SECRET CITY OF THE SUN

I bid farewell to Prestwicke and Bostrum and mounted a carriage for the ride across New Providence Island. Even though it was the beginning of November, the heat and humidity was oppressive. With my involvement in the Prestwicke affair at an end, I felt suddenly free to revel in the anticipation of a great Peruvian adventure. The town of Nassau itself was so different from the sanitized streets and buildings of Charleston.

To say it was unclean was to miss the point; the town had the well- worn, comfortable shabbiness that comes from being ‘lived in.’ It was as if the town was not prepared to ignore, or veneer over the harsh realities of daily life, and everywhere were the signs of an existence wrought from the land and sea in a hard-scrabble struggle with the elements.

My carriage ride revealed exotic sights of palms, hibiscus and banana plants, of gaily painted wooden boats, and everywhere mounds of pink conch shells, the meat of which was a staple of the local diet.

The smells, sights and sounds were different than any I had experienced in England or America. Everywhere was the impression that life in this part of the world was painted in richer, deeper colours. It gave me the distinct impression that something momentous was waiting for me just down there to the South, beyond the horizon, where brilliant white clouds were scudding a line between a bright green sea and sapphire blue sky.

A small, native sloop was waiting for me at a settlement on the south side of the island. Maitland Carey and Mark Sweeting sat on the deck of the battered little boat. They introduced themselves with broad smiles. “I understand you’re an escaped thief and murderer, Mister McCoy,” said Carey, nudging his mate in the ribs and laughing. “If that is so, I imagine you are both taking quite a risk in aiding my escape from the authorities.” I laughed, hoping they knew something of the truth. Sweeting, who was a great many shades lighter than his comrade, laughed and slapped his knee. “Well, my lord, Carey an’ I have never been one to mess with the authorities. We stay as far away from them as we can.”

Carey motioned to a coil of rope. “Sit down, friend. I am sure, if Sweetin’ and I really put our minds to it, we might jes’ think of a rascal or two we might have murdered ourselves.” They laughed, hauled a grimy, stained sail up the sloop’s mast, and the little boat headed off towards the Exuma Cays.

I sat, and later slept, within the coil of rope for the next three days. I would leave the comfortable perch to help Carey and Sweeting run the craft, to fish for Bonito or Dolphin, but, most of the time, I was able to lay on the deck shirtless and barefoot, staring up at the boom swinging over my head. As the light faded each day, we would pull into an anchorage at one of the myriad islets that made up the Exuma chain. Carey or Sweeting would scatter some sand on the deck, and fire slivers of tarred pine upon it, adding more sticks once the fire caught. Within minutes, there would be a bed of hot embers glowing on the sand. The day’s catch would be skinned and cleaned, and then wrapped in a wet Banana frond with slices of fresh onion. This was then laid upon the embers. A tin cup, filled with a throat searing local rum, capped off the meal, finer than any ever served to me in those upper class establishments on London’s Strand or Charleston’s Meeting Street.

We would smoke and drink under the night sky. The worlds of Englishmen and Bahamians met tale for tale, until the rum, the full bellies, and the night air induced a few hours of blissful slumber.

I was almost sorry to see the Wild Dayrell on the third day. She was anchored at the dock off Castle Island, still loading coal to replace the huge volume of fuel needed to outrun the Adirondack. As we came up to her Dane, Berry and Belle ran to the rail. I stood in the bow of the sloop waving my shirt. I made my farewells to Carey and Sweeting, vowing to renew the friendship ere too long.

Berry greeted me at the head of the gangway. “Last time you boarded my ship you were a marooned vagabond, McCoy. This time, you are an escaped murderer. Your career, sir, seems to be on the opposite road to improvement!”

I laughed easily, as I received handshakes and backslapping from them all. Swinburne, I was told, was the only person aboard who was displeased with recent events. He had his own pressing timetable for reaching Peru, and the Bahamian divertissement had not made him any the more agreeable.

We left Castle Island and its small community later that day, made the Windward Passage between Haiti and Cuba, and were soon upon the waters of the Spanish Main, bound for Panama.

