SHELLS SCREAMED BETWEEN mast and cabin, cabin and mast. Ricocheted off pieces of rigging and deflected from lengths of railing. Tore holes through wood and canvas alike.
Jonas Strong watched the even swing of the machine-gun’s barrel and chose his moment. He raced low and fast and skidded to a halt by Onslow’s position amidships.
There were little more than seventy-five yards between the two vessels now it was a gap that was closing fast.
It was possible to see half a dozen men on board the smaller boat as it angled across the calm water towards them, intent upon cutting them off.
Onslow and Strong exchanged glances, each man as aware as the other of the danger they were in. Each of them used to being in similar situations—and together. Moments when death was as close as a hand that reached from a crowd and came to rest, quietly, upon your shoulder. Moments, too, that made the pulse of the blood quicken, the adrenalin flow; that brought out the best and worst of men’s instincts and natures.
‘We got to knock that bastard out,’ Onslow hissed.
‘I know it.’
And, as suddenly as it had begun, the machine-gun chatter subsided. They saw a man at the front of the boat lift a loud hailer to his mouth.
‘Heave to and turn back into harbor. Immediately. If not, we shall have no alternative but to shoot you to pieces where you are. Show your intention to heave to.’
The loud hailer was lowered.
The captain ran up to Onslow, his sharp face white with fear. ‘Shall I do as he says? There’s no way ...’
Onslow caught hold of the man by the throat, fingers tight about it, as they might grip a narrow branch of brittle tree.
Above the sharp nose, the captain’s beady eyes stared from their sockets in alarm.
‘You keep going right for them.’
The eyes flickered time after time. ‘But ... but ...’
‘We’re a damned sight bigger than they are, ain’t we?’
‘Yes, but ...’
‘Then do as I say.’
The loud hailer was raised once more. ‘This is your final warning. If you do not change about immediately ...’
McCloud had taken his time in getting to the prow of the boat. He had elbowed his way along the deck, avoiding the splinters of wood that were scattered across it in sharp pieces close to six inches long. He had been careful too when he had moved the Winchester ’95 up beyond his body until the wooden stock was smooth against his shoulder and the metal of the trigger cold on his skin.
The movement of the boat was not too strong, though the dip and sway were felt more here at the front; splash of water up over the end, salt on his hands, his face.
McCloud sighted on the machine-gunner; knew that at any second he would bring the weapon back into action. Yellowy-white shape of a face that lacked sufficient features to have distinction.
No.
McCloud swiveled the rifle to the right. The loud hailer was up, the voice loud across the water. He waited for the rise and fall of the boat, settling himself into its rhythm.
Watching.
Watching.
Now.
The rifle shot was dull, like a flat slap. In his sights, there was a blur of movement: the face shape disappeared. The shell impacted into the man’s head three inches below the hairline, a quarter of an inch to the left of the bridge of the nose. The forehead split, then burst: eyes wrenched sideways: nose disintegrating as the front of the face exploded like a brittle mask.
The passage of the shell lifted away the back of the head as it followed a line upwards, shattering the rear of the skull as it exited. Where there had been bone and skin and hair there was a black hole that began to leak blood.
Before the loud hailer had slipped from the already dead man’s fingers, McCloud had fired twice more. The first shot had been rushed, hitting the machine-gunner in the fleshy part of his right arm and jolting him backwards and sideways.
McCloud had cursed and shifted his gun, covering the new position. Squeeze. This time the rocking motion of the boat was more exaggerated and again the shot was not perfect. It thudded into the gunner’s left shoulder, cracking the bone at the front and deflecting upwards at a sharp enough angle to graze a bloody line between neck and head.
The distance between the two boats was less than fifty yards. Onslow moved fast, anxious to be with the captain, knowing that any last minute wavering on his part would be fatal.
He drew his Colt .45 automatic and let it rest in his hand, held high enough for the captain to see it clearly. It was message enough.
The captain’s thin lips moved nervously, as if in prayer, as he steered the gunboat directly at the other vessel.
Thirty yards.
