"A Brother's Loyalty" Chapters 1 and 2

 

Chapter 1

 

The rider sat on his dapple-gray horse as if he were born to the saddle. He easily shifted his weight, feeling his hot blood run back into his tingling legs as they pressed tightly against the sweaty, skittish horse’s thighs. The rider adjusted his wide-brimmed hat against the harsh glare of the noon-time sun. He stole a quick glance around, seeing the light brown dust rise slowly into the hot dry air behind yet another buckboard as it clattered its way down the old Silverton main road.

Seeing that nobody had yet noticed him, the rider lifted his Colt 1865 single-action revolver from his holster and rechecked it, making sure all six chambers were still loaded. It was the third or fourth time he’d done this as he nervously waited for the signal from the rest of his gang.

After reholstering his revolver, the rider again looked around and then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his pocket watch; the same watch his father had given him when he was a boy back in Virginia, before the Civil War. Rechecking the time yet again, the rider silently cursed, wanting time to somehow move faster, knowing it never would.

Finally, as the minute hand of his pocket watch ticked one minute closer to the appointed hour, the rider lifted his dusty bandanna from around his dirty neck and slid it up over his nose. Still he waited as his hot breath repeatedly sucked his bandanna close to his nose, occasionally plugging it entirely.

Finally his watch ticked off the last long minute. Looking up, the rider saw his gray-panted partners walk into the local bank; he heard their spurs jingle against the rough-hewn boardwalk, sounding like a chorus of chaotic tinkling bells trying to find their own melody. He knew the robbery was about to begin.

Suddenly shots rang out, ending the peaceful day as townspeople scattered to find cover in the many shops that lined the street, like so many cockroaches scampering in the dark, frightened by a sudden light.

Quickly the rider pulled his revolver and scanned the empty street. His gaze traced along the tops of the buildings, looking for the silhouette any justice-minded civilian who might want to play hero. But all was clear.

He spurred his dapple-gray with a sharp quick kick. As the mare rose on her hind legs, the rider leaned forward, bringing the frightened horse back down to earth and then galloped into the main street, stopping in front of the small family-owned bank.

The rider tried to look through the barred windows but saw nothing. He rode around the building and into the side alley where he leaned down and easily grabbed the reins of his partners’ horses and began to lead them back onto the dusty street in front of the bank.

Just as he rounded the corner from the alleyway, his partners ran out the front door and quickly mounted their waiting horses, throwing their agile bodies over the backs as if they’d been doing this all their lives. They had.

Suddenly a rifle shot sounded, splitting the air and kicking up the dry sandy dirt of the street. Then another shot followed from the opposite direction. The rider looked up and saw that they were caught in a murderous crossfire by the good townspeople. He raised his revolver, pulled back the hammer and fired. Click, bang!

The shot had found its mark as the sniper tumbled from the roof top, dead, his body landing with a solid thud against the hard-packed dirt as his bright red blood poured from the gaping hole in his chest.

Suddenly the bank manager ran outside as the robbers climbed onto their horses, digging silver spurs into their mounts’ sides, and began to gallop out of town. The manager raised his derringer, took slow aim, pulled the trigger and fired. Click. Pop!

The rider saw his brother fall back off his horse and tumble onto the dusty street. Quickly the rider turned his panicked horse around, spurring her on, and rode back hard to his fallen brother. As he rode closer and closer, he leaned over to one side and held out his hand, reaching down low, close to the earth, almost sweeping up the ground.

His brother reached up and grabbed his sweaty, dirty wrist. Then with a heave, the rider lifted his brother over the back of his galloping horse and together they raced out of town, following the others. The only thing that remained was a cloud of dust obscuring the riders’ escape as the townspeople slowly began to raise their hidden heads and wander out into the now silent street.

The robbers rode hard. The lookout and his wounded brother tried to catch up. But the weight was too much for the quickly tiring mare, as her legs became unsteady and her tongue, surrounded by dry white foam, hung from her bone-dry mouth.

The rider slowed his horse to an easy walk. He then pulled on the left rein and began to ride up along a small boulder-lined path, up into the purple desert mountains beyond.

Soon he met the rest of the gang, who had already dismounted and were watering their horses from the small, cool mountain stream that always seemed to flow no matter the time of year.

