Manton pistols, and a fighting knife close on his person.

He was momentarily surprised when the Dutch agent climbed in to drive the cab himself.

“I’m indebted to you,” William said, settling into the passenger’s seat beside him. “I was going to contact you when I was in town.”

Veeborlay was blunt. “How the hell did you manage to get on the wrong side of the Spanish so soon? You’ve barely even made it ashore, Officer Gunn.”

William fixed the agent with a blank look. How does he know I’m an officer? What else does he know?

“You mistake me,” William said, “I’m just a simple plant hunter.”

Still holding the reins, Veeborlay raised his hands to placate the twitchy soldier, “I am innocent of subterfuge, William. I happened to see the hem of a red coat when your belongings were shifted. Not to worry—I ensured the garment was properly stowed. Above all else, His Majesty sees to it that my loyalties remain with Britain. After all”—Veeborlay smiled—“I may want to retire to sunny Cornwall someday.”

William knew his luggage had been tightly secured; he suspected the hem of his red coat had taken some persuasion before coming to light.

Veeborlay inspected his new companion. “Come now, what did you do to deserve that Spaniard’s attention?”

“A friend from the voyage.” William grimaced. “Mr. Howard Hull—you wouldn’t happen to be acquainted?”

Veeborlay said flatly, “You choose your friends very poorly, Mr. Gunn, very poorly. You must do something about that.” Veeborlay looked straight ahead, focusing on his driving.

“I know.”

Gradually, William’s thoughts turned from Howard Hull to the present. He spoke evenly. “The duke said you were reliable, Dutch, not just for making arrangements, but with information of interest to the Crown.”

The Dutchman smiled ambivalently. “What information can a modest shipping agent such as myself offer a simple plant hunter?”

William suffered for a moment, struggling to decide how much to divulge. Everything about this man reeked of duplicity, but he was definitely the agent the duke had described, the one with information regarding Bolívar’s whereabouts; and the sooner he found Bolívar and delivered his message, the sooner he would be on his way to discovering the black orchid and curing Sarah. Time was running out for his daughter—he had no choice. “I need to intercept Simón Bolívar as soon as possible.”

Veeborlay didn’t break his concentration from the road, pushing their horse along at what felt like a breakneck pace on the narrow path. “Word has come to me that Bolívar has joined Santander. They may cross the Andes soon, very soon, and move on the capital.”

“In the middle of winter? Is that possible?” William asked.

“If you know Bolívar, anything is possible.”

William had learned enough about Bolívar in preparing for his delivery of the duke’s message to believe that a man with the general’s experience would not sit in the rain waiting for Morillo to destroy him.

The Dutchman held the reins with one hand to scratch his chin, William noticed with alarm. “The fastest way is up the Magdalena. After that”—Veeborlay shrugged—“I can give you the name of a man who should be able to help.”

“And transport?”

“Flotillas regularly go upstream. The rains have not yet begun, and the northeasterly is still blowing. The sooner you start, the better. I’ll ensure there are sufficient provisions waiting for you and your men before you arrive at the dock.”

“Men? What men?” William asked, surprised. “I’m traveling alone, as a plant hunter.”

Veeborlay laughed. With a trace of scorn, he said, “Are you serious? Do you know anything about New Granada?”

William was defensive. “I was well briefed on the warring parties and the disposition of both the Spanish and the rebel forces.”

The Dutchman spoke loudly over the rattling wheels, as if he were ticking off the items on a grocery list. “The warring forces are the least of your worries. There are armed bandits and deserters everywhere who would steal the eye out of your head before you knew it was missing. There are headhunters and cannibals who use poison darts that prick like a gnat but kill you before you can think to scratch, bugs that eat you while you sleep, and venomous snakes disguised as vines. No. If you ever want to reach Bolívar alive, you don’t want to travel alone—not up the Magdalena.”

“Well, how do you suggest I find proper companions if I’m leaving tomorrow morning?”

The agent smiled and pulled the buggy to an abrupt stop, causing William to grip the sides of the cab to keep from pitching onto the road. “You can meet them in my room.” Veeborlay nodded toward their stop: the Hotel de San Martín—the very place where Howard Hull was staying.

William gave Veeborlay a hard look. The businessman shrugged. “He likes the arepas here. And it will give you a chance to impress your new recruits. Ask for the room under my name; they’ll be waiting for you.”

As William stepped down, Veeborlay leaned out for one last word, “But be careful—don’t forget the Spanish control this region.”

As a soldier who had been in harm’s way for much of his adult life, William was no stranger to violence, but unlike some men, neither had he developed a taste for it. He would have preferred to live in a world where such things were not necessary, but until the world changed, William would do what needed to be done . . . and was thankful he was good at it.

The San Martín was a two-story affair: the upper floor contained rooms for overnight guests and although the ground floor had a few rooms at the back, most of the lower floor consisted of a large dining room with a long bar, a score of tables for diners, and a piano in the corner.

The dining room was crowded, smoky, and noisy. An old man was playing an unrecognizable tune on the piano. At a table on the far wall, a customer sat by himself, eating.

William entered, armed with a brace of pistols and carrying a rifle. The fat bartender looked on with mild curiosity. Ignoring his stare, William strode across the room, his eyes riveted on the fraudster.

“Why, it’s William,” Hull said, feigning surprise. He put down his knife and fork, hurriedly swallowing. “Terribly sorry I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye at the harbor, old chap, but my contacts set up a meeting with the factory boys up-country, and I really had to be off straightaway.”

Without a word, William put a pair of Manton pistols on the table.

“I give you the advantage of reaching first,” William said. “It should be a fair fight, but one of us must die.”

“Please don’t hurt me!” Hull pleaded. “I don’t know what they’ve been telling you, but there’s no truth in it.” His hands dropped beneath the table. “I wouldn’t do anything to harm our friendship.”

“Last chance,” William said, offering the pistol to Hull once again.

William saw a change in the imposter’s features: Hull’s eyes hardened, and the false smile transformed to a barely concealed sneer.

Harold Hull rose halfway; with his left hand he pushed the Manton away. At the same instant, his right hand began to clear the table.

It never got any further.

In one swift motion William shot the coward through the eye. Hull remained crouched. A small pistol clattered to the floor from where it had been hidden in his right hand. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly—either in silent protest, or perhaps trying to talk his way into heaven.

The lifeless body of Harold Hull pitched headfirst into his dinner and knocked the table over with a crash.

With a measured pace, William stepped over the body and picked up the small weapon. Looking at the corpse, he realized his own pistol had pulled slightly left and down. He noted this for future use since he hadn’t had a chance to test the new pistols before departing England.

He walked over and settled with the bartender. The occupants of the pub returned to their conversations, and the old man resumed his tune on the piano. A big man bent over and went through the pockets of Harold Hull’s lifeless body.

William had a quick drink, then decided he was ready meet the men the Dutchman thought were so special.