20
At the throttle of his toy train, Captain Lee Christmas took advantage of a curved section of track to gaze back at his unusual cargo—eight empty banana cars crowded with rebel soldiers. In front of him, a row of sandbags lined the rudimentary armor plating he’d knocked up a few days earlier. There were no shooters up front yet; they wouldn’t take position until just outside San Pedro, Lee having convinced General Durón that the drag would slow their passage. He had the cab to himself, no bayonet at his neck. He looked down to the rifle at his feet and chuckled at what he’d signed up for. After his service at the Laguna Trestle skirmish, Durón made it clear he was a free agent. But he’d willingly taken that gun and pledged himself to the cause.
The other expatriates in town thought Lee was crazy. The evening before he had departed with the rebels, he held court in cantina after cantina, relishing each retelling of the battle. Several acquaintances took him aside and tried to impress on him the seriousness of the situation. The current president—Policarpo Bonilla—was nearing the end of his term, and the Constitution forbade him from contesting the upcoming election. His party’s favored candidate was the current minister for war, Terencio Sierra: the very man who’d be heading up any effort to quash the revolution. He’s smart, they had warned Lee, and ruthless too—unlikely to show mercy with an election looming.
Lee waved their concerns away. The way he figured it, he should have died in that train wreck. And it wasn’t like he had much to live for now, with Mamie gone for good. He wasn’t much for the finer details of politics, but he wasn’t ignorant in the ways of the world. If he helped put his man into whatever the hell they called their White House, he was bound to land some plum role. He had his eye on Customs House in Puerto Cortés, reckoning it did pretty damn well from creaming off the top of all those bananas.
His fantasies were interrupted by a soldier banging on the side of the cab. They were approaching San Pedro; it was time to get ready for a shootin’ match.
21
Lee never got his battle, but he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. The government troops had abandoned the city to the rebels. Sympathizers told them the federales had fled over the mountains to Tegucigalpa. The federales had too much head start on the ten-day march to the capital to be overtaken now—not when the only railway line in the country went the wrong way from San Pedro, down to the coast.
Thinking the federales cowed by his bold invasion, General Durón resumed his carousing. Lee suspected otherwise, remembering the admonitions of his friends. It seemed more likely the government sought to concentrate their forces before engaging the revolutionaries; the upcoming election demanded a quick end to the war. But Durón couldn’t be convinced, not when he was already cattle-eyed on aguardiente.
Lee continued in his regular job, ferrying ice down to Puerto Cortés and hauling bananas from the plantations. Commercial exports were unimpeded, except that now the customs duties lined the rebels’ coffers. Steamers still needed ice to cool their American-bound cargo, and he didn’t mind increasing his workload—now that he was drawing a captain’s pay on top of his regular engineer’s wage.
A couple of weeks later, Lee pulled into Puerto Cortés as usual, ready to disgorge his cargo. Normally, the handlers would unload the ice he had hauled down the mountains in no time, nesting the giant blocks in the shade while he did a quick circuit of the coastal plantations, filling his cars with bananas. But the yard was empty.
Suspicious, he jumped down from his cab and headed to the seafront. Before he even got there, he was surrounded by kids screaming, “Barco, barco,” and yanking him toward the shore. He freed himself from their attentions and turned to the cuartel. Two soldiers were blocking the entrance, attempting to extricate the old colonial muzzle-bearing cannon they’d captured along with the town.
“You guys finally taking this beauty for some air?” Lee asked, to quizzical looks.
“Barco.” One of the harried soldiers pointed to the sea.
Lee turned to see what he meant, and finally saw it: a gunboat anchored in the bay, teeming with soldiers.
He gulped. “Say,” he said to the soldiers, who had finally maneuvered the cannon out the door. “They wouldn’t happen to be on our team, by any chance?”
“Nicaragua,” was the reply.
Lee wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but by the look on the soldier’s face, he figured it wasn’t anything good.