Swinburne’s mood improved the closer we came to the great and mysterious South American continent. We met one morning, as we were both taking a constitutional walk around the deck. After the usual pleasantries, I engaged him longer in conversation, and then asked specifically about his quest in Peru.

“Yes, indeed, Mister McCoy, - just thinking out loud, so to say, but there are, I am convinced, great treasures still to be found in the land of the Incas. My specific goal is the same as Pizarro’s, Atahualpa’s ransom.”

I had already begun reading extensively among some of the early accounts of Pizzaro’s conquest of Peru. I was curious to know if Swinburne would confirm some of the facts I had memorized.

“Pizzaro rode into an Inca army of thousands, with just a few hundred armoured men and captured Atahualpa in their midst,” he continued. “He then drew a line high on the wall of a vast chamber in a building in Cuzco and told the Inka Lords that he would release their King, if they filled the chamber up to the line with gold.

“Calls went throughout the kingdom, and llamas, burdened down with gold, began to make their way to Cuzco. Pizzaro had thought his demand impossible to meet, and when the chamber was filled half way to the line with more gold than he ever thought possible, he decided he had enough. He promptly had Atahualpa publicly strangled to bring the rule of the Inca kings to an end.

“What he did not know was that, on one major route alone to Cuzco, there were eleven thousand llamas, each carrying one hundred pounds of gold. That is more than five hundred tons of gold, McCoy.

“Even more incredible, among the hoard was a great golden disc with the emblem of the sun god beaten into its surface. It was the single, greatest, religious artifact to have been produced by Inca craftsmen. “Inca messengers sent word down each highway into Cuzco, to spread the news of the Inca’s death. When Inca Lords with the greatest train of llamas heard the news, they ordered the gold buried on the spot. It vanished right then and there, without a trace. That is my goal, McCoy, to find the last of Atahualpa’s ransom.”

I would have thought such a grand adventure would have inspired some enthusiasm in the delivery of its details. Swinburne seemed animated enough in a rather foppish way, but his almost rote description of the history behind his treasure hunt puzzled me. The details also failed to agree with what little I had so far learned of Pizarro’s conquest of Peru. Knowing of Dane’s aversion to the idea of looting the legacy of the Incas, I inquired as to the role of Belle Boyd, Dane and I, in this hunt.

“I need to search in an area of the Andes northeast of Cuzco. It is a largely unexplored region of the mountains and the Amazon basin, and Dane is the only European who has been there. I have hired him to guide me into the region. Once I am there, and can begin my search for the treasure, Dane will be free to continue on to his temple site. My party will make its own return to Lima and back to America.

“Your party?”

“Yes, myself and Miss Boyd, of course, and any other help I may arrange for, should we need it. Miss Boyd is in fact my bodyguard. Her skills and resourcefulness make her an exceptional choice.”

That, I thought, was certainly true. As a woman, few would suspect her abilities, and that made her a formidable opponent to deal with.

The Wild Dayrell was probably the first and only blockade-runner to steam into the port of Colon. Even with the loss of time in the Bahamas, the journey from Charleston to Colon was little longer than a regular steamer might have taken.

I soon arranged for the expedition supplies to be transferred from the ship to flat cars of the Panama Railroad Company. I had also arranged, by correspondence from Charleston, for a private passenger car to be provided for our party. The ordinary first class fare for the short journey was a staggering $25 in gold for Dane, Swinburne, Boyd and I. I paid with huge five American dollars, octagonal, gold pieces, cumbersome compared to our elegant British sovereigns.

We now made our farewells of Charles Berry. He had proven to be an able man, and we parted with him and his small crew, more as friends than casual passengers. Plans were laid for our return journey, when letters were to be sent by steamer to Charleston, advising him of our return to Colon. At the very last moment, and with the approval of Dane and Berry, Luther made the decision to sign off the crew and join us.

I arranged for the passenger car to be attached right behind our two flat cars at the very end of the train, for the journey across the Isthmus to Panama on the Pacific Coast. As the train, packed with passengers, began to pull out of Colon, I could see the Wild Dayrell steaming majestically out to sea.

