Authors: Kerry Newcomb
The Red Ripper (30 page)
Juan Diego crouched down behind the fallen timber and covered himself with several broadleaf ferns and waited until his limbs ached and he grew stiff, and then he continued to wait while the heat leached the moisture from his body and the flies and mosquitoes practically
ate him alive. He remained in hiding until the gunfire ceased and the Texicans had tramped off through the woods. Only when it was quiet and still did he crawl forth and stagger to his feet, steadying himself with his saber.
ate him alive. He remained in hiding until the gunfire ceased and the Texicans had tramped off through the woods. Only when it was quiet and still did he crawl forth and stagger to his feet, steadying himself with his saber.
The San Jacinto River ran red with blood. Bodies floated on the surface, drifted past like dull dead logs, men he had known and commanded, arms outstretched, facedown, half-submerged. The hell with them. He had business on the coast. There was always someone willing to sell a boat if the price was right. And he had a coin pouch sewn into the lining of his coat.
“His name was Samuel.”
Juan Diego froze at the sound of the voice then slowly turned. William Wallace was standing about fifty feet away, half in shadow, half in light, knives gleaming, crimson-stained with a viscous smear. Guadiz walked out onto the riverbank where the ground was flat and firm and bordered by weeping willows. He did not understand the meaning behind the big man's remark, nor did he care. He pointed the saber at Wallace.
“And again you survive,” he said. “You have lived a charmed life thus far. But it shall end with me.”
Wallace started forward. He had said the name, alerted the man to his presence. That was enough. The time for talking had ended; retribution was long overdue. He covered the ground with the same long-legged gait of a man going about his job, unemotional now, the rage and lust in him spent; his only desire was to see justice done and appease his brother's restless spirit.
The two men warily circled each other. Juan Diego was the first to lunge forward; Wallace darted inside and feinted with Bonechucker, caught the saber and batted it up, then darted inside the man's guard and slashed his thigh. Guadiz yelped in pain and swung the saber in a vicious arc at Wallace's head.
William ducked beneath the blow and danced out of reach. His boot heels slipped in the mud and the big man went down. Guadiz charged in and slashed Wallace across the chest as he rolled out of harm's way. Juan Diego roared in triumph and closed in for the kill. William retreated, glanced down at his shirt and the superficial wound that hurt like the devil.
Guadiz stabbed and slashed and thrust. The blades clanged off one another. The crash of steel on steel echoed in the stillness. William's hands were a blur, thrust and parry, slash and stab, first one knife, then the other. Juan Diego tried in vain to match the knife fighter. He had the advantage of reach with his saber, but it didn't last long. With a clang and a snap, Bonechucker sliced through the saber, and a metal shard went flying through the air. Juan Diego staggered back, retreated down the riverbank, blood oozing from a dozen superficial wounds he just realized he had.
He was in pain now, and his left arm was suddenly numb and slick. “Diablo!” He grimaced. “Who are you!?” He could sense the big man closing on him. The colonel bided his time, cautioned himself. “Do you think I am finished? I am Juan Diego Guadiz. Ten men have I killed on the field of honor. I am Juan Diego.”
Wait
â¦
wait ⦠now turn and attack!
He spun around in midstride and hurled himself at the Texican. But his broken, jagged blade sawed away at nothing but empty air.
Wait
â¦
wait ⦠now turn and attack!
He spun around in midstride and hurled himself at the Texican. But his broken, jagged blade sawed away at nothing but empty air.
No! He was unprotected.
Yes! A flash of movement on his right as Wallace darted past. Something stung Juan Diego's neck. He stumbled forward off balance.
“In case you're wondering,” Wallace said, “I just slit your throat.”
Guadiz dropped the saber and collapsed, his legs buckled, and he sank backward. He heard the river, the rasp of his own breathing, the warmth of the blood as it
seeped from the severed artery. He was dying. But he had to know why this man had plagued him and been his downfall.
seeped from the severed artery. He was dying. But he had to know why this man had plagued him and been his downfall.
“Who are you?” he managed to gasp.
Wallace knelt at his side. He held up a familiar card, one that held the likeness of a man, bathed in crimson flames and brandishing a lethal array of knives. Other blades littered the ground at his feet, thrust into the earth like so many grave markers. And Juan Diego remembered Esperanza's admonition, long ago.