He stooped and grabbed one end of the cannon, surprised at its weight. “I see why you were having so much trouble.” He set the cannon back down and told the pair of soldiers to wait. There had to be an easier way. Heading back up to the yard, he scouted for something to help. The winch was fixed in place, so that was no use. Instead, he grabbed one of the sturdy pull-carts and a length of rope, the kids delighting in wheeling the device down to the cuartel. As they all rolled the hog-tied cannon toward the wharf, Lee wondered what the spotters on the gunboat made of it all, but all he really cared about was that the guns trained on Puerto Cortés remained silent.
With the weapon finally in place, he stood back to admire his handiwork. He stepped back even further when a soldier returned from the cuartel, bearing a sack of gunpowder. As he stuffed more and more into the cannon, Lee moved further and further back. He was soon glad for his caution; the rebel only succeeded in searing his eye. The noise must have woken General Durón from his slumber, for he appeared at the entrance of the cuartel, swearing loud enough to be heard all the way down at the pier. As the stricken soldier received treatment, Lee looked out to the gunboat once more. The troops on deck had barely moved.
He stepped away from the shambles to meet Durón’s approach, but the general merely waved him up to the train, where the rest of the rebels had taken position. “San Pedro,” the general ordered, “Vamos ahora.”
Lee didn’t need to be told twice.
The rebels wound their way up through the mountains toward San Pedro Sula, the mood tense. It was a marked contrast to the jubilant raiding party of a fortnight ago. On arrival, they received more grim news. The minister of war, Terencio Sierra, was marching down from the capital at the head of two thousand federales. He’d maneuvered them into a trap, and he would be upon them in a matter of days.
Lee knew he was between a rock and a hard place, and he was becoming aware that Honduras faced the same predicament. Sandwiched between Nicaragua and Guatemala—who despised each other—Honduras held the balance of power in Central America. It was a poisoned chalice, however. If the Hondurans proposed legislation deemed favorable to the Guatemalans, the Nicaraguans would throw their support behind the opposition, who were always keen to reach for the rifles in those days.
The current Honduran government was allied to Nicaragua, which owned the impressive gunboat blockading Puerto Cortés. And which meant that the rebels—Lee Christmas among them, now that he had willingly taken up arms against his adopted homeland—had only one place to shelter, and that was back in Guatemala, where Lee soon realized their little revolution had been planned and financed.
And so the rebels fled, straight over the mountains, driving mules ahead of them.
22
Lee wrapped the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, stomped his feet, then sat back down on the dirt. He wished they could light a fire. He grabbed the bottle of aguardiente as soon as it came his way and grinned at his new brothers-in-arms before swallowing as much as he could manage. It tasted like crap, but with Durón ordering no campfires, it was the only way to keep warm. He didn’t understand much of what his compadres were saying, but it didn’t matter. Tipsy now on the local firewater, he laughed as they struggled with his name: Señor Crees-mas.
The march was tough going. Durón didn’t want to go anywhere near the coast until he was absolutely certain they were safely over the border in Guatemala, which meant hiking over endless hills and getting no relief on the other side when faced with yet more jungle. Each step was preceded by a s
lashing machete, as if they were carving the first human path through endless bush. Lee tried to remember how far the border was from San Pedro. His memory of the map in the railway office, where he’d first signed his work papers, was faded. Sometimes, when they reached a summit, the vegetation thinned and he could just about spy the coast in the distance. He wished he could plunge into the clean, blue depths and wash the past few weeks away. More often, they got no respite from the jungle hanging over them, surrounding them, closing in on them as they crept west.
The only moments of levity were provided by General Durón and his inexhaustible supply of aguardiente. Lee had silently questioned the decision to abandon munitions to make space for more hooch, but lost in the highlands of Honduras, Lee realized the general was more than a simple lush. The only enemy they faced the whole way to Guatemala was in their own damn heads, and he knew that booze was a man’s soundest ally in that fight.