We had stayed overnight on the ship, in order to leave on the earliest morning train and make our journey in the coolest time of the day. The distance to Panama was little more than 40 miles, and we expected to be there early in the afternoon. The train pulled out of Colon, and then left the Island of Manzanillo, traveling over to the Isthmus itself. Now, for the very first time, I was upon the soil of the South American continent. The train made gradual turns as it ran towards Gatun. I could see down the row of cars, each window seemingly stuffed with one or two passengers anxious to see the view. Most of them were Americans bound for California and the gold fields discovered there twenty or more years before.

Behind me, on one of the flat cars, sat Luther. I had to pay ten dollars in gold coin just for him to sit upon our crates and boxes to ensure their safety along the short rail line. The train made numerous stops along the way. Dane, using his past experience, often informed us of various details along our journey. Today, he was unusually silent. I did not pay as much attention as perhaps I should have, for beyond the tracks was a densely forested world of tall trees, lianas, broad leafed greenery close to the ground and the noises of a thousand creatures disturbed by the passing train. It was my first view of a tropical jungle, and I was enthralled.

The train began the crossing of the Chagres River at Gamboa, the longest bridge on the entire railroad. The engine began to slow, as it approached the southern end of the bridge. Then it screeched to a stop just as our carriage and flat cars rolled onto the bank. There was obvious commotion among the passengers ahead of us. I looked out and down the track, just in time to see a masked rider discharge a pistol in my general direction. I ducked instinctively, as the bullet smashed the side of the carriage above my head, showering me with splinters.

I yelled for everyone to hit the floor of the carriage. “Bandits! I had no idea this was a problem here.”

Dane and I carried Lematt pistols, shorter than the Colts, and easier to conceal. We both had them drawn, as we peered over the windowsills. Lined up either side of the carriage were mounted bandits, pistols and rifles aimed directly at us.

Shaking, Swinburne looked out. “Damn you, McCoy. What on earth have you got us mixed up with now?”

A voice yelled at us. “We want Swinburne. Send him out or we’ll kill you’all along with him.”

Swinburne gasped, dropped to the floor, and looked around at us, eyes wide and clearly full of fear. Dane looked at me, as he cocked the Lematt. “We have no choice. We have to open fire on them”

Belle hissed and motioned us to be silent. “No. Typical male reaction. Let me see if I can create an opportunity here.”

Without waiting for our response, she raised her hands above the windowsill and began to wail. “

"Please, do not fire! You wouldn’t kill a genteel American lady would you?” she babbled, as she opened the carriage door in a near swoon.

The rider who had yelled for Swinburne urged his horse closer. “Who the hell are you lady?”

“I’m Mistress Swinburne, please don’t harm us, please…”

The aim of the pistols and the rifles either side of us did not waiver. One of the men on horseback, who appeared to be the leader of the group, peered into the carriage and uttered an order in Spanish. Two men dismounted, came forward, reached into the carriage and grabbed Swinburne.

Now Swinburne began to babble hysterically. “Oh, God, why isn’t Quinn here now? You can’t shoot me, you can’t. Surely we can make a deal. We can share everything.”

He was barely able to stand. The leader looked at him. I could see the disgust on his face, even through the red bandanna over his nose and mouth.

“I have my orders, Swinburne.”

He barked in Spanish to the men holding him. “Take him out to the centre of the bridge.”

Belle began to wail again, and collapsed at Swinburne’s feet, her arms fastened around his waist. The two men tried to pry her loose. Finally, the man on the horse told them to take her out on the bridge as well. They dragged Swinburne and Belle both out towards the centre of the bridge, above the swiftly running river. As they did so, the men either side of the carriage began to back away on their horses, following the group with Swinburne. A moment later, the entire party of bandits, some ten men, were moving slowly out onto the bridge, their rifles still pointed back at the train. I spotted Luther down among the boxes and crates on the flatcar closest to us. He was prying open our own case of rifles.

I knew Belle had her Colt Navy revolver in a holster she had stitched into her long skirts. She would use it, when she judged the moment right. We scrambled out of the carriage and joined Luther, as he pulled a Sharps buffalo rifle from the crate.