“Draw the last card and see for yourself what must be overcome. Beware, though. Once it is drawn, the card can never be returned.”
“Draw the last card and see for yourself what must be overcome. Beware, though. Once it is drawn, the card can never be returned.”
“Who ⦠are ⦠you ⦠?”
Wallace placed the image on the dying man's face. “El Destripedor Rojo.”
The Red Ripper.
THE TEXICANS GAVE SANTA ANNA A CHOICE: either sign the articles recognizing the sovereignty of the Republic of Texas or be handed over to Capt. Mad Jack Flambeau, the Butcher of Barbados, who threatened to nail His Excellency's pecker to a tree stump. El Presidente sprained his wrist grabbing for the nearest quill pen. By the time the ink dried, the Republic of Texas was born.
Santa Anna returned to Mexico City in disgrace. A new San Felipe rose from the ashes of the old. Sam Houston got himself elected president. Stephen Austin, stung by what he considered the ingratitude of his former colonists, died a couple of years later, a bitter man mourned by his friends.
Esperanza Saldevar returned to her East Texas ranch, where she proved to be as smart and stubborn and resourceful as her late husband. Now and then on a soft summer evening she could be found keeping vigil on the balcony of the hacienda, her restless heart full of mystery and desireâalone with her memories and the whispering wind. It was rumored she eventually took a lover.
And what of William Wallace?
Listen up, old salt; I'm a mite dry, but I'll tell you this. Texas had a rough birth, and it didn't get any
easier. Bandits from south of the border raided the early settlements and turned the Nueces Strip into a killing ground. Comanche war parties stormed out of the Staked Plains, looting and plundering without mercy. The howling wilderness needed a mighty big man to set things right.
easier. Bandits from south of the border raided the early settlements and turned the Nueces Strip into a killing ground. Comanche war parties stormed out of the Staked Plains, looting and plundering without mercy. The howling wilderness needed a mighty big man to set things right.
But that's another story.
How was it in those dangerous days? Sit down here by the fire, pilgrim. Rest a spell, and I'll tell you.
William Wallace was the genuine article, a bold man, generous and full of good humor, but a real bloodletter in a scrape. He strode the frontier as tall as the tales time has nurtured into legend.
Friends christened him Big Foot Wallace and the Wild West Wind. To his enemies he was El Destripedor Rojo, the Red Ripper.
This is his story, just as he lived it. And what isn't true ⦠ought to be.
I give glory to God.
I humbly embrace in love my family.
A special thank-you to Aaron Priest, my agent and true friend on this publishing journey, and to my editors at St. Martin's for their patience and expertise.
This book owes a debt of gratitude to
Recollections of Old Texas Days,
by Noah Smithwick, and
Big Foot Wallace,
by John C. Duval, for their marvelous descriptions of life on the Texas frontier and the colorful pilgrims who hitched their dreams to a lone star.
Recollections of Old Texas Days,
by Noah Smithwick, and
Big Foot Wallace,
by John C. Duval, for their marvelous descriptions of life on the Texas frontier and the colorful pilgrims who hitched their dreams to a lone star.
The Red Ripper
is a work of fiction, and that's a fact. I have taken liberties with time and events where it suited the yarn. If you're writing a thesis on the Texas Revolution this probably isn't the research novel for you, unless your topic is tall tales, thigh courage, dangerous days, and a legendary hero.
is a work of fiction, and that's a fact. I have taken liberties with time and events where it suited the yarn. If you're writing a thesis on the Texas Revolution this probably isn't the research novel for you, unless your topic is tall tales, thigh courage, dangerous days, and a legendary hero.
Coming soon from St. Martin's Paperbacksâ
New editions of Kerry Newcomb's classic works:
New editions of Kerry Newcomb's classic works:
Texas Anthem
Texas Born
Shadow Walker
Rogue River
Creed's Law
Texas Born
Shadow Walker
Rogue River
Creed's Law
RIP-ROARING ACCLAIM FOR
KERRY NEWCOMB'S THE RED RIPPER
KERRY NEWCOMB'S THE RED RIPPER
Â
“Kerry Newcomb is one of those writers who lets you know from his very first lines that you're in for a ride. And he keeps his promise. THE RED RIPPER bounds along with unrelenting vigor. This is historical fiction crafted by a writer who never loses his sense of pace, drama, adventure, and fun. Kerry Newcomb knows what he is doing, and does it enviably well.”
