“I remember it well.”
Bonilla held the sheathed sword aloft before handing it to Lee. “A remembrance of that day.”
Lee took the sword and drew it from the sheath. He squinted down the point, admiring its fine craftsmanship.
“It comforts me greatly knowing that I can call on your sword in times of need.” Bonilla placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re damn right,” said Lee. He was about to say his goodbyes, when he remembered something. “Hey, what’s all this about a territorial dispute with Nicaragua?”
“Policarpo was only a tool.” Bonilla’s face clouded over. “There’ll be others, especially now we know for sure that Nicaragua is plotting against me. But if I can get President Zelaya to strike before he’s ready, we’ll have the advantage.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“The territory under dispute … Zelaya acted too fast. He’s already parceled up the land and granted numerous concessions. The Americans don’t want war between us. They’ll arbitrate, and our lawyers are sure they will find in our favor. Zelaya will suffer greatly when the land is returned. Politically and personally.”
Lee frowned. “And what if he’s ready for a fight before the Americans get involved?”
* * *
Lee packed his possessions onto a pair of mules and mounted his great white mare. Once the newspapermen had their quotes, and the photographers finally pronounced themselves satisfied, he kicked his mount into action and began driving his one-man convoy across the mountains to San Pedro Sula. Bonilla had tried to insist on an honor guard, but Lee wouldn’t hear of it.
“They’ll only slow me down,” Lee had said. Truth was, he wanted some time alone to decide how he was going to approach the situation with Adelaide Caruso. He had been a free man since the Talbot family had consented to the divorce, but Adelaide had parents of her own.
And a mind of her own, too, he reminded himself. She was truly a free spirit, unbound by the expectations or conventions of society. It had been many months since they had spent any real time together. After so long, the impression he made had to be a good one.
Prodding the mule in front of him onwards, he reached back and grabbed the halter of the other, pulling the beast alongside his mare. He checked the straps on the saddlebags, ensuring they were tight; he didn’t want that box from Paris wriggling loose.
With his mind at rest, he considered the position that awaited him. Power and money were within his grasp. Adelaide could finally be his too—if he played his cards right. Yet he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this trouble with Nicaragua was just the beginning. That feeling shadowed him for the weeklong journey to San Pedro. He arrived saddle sore but happy, glad he wasn’t loafing it this time in those damn caites. His journey down to the coast was less arduous; Lee took a childlike glee in watching the world whizz by from his vantage point—an empty boxcar in a banana train on its way to the ocean.
Lee entered the cuartel of Puerto Cortés, changed out of his dusty traveling clothes, and washed. He carefully unpacked the parcel from Paris, admiring the ostentatious gold-braided dress uniform he’d ordered. It fit perfectly. With his new sword of honor on his side, General Lee Christmas strode along the railroad track in his new custom-made leather boots, down Calle de Linea, by the Hotel Lefevbre, and right to the door of Adelaide Caruso, the blonde Italian who’d captured his heart.
35
Lee had faced many impediments in his pursuit of Adelaide. But after finally obtaining a divorce and a transfer back to the coast—dealing with the small matter of a revolution in the meantime—he could have been forgiven for thinking the path to consummating the relationship was now clear. Of course, he hadn’t reckoned on the determined opposition of the Caruso family. All the trappings of success—wealth, power, prestige—did little to dissuade them. They pointed to his spotty record of honoring the marital vows, his renown as a playboy, and his two previous marriages, both of which had only lasted long enough to produce offspring before Lee was off chasing someone new.
He was on his best behavior, courting the family as much as Adelaide, making sure any rendezvous with his beloved was chaste, public, and chaperoned. There were several handcars at the cuartel—strictly for military use—but Lee requisitioned them for something a little more personal. They must have made a curious sight: the happy couple up front being propelled by the sweat of dutiful soldiers at the hand-pump, and the army band squashed onto a trailing car to serenade the gringo general and the target of his affections.
It took some time before Lee realized he’d never win over Adelaide’s folks. The only road open to him was to take matters into his own hands—to elope, as he had with Mamie, and to present their nuptials to Adelaide’s parents as a fait d’accompli. It took some time to convince her this was the correct course, but she eventually assented. Stealing Adelaide away from her watchful, wary parents was no easy task, even for a man of Lee’s means and ingenuity. So once again, a train was employed to spirit away his betrothed.