Dane watched the party on the bridge. “We had better do something, and fast, or we will lose both of them.” He was about to continue, when Luther touched his arm.

“I will shoot over the heads of the men on horseback, and pick off the leader with Miss Boyd and Swinburne. When I do, you two open fire with your pistols on the rest of the men.”

Dane and I looked at each other, then back at Luther. “Listen, I can use this thing better than either one of you, don’t waste time.”

We nodded our assent. Luther jumped up, holding the long, octagonal barrel of the Sharps behind his leg. We joined him on top of the crates. I was hoping the men on the bridge would think we were just trying to get a better view of the scene on the bridge. The flatcar stood in the dark shade of the forest canopy on the riverbank. We squinted against the brilliant sunlight out on the bridge. The lighting and the odds favored us. Swinburne and Belle had reached the centre of the bridge. I could see Belle still clinging to Swinburne, as the leader and two men with him backed away. It looked as if they intended to shoot Belle and Swinburne, and let the bodies fall into the river.

The Buffalo gun suddenly came up to Luther’s shoulder and exploded, without even a split second taken for aim. The two men facing Belle and Swinburne looked our way and, in that same instant, I heard the deeper note of Belle’s Colt as it fired twice.

The leader, on horseback, and at an impossible distance, jerked up in his saddle as his head exploded in a pink cloud of blood. The two men on the ground crumpled. By this time, Dane and I were setting up a steady fire against the horsemen between Belle and the train.

There was complete confusion on the bridge; horses rearing, men screaming, and guns and rifles firing in every direction. Dane and I steadied our pistols on crates in front of us, and then continued firing. We hit several men and probably some of the horses. I heard Belle’s pistol fire two more times. Luther fired three more times, with the same lightning speed and deadly aim. Men and horses started falling or leaping of the bridge into the roiling waters below. I kept an eye on Belle, as she dragged Swinburne to the edge of the bridge, then pushed him into the water, and dived in after him.

“Belle and Swinburne are out of the way.” We all reloaded, and began firing more rapidly, as one horseman raced back across the bridge away from us. We stopped firing. As the acrid smoke from our weapons cleared, I watched Belle and Swinburne being carried swiftly downstream. Men and horses in the water were struggling for their own lives. There was a pile of dead and wounded on the bridge, men and horses writhing in agony.

“Belle was trying to swim towards an outcrop of rock on our side of the river when I last saw her,” I yelled to no one in particular.

Luther laid down the Sharps. “You two go and get them. I’ll take care of those horses.”

He went out onto the bridge, cautiously holding his own revolver in front of him. Dane and I dashed off into the forest, trying to find a way to run along the riverbank. The forest was almost impossible to run through. We discovered the river level was low enough to provide clear ground between it and the forest bank. We ran along it, jumping over rocks and dead branches.

We continued on over slimy rocks and soft gravels, slipping and tumbling as we ran. I finally saw Belle, in nothing but her pantaloons and bodice top, dragging Swinburne’s limp form from the water.

Back on the bridge, I could hear Luther’s pistol booming. I wondered if he was only killing the maimed horses. I reached Belle as she was doubling Swinburne over a rock, and pounding his back with her fist.

“Thank God, you are all right. That was close, very close. If it hadn’t been for Luther’s skill with the buffalo gun, you’d both be dead.”

“Yes, his shot gave me the diversion I needed to draw on them.” She continued her furious blows on Swinburne’s back. “What are you doing? Keep that up and you’ll accomplish what those men on the bridge were to do.”

“I would rather have been paid to kill this fool than protect him.”

I saved that strange remark for later. “And to think, I wondered why he needed a secretary.”

Swinburne started coughing, and then vomiting, as he returned to consciousness. Belle and I picked him up and dragged him back along the riverbank to the train.

“He doesn’t smell so good, Belle.”

“The smell was a lot worse before we went into the river, McCoy.”

Luther was now holding the train. The passengers and engineer alike would have left rather than risk a return of the bandits. Luther had stacked the dead up beside the tracks.