âCameron Judd, Golden Spur Award-nominated author of
Texas Freedom
Texas Freedom
Â
“With the historical accuracy of a L'Amour novel, the characters are well drawn, leaving the reader to feel the openness and harsh challenges of the Texas frontier ⦠Don't expect to get any sleep when you start this one.”
âJohn J. Gobbell, bestselling author of
The Last Lieutenant
The Last Lieutenant
Â
“The ornery, pugnacious and legendary William âBigfoot' Wallace, a sometime Texas Ranger and full-time knife-fighter, strides through early 19
th
-century Texas history in this rangy, fast-moving historical novel.”
th
-century Texas history in this rangy, fast-moving historical novel.”
â
Publishers Weekly
Publishers Weekly
TURN THE PAGE FOR A LOOK AHEAD TO
THE ELECTRIFYING NEW NOVEL FROM KERRY
NEWCOMB, NOW AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER
FROM ST. MARTIN'S PRESS!
NEWCOMB, NOW AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER
FROM ST. MARTIN'S PRESS!
Â
Black sky. Black bay. Black rage in the water.
Muscles strained as the swimmer sliced through the stygian sea, sweet smooth, with an economy of effort. Gauging the distance, he saved his strength, a talent learned in the fields where he'd cut cane, slick clean with one swipe of the hooked steel blade. After years of toil, the wicked tool had become an extension of his powerful arm. The plantations took their toll; bone and blood was the price of a hurried harvest. Still, he had refused to die. Years of harsh servitude that broke the spirits of lesser men tempered him. He was lean but powerful, his iron strength had been forged by slavery in the furnace of the Caribbean sun. Ridges of lurid white scar tissue marked his back and shoulders in the pale glare as he broke the sheltering sea, gulped air then dove again, sleek as a watersnake, fanged and deadly on its course. His captors had been liberal in their punishment over the years. A taste of “the cat” was every slave's lot from time to time.
How far now? Not very. Head for the stern. See there, the Jacob's ladder. And the bark is well lit. No doubt the men aboard will be celebrating the birthday of their king, just like the others.
He paused and treaded water and glanced back across the bay to the shore, aglow with lanternsâthe streets of
Santiago were crowded with a happily inebriated populace. The birthday of the Spanish monarch was cause for celebration. The sounds of music and laughter drifted across the incoming tide, echoed to a lesser degree from the prison ship anchored offshore. He was one man alone, unnoticed, lost in the dark. No alarm preceded him. The carnival had masked his escape. And the watchmen who might have noticed his absence and raised an alert were beyond speaking.
Santiago were crowded with a happily inebriated populace. The birthday of the Spanish monarch was cause for celebration. The sounds of music and laughter drifted across the incoming tide, echoed to a lesser degree from the prison ship anchored offshore. He was one man alone, unnoticed, lost in the dark. No alarm preceded him. The carnival had masked his escape. And the watchmen who might have noticed his absence and raised an alert were beyond speaking.
Â
Abelardo Montoya paced the poop deck, his back to the sea and his eyes on the harlots his compadres had brought from shore. The women were willing, obviously, and though plain as planks and broad in the beam, there wasn't one he wouldn't climb if given half a chance. Unfortunately, he had been assigned first watch by Sergeant Salas. Fate had decreed Salas and the other guards would play while Abelardo endured his lonely vigil, with naught but a heavy-bore Spanish musket to clutch in his grudging embrace. The guard stamped his feet and shook his head and tried to look away from the bark's gaily illuminated quarterdeck. Lanterns hung from the shrouds and along the ship's rail. Rum kegs had been tapped, tankards had been raised to toast the health of Carlos II, and now a solitary piper coaxed a merry tune to dispel the gloom. Abelardo knew he was only punishing himself by watching but he couldn't bring himself to turn his back on the revel below. He sighed, removed his tricorn hat and mopped the perspiration from his forehead and grizzled cheeks upon the sleeve of his faded pea-green coat. The
Dolorosa
wasn't a bad ship, just a prison ship, stripped of its armaments to make room belowdecks for the murderous sea scum they had captured on the island. Guarding prisoners was a boring, tedious job but one that had to be done by someone.
