chapter 13

Compatriots

On the ground floor in the back of the Hotel de San Martín, a copper-colored Indian wearing a blue and gray woolen poncho stood silently outside the room reserved by Veeborlay. William slowly pushed open the door and found four men waiting for him in the room.

He entered and closed the door behind him. All four men immediately stood to attention. They appeared to be British ex-army, dressed in a mix of civilian clothing and fragments of recognizable uniforms. They deferred to a big man who, from his bearing, appeared to be a noncommissioned officer. William recognized him as the man who had gone through Hull’s pockets.

One man had a Baker rifle slung across his back. The youngest held a small monkey with a white face.

“What’s this?” William asked the group in Spanish.

The big man stepped forward and answered in heavily accented Spanish, “I ask your excuse, sir, but we like to unite with you.”

William smiled. “The last time I heard someone butcher the Spanish language that badly was on the Peninsula, from the mouth of a Yorkshireman.”

The others grinned and the big man looked sheepish. “Sergeant Angus MacPherson, Fifty-Second Oxfordshire, sir.”

William said sternly, “I don’t know who you think I am, but there’s to be no saluting, and I am to be addressed at all times as ‘mister,’ not ‘sir.’”

The men straightened noticeably.

“If you and your men are to travel with me, Angus, everything I’m about to say is confidential unless I indicate otherwise. Is that understood?”

“Aye, sir. And please, sir, Gus will do.”

“I travel as a captain commissioned in the First King’s Dragoon Guards on a writ signed by His Majesty.”

The sergeant’s eyes opened wide, his attention riveted on William.

“All you need to know is that I am a botanist explorer on a scientific journey, collecting specimens for Sir Joseph Banks under the protection of the British Crown. If you accompany me, you come as my laborers, nothing else.”

William grinned. “It’ll be impossible to disguise you, but stow those uniforms and get into local garb. Your background will remain as honorably discharged soldiers working for the Crown. If anyone asks, we’re armed to protect ourselves and for provisioning in the wild. But”—William instinctively lowered his voice such that the sergeant had to lean in to hear him—“I will lead you to General Bolívar.”

The door opened slightly, and Veeborlay leaned in. “A Spanish patrol just entered, most likely drawn by your little quarrel with the late Mr. Hull. I suggest you gentlemen regroup in a less conspicuous location, perhaps at the hotel stable. You can leave through the back door.” He ducked back outside.

William looked at the big man. “Mr. MacPherson, take the men to the stable. I’ll meet you in the furthest empty stall in two minutes. Make yourselves scarce.”

William reloaded the pistol and checked his rifle, then left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He took a careful look around the corner.

Four soldiers stood near Hull’s body while their officer was half-heartedly questioning the bartender. William backed off and left by the rear door.

The big man and the soldiers were waiting in the dim light at the back of the stable.

“An officer and four soldiers,” William whispered, “armed with muskets. The officer has a pistol. They don’t appear to be overly excited.

“Sergeant,” he asked abruptly, “who was your commanding officer at Salamanca?”

The red-faced Yorkie answered instantly, “We was temporarily commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Moore, sir, with General Colborne having been evacuated after being wounded and all at Rodrigo. But the general came back, sir, to take over again at San Sebastián.”

“Well, Sergeant, it seems you do know your way around the Peninsula after that campaign.”

“A bit too well, mister, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. And Waterloo—I heard the Fifty-Second was part of the final charge?”

“Aye, sir.”

MacPherson said, “They’re good solid lads, seen some warm work—Tommie at Hougoumont, Campbell at the Sandpit. We decided we’d be more likely to get where we’re going if we stick together. Problem was”—the sergeant grinned with embarrassment—“once we got here, we had no idea what to do next. So we’ve been waiting and were about to go upriver just in hope, when I happened to meet Mr. Veeborlay. He told us he knew a British officer who would set us right, so here we are, sir.”

That bloody Veeborlay, William thought, he knew before I ever arrived that I was a British officer.

But Dutch was right. These men were trained war veterans; they could be most useful.

“Let there be no mistaking the seriousness of my mission, Sergeant. It will not be compromised. I’ve shown one man the short path to hell and won’t hesitate again. The men will answer to you, and you’ll keep them in line.”

The sergeant began to reach into his jacket pocket. “Sir, I have something I think might be of interest to you.”

A voice called from outside in broken Spanish: “Enemy patrol.”

William grabbed the big man’s arm and quickly pulled him further back into the darkness behind several stacked bales of hay. The others followed, trying to hide as best they could. William held his pistol, Gus a sizable bayonet.

From the shadows, they could hear an order to halt barked in Spanish; the tramp of booted feet stopped abruptly. A harsh voice demanded, “You—half-breed—where are the English? We know they are here.”

A quiet voice answered in halting Spanish, barely loud enough for them to hear, “Short time, men go to river.”

The Spanish soldiers made a perfunctory effort of searching the stable, not bothering to come past the first couple of stalls. One stopped to drop his breeches and water the wall while the others continued looking about. Gus tensed. William put a restraining hand on the sergeant’s arm.

The Englishmen waited until the voice outside said, “Soldiers gone.”

Leaning against the stable wall was the Indian who had been standing outside the door to the hotel room where William first met the British soldiers. His face now concealed under a wide-brimmed hat, the blue and gray ruana wrapped around him, crossed legs hidden under shapeless cotton pantaloons, he was seemingly asleep. Gus and William looked at each other.

William said to the form, “Thanks for the warning, but how did you know they would leave?”

