Mad Morgan (30 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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Morgan and the others continued to stare at him, then past him. Thomas LeBishop felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and slowly turned on his heels as a ripple of awareness spread through the entire encampment.
A ragged line of fierce-looking Kuna warriors, armed with axes and muskets, materialized out of the ghostly mist and impenetrable-looking landscape.
Kintana had arrived.
A
nd this was Consuelo's dream …
First there was poetry, in nature, the moon round and draped with gossamer clouds, transformed into a milky-white orb, like her blind right eye. So that was it. The gods were blind! Perhaps this was the answer for all that had happened to her mother's people since the coming of the Spanish conquerors, whose descendants Consuelo had been raised to serve, while they hunted down her mother's people, sent them to work in the mines, had them hanged or drawn and quartered to serve as an example, to guard against insurrection.
Foolish savages. They only brought it on themselves. Shameful-shameful-shameful, they should have learned like her. Consuelo had survived. She had found a place, a crack in the colliding worlds, and had ridden out the storm tucked away in a protective niche of loyal service.
And now, here she was dreaming of blind gods. What kind of thanks was that?
The small-boned woman moaned in her bed, in her little room that she did not have to share with any other servant because she was mistress's favorite, her little room that was at the end of the upstairs hall instead of down below, in the barracks like servants' quarters off to the side of the hacienda. No, Consuelo was upstairs with the privileged, and it had served her well, this little room. But tonight it offered little comfort. Because of all the blood and the fire and the screams of the dying that filled her head.
First there was the moon, then the dawn, and the dying, and the blood. The blood was the most curious of all. It started at the front gate, a glassy crimson pool welling up out of the languishing earth at the entrance to the city, where the road to Portobello led off into the hills. The blood, imbued with a life of its own, followed a serpentine course through the outskirts of the city, flowed beneath water troughs and around the fountains bubbling in the centers of the smaller plazas, past brothels … Dogs lapped at the blood and trotted off, their jaws dripping ichor, past churches with their bells and carols and bones of the saints.
The blood lingered by the cathedrals, these monuments to a loving Creator whose people seemed bent on enslaving other races, a God who sent his priests into the jungles to convert the very people Spain had come to subjugate. The Kuna were only too happy to turn them into martyrs. It was hard work but someone had to do it.
But the blood flowed on, leaving a crimson trail through alleys, through streets where men and women went about their lives, dreaming, loving, trading goods and gossip, talking of the weather, downstreet where fishermen set out for the bay, and where merchants lined the shelves of their stalls with their wares, where a potter loaded the firebox of his wood kiln and prepared for a long day. But the river of blood marked him, soaked the reed moccasins on his feet, and continued on through his house and out the front door and down the city streets until it reached the Avenida Balboa. Buildings erupted into flames in the wake of the blood trail, as it seeped and creeped across thresholds and windowsills and into the house of Saucedo, through the door and up the stairs and down the hall …
 
 
Consuelo reached up and clawed at her blind eye, an act that brought her completely awake, gasping for breath. Her flesh the color of the potter's clay was streaked with perspiration, her bony fingers splayed before her as if to ward off a demon.
“Oh, O heaven save us, preserve us all.” The Christian god was her god now, but she spoke in the tongue of her mother's people, for whom the world was alive with spirits and devilish animal tricksters, a people for whom the earth and the sea had many moods and must be appeased.
Consuelo sat upright, struggled for breath, terror an iron glove gripping her chest. She pulled the covers to her chin and stared at her bedroom door and imagined she could hear the crackling flames as
the city burned around her, and waited for the blood to well beneath her door and ooze across her floor.
