Bowie's Gold

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4 “Your head on a platter.”

Renato awoke to a scratchy tongue licking his cheek. He yawned, the yawn becoming a groan, and blinked into the piss-yellow eyes of a hairless cat.

“Ah, Princess,” he said, his voice thick and slurred, “can it be that you are jealous?”

The cat made the low gargling noise that passed for purring and strutted about the cabin, sniffing at this and that.

Renato massaged his temple. He felt as if he had been dragged to Davy Jones’s Locker and back. He must have given Andre’s daughter a magnificent ride.

“Mariette,” he said, “you must meet my other princess, the one you have now dethroned.”

But the girl was nowhere to be seen, and the only sign she had been there was her wine glass, still nearly full.

Renato ran his tongue about his mouth. It tasted peculiar, and as the fog lifted from his brain the realization struck him like a blow. He had been drugged!

At first in confusion, then with growing alarm, he stumbled to his frock coat and thrust fingers into the pocket, encountering only lint. In panic, he wrenched all the pockets inside-out, and clawed at the coat until it lay mangled at his feet.

Then he burst from the cabin, reached the deck in a single bound, and roared, “Where is she?”

The deckhands nearly jumped overboard in fright, while Mr. Faraday, cool-as-you-please, inquired, “Where is who, Captain?”

“That hell-b***h of Andre’s, you dolt! What has become of her?”

“Oh,” Faraday said. “Her. She and her father left hours ago, saying you gave orders not to be disturbed. So, ever acceding to Your Lordship’s wishes, we were careful to let you rest. Now that you are greatly refreshed, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to learn we have entered the Gulf, and are on our way to Texas.”

Renato felt his head was about to explode. He gripped Faraday by the neck and lifted him one-handed from the deck.

“You bungler! You fool! They stole my map. You shall turn the ship at once, returning to that cove, and set men after them. I’ll have their heads for this—or I shall surely have yours!”

Hours later, back in Barataria Bay, Renato was still in an ill humor, and his mood was reflected in the crew. Their movements were lethargic, and he sensed them furtively watching him.

As they left the Gulf, they’d sighted a tempting prize—a well-laden merchantman moving ponderously toward the mouth of the Mississippi. But the stolen map was worth a thousand such prizes, and Renato had been afire to send search gangs ashore. It had now been more than an hour with no word.

Renato sat tensely on the church pew he’d stolen from a Spanish freighter and had installed on his quarterdeck. Angels and cherubs adorned the arms and back of the bench, intermixed with images of crosses, flowers and bleeding hearts. While not in the least devout, he recognized the power in such icons, and it impressed the men to see him amid such heavenly company.

On his lap lay a yellow-backed book, one of many he’d appropriated from passing travelers. On the flyleaf he’d sketched the vague beginnings of a map—all that he could remember from his brief perusal of the original. In his mind’s eye, the image had been clear, but as he drew, the lines became blurred, and the features elusive.

That it represented a bay on the Texas coast, he knew, and it was hauntingly familiar. Renato had come to know the inlets and coves of the Gulf coast intimately—but from a ship’s deck, not looking down upon them like a god in the sky.

The map depicted a cove shaped rather like an old crone’s breast. At the tip of the cove, a sagging n****e pointed directly at a bold black X. There had also been drawings of animals, and a host of connecting lines, but he could no longer envision them.

Hearing the determined tread of Mr. Faraday, Renato turned the book to a random page and pretended to read.

Faraday stopped in front of him. “Captain.”

After half a minute of feigned interest, he looked up to find a smirk on the quartermaster’s face.

“A good book, Captain?”

Renato was about to deliver a suitable reply when he noted the title atop each page. The Faerie Queen.

Renato’s cheeks grew warm. He snapped the book shut. “I had no idea you could read.”

“Some,” Faraday said, not without pride. “Mr. Quayle’s been teaching me.”

“Quayle reads too? Then I fear civilization is doomed.”

“No word from the search parties, Captain. Shall I send more men?”

Renato shook his head. “I am going below. You will notify me the instant there is news.”

In his cabin, Renato hurled the book aside, cursing himself for not noticing the title. It would be the talk of the ship within the hour.

The book hit the bed, spilling a number of newspaper clippings onto the blanket. Renato bent to retrieve them. They were accounts of a battle involving James Bowie, the man he hated most in the world, and he had saved them for future perusal.