McCloud fired once more and then began to back away, not wishing to be trapped in the collision. From further back, both Strong and Jamie Durham poured shots forward, adding to the confusion among the would-be interceptors.
Rifles continued to seek them out from the dock.
Jamie laughed and touched a finger to his mouth, then to the barrel of his gun as he saw another Ranger fall slowly sideways and slide from sight into the bottom of the boat.
Fifteen yards.
‘Grab hold of something fast! We’re going through!’
Onslow’s order cut through the sound of firing; gringos and seamen alike sought to obey.
Suddenly all that could be seen was white and brown and then there was a rending and wrenching of wood and metal and an almighty thundering as the two boats ground together. The gunboat rocked from side to side as the impact juddered along her length and back again. The noise of the collision echoed and re-echoed about their ears and there was a moment in the middle of it all when it seemed as though the other vessel had held their strength and that they would remain locked together.
Then Sparrow burst through and on and Onslow was looking to the starboard side and seeing a body leaping for the rail. Legs and arms jumping, grabbing. Hands, boots. Onslow turned sharply and brought round the Colt that was already in his hand. Fired once.
The man screamed; his body seemed to wriggle in mid-air. Hands and feet moving still, but climbing a rigging that wasn’t there.
A dying fall and splash and then Onslow and the others were looking back over the stem of the boat. Planking and canvas strewn over the water. Heightened movement of the waves. In amongst them, the efforts of men to swim to safety.
And ahead: ahead the band of light had lifted clear of the horizon and sky was permeated by a pale yellow light.
The wind blew from the north west, increasing in strength as the day lengthened. The captain had to use all of his skills to stem the Sparrow’s drift out into the Bay of Mexico. Tacking about and then about, keeping the coast line in sight for as long as was possible.
Much of the planking at the bow of the boat had been badly damaged in breaking clear from Galveston harbor. Fortunately the majority of the trouble was above the water line, but as the boat got further out to sea, the rise and fall of its movements meant that more water than comfortable was being shipped.
Two of the seamen were lowered over the side on ropes and made an attempt at effecting repairs, but what they could do was minimal. The captain was all for putting the boat into shore and attending to the damage properly, but Onslow wouldn’t hear of it. It was more than probable that the Rangers had sent men down the coast looking for just such a thing to happen.
As it was the gringos were constantly glancing over the stem searching the horizon for a sign of a ship from the United States Navy which might have been sent after them.
Onslow’s men were forced to take it in turns with the seamen to operate the hand pump and rid the fore section of water below decks. There was a danger, not only of taking on so much water that the boat might be in danger of sinking, but also of flooding out the cargo, some of which was stacked forward of the engine—what cargo they had been able to get on board.
‘What d’you think Zapata’s goin’ to reckon to us turnin’ up with a lot less than we offered?’ McCloud asked Onslow.
Onslow shrugged. ‘Can’t be certain. Not till we get there and find out.’
‘You think we will?’
‘Get there?’
‘Yes.’
‘We damn well better.’
McCloud shifted his position so that Onslow could not see his face directly. ‘Maybe it’d be better if’n ...’ He let the sentence drift into silence.
‘If what?’ Onslow was not going to let it alone.
‘If we forgot about Zapata altogether. Got ourselves ashore while we still can and ride the hell out of it.’
Onslow stood straight, rounding on the Southerner. McCloud moved his head to one side, but Onslow took a step in that direction, forcing the man to look at him.
‘I thought the South was strong on honor? Or did you somehow miss out on that?’
Onslow’s words were delivered with a sneer. McCloud could not miss that tone or the meaning it contained. He looked at Onslow now, right enough. No more than a couple of feet away from him and facing him, feet apart to give him balance on the swaying boat deck. Aware of the Colt Lightning inside his jacket; aware also of the Colt automatic that could be in Onslow’s hand as rapidly as his own weapon could be in his. Possibly quicker.
For a second it flashed through his mind that now might be the time for finding out.
But the deck seemed to duck away under him and he stumbled a pace backwards and when he had recovered himself Onslow’s fingers were on the Colt’s well-smoothed butt.
