Jim Tritten's Blog - Posts Tagged "panama"
Panama's Gold
Established authors Sandi Hoover and Jim Tritten have collaborated on and completed a 25,000-word adventure novella Panama’s Gold. Below you will find the preface - the introduction to the story. Due to be published by Red Penguin Books in August or September 2021.
Prologue – Isthmus of Panama 1882
Pierre’s shoulders sagged. Sweat burned his eyes. The rips in his shirt matched bloody streaks on his skin. Blisters on his hands wept, rubbed raw by dragging the survey rod with its heavy metal chain. He had thrown away his shredded, rotten gloves earlier that day. The team was following a thickly overgrown remnant of a riverbed; the canal engineers thought it was a logical place to deepen for ships. At the base of a dormant volcano.
Shit! Not what I expected from the Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interocéanique. They lied. Beaches and crystal water like one of those Caribbean isles—hah. Plenty of money to spend on the señoritas—hah. With my luck? Should’ve known it was too good.
A sharp whistle stopped him, and he pulled the chain taut again. Pierre held the pole for the surveyor’s reading. Another signal said the measurement was taken and released him from his momentary pose. He pounded a stake into the ground, then fumbled a large metal nail from a bag hung on his shoulders. Pierre looked around for a place to fasten it, where the rest of the crew would find it. Four swift strikes with his mallet embedded the spike near eye level in a tree with peeling white bark. His final act was tying a strip of red flagging on the nail and stake. More shrill whistles indicated time for a break.
Pierre had already dropped his pole and markers when Maurice hurried up. Maurice grimaced as he stumbled over cut branches on the path. “My God! I nearly sliced my leg on this machete. Today is hot enough to melt this blade.” Maurice wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “Water’s gone, so I’ll refill my bag. Here’s the machete. It’s time to trade jobs when I return.”
Pierre pressed his water container hard against his cracked lips, waving his hand to indicate he heard what Maurice had said. As he lowered his drink, something caught his eye. What’s that? Pierre tipped his head again. The tiny bright gleam was only visible from one angle. He saw it once more and pushed his way off the trail. Lost it. No, there it is. What? That doesn’t belong here. Lured by the glimmer of a shiny something, he fought his way through the dense woods. Each footstep was a struggle since he had left the machete in the pile of equipment. After detouring around a snag, he realigned himself with the glint and pressed on. It was only fifteen or twenty feet, but it could have been a kilometer, as hard as it was to navigate, with the trail disappearing behind him.
The errant shaft of light left the shiny object, but Pierre had its location identified by some of the strange vegetation in the steaming jungle. He climbed over a drooping vine and was suddenly within arm’s reach of his goal. Peering at it, he gasped. An old-looking battered gold coin! Nailed here? Pierre examined all the trees he could see from his position, stepped back, and turned in a slow circle. Aha! One more, what’s this? He pulled another vine out of the way, disturbing ants that ran up his arm and bit viciously. “Shit!” He swiped at them, and dancing in pain knocked his shin on something sharp. Pierre’s unprotected hands dripped with blood and sweat.
“What?” He yanked at the vines and leaves shielding his view until he could make out a portion of a solid metallic object. Makes no sense. The angled edge of an ornately designed corner protector jutted out at knee height. Vine-covered wooden slats were attached to the metal corner. Almost all the boards had rotted and collapsed inside the remnants of a box. He wrapped his hand with a handkerchief and pulled away a couple of disintegrating pieces and froze—his mouth falling open in shock. Gold coins, golden figurines, necklaces, earrings, and objects he couldn’t identify. He reached in and extracted a single coin and a small figure. Ouch, such a headache. My eyes hurt. Money, not French. Much older than me. The figure…Damn whistles. Damn foreman—shit. If I leave it here, I will not have to share anything. Those others…don’t deserve any treasure! Miserable louts. I’ll mark this place. Come back later.
Cursing under his breath, Pierre tucked the coin in his pocket and placed the figure back in the box. He covered the old container with bark and leaves. Almost like a bed. He bent down and sat on a smooth black rock. Tired. Want to lie down here and sleep. This is different. Aching in head and stomach. Damn foreman. Pierre coughed, and his lunch erupted from his stomach.