She reached out and caught her robe, heard a hammering in the hall and gasped anew, wondering if this was the end, the dream slowly receding from her thoughts, leaving her with the dread of all that she had witnessed. She rose from the bed, padded barefoot across the cool tile floor, steadied herself on the table that held her washbasin, reached and found the doorlatch and opened the door and stepped into a wide airy hall, the floor strewn with handwoven rugs from Chiloe. The walls were ablaze with
molas
, intricately stitched aprons from Kuna craftswomen, hung like works of art on either side of the hall. Elena's father had prized the garments with their colorful designs, swirls, and interlocking loops, peacocks and frogs and sea creatures rendered in the natural shades of the world around them: the yellow of trumpet-vine blossoms, the blue of sea and sky, the cardinal colors of the hibiscus flower, coconut-shell brown, and sun-gold.
Don Alonso del Campo stood outside his wife's bedroom door, his patrician features flush with the effects of too much drink. His fist hammered on the walnut-paneled door. “Woman!” he shouted. “Elena Maria … this is foolishness. I am your husband.”
The strains of a Celtic harp drifted from the room. The woman within seemed wholly unconcerned, and continued to practice her Irish jig. The melody coaxed from the stringed instrument seemed to mock the man in the hall.
“As the governor of Panama I order you to receive me. Open this door.” He slammed his fist against the heavy panel and winced and drew away, cradling his right hand. He shook his head and mimicked a silent scream, his silver-streaked hair tousled from his efforts. He pressed his forehead against the wood and sighed, glanced around and saw Consuelo watching him. He ignored her and spoke to the woman in the room.
“I will do what is best for my family, my parents and sisters. The monies I receive for the plantation will enable them to eliminate their debts, return the estates in Toledo to their former splendor. It is my right to do this. Your father would understand.”
The harp continued. It seemed evident that once again, Don Alonso would not enjoy his wife's favors. He scowled. So be it. Let the little vixen sulk. She was a
criollas
, and without his good name, that was all she would ever be. He shoved clear of the wall and stumbled
forward, slowly regained his footing as he approached the stairway. The governor could feel the old woman's baleful eye upon him.
“Get back, old witch,” he said, drawing back his hand as if to strike her. Consuelo held her ground, refusing to budge; after what she had seen, she had no fear of Don Alonso. He sensed this, drew close, blinked, scrutinized her dark features, noticed for the first time a circular tattoo upon her neck, back behind her ear, a swirling vinelike pattern similar to those found on the
molas
I adorning the walls.
“What are you looking at?” he snarled, his eyes mere brown slits.
“La muerte,”
she whispered, the dreams still clinging to her thoughts, unable to rid herself of the horror.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, and shoved past, continuing down the stairway and out through the front door where a carriage waited to take him to his favorite bordello, a place where he knew he would be welcome, where the women never said no, where being el gobernador really meant something.
Back in the hall, Consuelo continued to Elena's bedroom and knocked upon the door and announced herself. The harp ceased. She heard footsteps, the latch slid back and the door opened. Elena's features appeared in the crack, a candle in her hand. “Consuelo, what is it? I am sorry, little mother, if Don Alonso disturbed your rest.”
“No. But he does nothing to help it, either,” said the nurse, with a doleful expression on her face. “But he did not wake me.”
“Then what brings you to my door?” Elena stood aside and permitted her to enter. The bedroom was high-ceilinged, wide and airy, with a comfortable-looking canopy bed near one wall, a walnut wardrobe and cherrywood table and chair providing additional comforts. Her harp rested on its stand near the window. “Look at you, Consuelo. You are trembling.” Elena Maria put her arm around her old nurse, revealing a tender side she had subjugated for the most part since the death of her father. “You must take care of yourself. Now that Don Alonso has chosen to punish Major Barba by ordering him to patrol the bayous, you are my only true friend in the city. How quickly the merchants and moneylenders forget all my father did for them. He protected their interests, and now there is none who I can trust, save Gilberto and you.”
“And if you trust me,
pobrecita
, then you must do as I tell you.”
Elena's green eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Consuelo recounted her dream in vivid detail, everything she could remember, though some of the images had begun to fade. But there
was enough to frighten her again. “We must leave Panama City. Go to the plantation down the coast. We cannot stay here.”
