A Time to Slaughter (20 page)

The sloop of war
Kansas
was cleared for action. Her guns, fully armed, were run out, and her marines were already on deck in full battle gear. Commander John Sherburne had ordered the guns loaded with canister—proven mankillers. If possible, he was determined to save the schooner. She was a valuable prize and would add much needed revenue to a navy that a parsimonious Congress kept chronically short of funds.

“We'll find her tonight, Mr. Wilson,” Sherburne said. “I can feel it in my water, as they say.”

“Indeed, sir,” Lieutenant Wilson agreed.

“Your marines ready to go?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Champing at the bit, eh?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Wilson? Are you ready to lead your first landing party?”

Wilson smiled. “Yes, I am, sir.”

“Good man. I want a tot of rum for each marine before they disembark. Get them in the fighting spirit, eh?”

“They're in the fighting spirit already.”

“Well, the rum will give them an edge.”

Seeing the lieutenant's young, round face was troubled, his captain said, “Well, out with it, man.”

“Sir, we need to coal at the earliest opportunity,” Wilson said hurriedly. “I fear this . . . ah . . . expedition will dangerously deplete our existing supply.”

“Slow as she goes, Mr. Wilson. We'll burn but little coal.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Wilson said, but he didn't seem convinced.

“See to the gun crews, Mr. Wilson, and tell them to stay alert. We'll get under way at dusk.”

The
Kansas
was a glutton for coal all right, and even at a slow speed she'd burn a bunker-load on their trip up the coast. Wilson was right. They had a crisis on their hands and a captain who allowed his ship to run out of fuel could kiss his naval career good-bye.

After the lieutenant left, Sherburne stared at the column of dark gray smoke rising from his ship's funnel and felt a twinge of worry. Was his gut feeling correct? Was the slaver still in the gulf? She had to be. She . . . just . . . had to be.

But hoping didn't make it so, and the captain's worry grew.

 

 

The afternoon light faded with agonizing slowness and a couple able seamen came on the bridge to man the searchlights.

“Show me those damned Arabs, lads,” Sherburne said. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

The older of the two knuckled his forehead in the Royal Navy style and said in a broad Scottish accent, “Aye, aye, Cap'n. If the damned rogues are anywhere to be found, we'll light 'em up for ye, depend on it.”

If they are anywhere to be found.
Yes, there was the rub. Sherburne felt the worry twinge again. He could be taking his ship on a wild goose chase with his career at stake. He found the flask in his pocket and was about to take a swig when he noticed the sailors watching him. He passed the flask to the gray-haired sailor. “A tot of rum with you.”

The man knuckled his forehead again and said, “Thank ye, Cap'n.” After he'd taken a throat-bobbing swig, the seaman passed the flask to his companion.

To his chagrin, when Sherburne got it back the flask was considerably lighter. He took a drink, and then looked up to a flaming sky, banded with dark blue and jade. A single sentinel star hung to the north, a bright lantern lighting the way for the fleeing day.

It would be full dark soon. Sherburne nodded to himself. It was finally time to get his ship under way.

Thank God.

Tweedy peered into the fading light. “They're loading the women. Damn them furriners' eyes. They're using whips, loading them little gals like slaves.”

“They are slaves, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth pointed out. “Or they will be soon.”

Try as he might, Shawn couldn't make out Julia Davenport in the crowd, and a sense of failure lay on him. He'd set out to save the Dromore schoolteacher and had only made matters worse. And Tweedy and Lowth would die because of his incompetence.

“It won't be long now,” Lowth said. “With every tick of the clock I'm dying a little death here. I wonder what my poor, dear wife will think when I tell her what I've done?”

“You'll be going home, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “You'll know the answer to that question soon enough.”

Lowth took a sharp intake of breath and let out a great, shuddering sigh. “I can't do it. I'll die first.”

“You can do it, Thaddeus,” Shawn said. “Uriah is right. A hanging beats getting buried alive with your guts hanging out.”

“In the course of my career, I've legally hanged fifty-three men and one woman. One would think that four more would make no difference, but it does. I dread the morning light like an unrepentant sinner dreads the opening gates of Hell.” Lowth shuddered.

“When the time comes, you'll do what you have to do, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “Here, when this is over will you still follow the hangman's trade or will you go into the women's drawers profession with your wife?”

Lowth shook his head, unwilling—or unable—to speak.