He kicked his foot out, hitting the end of the box. An ancient helmet dislodged from under a shrub. It rolled past his boot, exposing crumbling yellowish matter, some teeth, and a bee’s nest. Pierre jumped to his feet and inhaled a lungful of the damp jungle air. He slipped on his vomit and grasped a nearby vine to steady himself. Ow! A ghost guards this gold! No wonder I feel lousy! Evil spirits are here.
Pierre took the small ax from the sheath at his waist and walked to a tall Giant Kapok tree. He hacked three diagonal marks in the bark as he stumbled unsteadily in the direction of the foreman’s whistles. As Pierre lurched forward, he lost control of his bowels and threw up again. He took his canteen from his web belt and cleaned his mouth as best he could. Must rest.
A brown, triangular head on a sturdy, patterned body, rose from the dark leaves at the base of a tree, recoiled, and struck Pierre’s thigh. “Yeow!” He shrieked in pain and fear, slashing as the snake’s fangs stuck in the thin cotton of his filthy pantaloons. Pierre grabbed the writhing serpent and threw it into the foliage—but not until the fangs had stabbed his hand, lacerated and swollen from the day’s work and the ants.
Disoriented from the attack, Pierre rose and staggered in circles shouting for help. He held his aching head. His thigh and hand were pulsating with fire. He followed the sound of voices to the other workers. Pierre screamed in agony as the toxin coursed through his body. He bent and vomited again, nausea overwhelming him.
Maurice grabbed him and examined Pierre’s wounds and tattered, soiled clothing. “It was probably a Fer-de-Lance, Pierre,” Maurice said, as he and another team member laid him down in the wet grass. Shaking their heads at one another in dismay, Maurice ventured, “I never heard of a bite taking hold so quick.” He grabbed his water bag and dampened a rag. He put it on Pierre’s forehead and watched helplessly as Pierre writhed, the poison coursing through his body. The smell of emptying bowels caused the men to back away. Pierre became still, paralysis overtaking his muscles. His eyes clouded over; they no longer saw the sky, the jungle, or the men around him.
They buried Pierre next to the trail he helped survey. No one thought to look in the pockets of his soiled pantaloons.
Prologue – Isthmus of Panama 1882
Pierre’s shoulders sagged. Sweat burned his eyes. The rips in his shirt matched bloody streaks on his skin. Blisters on his hands wept, rubbed raw by dragging the survey rod with its heavy metal chain. He had thrown away his shredded, rotten gloves earlier that day. The team was following a thickly overgrown remnant of a riverbed; the canal engineers thought it was a logical place to deepen for ships. At the base of a dormant volcano.
Shit! Not what I expected from the Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interocéanique. They lied. Beaches and crystal water like one of those Caribbean isles—hah. Plenty of money to spend on the señoritas—hah. With my luck? Should’ve known it was too good.
A sharp whistle stopped him, and he pulled the chain taut again. Pierre held the pole for the surveyor’s reading. Another signal said the measurement was taken and released him from his momentary pose. He pounded a stake into the ground, then fumbled a large metal nail from a bag hung on his shoulders. Pierre looked around for a place to fasten it, where the rest of the crew would find it. Four swift strikes with his mallet embedded the spike near eye level in a tree with peeling white bark. His final act was tying a strip of red flagging on the nail and stake. More shrill whistles indicated time for a break.
Pierre had already dropped his pole and markers when Maurice hurried up. Maurice grimaced as he stumbled over cut branches on the path. “My God! I nearly sliced my leg on this machete. Today is hot enough to melt this blade.” Maurice wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “Water’s gone, so I’ll refill my bag. Here’s the machete. It’s time to trade jobs when I return.”
Pierre pressed his water container hard against his cracked lips, waving his hand to indicate he heard what Maurice had said. As he lowered his drink, something caught his eye. What’s that? Pierre tipped his head again. The tiny bright gleam was only visible from one angle. He saw it once more and pushed his way off the trail. Lost it. No, there it is. What? That doesn’t belong here. Lured by the glimmer of a shiny something, he fought his way through the dense woods. Each footstep was a struggle since he had left the machete in the pile of equipment. After detouring around a snag, he realigned himself with the glint and pressed on. It was only fifteen or twenty feet, but it could have been a kilometer, as hard as it was to navigate, with the trail disappearing behind him.
