wo days later The Rhinelander put in for supplies on the northern coast of Columbia. It had been raining for two weeks and the streets and the squalid collection of fishing shacks that were spread around the crumbling cathedral were covered with green moss and mud.
When Zebulon left the ship, Delilah was waiting by the gangway, oblivious to the sheets of rain slashing across the harbor. It was the first time they had seen each other since the meeting with the Captain.
"Take care of yourself," he said, as if she was nothing more than an acquaintance.
She pressed a gold necklace lined with rubies into his hand. "You'll get a good price. It belonged to the Czar's cousin."
He handed the necklace back to her. "You'll need this more than me."
She fastened the necklace around his neck. "If a person refuses a gift from someone to whom they are special, the one who offered it will die."
As he made his way down the gangplank, she called out to him: "I will find you…. You are no other than myself, even though I am not… now… you…"
The rest of her words were drowned in the rain and wind.
'EBULON SPENT HIS DAYS WAITING FOR A SHIP ON THE veranda of the port's only hotel, a crumbling two-story wooden structure surrounded by wilted stalks of hibiscus and oleander. Occasionally he was joined by the sallow-faced manager of a nearby sugar plantation who spoke only three words of English: woman, gold, and money. Not that they could have heard each other anyway with the rain clattering like rifle fire across the tin roof.
When he wasn't drinking he shot billiards in the rundown lobby, an activity that he gave himself to with maniacal concentration despite a tilted table that sent all the balls rolling into the same corner. One afternoon he was interrupted from his hopeless activity by a piercing whistle from the harbor. Walking out to the veranda, he watched five men slog down the washedout street towards the hotel, their heads lowered like penitents beneath the rain. Stumbling towards him, they collapsed on rickety whicker chairs. Their leader was a large white-haired man wearing a blue and red hand-tailored naval uniform with enormous epaulets hanging in clusters over a chest full of medals and ribbons. Tufts of hair splayed out of his nostrils, and thick sideburns ran down the side of his massive thick-browed face. Banging a fist on the table, he ordered one of his men to check inside the hotel, then shouted in broken Spanish for hot lemon water and rum.
Five minutes later the man returned. "He's not here, Commodore."
The Commodore focused on Zebulon, who was seated on the other side of the veranda. "We're lookin' for a short little bastard. William Walker. Green eyes, prettified, carries himself like some kind of poo-bah East Coast royalty."
"Haven't seen him," Zebulon replied.
"What?" the Commodore shouted. "I can't hear you! The damn rain."
"I haven't seen him," Zebulon repeated.
After drinks were served by a barefoot waiter, the men lit up hand-rolled cigarettes while the Commodore produced an oversized cigar.
"What the hell is there to do in this godforsaken place?" the Commodore shouted, waiting for his cigar to be lit.
"Drink," Zebulon said. "Shoot scorpions and monkeys. There's a billiard table."
The Commodore peered at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Billiards, huh? You any good?"
Zebulon leaned back on his chair, propping his feet on the table in front of him. "Good enough for you"
The Commodore grunted, annoyed by the stranger's lack of deference or even curiosity.
One of the men stood up, peering through the rain. "They're comin', Commodore, but Walker ain't with 'em."
Three barefoot Indians passed the veranda, their eyes on the ground.
"Good god, man," the Commodore shouted. "Don't you know natives when you see them? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He turned back to Zebulon. "Where's this billiard table?"
Zebulon led him inside, followed by the others.
The Commodore stared at the billiard table. "You expect me to play on that contraption?"
"I don't expect anything," Zebulon said. "And I don't give a damn what you play on, as long as it ain't on me."
The Commodore laughed. He was almost beginning to like this ignorant drifter. Swiveling his huge head towards the doorway, he shouted at his men: "Get me my billiard table."
They reacted as if they hadn't heard him, a response that caused purple veins to spread across the Commodore's forehead. "I don't care how many of you it takes. I want my table in three hours. And if you run into that little runt, Walker, tell him he'll have to wait his turn to see Vanderbilt."
As the men disappeared into the rain, the Commodore stomped back to the veranda. Ordering another round of rum, he gestured impatiently for Zebulon to join him.
"How come you're hanging out in greaser country?" he asked as Zebulon pulled up a chair.
"Waitin' for a ship," Zebulon replied. "Headed for Californie by way of a train across Panama."
"I have a ship going to Nicaragua. You could get across that way, but couldn't afford the passage."
The Commodore sighed. "Walker is a big pain in the ass. I set him up down here, but as soon as he took over and declared himself president or king of Nicaragua or whatever the hell he now calls himself, he revoked my steamship license. So I ruined him." He paused, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face. "I got Costa Rica to declare war against him, and then I withdrew his funds. Now he's got a civil war to deal with. Two things I have no patience for are civil war and failure."
"I can see that." Zebulon felt comfortable with the Commodore's display of bull-headed fury and revenge. He had run into his kind before: half-assed generals slaughtering Indians just to satisfy a bunch of stuffed shirts in Washington, or big shots and cattle barons that hung around the lobbies of Denver hotels selling fake shares in made-up mining and lumber operations. It was clear that the Commodore was just another asshole from the East, set on driving a stake into whatever poor bastard or country stood in his way.
"And now he's asking me to help him take over the country again," the Commodore was saying. "Amazing how some people never learn their limitations."
"Why bother if he riles you that much?" Zebulon asked, not really listening- an attitude that only stimulated the Commodore's compulsion for candor.
"I'm trying out a new boat and I was headed down here anyway; although why the son of a bitch chose the rainy season to meet in this sink hole is beyond me. I have no patience for fools."
"So you said," Zebulon replied.
They drank in silence. It wasn't until after their third round of straight rum that the Commodore finally seemed to relax.
"It's been a week of failure and frustration. I feel like I'm stuck inside someone else's goddamn dream with no way out. You ever get that way?"
"From time to time," Zebulon replied.
"What's your business down here?"
"No business. Just movin' through."
"Going for gold, are you?"
"Thinkin' about it."
"Let me give you some free advice. The future of the United States of America is business, and smart business lies in transportation. I guarantee that I'll make more money in one year than all of you gold suckers put together. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate men like you who have the balls to push back the frontier. If America is about anything, it's about expansion. We took a big chunk out of Mexico. Soon we'll lock up the Pacific, Hawaii, the Philippines. Maybe even Japan if Admiral Perry makes the right moves, which I have my doubts about."
"I never thought about it," Zebulon said.
"Well, start," the Commodore said. "Never trust anyone. And once you've made your pile, don't spend it. And always remember that — "