The following Sunday, with the help of an engineer, Lee rigged up a silencer on the stack of his old toy train. Together, they slipped out of the siding at Laguna Trestle and headed toward Puerto Cortés. The track bearing the pair ran straight down the Calle de Linea, right past the Caruso house. He nodded to the engineer, who eased up on the throttle as they approached. Waving his glowing puro—a pre-agreed signal with his betrothed—he spotted her at the window. Adelaide slipped outside and was hoisted aboard, and the toy train trundled away from her house, down to the banana wharf where Lee Christmas had first arrived some ten years before.
A little sailboat packed with provisions awaited them. The two clambered aboard, greeting the captain and his crew of two, and then settled down under a blanket, gazing out at the starless night. “You still want to do this?” Lee asked, his eyes dancing.
“Well—”
“Because it’s too late now!” He nodded, and the captain pushed off. Their sail caught a strong offshore breeze and powered away from the coast, buffeted north by a swirling gust.
When the couple woke the next morning, their hands still interlocked under the blanket, the sea hadn’t calmed one bit. Sails snapped as the wind assaulted the boat from alternating directions.
Adelaide eyed the structure with concern. “How long did you say this might take?”
“Belize is maybe … two days, give or take.”
Her eyes narrowed, and Lee put an arm around her. “Don’t worry so much,” he soothed. “She’s perfectly seaworthy.”
“What about that?” She pointed at dark clouds gathering to the northeast.
“We’re fine.” Lee’s eyes darted to the captain, who shook his head and surreptitiously pointed east, where the Guatemalan coast had fallen out of view. “But if it gets too close,” Lee continued, “We’ll just pull in somewhere until it rolls over.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“No big deal,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, they beached at speed at Punta Gorda, the bump eliciting a yelp from Adelaide.
“That’s normal,” said Lee, squeezing her hand. “Don’t worry.”
Adelaide peered down at the waves lapping the side of the vessel. Seeing her trepidation, Lee stood, his sudden movements rocking the deck. When it had steadied somewhat, he clambered over the rail and dropped himself into the drink. It was only shin-deep.
She laughed as he beckoned her into the water. “But what about my dress?”
“At your service, ma’am.”
As she climbed over the side and into Lee’s waiting arms, the heavens opened—big, fat drops of rain that seemed to leap upward from the ocean. She let out a yelp.
“Quick,” he said. “Sit down on the edge of the deck and I’ll grab you.” Once she was in position, he picked her up and flipped her over his back like a sack of potatoes, wading through the water until he reached the beach.
“Put me down, idiota.”
�
�I dunno,” he said. “I kind of like this. Less chance of you running off on me.”
She punched him playfully in the back, and then Lee set her down gently on the sand, waiting as she fixed her dress. He pointed at the tree line. “Take shelter,” he said. “But don’t go too far.”
“What about all our things?”
“Don’t you worry. Just get yourself out of the rain before you get soaked.” He waded back out to the boat, where the captain and his crew were securing the main sail. “Throw me that tarpaulin,” he said. “Some rope too.”
After finding a relatively sheltered spot, he began hacking away at the undergrowth with his machete, clearing space so he could erect a makeshift tent.
“Anything I can do?” called Adelaide.
He looked back over his shoulder. “Should be a bottle of something in one of the boxes the captain dropped off. Open her up!”
“Sure thing,” she laughed.
Through the driving rain, he fashioned a shelter of sorts from the boat’s tarpaulin; their little group waiting for the storm to ease. It took the bones of a day, but eventually the sea calmed enough for them to set sail once more. The crew reloaded the boat while Adelaide and Lee walked hand in hand along the beach, admiring the setting sun.
“You ready?” asked Adelaide, when the captain called over to the pair.
Lee pulled her close to him, planting a kiss on her lips. He pulled back, still holding her face and brushed a stray grain of sand from her check. “Now I’m ready,” he said.
He waded through the water, Adelaide in his arms, and then set her down on the boat. Lee awkwardly clambered on deck and saluted the captain. “To Belize, my good man.”
Blessed with calmer seas all the way north, they reached the city of Belize the following night, Adelaide delighting in how a single fiery dot in the distance gradually unraveled into a blanket of twinkling lights that rivaled the stars above. The next day, in front of a British magistrate, they were married.
Lee and Adelaide returned to Puerto Cortés after a month-long honeymoon. The Caruso family was furious, disowning their daughter and only relenting the following year, 1906, when Lee Christmas Junior was born.
