chapter 26

Partners

William swam in a sea of dizziness and pain—each muscle in his body ached, it hurt to breathe deeply, and his ears were ringing. He struggled to sit up and open his eyes; the blinding light hurt his head. Someone helped him into a sitting position.

A lively and familiar voice announced, “If it’s not Captain William Gunn, the wandering Brit, back to the land of the living.”

No. It couldn’t be. That bloody Yankee.

“Now, my good Captain, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, there’s plenty of time to thank me for saving you—at the moment, let’s just focus on you getting your strength back.”

The infuriating nonsense from this damn American helped to clear his head. Trying to turn to see who was feeding him, he winced from the fierce pain that shot up his side.

When a person entered the wilderness for any length of time unprepared, it usually didn’t turn out well. Gunn was no exception. Wounded, bitten, his body wasted, his face pinched in pain and fever, he’d been barely recognizable when the American first saw him two weeks ago lying naked and prostrate, dirty banana leaves keeping him off the bare ground. The right side of William’s face had been swollen and his ribs darkly bruised; his dry breath had barely rattled between the officer’s cracked lips.

“Better take it easy. Either someone danced a minuet on the side of your body, or a mule kicked you. Either way, I’d say you’re the proud owner of a couple of bruised ribs.” Nate poked a finger in William’s side. “Could be quite painful for a while.”

“Ow! What’re you doing?”

“For the bullet,” Nate said, rubbing his recently healed wound.

“That was your doing, Bidwell,” William managed to rasp. “Where am I? And what the hell are you doing here?”

“I strongly suggest, your imperial majesty, that you continue speaking the King’s English, as we have the chief’s son for company. He’s spent time with the missionaries and speaks Spanish.” Bidwell changed to Spanish. “Cusi, the great white shaman has just rejoined us from the spirit world.” A smiling young man approached hesitantly. “This is Cusi, the chief’s only son. His name means ‘joyful.’”

True to his name, a perpetually cheerful expression lit Cusi’s face. He was short and thin, not long out of adolescence, and his voice broke with the edge of manhood. Like the rest of his tribe, he was light complexioned and wore a short cotton cloth about his waist. Being a youth, Cusi was not yet allowed to wear the heavy, dangling silver and gold earlobe ornaments of a warrior, or the gem necklaces of the elders and his father, the cacique.

Nate said in Spanish, “And to answer your question: We’re deep in the jungle on the west side of the Magdalena, not far from the foothills of the mountains. I believe we are with the Muzo tribe.

“You should also know,” Nate switched to English, “our lives hang by the merest of threads. The only reason we’re both not with our ancestors at the moment is that this tribe thinks you”—Nate’s eyebrows rose—“are some sort of great shaman from across the ocean. And that I’m your servant, or assistant. Or something. So, I suggest you start acting real shamanic, real soon, or our gooses are cooked.”

Nate switched back to Spanish. “Cusi, please tell my master what has happened.”

Cusi said, “Every year the turtles come, they lay eggs on lake shore. When this happens, many otorongos leave the forest to catch and eat turtles. When turtles leave, otorongos go back.” Cusi’s smile faltered. “This year, not all go back.

“For two full moons after turtles, almost all village dogs gone. Then one of the children. Then another, getting water for the meal. We try but we cannot kill the otorongo. At night, in the village, men and women are taken. And now, otorongo has taken the best hunters.

“When we find you,” he said, to the British officer, “you speak with the gods. You have gold hair, and on your neck are illa and khuya. Since you come, otorongo does not kill. My father said this was because the creator brought you to us from far off with great medicine to keep otorongo away.”

Cusi smiled again. “But then you become more sick and more sick, and cannot heal yourself. Our spirit man says, ‘He cannot help us or himself. Dyus, the creator, sent him, not as medicine man, but as sacrifice to please the beast.’”

William’s side ached, and he groaned. Someone changed the cloth on his forehead. Nate lifted a mug to the British officer’s lips. Bits of vegetation floated on top of the concoction.

