The boy was there again, tugging on his hand, leading him back down the ladder. The room in which they stood was large with crates and cartons piled around the walls. No one other than the boy seemed to be about. Matt found himself back in the room where he'd woken, and the boy was opening a chest built along the wall. Luiz rummaged through a variety of clothing and finally held up a pair of loose cloth pants and handed them to the big man. Matt was able, barely, to pull them over his hips and use the attached cord to tie them around his waist. The legs fell somewhere below his knees. He was thinner than he had been, much thinner, and what had been corded muscle in his arms and legs was now slack flesh.
The boy demonstrated how to untie one end of the slung hammock and then indicated that he should undo the other. The hammock was carefully folded in a particular way – the boy did it twice – and then Matt copied the procedure. Back in the main room, the folded hammock was tucked away in a cubbyhole along the wall. Luiz made sure he recognized which one it was, counting down and across several times and then having Matt do the same. He learned his first words in the boy's language, counting one to five.
"Venha," the boy said again, leading him through a door behind the ladder. There were men there, perhaps half a dozen, sitting on boxes and cartons and barrels. They watched him warily, but none of them spoke. The boy went to a hatch at the end of the room and was handed two bowls. The two of them sat on a large box near the hatch and the boy started to eat, using his fingers to scoop out what looked like cooked cereal. Matt did the same. "Comida," the boy told him. Afterwards, there was water in a tin cup. "Agua," the boy said.
The men had mostly remained silent, but as Luiz led Matt out into the main cabin he began to hear one word repeated, over and over. "Sick-a-trees" they seemed to be whispering to each other, whispering and pointing to him. The boy led him up the ladder again, to a deck no longer deserted, and towards the bow of the ship. Matt stopped and asked, "Sick-a-trees?" The boy smiled and reached up to touch the scar on his face and then some of the ones on his chest and arms. "Cicatriz," he said, and Matt recognized his new name.
They went forward into the point of the bow and Luiz indicated two wooden shafts, one on each side of the narrow deck. Without trying to explain, he opened the front of his pants and demonstrated their purpose, then waited while Matt did the same. "Mijo," Luiz told him, and Matt nodded, repeating the word. Then it was "Venha" again and the boy led him back to the main deck where a short, spectacled man was standing.
The man was dark skinned and dark haired, dressed in navy blue trousers and light blue buttoned shirt. He looked Matt up and down, and then spoke to him in English, but with a strong Mexican accent. "You are on the Lobinho, the Little Wolf, a Portugee ship out of Galveston headed for Rio in Brazil. If you will work, you will eat. If you fight us, we will kill you."
"Why am I here?" Matt asked.
"Someone did not like you, Cicatriz," the man said smiling, but it was a sad smile not a vicious one. "If you do not want to be here, then," he shrugged, and waved his hand indicating the sea around them, "There is the ocean. That is your choice."
The man moved away, but Matt called out a question, "Why the boy?"
The man turned, tilting his head quizzically as if this were not the question he expected. "The boy is small and not worth much. Many men, when they find themselves in your position, they become violent. To lose the boy would not be a large loss."
"I will go home." Matt said.
"That is possible. Some men have. Most do not. But you will not go home from this ship," the man replied. He looked up at Matt with what might have been compassion. "My name is Martinez. I am the third mate. I suggest you learn Portugee. Work and you will eat."
Matt worked. Less at first, but more and more each day. The men around him, for the most part, though rough, did not seem particularly cruel or violent – they left him alone or to Luiz. He was by far the largest man on the ship, but then he'd spent his life being the largest man anywhere he went. His skin burned and peeled and eventually turned brown. He was always hungry. The salt pork, cooked grain, and ship's biscuit that he was given was never nearly enough to satisfy his hunger. He built muscle, but stayed whipcord thin.
