"A Brother's Loyalty" Chapters 3-5

Chapter 3

 

The riders, following their prearranged plans, moved into the surrounding desolate hills, each carrying a sack of heavy silver hanging from their saddle horns. They soon spread out, each seeking their assigned spots their leader had instructed them about earlier, where they were going to bury their loot.

As the rider of the dapple-gray crested one such hill, he stood tall in his stirrups and marveled at the view across the wide open Sonora Desert. Beautiful, he thought. Certainly nothing like the green Shenandoah Valley he’d grown up in.

Then something caught his eye. Off in the distance, he saw a cloud of dust headed his way as it plumed off the distant riders, pushed along by the dry desert wind. He pulled his telescope from his inside coat pocket, the same telescope he’d used so many times before, spying on Union cavalry, while riding with Jeb Stuart.

The rider’s mind flashed back briefly to those days of war. He’d signed up when he was sixteen, and having been raised on a farm where he rode horses almost every day, was selected to join Stuart’s famous cavalry. He remembered how he waited, like now, scared and nervous, before his first encounter with the Yankees, while he and the rest of Stuart’s men hid in a stand of orange blossoms as the Yankee cavalry thundered toward them in a headlong charge, the ever increasing sound of the Union horses pounding closer and closer, shaking the ground, until it was almost unbearable. He remembered how Stuart, his full black beard covering his mouth, roared the command to charge as he spurred his malnourished horse forward into the fray.

Now, the tired rider silently wished he had Stuart and his men by his side, as he continued to watch the dust cloud grow larger as the posse approached across the brown and endless desert floor. He knew it would be only a matter of minutes before they’d have to decide to fight or flee.

The rider quickly buried his sack of silver at the appointed spot and then remounted. Slowly his horse found its way back down the side of the hill, carefully stepping between the loose rocks, back to the spot by the cave and the peacefully cascading, gurgling stream.

Calmly, the rider told the others what he’d seen.

“We should be going now. That posse’s closing fast,” he said to the leader.

“Were you able to tell how many they are?” the rough-looking leader asked.

“No, but it’s better to flee. We could make a stand but sometimes it’s wiser to choose to fight another day.”

“Bet old Stuart would’ve fought,” another veteran condescendingly said, peering out with his one good eye, the other being covered by a black patch.

“Stuart’s gone and the war’s over,” the rider replied, thinking about all those times when Stuart seemed to defy the odds and charge when all seemed lost. Those were the glory days of the war before Gettysburg, where Stuart had let General Lee down by not reporting in, causing Lee to be blind-sided about his enemy’s whereabouts. Stuart was never the same afterward and the war turned to the North’s advantage.

“We’ll ride,” the leader decided. “We’ll travel over this ridge and then head south, into Mexico.”

Everyone mounted up after watering their horses and refilling their canteens. Then they moved out, single file, up and over the barren ridge where they finally came down on its back side, into the wide cactus-filled and sweltering valley below.

No sooner had they reached the floor of the valley when gunshots split the hot dry air. The posse had correctly guessed what the bandits would do - head for Mexico.

The rider spurred his horse on as the wind cut through his face, feeling flecks of sand hit his checks, stinging just a bit as the wind continued its endless race across the valley floor.

The posse was gaining. Shots came faster, bullets streaked past the rider only to embed into whatever piece of nature was unlucky enough to be in the way, or continued screaming off into the flat desert, to eventually fall to the ground, tumble and lie silent in the sand, forever.

The rider decided to break free from the others. He knew that the posse would probably follow the rest and leave a single rider alone. He cut hard right, leaving the others, who didn’t even notice that he’d left.

As he sliced across the path of the oncoming posse, he pulled his revolver and grabbing the horse’s main, leaned forward, down around the horse’s side. Using his left hand, he pulled back the pistol’s hammer and fired from beneath the horse’s neck, just as he’s seen the Apache do a few months earlier.

The posse continued after the band of outlaws. But two of the posse members did cut away and followed the fast rising cloud of dust of the lone bandit.

The rider cursed then spurred his horse even harder. He needed to find a spot where he could make a stand as his horse was quickly tiring. Soon he came across a dry river bed and decided that this was going to have to be the spot.

