chapter 32

Respect

We confide in our strength, without boasting of it; we respect that of others, without fearing it.

—Thomas Jefferson

“Like I said before, Yank, this is where I leave,” William announced. A small side trail broke off to the west, leading to the well-traveled roads and bridges used by the Spanish.

“Suit yourself,” Nate said. “If it was up to me, I’d still rather have that diary. Think about it,” he insisted, “this part of Colombia’s crawling with Royalists. You’re going to lose a lot of time when you’re stopped and checked at every village. And what happens if you’re detained?”

William steeled his resolve. “Any way you look at it, this route is much faster. And should the need arise, I have a letter of passage from King George.”

Nate tried again. “You know, considering the recent successes of the British brigade at Vargas and Boyacá, I have a fair idea what they’ll do with that letter if you ever present it. Trust me in this, Captain Fusilier of the Royal Whatevers.”

“Don’t worry about me, Yank, you’re the one going to need all the luck you can get.” He started down the path.

In the dim light of the jungle, William soon lost sight of the American. He hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards when he came to a three-way fork. All the paths appeared similar. He chose the middle route as it seemed to continue most directly toward the west.

Within minutes the path had completely disappeared. Attempting to backtrack along the way he came, William realized for the first time just how difficult it was to follow these barely marked trails. Bidwell made it seem easy. At his heels, Pax whined.

William worked his way back to the fork in the path. The threatening screech of tropical birds and the sonorous warning call of insects seemed louder than usual. He unexpectedly came upon another trail leading off to the right, one which he hadn’t marked earlier. Was this the way he came originally? It was impossible to tell.

William felt his skin prickle. He realized he was lost. Twenty minutes alone in this damnable green mess, and he hadn’t a clue where he was. Frantically, he looked around, desperate to spot anything familiar.

A low whoop directly overhead startled him. He looked up. A large monkey clung to a branch less than fifteen feet away and stared at him accusingly. The creature’s voice rose in alarm, and the repeating whoops increased to a frightening volume, then just as suddenly dwindled off to a low moan.

What the hell did I get myself into?

He took the trail to the right, pursued by the monkey’s cry. He hurried along, anxious to break into a clearing, to see anything recognizable. Scrambling heedlessly, without warning, he stumbled onto a jungle path.

A short distance ahead there was a stream crossing. Utterly disoriented, he glanced back, only to see a mule secured to a tree several yards away. It was Jenny. He had bumbled his way to the correct path. Bidwell was nowhere to be seen.

Mystified, he decided to have a look at the water crossing: Perhaps Bidwell thought it was overly deep or too dangerous and was exploring for another place to wade.

He approached until the entire stream crossing was visible. Although a bit deeper than previous crossings, it appeared entirely fordable, having a narrow beach strewn with logs—now he was truly mystified as to Bidwell’s whereabouts. But the last thing he wanted was for the American to find him confused, hesitant, and looking like he had just run frightened through the brush.

He left the bank and started onto the beach. He was about to step over a log when he noticed the cold disc of the reptilian eye flip open. Lying at his feet, like the trunk of a fallen tree, apparently asleep in the shade at the verge of the water, was a huge reptile. Pax barked from the top of the bank.

The giant caiman was not asleep. The relaxed posture of the beast shifted as it prepared to spring.

In the same instant the alarmed British officer noticed the huge crocodile at his feet, a creature burst from the thick undergrowth onto the back of the monster.

In a singular motion, the American drove a heavy gaucho knife deep into the giant reptile just behind its eyes, buried the weapon to the hilt, and then quickly twisted it. Instinctively, the large croc violently threw itself over, flinging the woodsman onto the sandy shore. Almost caught under the thrashing death throes of the huge beast, Nate and William just barely scrambled to safety.

“Bloody hell.” Watching the final kicks of the dying crocodile, William shuddered.

Nate waited half a minute to make sure the reptile was dead, then placed one foot on its head, yanked the knife out, and wiped it clean.

“Decided you missed Jenny and me, did you, Gunn?” Nate asked mockingly. “Can’t be more than half an hour since we parted company.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “We’ll take your return to us as a compliment, like the prodigal son.”