“Well, says I, if'n I was in your place, I reckon I could prosper in the drawers profession. Not that I'm an expert in women's fixins, mind, but I know a fine pair of drawers when I see 'em.”

“You shut the hell up, old man,” Creeds called. “I can die without your damned caterwauling.”

“And what if I don't, Silas?” Tweedy taunted. “Where are your guns?”

“Damn you!” the gunman shrieked as he tried to hit Tweedy with the back of his bald head, but only succeeded in butting thin air.

Tweedy cackled. “Ain't much good without your revolvers, are you, sonny? Is it them dead folks o' your'n that's makin' you so plumb out of sorts?”

Creeds was quiet for a while, then he said, almost wistfully, “I always wanted to read
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
by Edward Gibbon. Now I've run out of time.”

Shawn was surprised, and Tweedy expressed how he felt. “What the hell, boy? Are you losing your mind?”

“You think about it,” Creeds said. “The fall of an empire between the covers of a book. It ain't natural, I tell you.”

“Bishops within, barbarians without,” Shawn said. “My brother says that sums up the whole three thousand pages.”

“You know nothing, O'Brien,” Creeds muttered. “You'll die as ignorant as you lived.”

“And you're nuts, Silas,” Tweedy said. “Like I told you, them spooks is gettin' to you. That Roman stuff ain't any kind of a book for a man like you to read. Dime novels will improve your mind and they're good readin', every damned one of them.”

Creeds was silent for a while, then he said, “They're out there, them spooks, waiting for me to get hung. Damn them. They'll drag me to Hell and me with no breakfast in my belly.”

“Don't worry, you can eat breakfast in Hell, Silas. But don't expect no boiled taters. Everything down there is fried.” Tweedy snickered.

The Topock Kid erupted, his voice breaking. “What's the matter with you? How the hell can you sit around and talk about books and taters when we're all gonna be hung come morning?”

“What would you like us to talk about, Kid?” Shawn asked.

“See, we're all goin' to die like you said, Kid,” Tweedy said, “but there ain't a damn thing we can do about it. Better to be cheerful afore we breathe our last, I say.”

The kid was silent for a while, and then admitted, “I don't know how.”

“Don't know what?” Tweedy asked. “If you're on speakin' terms with God, you could pray, I guess.”

“Hell, I don't know how to pray.”

“Neither does ol' Ephraim, but he dies like a gentleman,” Tweedy said. “Maybe you should think on that, young feller.”

“I don't want to die,” The Kid whined.

“Maybe you won't have to, Kid,” Lowth said. “I do believe I'm making headway.”

“With what, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy asked, confused.

“Who knows knots better than a hangman, Mr. Tweedy?”

The burning sky faded like the colors of a dying fish and darkness fell on the land. The air grew cooler and a slight breeze wandered off the gulf and explored, rustling the dry brush like paper.

Down by the shore the cooking fires of the Arabs shimmered scarlet and every now and then outlined the passing silhouette of a man. The corsairs laughed and spoke to each other in their strange language, sounding as though they were glad to be leaving the heathen shores and returning to their homeland.

Shawn felt a slight tugging on the rope, and Lowth said, “My hands are free.”

Suddenly he had the undivided attention of his four companions.

“Can you untie the rest of us?” Shawn whispered.

“Yes, but it will take time. The rope that binds us together is knotted behind Mr. Tweedy's back. Somehow I have to reach it.”

“Then do it quick, damn you,” Creeds ordered. “Don't waste time talking.”

“Patience, Silas,” Tweedy hissed. “Mr. Lowth is doing his best.”

“Unfortunately only my hands are free.” Lowth wiggled his fingers. “The rope around our chests also binds my upper arms.”

“Is there anything we can do to help you, Thaddeus?” Shawn asked.

“Turn to me as much as you can, Mr. O'Brien. I'll try to untie your hands and then perhaps you can reach the knot at Mr. Tweedy's back.”

“An excellent plan, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy congratulated.

“Thank you, Mr. Tweedy,” Lowth said. “And one worthy of you, I should add.”

“Cut the talk, you damned idiots, and get it done,” Creeds insisted.

“Let him be, Creeds,” Shawn said. “He's doing his best.”

“Damn you, O'Brien. I want the hell away from here.”

“We all want away from here.” Shawn struggled to turn his back in Lowth's direction, the rope cutting into his chest and shoulders. “As quickly as you can, Thaddeus. As you can tell, Mr. Creeds is getting quite anxious.”