The rider dismounted too and turned to help his brother. Reaching high, he grasped his brother’s upper arm. He jerked his hand away, feeling his brother’s warm red blood flow between his fingers, making them tacky, almost like glue.

His brother, still sitting on the dapple-gray’s haunches, was dead.

The rider didn’t say a word. He knew that death might be the price each of them would have to pay for a chance at becoming rich; a chance to put away the brutality of the Civil War and to begin anew. He knew his now dead brother, also a veteran of the war, had felt the same way.

The rider showed no emotion as he lovingly eased his brother down and, carrying the body on his shoulders, walked over to the cave where another of his gang was busily chiseling a symbol on one of the rocks that helped to keep the cave hidden from view.

The rider walked past the hammering man and into the cave until he came to a point where he could barely see. He set his burden gently down against the cold rocky wall. He stared at his brother’s body and noticed that his brother had lost one of his spurs somewhere along the trail, along with his life. He knelt and said a prayer for his brother. Finally, reaching into his vest pocket, he retrieved his pocket watch and laid it in his brother’s cold hand. He closed slightly stiff fingers around it, knowing that his brother would carry their father’s pocket watch for all eternity.

Afterward he walked out, past the sculptor who was finishing his work, as the numbers three, ten and twelve along with an arrow began to emerge slowly from the rock wall, like figures gradually becoming visible through a thick fog.

* * *

The German U-boat captain still couldn’t believe his eyes as he commanded his submarine out of New York harbor on that clear cold night. He’d wanted to see the still bright skyline before the blackouts began, which he knew would soon happen as Germany brought the war to the eastern seaboard of the United States.

The captain had orders to sail to the waters off Jacksonville, Florida, then onto the Gulf of Mexico. But first he just had to see the lights of Broadway. Now, as his metal-gray vessel, U-boat 213, began to head south, the captain eagerly anticipated the easy pickings that lay ahead of him.

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel, he thought in the spring of 1942.

A week later, U-213 lay off the waters of Amelia Island, northeast of Jacksonville. So far, the captain’s hunt had been uneventful. But he knew that his luck would soon change.

Two more days passed and on the third, after the Florida sun had set, lighting up the sky in brilliant shades of yellow, orange and red, U-213 stealthily surfaced, slicing the placid water like a razor slicing paper. The captain climbed the small ladder to the crow’s nest on the conning tower. He raised his binoculars to his determined eyes and scanned the surrounding waters. Then he saw it, a fat freighter slowing leaving the Port of Fernandina, fully loaded with much needed supplies headed for England. He smiled, knowing what was about to happen.

He turned to his brother, a specially trained SS commando who had just joined him. His brother, part of the captain’s other secret orders, smiled back. Both knew that they were about to bring the war to the southern waters of America.

“Target off the starboard side,” the captain said to his first mate, through his speaker phone. “Get me the distance and direction.”

The first mate quickly made his way over to the submarine’s fire control system and sonar.

“Captain, range two hundred yards, traveling north east at twelve knots.”

“Good, prepare tubes one and two.”

“Tubes one and two ready to fire on your command,” the captain heard a quick, short while later.

Raising his binoculars to his eyes once again, the captain mentally calculated the amount of distance he would have to lead the freighter. He also calculated the running time of his torpedoes. When he was ready, he simply said, “Fire one.”

“One away, sir,” he heard back, seeing the long black underwater bomb run straight and true, trailing a plume of bubbles from beneath his boat’s bow.

“Fire two,” he ordered.

“Two away, sir.” The second deadly missile left the boat.

Then the captain checked his watch; twenty seconds to impact, if the torpedoes ran straight and true.

This was the time the captain hated most, the agonizing wait. He knew that in a few moments he’d either be celebrating a direct hit with the rest of his crew or deep in panic, trying to get away should the torpedoes miss.

Suddenly the black sky lit up with a massive explosion and brilliant fire as both torpedoes slammed into the freighter’s sides.

“Got him, Captain!” The first mate’s voice was triumphant, as cheers sounded from the rest of the U-boat.

As the captain ordered his boat to submerge, he thought that this was just too easy. He’d been in the Kriegsmarine long enough to know that it wouldn’t last long. No, America was just too mighty. He knew what was eventually coming - a terrible storm of might and power, once the United States got her war machine up and running.