“What’s that mess?” Damned if he was going to drink anything that Yank had cooked up.

“That mess, your worship, is a special Jesuit brew which brought you back from the brink. You had the worst case of ague I’ve ever seen. The drink’s mainly grounds from the fever bark tree—and a couple of other herbs for good measure.”

William said, “I suppose I should be grateful, but I’m damn certain that you didn’t keep me alive out of the goodness of your heart.”

“You’re right there, Admiral. The only reason I’m still breathing is because these folks believe I’m your servant. You go, I go. Simple.” Nate explained, “When the tribe’s shaman wanted to put you to death, the chief was afraid because he couldn’t be certain whether or not you really were a messenger from the creator. So, he decided to hedge his bets and leave you outside as bait, and let the jaguar finish the job. That couldn’t possibly displease the gods. Clever. And that’s the way I found you almost two weeks ago. One foot in the grave.”

A flash of pain ran through William’s skull. “Bloody hell.”

“Please refrain from swearing in the presence of a woman, Gunn,” Nate said. “At least show some manners to the person who was feeding and bathing you.” Nate reached out, bringing an old woman into William’s view.

“May I present Madam Jizcamox, with the healing hands.”

A wizened old woman stood before William, her long silver hair tied in two braids down the sides of her head. A toothless smile lit up her brown wrinkled face. A pair of twinkling hazel eyes met his gaze.

He realized he was naked. “For God’s sake, man, put something over me.”

“Don’t worry, Gunn, our healer has been quite impressed by your manhood. I can’t be sure if it was the fever, a dream, or simply a need to pass water, but every time you were bathed you went full mast. Quite impressive. Do all British officers react to a bath in such a fashion?”

William mustered as much indignation as possible, considering his circumstances. “What a load of rubbish.” Jizcamox helped him lay back into a reclining position and put a folded blanket at his head.

William said weakly in Spanish to the smiling old woman, “Jizcamox is a beautiful name. I am eternally grateful for your help.” Cusi translated for her, then said they had to leave, but that he would return later.

Before she left, Jizcamox giggled, said something to William, and flicked his manhood.

“What—why’d she do that?”

“I know you’re confused,” Nate continued, “so I’ll tell you what I know.”

With some effort William sat up and glanced around. Finding they were now alone, he said quite deliberately, “Before this goes any further, Private, tell me: Why are you here?” He looked down, to the foot of the bed. A mangy dog looked up, panting happily. He stared at the dog. The dog stared back. “And what is that cur?”

The American explained, “The dog won’t leave your side, which is as perplexing to me as it is to you. As for why I’m here, after I recovered from the bullet you put in me”—his jaw tightened—“I went back to trading gems; this tribe is known for its emeralds. Now it’s my turn. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I don’t answer to you, Private,” William said.

Nate took a step forward. “Now you listen to me, Gunn, there’s no army around here—we’re in the middle of the goddamn jungle, if you haven’t noticed, not in Piccadilly. And you can rot in hell for all I care. If I hadn’t come along, you’d be a moldy pile of bones right about now. I only saved your lobsterback ass because I temporarily need your help. After that, we go our separate, merry ways.”

“Put that way,” William said dryly, “how could anyone resist? I’m listening.”

Nate said, “I believe the animal preying on this tribe is a man-eating jaguar. Must be a particularly large male because they haven’t been able to kill it, even with their poison darts and spears.” Nate stretched. “But it’s just your luck that ever since you arrived, Gunn, no one’s been attacked. And that’s where my idea fits in,” Nate said cagily. “The jaguar is the most proficient and deadly killer in the Americas. Maybe anywhere. But I hunt these animals.”

“So?”

“Have you ever hunted?”

William looked puzzled. “Birds, back home. Why?”

“First, we’re going to continue the pretense of you being a powerful healer and I your obedient assistant. Then we make a deal with this tribe. They have a gemstone that I want, and they must have something you want, or you wouldn’t be here.

“So,” Nate said, “once they agree to help us, the great white shaman and his servant are going to hunt and kill the most dangerous animal in the Western world.”