The gunman was furious. “The hell with you, O'Brien.”

Commander Sherburne stood against the bridge rail as the
Kansas
made her slow way along the Sonora coast. The twin beams of the searchlights probed the darkness like questing fingers, closely examining every patch of brush and the sand between. His eyes burned, glued as they'd been for the past hour to his binoculars. Suddenly a column of white light lifted and briefly angled into the black sky before dipping to land again.

“Damn your eyes, steady there.” Sherburne swung his head around and saw that the incident had been caused by the older seaman lighting his pipe. Out of respect for the man's white hair and his previous service in two navies, the captain said only, “Concentrate, lads, concentrate.”

The sloop's engines thudded into the night quiet and the normally talkative gun crews spoke only in low whispers. The marines maintained a disciplined silence under the stern glares of Lieutenant Wilson and Sergeant Monroe.

The searchlights illuminated the shore for fifty yards inland, bathing the land in a false dawn. Sherburne twice caught sight of skulking coyotes, their eyes gleaming in the light, but of humans there was no trace, only an endless vista of rocky shore and brush and empty desert beyond.

His nerves worn raw, the captain reached for the flask in his pocket.
Damn!
It was empty. He thought he saw a faint smile touch the lips of the stoical helmsman's face. If the man had smiled, Sherburne couldn't blame him. It wasn't every day a seaman witnessed his captain's incompetent leadership as he searched for a will-o'-the-wisp enemy ship that was probably already around the Horn and flying with the trades toward the African coast.

A chart lay open in front of Sherburne with the rock shoals and sandbars clearly marked. The rocks stayed where they were, but sandbars shifted and were treacherous and could easily ground the sloop. The captain worried more, beginning to question his own instincts and decisions.

Only to hear the reassuring sound of his voice, Sherburne said to the helmsman, “Another hour and we'll swing her around, Dawson.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The seaman was stone-faced, his voice neutral, neither approving nor disapproving.

The captain envied him. There was something to be said for simply following orders without question.

 

 

Commander Sherburne finally admitted to himself that the hunt was hopeless. There was just too much coastline to search, and the
Kansas
was burning coal at an alarming rate. He called Lieutenant Wilson to the bridge. “You can stand the people down, Mr. Wilson. We're going about.”

The young officer searched his mind for something sympathetic to say, but could only manage, “I'm so sorry, sir.”

“Sorrow doesn't enter into it, Lieutenant. I gambled and lost and there's an end to it.”

Wilson looked to shore where the searchlights still explored the darkness. “Damned desert.”

“Damned desert, damned slavers, damned poor leadership,” Sherburne said. “Do you have any other damns to add, Mr. Wilson?”

“Damned bad luck, Captain.”

Sherburne smiled. “A captain makes his own luck, Mr. Wilson. I've failed, that's all.”

“I'll stand down the people,” Wilson acknowledged.

“Yes. If you please, and—”

A bullet burned across Lieutenant Wilson's left shoulder at the same instant the report of a rifle was heard.

“I've got him, Cap'n!” the gray-haired seaman cried. The beam of his searchlight pinned a kneeling rifleman to the darkness like a butterfly to a board.

Sherburne gave the orders to stop engines and yelled, “Mr. Wilson, we have them in hand, by God!”

The searchlights exposed running, shouting men on the shore and the masts of the schooner in a narrow inlet. Rifles fired, flaring in the gloom, and bullets ticked into the
Kansas,
caroming off metalwork, splintering wood. A marine went down, cursing.

“Give 'em a broadside, Mr. Kane!” Sherburne yelled through his voice trumpet. “Step lively now!”

The thirteen-year-old midshipman in command of the starboard guns relayed the captain's order. The sloop heeled to her port side as her ten cannons roared, belching gouts of scarlet flame and smoke.

Onshore, canister shot ripped into the living bodies of men, cutting them like a scythe. The foremast of the schooner shattered and fell to her deck.

The guns were reloaded, run out again, and the dreadful barrage continued. Even above the bellowing roar of the carronades, the screams of wounded and dying men could be heard on board the
Kansas
.

Sherburne danced a little jig of delight and called out to Wilson above the din, “Join your landing party, Lieutenant. Try to spare as many captive women as you can without endangering your men.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Wilson saluted quickly and disappeared into the white fog of the cannon smoke.