He eased his horse down into the river bed where he quickly dismounted, ran to the bank of the bone-dry river and began to load his Hawkins fifty-caliber rifle. He then took a deep breath to steady his nerves and measured the wind. He raised his sights to the angle he thought was correct and took slow aim. He held his breath and waited until he could feel the slow steady rhythm of his heart, waiting for the calm between beats then he gently squeezed the trigger, bracing his shoulder for the kick from the large-caliber weapon. Boom!

The rider waited for the white sulfur-smelling smoke to clear. Then he saw that his shot was long. Windage and elevation, he reminded himself, windage and elevation. He adjusted his sights yet again, clicking them down two notches. Then, again taking slow aim, waiting for the loud silence between heart beats, he squeezed the trigger one more time. Boom!

After the smoke had again cleared, he looked up and saw one rider left. The horse of the other fallen rider cut hard left and ran headlong into a ditch where it tumbled down; the sound of bones snapping mingled with its shrieks of pain.

But the remaining rider kept coming, now guiding his horse left and right in an attempt to dodge the incoming bullets.

The bandit easily gauged the serpentine movements and with a gentle squeeze, dropped the last posse member, seeing the man’s head explode and simply vanish in a cloud of red misty blood as his body slowly tumbled backwards off the now wildly running horse.

The bandit sighed deeply. He’d done this sort of thing before; he remembered how he’d hide in a tree, sniping at Union officers. Wiping the dust from his eyes, he remounted his horse and rode away, knowing that soon he’d return and claim his portion of the silver.

 

Chapter 4

 

Marc lost his footing and fell hard onto the deck of the Polly L. The hurricane still whipped around them at full force. He wasn’t sure they were going to make it.

“You okay?” Captain Whitmore asked, turning briefly away from the continual avalanche of waves rising up before them.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Marc replied, slightly embarrassed by his sudden lack of balance.

“Good. I need you to go and help Bob. I’m getting a red warning light from pump number three.”

“Yes sir,” Marc replied, wanting to rid his embarrassment with action.

“Be sure your life jacket’s secured. I don’t want to lose you, got it?”

Marc checked that his yellow life preserver was tightly strapped together and then pushed open the heavy metal door. He stepped from the bridge onto the narrow metal-wire gangway outside, closing the door behind him.

Immediately he felt the blasts of wind, smashing into him like some powerful invisible hand purposely trying to knock him off his feet. He decided to get on his hands and knees since the wind and pitching boat made standing practically impossible. He felt scared.

He slowly crawled to the next door where he could enter, make his way down below and relay the news to Bob. He reached up to crank the handle, when from out of nowhere a powerful wave plowed into him like a freight train, engulfing him in its blanket of churning water. It immediately carried him over the side and into the black surging sea.

* * *

The U-boat captain stood on the deck of U-213. He loved the ocean at night, especially when the waters were calm like they were now with the brilliant twinkling stars overhead. This was his time of peace during a great war, a war he really didn’t think Germany could win once the United States marshaled her tremendous resources and entered the fray. But that lay in the future. His standing orders for now were to sink as many American freighters as he could in the hopes of starving England into surrender. Time to fight again, he thought as he spied yet another heavy-laden freighter heading away from the port of Fernandina.

He’d been patrolling the waters just beyond the Cumberland Sound, which separates Amelia Island, Florida and Cumberland Island, Georgia. And this area appeared to be very fertile indeed.

Again the captain ordered a firing solution. Again he mentally rechecked the calculations in his head. Again he ordered tubes one and two loaded. Again he ordered the deadly motorized bombs to be fired. And, again he raised his binoculars to his eyes, seeing the tremendous orange explosion, oily water burn, metal crack and split and the cries of the dying as the old freighter broke her back and slid beneath the warm waters, leaving only the few survivors who would be burned by the flaming oil or drown and soon perish and sink to the bottom for all eternity. As he watched the horrific sight, the captain smiled.

Then something caught his eye coming out of the darkness, silhouetted against the orange flaming sky. It was a small patrol boat headed directly towards him. It had been running on the other side of the freighter and he and his crew had never detected it.

The captain knew he was in trouble. The very first and last lesson he was ever taught was to never, ever get caught on the surface. He knew that his U-boat relied on stealth. That was his tactical advantage. Without it, he knew the tables were turned. He was now the easy prey.

“Dive, dive, dive!” he screamed, trying not to let his panic invade his voice. He knew he needed to remain strong to lead his crew.