At night he hung his hammock with the other men in the main cabin and slept. The first weeks he slept deeply, exhausted by the work he did during the day. As he became stronger, it was harder to sleep. His mind was full of turmoil, remembering Tonneman's voice, "And your woman? Just think what I'm going to do to her." He tried to assure himself that Kitty would be protected, but it rarely worked. He tried to imagine what she would do. Surely, she thought him dead. Surely, she would move on with her life. Surely, she would marry. And that was usually the thought that sent him out of his hammock and walking back and forth on the deck under the stars.
Who would she marry? He thought most likely it would be Frank. If he trusted anyone or anything, he trusted that Frank would come to her, and when he found out about the baby, he would marry her. Frank would keep her safe. He couldn't think of a better man to raise his child. And Festus. Festus had given him his word. He would never go back on that. He would be watching out for Kitty. Doc would be there.
Doc. Matt held long conversations with the old man in his mind. Doc's advice was always to take care of himself, and not to fight what couldn't be changed. Not to waste himself on futile battles but to wait for the chances that would come later. Doc always told him that Kitty was fine. "We'll take care of her, Matt. We love her. You know that." That was what Doc told him over and over in his mind, and eventually, he would return to his hammock and try again to sleep.
The morning they sighted land, Martinez came to him with a pair of manacles. They hadn't spoken since that first day. Matt's Portuguese was improving, but apparently English was required for this conversation. "We will stop here for supplies. You will not leave the ship. If you fight me, you will be shot." Martinez jerked his chin towards the rising deck at the stern. Another officer stood there with a pistol pointed at him. Matt held out his hands, remembering the countless times he'd performed this ritual with a prisoner. He remembered the shackles he'd chained onto Tonneman and how little good they'd done in the end. Manacles circling his wrists, Martinez led him to the small room off the main cabin where he had originally awakened, and attached the chain to a bar in the wall. Martinez left, and he was alone for the rest of the day.
As the day faded, and the dim room began to turn dark, Luiz came to him grinning, his hands full of fruit. It was nothing Matt had ever seen before, but he and the boy ate, reveling in the taste after long weeks of ship's fare. Luiz sat with him, talking about the port, the things he had done, the food he had eaten. Matt understood perhaps three words in ten, but it was more than he had known a few weeks before. When Martinez came to set him free, he tried one question. "What is today? What date?"
Martinez unlocked his chains without answering and left the room, but Luiz came close and sat beside him. "Setembro" he said. "Treze" and held up all ten fingers and then three more. The thirteenth of September. It had been more than two months since the train. Luiz was pulling his hand, vying for his attention. Matt learned the numbers up to thirty-one that night, and the names of all the months.
Between Jamaica, where they'd first made land, and Barbados, ten days later, Matt met the ship's carpenter. Assigned to carry boards for the man, he quickly demonstrated his ability to assist in other ways. He found his way to the tiny cabin stuffed with tools, nails, boards, and blocks of wood, and made himself useful. One day, as the carpenter tried to explain something to him in rapid fire Portugee, Matt grabbed a thick-leaded pencil from a shelf and began drawing on the back of a board. When he left the room, the pencil was behind his ear and he clutched a sheet of paper with a diagram showing him tomorrow's work. The back of the paper was blank. That night he began planning his letter.
Luiz was the key to the plan, but Luiz was, for once, not cooperative. "He will beat me," the boy said, in English and in Portuguese. "Maybe he will kill me." And "No." And again, "No. I cannot."
"Quem bate tu?" Matt asked. "Who beats you?"
"Martinez," Luiz replied.
Chained again in the small empty cabin while the Lupinho spent a long tropical day in Barbados, Matt began to wonder about the room. Why was it empty? No other room on the ship was empty. Here there were only a few chests built along the wall, and several sets of bars – like the one to which his manacles were attached. Matt heard voices calling out along the harbor – English voices. Surely Luiz could have found an American ship at this port. Surely any American would carry a letter to be mailed back in the States. It was the only idea that had come to him, but he needed Luiz, and Luiz, smiling, helpful Luiz, would not help with this one thing.