Five days’ hike from San Pedro, Durón finally rescinded the order forbidding campfires. The men were energized by the command, using their ever-present machetes to hack free whatever dry wood they could find. Once they had fire to warm them, the general spent more time with his men, instead of skulking in the shadows. He joined the aguardiente circle with vigor, challenging Lee with his eyebrows each time he tilted the bottle and emptied a staggering quantity down his throat. After passing the hooch to his left, Durón would stand and describe once more the grand “battle” of Laguna Trestle.
Each night, the story grew legs; by the time they finally cut down toward the coast and entered the Guatemalan town of Puerto Barrios, Señor Crees-mas was a giant gringo, seven feet tall, with a puro clenched between his teeth and no care for his own safety, a man who single-handedly charged the federales, scattering them in his wake.
Lee didn’t mind one bit.
23
Puerto Barrios was a lot smaller than Puerto Cortés, but there were still plenty of cantinas in which to waste the days. It wasn’t quite as bustling either; it seemed the soil in these parts was less conducive to banana cultivation. But it had an edge to it that Puerto Cortés lacked. British-owned Belize was only two ports up the coast, which meant the bars were filled with all sorts: prospectors, adventurers, historians, mercenaries, geologists, and folks like Lee—who weren’t sure how they ended up there or where they were going next.
He’d assumed the rebels would regroup and re-arm to mount an immediate incursion over the border. But not long after their arrival, General Durón and half of the rebels simply disappeared. When Lee did bump into one of his old comrades, he got few answers to his many questions, and the scraps he got didn’t line up. Durón was in the capital, bending the ear of President Cabrera. Durón was in Mexico, retired from politics. Durón was over the border, arming natives for another uprising. He couldn’t figure out whether people were just engaging in barroom speculation, or whether the rebels were throwing informers off the scent. Regardless, there was always someone willing to buy a drink in exchange for news.
One night as Lee left the cantina, hoping for an early night for a change, he grew suspicious when a young kid collared him and insisted on bringing him to a meeting. The boy ushered him down to a darkened estanco at the end of street, which only opened its doors as they approached. His suspicions deepened once they got inside, as the curtains were drawn and the door was locked. He braced himself for an attack.
Instead, an unarmed stranger wearing a crisp linen suit stepped out from an adjoining room and smiled. “I apologize for the secrecy,” he said, removing his hat. “Our friends in Guatemala City think you could be useful. Are you interested?”
Lee laughed. “Yeah, sure. Who?”
“That’s not important,” he said. “You want to go back home?”
“And finish the war? Of course.”
“Good,” he smiled, “but that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about home. New Orleans. If we’re going to win this war, we need weapons.” He paused. “Are you in?”
24
May was always a special time of year in New Orleans, bright and warm, without the oppressive humidity of summer. But Lee found it surprisingly cool as he stepped off the steamer, tipping his hat to the waiting stevedores. He shouted for a porter, and one commandeered his grand traveling trunk before they’d even agreed a price. The Guatemalans had a local contact arrange a room on Basin Street, and as soon as Lee had dumped his luggage and changed his shirt, he headed straight for the capital of the Third Ward, Remy Klock’s combination saloon and grocery store.
As he entered his old haunt, Lee caused quite a stir in his fancy suit hand-stitched by President Cabrera’s very own tailor. He rapped his ivory-handled cane on the bar and called for a whiskey, offering to stand a drink for whoever would join him. Lee’s newfound wealth became the subject of much speculation among the saloon’s regulars, but he was circumspect about the source—at first. The temptation to appear a big deal was all too great, the narrative of the hometown boy done good just too compelling. With the money he’d been sent home with, Lee was supposed to be greasing wheels and making connections, quietly preparing the ground for a purchase of rifles and ammunition. Instead, he greased his own wheels and filled the cash registers of Tom Cook and Remy Klock, and those of any other saloonkeepers who would take his money.
The first time he saw his old friend Boyd Cetti, Lee almost crushed him with a bear hug. “How are you doing, partner?”