Dolorosa
wasn't a bad ship, just a prison ship, stripped of its armaments to make room belowdecks for the murderous sea scum they had captured on the island. Guarding prisoners was a boring, tedious job but one that had to be done by someone.
“Hang the lot and be done with it,” the Spaniard muttered,
his hungry gaze sweeping the quarterdeck below. The ship's company had been raiding the rum stocks for several hours now. Sergeant Salas was roaring drunk and the rest of the crew weren't in any better shape. There wasn't a steady hand aboard, save his own. Curse the sergeant. Salas and the others intended to have their fun till the morning hours. And why not? Captain Gomez would not bring the rest of the crew aboard until tomorrow afternoon, plenty of time to load the whores back into a longboat and point them toward shore. “Not before I sample their wares, I swear,” Abelardo scowled. “Short straws,” he muttered. “Always choose the damn short straw. That's my luck.”
his hungry gaze sweeping the quarterdeck below. The ship's company had been raiding the rum stocks for several hours now. Sergeant Salas was roaring drunk and the rest of the crew weren't in any better shape. There wasn't a steady hand aboard, save his own. Curse the sergeant. Salas and the others intended to have their fun till the morning hours. And why not? Captain Gomez would not bring the rest of the crew aboard until tomorrow afternoon, plenty of time to load the whores back into a longboat and point them toward shore. “Not before I sample their wares, I swear,” Abelardo scowled. “Short straws,” he muttered. “Always choose the damn short straw. That's my luck.”
In the middle of his self-pity he heard the Jacob's ladder behind him at the ship's stern rattle against the rail, then something thumped the deck behind him. Abelardo turned, took a step back and stared slack-jawed at the ragged, half-naked apparition that had swung over the side and landed on the poop deck.
“Madre de Dios
⦠what has the sea coughed up? A slave from the cane fields?” Abelardo cocked his weapon. “You had a long swim to hell, amigo.” The Spaniard centered the musket on the slave's brow, just below his sodden brown mane.
“Madre de Dios
⦠what has the sea coughed up? A slave from the cane fields?” Abelardo cocked his weapon. “You had a long swim to hell, amigo.” The Spaniard centered the musket on the slave's brow, just below his sodden brown mane.
The slave lunged forward as the guard squeezed the trigger and batted the priming powder from the pan. The flintlock misfired and failed to discharge. Abelardo cursed and clubbed the slave with the gun butt, opening a gash on his cheek. The slave staggered back and dropped his own weapon, a cane-cutter. Abelardo kicked the curved blade out of the way, stepped in close and swung the musket a second time. The slave recovered and dodged the blow, rammed his head into the Spaniard's groin, and forced him back against the rail. Abelardo gasped, dropped the musket, and called out to his compadres in a hoarse voice. The slave wrapped his arms around the guard's legs and dragged him down. On
the quarterdeck, the revel continued, its participants heedless of the struggle.
the quarterdeck, the revel continued, its participants heedless of the struggle.
Abelardo slipped a dagger loose from his belt sheath and sliced his opponent's shoulder. The slave ignored the pain, caught the guard's wrist and twisted the weapon in the man's hand, forcing the lethal blade down toward its owner's chest. Abelardo twisted and fought but the slave would not let go. Overhead through a forest of masts, trimmed sails, and rigging, a single star appeared through a rent in the clouds and tried to cast its feeble reflection upon the bay. On the ship below, two men struggled soundlessly for their lives, muscles straining.
Abelardo watched in horror as the knife he held inexorably lowered to his own breast. He once again tried to shout to his companions. Even now they might save him. But the slave covered the Spaniard's mouth with his forearm, then with a violent and overpowering effort thrust the blade deep into the guard's torso. The blade glanced off a rib and sank home. Abelardo twisted and thrashed in one last effort to break loose. But his strength failed him. His killer's gray eyes searched the dying man's features, made a connection; the slave from the sea and his victim bound in silent communion for one last moment.
Gray eyes without mercy, bleak as a thunderhead. Look away ⦠. look to the star in the rigging. See how it sparkles briefly, oh, briefly, then fades ⦠to black.