When Martinez came to let him loose, Matt asked him, "What is this room for? Why is it empty?"
This time the man grinned at him in the light from his lantern, but he answered in Portuguese rather than in English. "As mulheres." It was a word Matt had never heard. Luiz explained it to him with a few graphic gestures. The women. This was the room where they kept the women when Lupinho transported them from Galveston to Rio. Matt pieced it together over the next few days. None of the men were loath to talk about that cargo, and he learned a whole new level of the language. Loira. Ruiva. Puta. Porra. Blondes. Redheads. Whores. Fuck. On most trips, the Lupinho carried women captured in the States to sell to brothels in Rio.
He knew why he was here now, oh, he knew. Tonneman had hated him so much that just killing him wasn't enough – he had to find something worse. And not just shanghaiing him onto the ship. That wasn't nearly enough. It had to be a ship where he would find out what was planned for Kitty. And a ship where he was helpless to act, unable to protect her, where he couldn't even speak the language. Fighting panic, Matt thought again of Tonneman's final words.
But on this voyage, there were no women. Matt was walking the deck late one night, unable to sleep and watching the new stars that rose on the horizon as the ship rounded the coast of Brazil and headed south. He heard a cry from the bow, and going forward towards the heads, he saw one of the men grappling with Luiz. The boy was on his knees in front of the man with his hand raised to hit the child a second time, when Matt grabbed him. "Não." Matt said it quietly. It didn't end there, of course. The fight was short, dirty, and utterly silent – neither man wanting interference from an officer. Holding the seaman's arm wrenched behind his back, Matt said again, "Não." And this time the man agreed. Matt released him, and he walked away. Luiz still knelt, tears on his face, and his pants around his ankles. Matt raised him to his feet with a gentle hand, and the boy fumbled, pulling his pants back up, and working to tie the rope at his waist.
Luiz sniffed and ran a hand across his eyes. "He will hurt you," he said in careful English.
"Better me than you." Matt replied also in English, then, switching to Portugee he asked, "The men… they use you… like that? They fuck you?" He had only learned the word that week. He assumed it could be used for a boy as well as for a woman, and he needed to be very clear.
Luiz shrugged. "Some of them. Sometimes. Pedro he is bad. Worst."
"Não," Matt told him.
"You cannot stop them." Luiz told him.
"I can."
Fighting was not forbidden among the men. Hurting a man so that he couldn't work, that was. So were knives. Matt had seen other fights on board. The reasons were usually beyond his ability with the language, but he had watched. The next day, he participated. Pedro rammed into him during the morning meal, dropping his bowl of porridge to the deck. The fight ended with Pedro forfeiting his own meal to Matt. There was more over a series of days, but Matt never doubted the final result.
After a week, Luiz came to him. "Chefe?" the boy asked. It was a new form of address, but Matt had heard it before. Boss. "Chefe, the letter. I try. In Rio, I try."
He had thought it all out, word for word, as he walked the deck at night. He wrote it, printing the letters as small and close as he could. He folded the letter carefully, tucking one end in the other. He had no way to seal it, he simply had to trust. On the front, in letters careful, clear, and large, he wrote:
Mollie Parks, Oasis Saloon, Dodge City, Kansas
"Any American ship," he told Luiz. "Give it to an officer. Ask him to mail it once he's back in the States."
"Sim, chefe." the boy replied. "Yes, I try."
Matt slept that night with better dreams. It was dark and Kitty was in his arms. They were in her big, soft bed, and her mouth was sweet under his. There were no words, just warmth and wetness and movement. He woke in the humid heat of the hold, not sure at first where he was, his cock painfully hard. Turning slightly on his side in the hammock he closed his eyes, trying to bring it all back, sliding his hand down to finish what the dream had started.