‘We don’t just have a deal with Zapata. We got money. His money. Passed to us through Villa.’
‘You mean we had it.’
Onslow’s lips tightened so that his mouth was no more than the thinnest of lines beneath his moustache. ‘You don’t need to remind me of that. I know. And I ain’t about to forget. But it makes gettin’ to Zapata more important and not less. If’n we don’t clear this with him then there ain’t going to be no one in Mexico going to hire us to fight or bring ’em guns again.’
‘So we ...’
Onslow’s hand reached out fast, gripping McCloud’s arm high and close to the shoulder. ‘So we what? Go back over the border? With the Rangers and likely half the damned Army looking for us? Is that what you want? That what you’re suggesting?’
McCloud knew as he heard the words that what Onslow was saying was right; at the same time he hated him for saying it, hated him for being right. Self-righteous bastard that he was! Well, he’d made a mistake back in Galveston and someday he’d make another. And when he did he, McCloud, would be there to pick up the pieces and take over.
Until then ...
‘All right?’ Onslow asked, releasing his grasp of the man’s arm.
‘Yeah.’
Onslow nodded and then, deliberately, turned his back on him.
Again, momentarily, McCloud considered chancing his arm. Maybe ...
From the corner of his eyes he saw Jonas Strong standing by the starboard rail. One black hand rested intently upon the lighter wood of the stock of his shotgun; his dark eyes were fixed on McCloud’s face. Waiting. Hoping. Almost daring the Southerner to make a move for his weapon.
Hating him.
Letting him know it in the arrogance of his stance.
Back home, thought McCloud, back home they know how to treat trash like you.
But he let Strong see his hands move slowly to his coat pocket and take out a cigar, a match, strike one, light the other; turn and look out over the darkening sea.
It was the second night that brought the storm. Clouds that began purple and violet filled and darkened, squatting on the horizon like some intent and evil thing.
Moving closer, blacker and faster than the night, moving to surround them.
The first crack of thunder echoed and rebounded about their ears and before it was over the lance of lightning had made it seem brighter than day. The rain fell like whips, like needle points, stinging them, cutting, lashing. The wind tore at the sails and almost pulled them from their ropes as the captain and his depleted crew fought to tie them down. One man was hurled from the main mast down onto the deck. His back struck the planking with an almighty crack and even as it snapped in several places the impact threw him upwards again and when he fell again it was on his leg and arm.
For a moment the storm seemed to abate and in the stillness the man’s final whimperings seemed louder than anything else that could be heard.
Then the wind took hold and the rain fell again and the air was full with the shouts of living men having no thoughts for the dead.
All night the storm tossed them, batting them first in one direction, then another. To move on the deck was to skid through water that poured along the planking in waves which pulled at the bottom half of the body. If a man lost hold of the rail or rope he was clinging to, then he would be hurled overboard in seconds.
There would be no rescues. Not that night.
With the first traces of the new day’s light, the wind seemed to drop again and Onslow and the others thought the worst was over. The captain knew better—and within less than a half hour he was proved right.
The main mast split from its uppermost point down to midway, and then cracked apart, the heavy timber breaking through the roof of the cabin as it fell.
The boat dipped until it seemed to be trying to stand on end; the hull stood almost clear of the rage of waves that tried to reclaim it. There was an awful crash and clash of wood and water as it went back down and when Onslow looked under his feet he saw that he was no longer standing on planking but on nothing more apparent than the sea itself.
‘We’re goin’ down!’
‘Boats! Man the boats!’
There was a scramble against the wind, feet and arms falling foul of the waves that broke over what remained of the deck. With a sudden crack that coincided with a roll of thunder, the rear mast was gone.
Two small boats, one on either side of the Sparrow. Men grabbing at their sides, attempting to lower them into a sea that already rose high enough to sink them where they were.
Onslow and Strong stood for a fraction of time on the edge of the boat and glanced at one another. A moment of some meaning, some kind of understanding. Then each man threw out his arms and dived into the cold blackness of the water. Other men, other bodies followed.