The slave rolled onto his side, then lay on his back, gulping air, shoulder to shoulder with the dead man. After a short breather, he crawled across the deck and retrieved his cane-cutter, then, peering over the edge of the poop deck, counted six more guards. Though he ached from his exertions and was near exhausted, thoughts of surrender never entered his mind. His gaze
shifted from the blade in his hand to the Spaniards below.
Six to one? Fair enough.
shifted from the blade in his hand to the Spaniards below.
Six to one? Fair enough.
Loose havoc, harry mercy
.
Be it now ⦠or never.
There was blood on the moon tonight, and no turning back.
.
Be it now ⦠or never.
There was blood on the moon tonight, and no turning back.
Â
Welcome the living dead: these men without hope, existing in filth, dying in misery below the quarterdeck of the Spanish bark
Dolorosa.
The prison ship rode at anchor a couple of hundred yards off the port of Santiago de Cuba. The imprisoned freebooters crowded in the gun deck were human cargo for the slave pens of Panama. These brethren of the Black Flag would have preferred a cleaner, quicker death. A firing squad, even dancing a jig at the end of a hangman's rope, had to be a better fate than what the Spaniards had in store for them. For men born to the sea, imprisonment and brutal servitude deep in the silver mines south of Panama would be a hellish ordeal.
Dolorosa.
The prison ship rode at anchor a couple of hundred yards off the port of Santiago de Cuba. The imprisoned freebooters crowded in the gun deck were human cargo for the slave pens of Panama. These brethren of the Black Flag would have preferred a cleaner, quicker death. A firing squad, even dancing a jig at the end of a hangman's rope, had to be a better fate than what the Spaniards had in store for them. For men born to the sea, imprisonment and brutal servitude deep in the silver mines south of Panama would be a hellish ordeal.
On this humid, stifling night in the year 1660, the weary denizens belowdecks listened with a mixture of remorse and envy as their captors passed about flagons of rum and lifted their coarse voices in songs of celebration. Someone piped a tune for his drunken comrades. Half a dozen guards, unsteady on their feet, danced to the melody, swilled rum, sang and laughed and good-naturedly vied with one another for the jaded favors of the whores who had been brought across the bay at no small expense to these soldiers.
Sir William Jolly licked his parched lips. His nostrils flared. He could smell the rum despite the stench of unwashed bodies surrounding him. Jolly was a squat, solid-built man. Stringy red hair hung to his shoulders, beads of sweat rolled along his grizzled jaw and brooding brow. At a glance he seemed almost a dullard, a thick-skulled seaman affecting the ragged attire of a gentleman.
But even Jolly's captors had noted the deference accorded the disgraced aristocrat by his fellow prisoners. Jolly's past was a mix of conjecture and rumor. It was said the physician had fallen victim to a libertine existence. Drunkenness and gambling may have cost him his heritage, but the forty-year-old physician had found a true calling among the thieves and cutthroats of the Spanish Main.
But even Jolly's captors had noted the deference accorded the disgraced aristocrat by his fellow prisoners. Jolly's past was a mix of conjecture and rumor. It was said the physician had fallen victim to a libertine existence. Drunkenness and gambling may have cost him his heritage, but the forty-year-old physician had found a true calling among the thieves and cutthroats of the Spanish Main.
“Doc?” muttered Israel Goodenough, emerging from the shadows. The tall, rail-thin gunner had to walk stoop-shouldered as he approached. His forehead showed a bruise where he'd recently forgotten his height and clipped the crossbeams with his skull. Israel raised a bony hand and gestured aft where the worse of their number lay in misery upon makeshift pallets of empty grain sacks.
Goodenough dry-swallowed, hoping to coax a little moisture up into his throat. The round knob of his Adam's apple bobbed in the leathery trough of his long neck. “It's Hiram James. The fever's on him again.”
“And if he's lucky it will kill him this time,” said Jolly, glancing in the direction as a pitiful, almost animalistic wail rose from the shadowy recesses of the ship's stern. The poor soul sounded like some wounded cur left to die in an alley. In contrast, coarse laughter drifted down through the barred grating in the quarterdeck that permitted the only fresh air to reach below. “There's nothing I can do. Without my herbs and tinctures ⦔ Jolly shrugged and held up his hands in a gesture of uselessness. Droplets of sweat formed on the bulbous tip of his pocked, pinkish nose.