OoOoO
Kitty woke to chill darkness. There had been troubled dreams, a train, shots, blood, and she was glad to wake and find them gone. She reached over to touch Matt beside her, wanting the comfort of his presence, but instead of bare skin her hand found the soft, well-washed cotton of a nightshirt, and she couldn't stop the tears because suddenly she knew the dreams had been real.
Sam drew her close, holding her head against his chest. "Bad dreams again?"
"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's all right, Kitty," he said, stroking her hair.
"Will it ever stop, Sam?" she asked.
"I can't say as it will, Kitty," he told her gently. "It's been more than twenty-five years and sometimes I still wake thinking Eugenia is with me."
"What a pair we are," Kitty said. She rolled over on her back, her head still resting on his arm. "Am I a disappointment to you, Sam?" she asked quietly.
But at that there was a soft, rumbling laugh. "No, Kitty, you're not a disappointment. I know it's not the marriage you wanted – or the marriage that I had once – but we've done pretty well together, I think." He hesitated a moment, "I do love you, Kitty."
"I know that, Sam. And I love you, too." She paused, "But not like I loved, Matt. I don't think it will ever be like that, Sam. Do you mind?"
His voice was kindness itself, "No, Kitty. I don't expect it to. You and Matt were special. I don't think God gives us that more than once in a lifetime. But that doesn't mean we can't make a good life with what we have left."
"You happy, Sam?" she asked him.
"I am. Happier than I thought I'd ever be again." He touched her cold hand and then her cheek, "Come let me warm you up." He moved her back against him and pulled the quilt up around her shoulders, tucking her close. One hand rested against her swollen belly, and they both smiled silently in the dark at the movement of the baby inside her.
OoOoO
Ace Haggen slept lightly in a room above the Three Flowers saloon. He didn't dream at all. He'd killed two men the night before – one on the way into Houston and one in a gunfight behind the saloon. He'd been trailing three men for more than a month. They'd broken off from Tonneman's gang outside Fort Worth, and he'd hoped to get more information from them before they died. Now his hopes rested on the third man – the one called Mike Granger.
He'd found out a great deal about Tonneman's men in the months he'd been trailing them. He now knew names to put with the faces burned in his memory. And eight of the faces were dead – including Anderson, tried and hung in Hays, Kansas. If Mike Granger came for him tonight, and if he died tonight, there would only be five men left – Shiloh, Tiny, Malachai, Puncher, and Danton. Five men, that is, plus Tonneman.
The saloon was quiet – had been for a while. Festus opened his eyes at the sound of movement at the door. The knob turned softly, back and forth. Without a sound, Festus slipped out of bed and moved to the side of the doorway. As the door slammed open under a heavy kick and shots spattered into the feathers of the mattress and pillows, a six gun moved cold and silent against the head of the man who stood there pointing his own weapon at the bed.
"You wanna tell me where they are 'fore you die, Granger?" Ace asked. There were screams now from the neighboring rooms, and the sound of heavy steps on the stairs.
The man's eyes were wide with surprise. "You let me live I'll tell you," he tried.
"Cain't do that. But I kin make it clean. Not gutshot like as you lef' that Indian woman from up in the Nations." Another gun appeared in Ace's left hand, and this one pressed against the outlaw's belly.
"Galveston. The wolves are in Galveston." The words spurted out of his mouth as he tried to swing his gun hand around towards Ace Haggen, and a bullet sliced cleanly through his temple and messily out the other side.
The city of Houston was not happy with Haggen. Three killings in twenty-four hours was high even for Texas. But his status as a deputy U.S. Marshal, the Kansas wanted posters on the dead men, and telegrams to both the Marshal of Dodge City and the Attorney General of Kansas kept him out of jail. Not to mention the clear fact that Granger had broken into his room and fired first. Houston wanted him gone, and he left – riding south out of town on a big buckskin and trailing a pack mule.