 

Chapter 2

 

Jesús Cervantes, now nineteen, cranked the throttle of his dirt bike. Feeling the two-stroke power between his legs as his bike wheelied, he leaned over the handlebars, pressing his front wheel back down into the desert sand as his bike tore into the ground and raced up the narrow boulder-lined mountain path.

As his powerful, growling dirt bike chewed up and spat out the rough dirt beneath him, Jesús concentrated on staying in the middle of the narrow path. He knew that if he lost concentration, at this speed, he’d smash into one of the many boulders, leaving only a bloody spot and mangled metal. Yet he loved the challenge and the adrenaline rush that only speed and danger could provide.

Soon he made it to his destination, a small clear mountain stream that always seemed to flow. He slowed his bike, eventually stopping, and climbed off. Jesús walked to the fast-moving stream and lay down on its bank. He removed his helmet and plunged his face into the ice-cold water, feeling its initial bite and then soothing relief from the stifling-hot desert air.

Jesús loved this secret spot. As far as he knew, nobody else ever came here and he doubted that anyone other than himself was even aware of its location. He’d been coming here for years. This was his spot, a spot of peace and tranquility.

Sometimes, he’d bring along his camping gear and spend a few blissful days isolated from the rest of the world. He’d bring along his twenty-two caliber rifle and hunt jack rabbits for food. Other times he’d simply pack in his food.

But, on this trip, he wanted to rough it. So he’d brought his rifle and, after setting up camp, he needed to go hunt for dinner.

Jesús swapped his fiberglass helmet for his straw cowboy hat, loaded his rifle and set out. He walked away from his bike and was about to climb one of the surrounding hills when he turned back around to check his location. Then his eye caught something, something on a rock wall on the other side of his camp.

As Jesús approached closer, he noticed that what he was really looking at was the entrance to a small cave. Funny, he thought, that he’d never noticed it before.

He walked closer and soon stood before the rocky wall, which bore a curious impression. He rubbed his hands over it, feeling the rough rock and slight indentations. He thought he could make out the numbers three, ten, twelve, and what felt like an arrow. Weird, he thought.

As he examined the numerals, now worn by time, he marveled at the craftsmanship. The numbers appeared to be neat and steady, looking almost as if someone had stamped them into the solid rock wall. Who could have done this? The numbers sure weren’t made by some kid with a screwdriver and hammer. No, these were very precise. He had thought that nobody else in the world knew about this spot. But apparently he was wrong.

* * *

Marc held on to the metal railing inside the bridge of the Polly L, the treasure hunting vessel owned and operated by Amelia Research, as wave after terrible wave slammed into the boxy-looking vessel and tore across her decks. The hurricane came up quickly and had caught the Polly L out at sea as she lumbered back to Fernandina Beach after having spent a week in the Florida Keys, looking for the Santa Margarita, sister ship to the Atocha.

Marc could feel his stomach rise and fall as the flat-bottomed boat rode higher and higher over the fifteen-foot windblown waves, only to come tobogganing down the other side. He felt as if his eighteen-year-old body was about to heave and vomit out his breakfast as his stomach continued its constant rolling, up, down and over.

Marc looked up and saw Captain Whitmore struggle against the steering wheel as he constantly worked the dual throttles, trying to keep the Polly L heading directly into the onslaught of wave after never-ending wave.

Suddenly Bob Knowles, an older treasure hunter and Marc’s surrogate father, stepped onto the bridge.

“Captain. Captain!” Bob screamed. “We’re taking on water!”

“Start the bilge pumps and make sure they don’t stop! We can’t afford to take on any more water,” Captain Whitmore yelled back.

Bob hurried down below decks where he flipped up the toggle switches, and the electric bilge pumps began to whir reassuringly away.

Marc now stood beside the Captain, amazed at the sight of the huge cresting waves that rose before him. He felt like he was watching a bad natural disaster movie through the big glass windows of the bridge, seeing the black waves cascade down before him as the Polly L rose up and over another mountain ridge of water, again to slide wildly down its back side.

It was going to be a long night indeed, Marc worried, a night in which they might or might not see the morning.

He said a silent prayer and thought about his good friend, Jesús, who’d become just like a brother to Marc. He hoped that he’d make it though this ordeal and then be on his way to Arizona, where he planned to vacation for a couple of weeks with Jesús and maybe do a little treasure hunting, exploring the many ghost towns that surround the Sonora Desert. He’d give anything, he thought, to be on dry land right now.