The errant shaft of light left the shiny object, but Pierre had its location identified by some of the strange vegetation in the steaming jungle. He climbed over a drooping vine and was suddenly within arm’s reach of his goal. Peering at it, he gasped. An old-looking battered gold coin! Nailed here? Pierre examined all the trees he could see from his position, stepped back, and turned in a slow circle. Aha! One more, what’s this? He pulled another vine out of the way, disturbing ants that ran up his arm and bit viciously. “Shit!” He swiped at them, and dancing in pain knocked his shin on something sharp. Pierre’s unprotected hands dripped with blood and sweat.
“What?” He yanked at the vines and leaves shielding his view until he could make out a portion of a solid metallic object. Makes no sense. The angled edge of an ornately designed corner protector jutted out at knee height. Vine-covered wooden slats were attached to the metal corner. Almost all the boards had rotted and collapsed inside the remnants of a box. He wrapped his hand with a handkerchief and pulled away a couple of disintegrating pieces and froze—his mouth falling open in shock. Gold coins, golden figurines, necklaces, earrings, and objects he couldn’t identify. He reached in and extracted a single coin and a small figure. Ouch, such a headache. My eyes hurt. Money, not French. Much older than me. The figure…Damn whistles. Damn foreman—shit. If I leave it here, I will not have to share anything. Those others…don’t deserve any treasure! Miserable louts. I’ll mark this place. Come back later.
Cursing under his breath, Pierre tucked the coin in his pocket and placed the figure back in the box. He covered the old container with bark and leaves. Almost like a bed. He bent down and sat on a smooth black rock. Tired. Want to lie down here and sleep. This is different. Aching in head and stomach. Damn foreman. Pierre coughed, and his lunch erupted from his stomach.
He kicked his foot out, hitting the end of the box. An ancient helmet dislodged from under a shrub. It rolled past his boot, exposing crumbling yellowish matter, some teeth, and a bee’s nest. Pierre jumped to his feet and inhaled a lungful of the damp jungle air. He slipped on his vomit and grasped a nearby vine to steady himself. Ow! A ghost guards this gold! No wonder I feel lousy! Evil spirits are here.
Pierre took the small ax from the sheath at his waist and walked to a tall Giant Kapok tree. He hacked three diagonal marks in the bark as he stumbled unsteadily in the direction of the foreman’s whistles. As Pierre lurched forward, he lost control of his bowels and threw up again. He took his canteen from his web belt and cleaned his mouth as best he could. Must rest.
A brown, triangular head on a sturdy, patterned body, rose from the dark leaves at the base of a tree, recoiled, and struck Pierre’s thigh. “Yeow!” He shrieked in pain and fear, slashing as the snake’s fangs stuck in the thin cotton of his filthy pantaloons. Pierre grabbed the writhing serpent and threw it into the foliage—but not until the fangs had stabbed his hand, lacerated and swollen from the day’s work and the ants.
Disoriented from the attack, Pierre rose and staggered in circles shouting for help. He held his aching head. His thigh and hand were pulsating with fire. He followed the sound of voices to the other workers. Pierre screamed in agony as the toxin coursed through his body. He bent and vomited again, nausea overwhelming him.
Maurice grabbed him and examined Pierre’s wounds and tattered, soiled clothing. “It was probably a Fer-de-Lance, Pierre,” Maurice said, as he and another team member laid him down in the wet grass. Shaking their heads at one another in dismay, Maurice ventured, “I never heard of a bite taking hold so quick.” He grabbed his water bag and dampened a rag. He put it on Pierre’s forehead and watched helplessly as Pierre writhed, the poison coursing through his body. The smell of emptying bowels caused the men to back away. Pierre became still, paralysis overtaking his muscles. His eyes clouded over; they no longer saw the sky, the jungle, or the men around him.
They buried Pierre next to the trail he helped survey. No one thought to look in the pockets of his soiled pantaloons.