OoOoO
It was the third week in October when the brigantine Lupinho sailed into the harbor at Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Matt Dillon was, as usual, chained to the wall in a cabin off the main hold. There was grumbling about that among the crew. Ten weeks with the big man had taught them what he could do in terms of lifting, hauling, and handling freight. No one was pleased to have to unload the ship without him. Nevertheless, he remained sequestered out of sight. Luiz, with the rest of the crew, was allowed to go ashore. Dressed in his best and with his pay jingling in his pocket, he headed off to see the sights, buy a few necessities, and, if he could, to find an American ship. It didn't take long to notice he was being followed, but that didn't bother the boy. He had all day to lose the man.
Luiz bought food from the vendors on the dock and ate with pleasure. He found a chandlery that had a pair of cloth pants actually big enough to fit his much scarred friend, and another, further into town, that provided a shirt that looked like it might even be big on the man. He bought both and a pair of rope-soled sandals with the money provided by Martinez then carefully tucked the change in a side pocket to be returned to the mate. From his own money, he bought a small notebook with a leather cover that tied shut, a comb, a small pair of scissors, needles, thread, soap, and a canvas seabag in which to stuff all his purchases. His remaining coins went for sweets and fruit, and with only one coin left he returned to the docks, far, far down from the place where Lupinho was moored.
It was the correct flag – red and white stripes with the blue square and rows of stars. Luiz lazed about the wharf, sometimes pretending to sleep, sometimes playing with the other boys gathered there, always watching. A big man, almost as big as Cicatriz, was returning to the ship. He was dressed well in blue pants, shirt, and jacket – boots on his feet and a billed cap on his head. Luiz shot out in front of him, almost dancing in his urgency. "Please, sir, please. You will help my friend, my American friend?"
The officer stopped. Luiz had chosen well. He looked down at the boy, thought of his own sons, and paused. He let the boy slip a folded paper and a coin into his hand. "To send from the States," the child recited. "Please, sir, please. Very important."
"I can do that, boy," the man replied with a smile, "You want to tell me what it's all about?"
But at that moment hard hands grasped Luiz' arms and pulled him away. "I will take the letter, señor." Martinez said, holding Luiz with bruising strength while the boy struggled.
Jedidiah Coffin, first mate on the clipper Swan out of New Bedford, Massachusetts, looked down into the Mexican's eyes. "No, I think not," he said calmly. Other men were swarming down from the Swan to see what the altercation was about. He reached a hand to hold the boy's other arm. "Is this man your officer, lad?"
"Yes, sir. Please, sir. No trouble." the boy said.
"The letter, señor." Martinez repeated.
Looking at the desperation in the child's face, Coffin said, simply, "No." and turned to walk up the plank to his ship. His captain met him at the rail, and the two men watched as the Mexican walked away, still holding the boy tightly by the arm.
"A problem, Coffin?"
"No, sir. The boy asked me to mail this letter in the States. Said it was for an American friend. The other man clearly didn't want that to happen, but I think I liked the boy better than his officer," the mate replied.
Both men examined the folded, and now very grubby, letter. "Perhaps," the captain suggested, "An envelope would be a good idea? And the address copied in pen?"
Coffin grinned. "Yes, sir. And since we're going east, I though perhaps I'd hand this over to Cooper on the Mary Theresa – he's headed back to New Orleans in another week."
"Good thought," his captain replied. "Always like to do a service for an American friend."
OoOoO
Martinez dragged the boy along, the seabag trailing behind them from Luiz' free hand. When he reached the Lupinho he hustled Luiz up the empty plank and down into the hold. Opening the door to the women's cabin, he thrust the boy inside and closed and locked the door. Luiz would have to go. Lupinho was returning to Galveston, and Martinez couldn't trust him in the American port. Even without the big Cicatriz along, the boy might say too much if he reached the States. No, better for both his prisoners to head for Macau. By the time they came back from China, if they did, it would be too late to matter.