As soon as we were on board, the train got underway. Belle retired to the end of the carriage to find new clothes. Dane attended to Swinburne. The man was in a nervous swoon. We stripped him of his coat and trousers, and left him under a blanket, while the three of us debated the attack. The men were no bandits. They knew Swinburne was aboard, and had asked for him by name. It was intended to be an assassination, not a robbery. Luther’s long shot had been the key to saving the situation.

“Where on earth did you learn to handle a rifle like that, Luther?”

“I used to hunt on one of Cap’n Berry’s plantations, carried a rifle with me just about all the time. Once the day’s work was done, I was free to hunt where I pleased. That was before the war came along, and I went to sea with the master and The Wild Dayrell.”

“I thought you were only free after the War, Luther?”

“Yeah, it was a real different kind of freedom. It has its price, too.”

Dane looked concerned. “What did you notice about our bandits, McCoy?”

“They weren’t local Indians for a start. The leaders were American. The man Luther shot was wearing a Union Army belt buckle. The other two with him looked like Americans as well. I would guess that most of the others were Mexicans.”

“Yes,” said Dane. “I do not ever recall local bandits attacking a train on the Isthmus. Clearly, their mission was to assassinate Swinburne. There is the matter of ‘Quinn’ as well, the name Swinburne was babbling about, as they dragged him off the train.”

Belle entered in a new and simpler dress. “I’ve never heard the name either. It seems Swinburne is keeping a secret of some sort from both of us.”

“His entire treasure hunt story does not ring true to me. It is a mish-mash of well-known legends that he spins off, as if by rote. I swear the man is transparent as glass, and I am sure he is lying.”

Belle and Dane nodded in agreement with me.

“There’s little to do for now, but to keep alert and see what transpires,” said Dane.

The rest of the rail trip was spent watching Swinburne gradually return to normal. Try as he might, he could not fully recover his composure. The train rolled into Panama City, the passengers leaping off and animatedly retelling the tale of the afternoon’s events to anyone on the platform who would listen. The consternation resulted in many passengers refusing to board the train for the return journey. Railroad company staff boarded our carriage, inquiring as to Swinburne’s condition. They were also obviously interested in why our party was singled out. The local guardia had nothing but admiration for Luther’s marksmanship. There was little concern for the dead, or for the scattered survivors. Stevedores began unloading the rail cars, transferring our material to the nearby docks.

I left Dane and the others, and arranged for our supplies to be transferred to the port. There, they were loaded aboard a small, dirty steamer, the SS Tierra Del Fuego of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company. They would be taken down the coast closer to Lima. I supervised the loading, and had an opportunity to see what else was being taken aboard. I idly watched the usual collection of steamer trunks, crates of hardware, crockery and machinery parts. I then suddenly realized that one of the crates that had just swung past my eyes on a line from a nearby yardarm had the legend ‘Quinn’ burned on its side. Startled, I looked back on the dock where the crate had come from. There were ten others like it stacked up, waiting to be loaded. They looked very much like our own crates of rifles. If so, there were enough Winchesters in the crates to start a small war. Nearby, there were other crates with similar markings.

From my own preparations for Dane’s expedition, I could recognize camping supplies and tents. Someone was planning a major expedition of his own, and he was known, in some way, to Swinburne. I scanned over the docks, hoping to see someone in charge of the mysterious cargo. I could see only the dockworkers hauling the crates into loading nets swung by a wooden yardarm. On the other side of the road serving the docks, were stores and saloons, many with second storey balconies where patrons sat, ate, drank or just watched the docks.

Any one of the men sitting up there could have been our mysterious Mister Quinn. There was one man, dressed in a dark suit and brown hat, unusual among the tropical whites worn by everyone else. He caught my attention, because he appeared to be staring intently at me.

I looked back into the face. It looked distinctly Indian to me. He had an even, brown complexion, high cheekbones, eyes that were almost oriental, and a nose that, even at this distance, I could see was sharp and prominent. By now, he had noticed me returning his stare. Instead of looking away, he looked at me with cool aplomb, and raised a demitasse coffee cup to his mouth. I turned away, walked off the ship, and sauntered down the entire length of the dock. I had never before seen such a profusion of merchant craft and small wooden native boats. All were loading or unloading every imaginable commodity, from rare hardwoods to livestock, fertilizer to fabrics. The people were as fascinating as their cargoes. There were diminutive Indians, huge Africans, large numbers of Chinese, and only the occasional white man, such as myself.