Listen to the revelry. The bloody curs â¦
Jolly turned his sad brown eyes upward as if he could pierce the oaken beams and observe his captors indulging their debauchery in the lantern light. “They've left but a skeleton crew, I wager,” the physician muttered.
“Sacre bleu.
It might as well be an army for all the good it does us,” another of the brethren drily observed. Pierre Voisin was a bastard by birth and a thief by choice. His narrow features were seamed from his perpetual squint and burned dark from a life lived before the mast. “I once was prisoner of the Marathas, south of Bombay. The vizier, old Kanhojii Angria, boiled half our crew in oil. On my honor, he did; then threw 'em to the sharks. I tell you,
mes amis,
be glad these sons of bitches above us at least are Christian.”
It might as well be an army for all the good it does us,” another of the brethren drily observed. Pierre Voisin was a bastard by birth and a thief by choice. His narrow features were seamed from his perpetual squint and burned dark from a life lived before the mast. “I once was prisoner of the Marathas, south of Bombay. The vizier, old Kanhojii Angria, boiled half our crew in oil. On my honor, he did; then threw 'em to the sharks. I tell you,
mes amis,
be glad these sons of bitches above us at least are Christian.”
“Shackles are shackles,” said Israel Goodenough. He took no comfort in Voisin's story. “Christians ain't got no lock on mercy. Thomas LeBishop carries the Savior's cross into battle and I never seen such a bloodletter as the Black Cleric.” Stooping forward, the gunner kept pace with the physician as Jolly maneuvered his way among his miserable companions. The buccaneers outnumbered the Spaniards. But the iron chains clamped about their ankles and the stout oak door with its heavy iron bolt kept the prisoners from forcing their way topside and commandeering the vessel.
“LeBishop's a hard one,” Jolly agreed, shadows and firelight flickering on his coarse features. “Tell us again, Voisin. How did you escape the heathens of Islam?”
“I didn't,” the Frenchman replied, flashing a gap-toothed grin. “I got killed!”
Weak laughter filtered through the crowded confines of the gundeck. Bellies growled. The thirst was intolerable. But the last time the freebooters had cried out for water the guards had responded by urinating through the iron grate overhead. A few crusts of mealy bread and a bucket of slops that passed for gruel came infrequently at best. With any luck the men below would starve to death in their shackles before ever setting foot in a silver mine.
“I ain't eaten in so long my gut thinks my throat's been cut,” muttered Israel Goodenough.
“That's the only way you'll escape this cursed boat,” another man replied, limbs trembling, eyes gaunt, ribs showing through his flesh. “What say you, sawbones?”
William Jolly shook his head and began to pace in a tight circle, his chains rattling with every step. His companions close by growled in discomfort as they moved their shackled limbs out of his path. Jolly stopped and stared at the steps leading up to the bolted door. He raised his clenched fists and shook them at their unseen guards. “Listen to them, dancing on our graves. By heaven ⦠if we only had them in our gunsights ⦔
“Heaven?” said Israel. “Your shadow won't ever fall there, William Jolly. It's a mite late to be calling on the angels.” The gunner spoke with a sense of grim resolve. He hadn't lost hope quite yet, but the light was dimming fast.
Jolly continued to shake his fists, his mouth drew back in a grimace. This was his fault. Their schooner,
Red Warrant,
had run aground on the coast of Hispaniola, leaving them at the mercy of the Spanish forces. They had avoided capture for several days, but at last, starving and with their captain dead, Jolly had led the men in surrender, hoping to appeal to the mercy of the Spanish authorities. Alas, mercy was in short supply these days. Maybe they should have fought to the death. But he had a daughter in Port Royal. A nine-year-old girl who expected to see him again. He was the only family she had. He must get back to her, somehow, some way. “Nell,” he softly whispered to himself. “I swear I shall never leave you again.”
Red Warrant,
had run aground on the coast of Hispaniola, leaving them at the mercy of the Spanish forces. They had avoided capture for several days, but at last, starving and with their captain dead, Jolly had led the men in surrender, hoping to appeal to the mercy of the Spanish authorities. Alas, mercy was in short supply these days. Maybe they should have fought to the death. But he had a daughter in Port Royal. A nine-year-old girl who expected to see him again. He was the only family she had. He must get back to her, somehow, some way. “Nell,” he softly whispered to himself. “I swear I shall never leave you again.”
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