For a time it seemed to Onslow as if he would never have the strength to battle with the power of the waves and then his hand touched something and it was wood and he saw that it was one of the small boats.
Another hand gripped his own and he knew without seeing that it belonged to Strong. He was hauled out of the water and, breathless, into the boat.
Within another few minutes, McCloud and Jamie Durham had joined them. Jamie, wild-eyed and with a skin that shone like the silver surface of a fish—until you looked at it more closely and saw the bright purple of the uncovered scar. It seemed to glow on him now: as if some fisherman had caught at him with a gigantic hook and pulled part of his face apart in his efforts to drag him to land.
As for McCloud, he wore no expression, neither did he say anything. Simply looked at Onslow in the gathering light: it was enough.
Apart from one of the seamen they were alone in the boat. The captain and the others seemed to have made it into the second vessel. Strong and the seaman took to the oars, guiding the boat more than rowing it, trying to control it in the final throes of the storm.
Once, McCloud thought he saw a face loom close to them through the splash and spray of water and he nearly reached out a hand towards it. But he did not. The boat was crowded enough as it was. One more person would put them all at risk.
The sand was silver, fine. They lay upon it, arms outstretched, exhausted. The sun warmed their bones, dried out their clothes, finally brought life back to the men themselves.
A couple of hundred yards beyond the sand there were trees, small, light green, some kind of fir. Behind them the gringos could see nothing but the sky.
They did not know if they had reached Mexico or if they were still in Texas. Immediately, it didn’t matter. They had escaped the storm.
Onslow got up slowly and walked to the first ridge in the land. Out on the now calm sea pieces of timber were visible, nothing more; the Sparrow had either sunk completely or driven out of sight.
The sea.
Onslow stared at it, hating it. Something he didn’t understand, could neither combat nor control. It had taken his cargo; that which the Rangers had not taken first.
Now for Zapata they had what?
Words.
Only words.
The words of gringos.
As Onslow walked back towards the rest, he saw the seaman go up to Jamie Durham, speaking to him. Saw Jamie reach inside his coat; saw—almost before the other man—the flash of the blade as Jamie sprung it from the switchblade handle.
‘What ...?’
He began to run forward, legs unsteady, feet slipping in the sand.
Jamie turned his head partly towards Onslow as the man in front of him closed his eyes and began to pray for deliverance. Eye lids tight shut and lips moving slightly.
‘What’s going on?’
Jamie smiled, one side of his face becoming more twisted than ever. ‘He wants to know will he get paid.’
Onslow stopped, his side aching, still thirty yards away. The other two gringos were sitting up, watching. The seaman had opened his eyes now and was gulping in air.
‘What with?’ said Onslow.
Jamie frowned then smiled again, more broadly than before. ‘Exactly.’
He moved his right hand back; the point of the blade came away from the seaman’s throat. Jamie pressed the blade back into the handle. The seaman’s eyes flickered with disbelief; he started to say something but the words would not form properly, such was his relief and fear; there was only a bubble of sound.
Jamie turned away: the man relaxed.
When Jamie swung back the blade was free again and glimmered on the air again and it was the same except that it wasn’t because this time the stroke didn’t stop inches from the man’s trembling neck.
Jamie held his arm and lowered him down onto the sand; stood over him, eyeing him curiously, as if not totally sure how he got there. What his knife was doing sticking from below the man’s chin.
He reached down slowly and eased it out: a slither of blood followed it, bright on the yellowy skin. It wormed its way around his-neck and down into the sand, coloring the silver crimson.
Jamie continued to stare downwards, looking now at the pattern he had indirectly caused on the sand. As if it had meaning ... As if ...
Onslow was close to him, watching. He didn’t know how long it had been since the Kid had had his last fix. How long it would be before he could get another.
‘He wanted paying,’ said Jamie in a strangely high voice, as if in explanation.
Onslow did and said nothing; waited until Jamie had gone down to the sea and knelt beside it, washing his knife blade clean in the tide.
When they were rested, they would have to make their way inland and establish where they were. Get horses. Ride south of Mexico City. To meet with Emiliano Zapata.