Immediately, he slid down the ladder from the conning tower and ordered the first mate to raise the periscope. The rest of the crew threw themselves headlong through the soon-to-be closed and locked hatches, heading for the bow where they’d tumble into each other, desperately trying to get as much weight as possible into the nose of the sub so that it would slip more quickly beneath the water’s surface and to the relative safety of the deep.

The captain twisted his sweat-stained hat around so that the bill was now behind his head as he lowered the periscope’s handle and looked through the eyepiece. He didn’t like what he saw. The patrol boat was heading straight towards him.

Suddenly the sky lit up as the patrol boat launched two flares high up into the black night. The entire area was soon bathed in an eerie orange glow as the flares drifted slowly back to earth, carried along by their parachutes on the warm ocean breeze.

Then the captain saw cannon flash and heard the reports. He knew the streaking shells were headed his way as he followed their golden trajectories through the night sky. He only hoped that the U-boat could submerge before it was hit and blown apart like a tin can from a firecracker.

Then he heard it. The terrible splash as the first shell landed not ten yards from them, kicking up a twenty-foot geyser of water.

“Schnell, schnell!” he yelled to his crew.

Then the second shell came raining from the night sky, plummeting down like a softball descending from a towering pop fly. It hit and tore into the forward deck as if it had a drill on its nose. It exploded inside the bow, instantly killing and maiming a number of his fellow submariners. The captain began to worry about his brother’s safety. He knew at once that they were doomed.

 

Chapter 5

 

Jesús stood before the rock wall, trying to make some sense of the strange engraving. Then he headed back to his camp by the peaceful stream and, digging through his backpack, retrieved his flashlight. Checking its batteries, he walked back to the mouth of the cave.

He shined the beam of light in the narrow opening and, seeing nothing, stepped inside. Immediately he felt the cool air, thinking that the temperature must be at least ten degrees cooler than the oppressive heat outside. It felt good against his hot skin.

Maybe I should move my camp in here. But I’d better check it for animals first, he thought.

He walked further into the cave, shining his flashlight across the rock walls and sandy floor, its beam cutting the darkness. He walked still deeper inside, making sure he could always see the light from the entrance. The last thing he needed was to venture too far in and not be able to find his way out.

He wheeled his flashlight around again and jumped out of his skin. There resting against the far wall was a partial skeleton, sitting. Most of its clothes had rotted away, leaving only dry, brittle white bones with other bones scattered about.

Jesús cautiously walked over to it and knelt down. He examined the skeleton, trying to make some sense of it. It appeared as if the skeleton had been a cowboy or rancher at one point in time. The remnants of a holster and revolver were still strapped around his waist, the leather belt now almost completely rotted away.

Reaching out, Jesús gently lifted the partially rusted revolver. He held the gun by its butt, not knowing if it was still loaded. He tried to open the chamber to make sure, but the rust had welded it closed. Gingerly, he set it aside.

Then he noticed the skeleton’s closed fist. He banged the bony fist with his flashlight as finger bones shattered and fell away. Jesús reached out and picked up the round silver object. It was heavy. He raised it up and examined it. It was a pocket watch. He pried it open and noticed something on it’s inside cover, an inscription. He pointed the flashlight at the writing and tried to make it out but couldn’t. Finally, after rubbing the years of dirt and tarnish away, he was able to make out the words, “For my precious son. Love, Albert Templeton.”

* * *

Suddenly Marc found himself tumbling in the violently-stormy seas. Struggling against the continual thrashing of the waves, he soon was able to get his head above the turbulent water. He looked around and saw the Polly L grind into yet another wave, her bright golden lights disappearing as she slid down the back side, returning Marc once more into total blackness.

A few moments later he saw her yet again as she prepared to ride over another of the tremendous waves. And he realized that he was drifting away from her. His panic began to grow, like a cancer slowly overwhelming him.

“Bob,” Captain Whitmore spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Has Marc shown up yet?”

“No. I didn’t know he was coming down,” Bob replied, suddenly alarmed.

“Yeah, I sent him down to tell you that I’m getting a red warning light on pump number three and to help you fix it.”

“He isn’t here,” Bob replied, his worry beginning to infect his voice.

“Okay, head back to the bridge and see if you can find him along the way. I don’t like the sound of this,” Captain Whitmore added.

“Yes sir.”

Bob prepared to leave the relative peacefulness of the rolling engine room and head out into the hurricane force winds.

He swung open the oval water-tight door and stepped onto the gangway. Soon he could see the bridge, and no Marc!