“And run from a dream? Abandon everything here, the mines, the gold and silver in my father's warehouse? What of the coffee, the cacao, and sugar, ready for transport? I will not hand it over to Don Alonso. But there is no longer a place for us at the plantation to the south. My husband sold it yesterday.”
“You were born there,” Consuelo replied. She did not like the thought of strangers occupying the land.
“That does not matter as long as my husband can provide the means to rescue his family from their debts.” Elena crossed the room and sat on the side of the bed. She had slept with Don Alonso in every bed but this one. Her room would never be open to him. This was the bed of her childhood. He would not soil it with his sweat or any other fluids. Two months of marriage had revealed some most unpleasant flaws in his character. Don Alonso had a brittle, vindictive temperament and a penchant for drink that would one day be his undoing if not brought under control. Unfortunately, all the wealth and power at his disposal merely accentuated his character flaws, gave him free rein to indulge his own peculiar vices.
Elena Maria handed a tortoiseshell brush to Consuelo who immediately began to stroke the doña's long black tresses. Old habits died hard. “Sometimes a dream is only just that, a dream and nothing more.”
The daughter of the house of Saucedo winced as the brush fought its way through a tangle. “Gently,” she chided her nurse, and turned her thoughts to the matter of Henry Morgan. Had the jungles really claimed him? More than likely. And yet there was a part of her that imagined him surviving, because she had lain with him, listened to his heart, and come to share the belief in his luck and his indomitable will. And if he lived, then one day he would exact vengeance. Panama City was a tempting plum, ripe for the plucking. She freed herself from Consuelo, stood and walked to the window, opening the shutters to catch a glimpse of the city at night. Lanterns gleamed in the windows of the haciendas. Light flooded the streets through open doorways. Music and laughter permeated the air, underscored by the
tramp, tramp, tramp
of soldiers filing past. For Don Alonso had all but gutted the garrison stations in the harbor, choosing to swell the ranks of the garrison defending the city. Barricades had been built throughout the city, turning walkways into fortresses and plazas into
killing fields. But would these preparations stop a man like Henry Morgan?
Perhaps Consuelo was right after all. Elena Maria should leave, flee.
But thanks to the greed of her husband, Don Alonso del Campo, there was nowhere to run.
 
 
A ghostly glare briefly illuminated the Plaza de los Armas, outlined the gallows and the long stone buildings that housed the grenadiers, before draping them once more in shadow. In his carriage Don Alonso del Campo emerged from the Avenida Saucedo, reined in his gelding and paused to identify his surroundings. Earlier in the evening he would have found any number of soldiers lounging outside their quarters, playing cards, sharing their wine and spirits, trading the gossip of the city. But the governor had patronized several cantinas this night and the doe-eyed vixen at his side was keeping him occupied, pressing her hot, willing form against him, reminding him of all the unfulfilled passions she was prepared to accommodate. Her name was Felicia. At least, he thought it was. Not that her name mattered. She was dark and wild-eyed and had full lips and a plump, wellrounded derriere.
Who needs any woman's name, as long as her bed is warm and she is a willing partner?
he thought.
That's all any man requires
.
Don Alonso intended to spend the night at the governor's palace. If only he could find the Avenida Balboa. Every time he asked the little
puta
for directions she would merely laugh and tell him anyplace would do. The effects of the wine they had consumed at the brothel had left her worse off than the governor. She knew only the moment, that for tonight she was the consort of
el gobernador
—nothing else mattered; least of all, directions. Felicia laughed and draped one arm around his neck, placed her other hand on his thigh, ran her tongue along the inside of his ear, then whispered indecencies.
“Later,” Don Alonso growled, and shoved her back against the seat. His patience was at an end. Anger added force to his gesture, more than he intended. The woman lost her balance, her arms flailed the night air as she tumbled from the carriage and landed on her back in the street, her head slapping the brick surface, cutting short her cry. “Woman!” Don Alonso closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He locked the brake with his left foot, climbed out of the carriage and, steadying himself
with his hand against the wheels and frame, walked around to the other side. “Get up or I will leave you here,” he ordered.

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