Eight years had passed since Bowie had murdered his brother Rayón, but Renato’s rage had dimmed not a whit. Even the spectacular vengeance he had visited upon the girl responsible had done nothing to sate him, and he’d followed Bowie’s activities, planning for the day they would meet again.

Bowie, the story went, had been one of a large party transported to an unnamed beach near Natchez, Mississippi to witness a duel. The duel itself came to nothing, but in the aftermath, Bowie, a supporter of one combatant, had an altercation with members of the opposite party—first with a man named Crane, then with two brothers and a particular enemy named Major Norris Wright.

Renato scanned the accounts, focusing on underlined passages from various articles to refresh his memory.

Crane observed Bowie with a drawn pistol. He thereby shot him first. Bowie exclaimed, “Crane, you have shot me, and I will kill you if I can.” He then drew a large butcher knife and endeavored to put his threat in execution, but was prevented by Crane by a blow from the butt of his pistol, which brought him to his knees.

Good!

Bowie then discovered Major Wright, who had arrived from the woods at the scene of action, in company with the two Blanchards. They both fired, Wright one or two seconds first, and both with effect. Mr. Bowie was shot through the breast.

Even better!

Wright then fled. Bowie drew a knife and pursued him, and when within about ten feet of him, he received a simultaneous fire from the two Blanchards; one of the balls took effect in his thigh and cut him down; observing which, Wright wheeled, when he and Alfred Blanchard drew their sword canes, rushed on and commenced stabbing Bowie who was prostrate.

Renato smiled, savoring the image.

But this, he knew, was where the reading became less pleasant.

Bowie scuffled for some seconds until he had gained his seat. He then reached up, caught Wright by the coat, drew him down on him, and plunged his knife in his bosom, a stab which went to his heart. He died instantly.

Renato tossed the clippings aside in disgust. Some of these accounts had appeared in The New Orleans Argus, which was prestigious enough, but others were from The Niles Register, a paper circulated throughout the entire plaguey United States.

That such a brief incident should earn Bowie fame was an insult he could not abide. Renato had been raiding ships and settlements on the Gulf for years. It was his name that should be on men’s lips in taverns and clubs. To see this upstart farmer so lionized was the height of injustice.

Soon, Renato vowed, once his treasure had been won, he would exact the terrible vengeance that was his due, and newspapers everywhere would trumpet his achievements.

Came a rap at the cabin door.

“What is it, damn you?”

“Quayle has been sighted, Captain.” Faraday’s voice. “He’s on his way from shore.”

“Have him await me on deck.”

Slipping a key from around his neck, Renato unlocked the iron strongbox he used as a night table. The box was the most secure spot on the ship, and it was here he kept his most choice possessions. Among them was a note written in his father’s own hand—and a delicate miniature of his mother, painted by that same gentleman.

Before inserting the book, he took a last look at the rough map, but had nothing to add. His memory of the rest was entirely gone.

Renato was back on deck to see the his rotund bosun clamber over the rail. The man was slack-jawed, slovenly, and dumb as a stump, but he was the one crew member Renato could trust. Quayle knew nothing of loyalty or honor. He knew only fear—and feared Renato far too much to betray him.

“Quayle, you piece of weasel s**t, what kept you so long?”

Quayle touched his forelock. “Your everlastin’ pardon, Cap’n. Some of the local folk was hard to catch, and then couldn’t speak ’til they regained their senses.”

“Spit it out, then. What did you learn?”

“Andre was seen, Cap’n. Him and the girl. They wished to buy a pirogue, but no one would admit to selling them one.”

A pirogue. Such a small boat could only mean they hoped to slip into the bayous and wind their way to New Orleans.

“And that was all you learned?”

Quayle winced before answering. “No, Cap’n, no. Others allowed as how they might have taken passage on that merchantman we seen earlier.”

“Did anyone see them board?”

“Not for certain sure, Cap’n, but boats was seen to ply back and forth from shore.”

So Andre and the b***h had fled into the swamps, bound for New Orleans. Or they had gone aboard that slow-moving brig, with the same intent. That made sense. To seek the treasure, they would need a ship and crew, and those were easiest found in the city.

“Where are the rest of the men?”

“They took boats, if you please, sir, and headed into the bayous.”

That covered one possibility. The fat merchantman was one he must deal with himself.

“Mr. Faraday! What are you waiting for? If we don’t catch that brig by sunset, I’ll have your head on a platter.”