“Captain!” Bob yelled, over the constant roar of the smashing waves, entering the bridge. “Captain, I can’t find Marc!”

“Damn-it! He must’ve been washed overboard. I’m calling the Coast Guard and I’m swinging about. Tell Wayne to get up onto the roof of the bridge and start looking for him!”

Bob squeezed the talk button on his walkie-talkie and soon Wayne McDonald, another retired investor and treasure hunter with Amelia Research, answered.

“Yeah Bob, what’s up?”

“Marc’s been washed overboard!” Bob’s voice shook.

“What? He’s been washed overboard?”

“We think so. Get to the roof of the bridge, tie off and see if you can spot him. We’re going to swing around and see if we can find him.”

“Roger,” Wayne responded, knowing that the odds of finding anyone in this horrific mess was a long shot at best; a very long shot indeed.

The next wave carried Marc up its face until he bobbed on its very top crest. He was able to see the Polly L switch on all her outside flood lights and begin to turn back around. But as she did, a wave slammed into her side, rolling the large ungainly craft almost completely over like a giant rocking chair, pushed too far back on its runners. Yet, she teetered back to full upright and soon was heading back in his direction.

Marc screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard over the constant roar of the chaotic crashing ocean, hoping, praying, that someone on board would see him. He frantically waved his arms back and forth trying to get their attention.

Wayne made his way to the roof of the bridge and tied himself off as the powerful gusts of wind nearly knocked him overboard too. He flipped on the spotlight and swung it around, hoping to see Marc. But all he saw was the rising and falling waves looking like some watery special effects that only Hollywood could create.

Soon the spotlight began to flash and skip around Marc. He tried to swim into the constantly moving beam of life. But the chaos was just too much. He began to tire as he fought to keep his head above water. He slid over the top of a wave and tumbled down into its trough, now completely out of sight.

Marc’s water-logged arms were desperately tired, as he looked up from the wave’s trough only to see huge mountains of water all around him, as though he was in a canyon surrounded by high watery cliffs. The life jacket helped but still he had to constantly right himself after being beaten and sucked under by the fearsome waves. He began to black out and fought to retain his consciousness. He needed to stay alive.

“Wayne, have you spotted him?” Bob yelled into his walkie-talkie.

“No, I’m still looking. Has anyone called the Coast Guard?”

“Yeah, we’re doing that as we speak. They’re sending a helicopter and water rescue team.”

“Good. Better tell them to hurry.” Wayne swung the spot light around again.

Marc didn’t know how much longer he could survive. The waves were just too big. He’d never experienced anything like this. Sure, growing up in San Diego, he’d surfed large waves that the Pacific would occasionally kick up. But that was surfing, trying to have fun. This was something else. This was a fight to simply stay alive. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to do it.

Suddenly Wayne thought he saw something, something yellow. It was Marc, struggling to stay above water as Wayne watched him get carried up and over a wave, completely disappearing then reappearing before being carried up a second wave.

“Got him!” Wayne screamed into his walkie-talkie. “He’s about a hundred yards off the port side.

“Good, the Coast Guard should be here any minute,” Captain Whitmore answered.

Just then Marc thought he heard something over the roar of the ocean. It sounded deep and mechanically rhythmic. It was the rotor blades of the Coast Guard helicopter hovering above him.

Got him sighted yet?” Captain Whitmore spoke into his crackling radio, to the pilot of the chopper.

“Yes, sir, we’ve spotted him about a hundred yards off our port side. We’re dropping a diver now,” the pilot responded, to the relief of everyone on board the Polly L.

“You need to worry about yourselves now. We’ll get him back to shore safely,” the pilot continued.

“Roger, and good luck,” replied Captain Whitmore.

“Good luck to you, sir. We’re out.”

Marc saw the bright lights of the helicopter’s spots shine down on him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The lights must have been heaven sent, he thought. Then he saw a black object drop from the chopper.

Supplies? Are they dropping supplies? Marc wondered, only to realize that it was a rescue swimmer.

Marc kicked and paddled in the direction of the swimmer. Soon they could see each other, their eyes locking and not turning away as if seeing each other caused some form of unconscious lifeline to develop between them.

In moments, the swimmer reached Marc.

“Hi son, you picked a bad time to go for a swim,” the rescuer said, his voice calm and confident sounding.

Marc immediately smiled and knew that everything was going to be all right as he saw the Polly L swing back into the waves. Now she had to make it back to Fernandina too.