“Your suit,” said Boyd, pushing him away and gesturing to his own greasy overalls. “You’ll ruin it.”
Lee enveloped him again. “Don’t mind that. I got a whole box of ’em.”
Boyd raised an eyebrow in response.
“He ain’t sayin’ much,” said Tom Cook, wiping the counter. “But as long as he keeps paying the tab, I’m asking no questions.”
Lee tilted his glass in the bartender’s direction. “While you’re not busy,” he said with a growl. “Boyd, too, while you’re at it.” He gave his friend a wry grin. “As long as he’s off duty, of course.”
“Ya big galoot,” said Boyd, punching him in the arm. When the drinks arrived, they clinked glasses and Boyd pulled him over to a table where they could speak privately. “Railroad must pay better there than here, huh?”
Lee smiled. “You know I always had my eye open for … business opportunities.”
“What game are you in now anyways? Did you knock off a bank or something?”
“Close enough.” He laughed. “Close enough.” He waved for two more drinks as Boyd filled him in on all the latest news. When they were all caught up on local politics, Boyd stood to go for a piss, eyeing Lee’s meticulously tailored suit once more. “Damn, you finally got lucky.”
By the time his friend returned, after getting sidetracked at the bar, Lee had already polished off another whiskey and was feeling pretty damn good.
“I want to hear all about Honduras,” Boyd said. “What are the girls like?”
“Pretty.” He grinned. “Prettier than you could imagine.”
Boyd let out a howl. “I’ll say. And is it hot?”
“Hotter than here, and summer lasts all year long.” Lee paused. “You should visit sometime.”
“I dunno,” Boyd said. “My wife probably wouldn’t like that too much.”
The smile vanished from Lee’s face.
“Sorry, I didn’t…”
He waved a hand. “Don’t matter none. You’re probably gonna hear soon anyway. Waiting on the divorce papers. She might have sent ’em already, but I had to get out of Honduras in a hurry.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Actually, I’d really appreciate it if you could send her a note with my new address.” He wrote down the number on Basin Street. “Should be there for a while. And if I write her myself…” Lee gazed off into the distance.
Boyd put a hand on his shoulder. “No problem. I understand.”
Lee stared into his drink for a moment before draining the contents and approaching the bar. �
�You best leave the bottle this time, Tom. We got some catching up to do.” He returned to the table, waving his trophy.
* * *
Lee woke the next morning stark naked on the floor of his Basin Street place, not having made it to the bed the night before. His pants were crumpled on the floor beside his head, but his shirt and blazer were nowhere to be seen. Must have been a hell of a night.
He washed his face in the sink, the pounding in his head refusing to quit. Rubbing his temples, he went over to the sash windows to air the room while he lit his last puro. Two drunks brawled in the middle of the street outside while a prostitute screamed at them to quit. He wondered why the Guatemalans had picked Basin Street, of all places, to set him up. A cop strolled down the sidewalk, and everyone scattered, all except the drunk who’d been losing the punch-up. He watched as the guy gave short shrift to the cop, claiming he’d been jumped from behind and didn’t see his assailant. As the cop fruitlessly knocked on doors, Lee realized Basin Street was perfect. On a street full of brothels, no one was too friendly with the law nor too keen on strangers poking into their business.
The Guatemalans had impressed on him the importance of keeping a low profile, which made him all the more worried when he went into Tom Cook’s for an eye-opener. When Lee refused food, Tom made some aside like, “You can’t go revolutin’ on an empty stomach.”
Lee stopped himself just short of grabbing the saloonkeeper. “What you say?” he demanded.
“Don’t get fresh with me. It’s all everyone’s talking about.”
He put his head in his hands, trying to recall the night before. Then he remembered confiding with Boyd and swearing him to secrecy. Throwing down the whiskey, he stormed out of the bar, heading straight for the station yard. He spotted his friend outside the roundhouse and grabbed his neck from behind. “I need a word with you.”
Mercenary Page 6