William never thought he would be glad to see the American, but at that moment he would take the devil himself. He looked at the dead croc. “What was that about?”

“That,” Nate explained, “was waiting to make a meal out of you. Since the next closest place to cross is a half day upstream”—Nate put the facón back in its sheath on his belt—“I was about to claim this crossing when you came along. Thanks for distracting it for me.”

“You used me as bait!” William said in disbelief.

“You were never in any real danger, Gunn.”

William marshaled his anger. “While I was gone,” he said, “it occurred to me that a partnership might lead to better results for both of us. If you had asked my permission to see the diary, instead of going through my things when you thought I was asleep, I might be more trusting.”

“Can I see the diary now?”

William shook his head, marveling at the American in spite of himself. “Your self-assurance is almost admirable, Bidwell.”

Nate asked, “What are you going to do when we get close enough to the Sacred Land and I don’t need you anymore?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Nate scoffed, “Or burn the bridge. You wouldn’t be the first who’s tried to kill me.”

“No. Nor would it be my first try, Yank. As I said, next time I might not be so generous with my aim.”

“A partnership it is then,” Nate said jauntily, wading into the water. “Just don’t forget the pack animals, Gunn,” he yelled over his shoulder. “They’re all yours from now on. And with a bark like that, are you sure that’s a dog with you?”

William described his plan for their journey, taken straight from the Frenchman’s directions.

“Because we’re taking the more difficult route south through the jungle,” Nate repeated, “we follow the paths of the ancients over the mountains. We’re to cross the páramo and keep the volcano to the sunset.”

“Correct, Yank.”

“It’ll be slower”—Nate’s smile broadened—“but no Spanish soldiers. You plan to keep spoon-feeding these directions to me, Gunn, a bit at a time?”

“That’s the deal. I’ll get us there, and you keep us in one piece.”

It looked like Nate would have to depend on the Brit if he ever wanted to be sure to see the Sacred Land and El Jefe. And William would have to rely on the American woodsman to do his best to keep them alive. At least until they reached the land of the black orchid.

“Until we ascend into the more remote mountains,” Nate said, “we’ll travel as silently as possible. When I make this sound”—he made a flutelike trill—“it means we stop.”

The low warble emanating from Bidwell was so birdlike and natural, yet distinctive, that it caught William by surprise. A call he couldn’t replicate if his life depended on it.

Nate said, “We’ll space ourselves about ten to twenty yards apart. I’ll lead, and you’ll go behind with the pack animals—just keep me in sight.”

William asked, “Is that so the Indians won’t smell the animals?”

“No—it’s so they won’t smell you,” Nate said bluntly. “And we know where Pax will be.”

The dog, at William’s side as usual, wagged his tail furiously at the sound of his name. William glared at Pax. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

The ease with which the American moved through the dense jungle fascinated William. Like a silent wraith, Bidwell disturbed as little as possible, stooping under vegetation and stepping over or around obstacles. He teased out secret paths barely discernible in the thick undergrowth. Continually glancing up and from side to side, on occasion he would halt, listen briefly and, without speaking, be off again.

William marveled at the enormous trees around them, easily over a hundred feet tall, covered with vines, and bedecked to their summits with golden trumpet blossoms and violet, blue, and scarlet star flowers. Dark-emerald palms and lime-green ferns formed the undergrowth.

A symphony surrounded them, the overhead chatter from troops of brown monkeys and colorful toucans mixing with the sounds of wild turkeys scavenging in the undergrowth. A soft carpet of mosses cushioned their footsteps, and they passed unobserved by man or wild beast.

Although they walked cautiously all day, Nate was pleased with the distance they covered. “A few more days like today, and we’ll be at the foot of the hills.”

Nightfall brought swarms of mosquitos.

Preparing his hammock, Nate was stopped in his tracks by an odd stench. “What is that stink?”

William held up the remnants of Veeborlay’s mosquito repellent. “From the Dutchman.”

“He really didn’t like you, did he?” Nate walked to the edge of a small stream and cut a succulent plant growing there. It instantly secreted an odorless, oily substance. “Rub this on, and get rid of that dung.”

William hated to admit it, but if he didn’t wind up strangling the tosser while he slept, this American might just be able to help him survive long enough to bring the cure back to his daughter in England.