Along the entire several miles of docks, were a number of Pacific Steam Navigation Company vessels, bound southward. The ‘Quinn’ crates I had seen being loaded aboard the Fuego were distinctive because of their branded markings and southern yellow pine construction. I counted four more vessels taking on similar small loads of cargo. Two of them included strapped and wrapped carriage wheels, of a type used for Gatling guns. Another was loading long, square boxes of a type used by the late Confederacy for transporting gunpowder. The entire numbers of shipments added up to a huge amount of material being sent to some destination south of Panama. Rather than a well-protected expedition, it looked as if someone was about to embark upon a war.

We put Luther aboard our steamship, and then repaired to a small hotel for dinner. Swinburne joined us, but was very subdued, as well he should have been. He did propose a toast to Belle after the meal, acknowledging that, but for her daring, he would undoubtedly by now be dead.

“You mentioned the name ‘Quinn’ when those men dragged you off the train, Swinburne. Who is Quinn?” As I asked the question Swinburne’s face reddened. His eyes grew even smaller in size, and his face flushed. "Quinn? I am sure I don’t know the name. You must have mistaken something I said under the stress of the moment.”

Swinburne was lying. Belle, Dane and I exchanged glances, and let the matter drop. After the meal, we boarded the Fuego and settled into our respective cramped and smelly cabins for our first night upon the Pacific Ocean.

Unlike the pleasant journey in the Wild Dayrell, the Fuego was a tub. It rolled and tossed, even in the absence of wind and waves and, before long, the entire party was longing for solid, immovable land. Dane’s illness seemed something more than merely the same malady that was upsetting the rest of us. I made it a habit to check his personal supply of Laudanum each day. His consumption had increased since Panama. He seemed outwardly well and in good spirits, if subdued. We passed the coastline of Ecuador and Peru at a great distance, and could see little but for faint clouds on the horizon. Somewhere in the night, we passed the Isle of Gallo, where Pizarro had challenged his men to conquer Peru with him. He had drawn a line in the sand and demanded that the mutinous band make their choice. Some twelve conquistadors stepped across the line, and the fate of a great empire was sealed.

We finally arrived at the Port of Callao, once a small fishing town, now a bustling commercial harbour, thanks to the Pacific Steam Navigation Company. The port had become the company’s main terminus for Atlantic to Pacific routes. Steam vessels large and small were moored along the harbour, busily unloading cargoes. With my field glasses, I could see many of the crates and boxes of the kind that had been loaded in Panama City. Teams of wagons were carting much of this same cargo off the wharf and into the City.

I advised Dane that there might be a shortage of wagons to cart our supplies into Lima, some two or more leagues away. We agreed that I would go ahead to shore, and secure what wagons were available. I did so immediately, checking with the port authorities when I landed. The customs and government offices were beneath the ruins of the massive fort in which Spain’s General Rodil had kept the Spanish flag flying long after revolutionaries had seized the rest of Peru. My distant relative, Lord Cochrane, was in charge of the sea blockade of the fortress, on the side of the rebels at the time.

Now, the aging fortress was used for customs warehouses and storage. I found a man by the name of Pedro Salom, whose sufficiently good English, combined with my own insufficiently bad Spanish, resulted in a reasonable measure of understanding. I learned that there had indeed been a heavy use of wagons and carts in the port over the past few weeks, mostly for machinery parts going into the western cordillera for agricultural use. I was assured, however, that there were wagons available to take our supplies into Lima and on to Cuzco.

Two hours later, our party was on the road to Lima. Swinburne and Belle occupied a two-horse carriage with a driver. Dane and I rode horses, and Luther headed up the wagon train of four large carts. We wanted to make Lima by nightfall, rather than have to stay at a Tambo, a local wayside inn, with all our valuable supplies.

Next: Chapter 6: Lima & the Creator of the Earth