The man looked up without expression. He slowly parted his poncho to reveal a pair of loaded pistols, cocked and ready.

William and Gus both smiled.

The Indian spoke, more fluent in Spanish than he had let on with the search party. “My name Jaci, from the Tupi, by the Big River. You go to fight the Spanish?”

“We intend to kill many Spanish.”

“I join you.”

“Very well, Jaci, welcome.”

William turned to Gus. “Sergeant, it appears the Spanish are searching for me.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s what I wanted to tell you before that patrol appeared.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, I happened to check your dead bloke to see if there might be anything of interest.”

“You don’t say.” William didn’t appreciate scavenging the dead, but knew the reality of life.

“It’s not like that, sir. I wasn’t after money, but information. And”—the sergeant proudly held out an oiled envelope—“I came up with this.”

William opened the envelope and quickly scanned its contents.

Gus said, “It shows that fella you done in, as far as I can make out, was an agent of the Netherlands, acting for what’s left of the Dutch East India Company.”

Acton’s right, this place is a den of vipers, William thought. He folded the envelope and put it in his breast pocket. “Thank you, Gus, you did well. I’m afraid we’ll hear from them again. But for now, take Jaci with you, keep hidden, and I’ll be along shortly, or I’ll get word to you. Be prepared to leave Barranquilla at short notice.”

William quickly made his way back to the room by the rear entrance of the hotel. Veeborlay was looking out a window, partially obscured by a heavy curtain.

“The patrol was asking for the Englishman who killed the man in the hotel,” Veeborlay said.

“I know; the Indian sidetracked them to the river.”

“Ah, I’m pleased you met the Tupi. He could be very useful to you—absolutely hates the Spanish.”

“Have you any idea why the Spanish have taken an interest in my altercation?” William asked.

“No. Ordinarily, a fight between two foreigners would be completely ignored by the authorities.” Veeborlay sounded concerned. “In the morning, make sure you are at the Magdalena dock at six o’clock sharp. Whatever happens, you must leave before sunrise. I’ll have a fully loaded boat waiting for you. And I’ll make sure a rumor reaches the Royalists that you’re planning to board a schooner out of Sabanilla tomorrow—keep them busy running after shadows. It seems there may be more to this Mr. Harold Hull than we thought.”

William said nothing about the information Gus had taken off the dead man.

When William arrived at the dock the next morning, Jaci was already at the landing, an eight-foot-long blowgun in hand. Gus and two of the others soon approached with their kit.

“Where’s your third, Gus?”

“Tommie will be here shortly, Mr. Gunn, he had to coax Charlie out from under the bed.”

“Charlie?”

“His monkey.”

“Does he intend to keep that monkey?” William asked.

“Attached himself to Tommie at a cantina the evening he arrived, sir. Can’t separate them. Tommie even sleeps with him. No harm, though.”

William shook his head. “Get your gear stowed and be ready to depart as soon as the other passengers are settled.”

The Dutch agent had reserved room for them on a fifty-foot-long champan, a large flat-bottom dugout made of balsa, that came fully manned, with fourteen crew members. Over the middle of the champan ran a twenty-five-foot-long enclosure covered with woven palm fronds. Twelve of the fourteen crew members stood on top of the enclosure with long, stout poles of guaiacum wood they would use to propel the dugout upstream against the current. In addition to the punters, a steersman stood in the stern and a crewman sat on the bow to test for depth.

“Tommie should be here by now,” Gus said. They had finished stowing their gear and most of the passengers were aboard.

“Go and drag him back here, monkey or no monkey,” William said. “We have to leave—it’s almost sunrise!”

Twenty minutes later, Gus arrived with a most contrite Tommie, Charlie sitting on his shoulder.

Gus apologized: “Royalist soldiers detained him, but Tommie convinced them he was harmless, and they let him go.”

“Both of you get on board right now,” William said, “and keep that damn monkey out of the way!”

“What is it, Mr. Gunn?” Gus asked as they scrambled aboard.

“They didn’t let Tommie go because they believed he was harmless—they followed him. Look!”

A squad of armed Royalist soldiers rounded the corner, led by an armed officer on horseback.

“Stop! You are under arrest!” The officer’s voice could be heard in the distance.

Standing on the bow, William ordered the helmsman, “Cast off now!”

The helmsman looked from William to the approaching Spanish soldiers and said, “No leave, not ready.”

William leveled his rifle at him. “You’re ready now. Gus, give those soldiers something to think about.”

The big sergeant barked, “Greenie, put one over their heads.”

Campbell swung his rifle around, aimed briefly, and fired. The round whined just over the heads of the approaching Spanish. The officer’s horse reared while the soldier fought to control the animal; the rest of squad halted.

On the champan, orders were shouted, lines released, and the boat slowly drew out into the brown current.

The Spanish ran to the dock. The officer dismounted and yelled an order. The soldiers hastily formed a line and knelt.

The punters marched down the boat, planting their poles, working her upstream, and rapidly drawing her further out into the Magdalena, the incoming tide helping to overcome the slow-moving downstream current.

“We’re still too close, sir, they’ll shred us at this distance.”

“Keep your men down, Sergeant, and let’s hope their aim is as bad as the cheap aguardiente they drink.”

William ducked under the meager protection of the shallow gunwale and wondered how the Spanish knew to follow Tommie.

The Spaniard raised his sword high overhead, and the soldiers raised their rifles.

The officer dropped his saber.

“Fire!”