36
As soon as Lee entered the cantina, the buzzing chatter ceased. Heads slowly turned in his direction before conversation resumed at a lower level. He understood their frustration; war was on everyone’s lips. Catching the bartender’s eye, he ordered a whiskey cocktail—a large shot of whiskey topped up with champagne and a slice of lime—and left a hefty tip. He turned and scanned the room, sipping his drink.
“They’re worried,” said the bartender. “Should they be?”
Lee turned to face him. “Peace conference is in Costa Rica next week. We hope to amicably resolve all outstanding issues.”
“That the party line?”
“Yup.” He took another swig. “But they’re gonna pull out. It’s their only move. Now that the court of arbitration has decided in our favor, Zelaya’s bound to declare war.” He drained his glass. “Bonilla’s backed him into a corner.”
“But they got Policarpo?”
Lee nodded. “He’s back in jail.” He signaled for another drink. “Never should have let him out in the first place, if you ask me.”
“Why did they?”
He waved a paw. “Politics. I’ll never understand it. El Salvador said they’d keep an eye on him.” He shrugged. “Guess we can’t say too much on that front, not after the Valladares mess.”
“Have you heard anything about that?”
Lee spread his hands. “Nobody knows what happened.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow.
“I’m serious.” Lee pointed at the cabinet. “Hand me a couple of them glasses.” He arranged them on the counter before pointing to his own drink. “This here is Valladares and that damn rebel army he raised right under our noses.”
He placed a napkin a few inches to the left, putting a glass on either side. “Here’s the Honduran–Guatemalan border, with an army on either side.”
Lee waggled the third glass, his drink. “Now, our spy has just shopped Policarpo, but before he gets scooped up by the Salvadorans again, he gets word out to Valladares that they’ve been rumbled.” He moved his glass closer to the napkin. “So Valladares races to the Nicaraguan border, now that the army coming from El Salvador isn’t rebels looking to combine forces but a hostile army—allied to us—with our guys hot on their tails too. And they run into two trigger-happy armies just waiting for…”
He looked up to find that the bartender’s eyes had glazed over. “You following?”
“Not really.” The bartender laughed.
Exasperated, Lee pulled the pistol from his belt and laid it on the counter. “Let me put it another way. Pretend it’s the end of the night, you’re here alone, cleaning up, and I stroll in and pull a gun on you, demanding your takings. But then I get distracted by a noise in the street, and you draw your own piece from under the bar and we have a stand-off.”
The bartender nodded.
“Let’s say this goes on for a while. Both men watching each other. Both getting jittery. And neither backing down. It’s tense as hell. Both of ’em afraid to blink in case the other guy squeezes the trigger. Got it? Now imagine a third guy—a stranger to both—runs in the side door with his own weapon drawn. Who shoots first?”
“Everyone,” said the bartender.
Lee grimaced. “Exactly.”
37
As feared, President Zelaya ordered a nationwide conscription program. Within a few months, Nicaragua had twelve thousand troops within striking distance of the Honduran border. The following month, Zelaya gave the command to invade.
Bonilla sent two armies into the field. General Ordóñez was sent east to check the Nicaraguan advance, and Bonilla’s minister of war, General Barahona, was sent south with the newly graduated cadets to form a reserve in front of Tegucigalpa. Nothing was needed to defend the Caribbean coast, as the US Navy had stationed bluejackets in Puerto Cortés, La Ceiba, and Trujillo on the pretext of defending the large foreign populations there. Lee Christmas was telegrammed and ordered to delegate his comandancia, come to the position south of Tegucigalpa, and join General Barahona as his right-hand man.
The Honduran army under General Ordóñez was defeated in its very first battle, and the Nicaraguan invaders captured the town of San Marco, along with two hundred rifles, ten thousand rounds of ammunition, and a Krupp gun. Bonilla decided to don his old military uniform and take to the field himself. In mid-March his fifteen hundred-strong force joined up with three thousand troops arriving over the border from El Salvador and together they pressed on to engage the invaders at Namasigüe—a town that would become synonymous with one of the bloodiest battles in human history.
With the fall of the northern ports, Zelaya threw every possible reserve toward Namasigüe, hoping to shatter Bonilla’s army in one fell swoop. His troops didn’t simply outnumber their counterparts; they were also armed with the Krupp cannons and Hotchkiss guns, as well as the latest in rapid-firing armaments—the deadly Maxim machine gun making its first appearance in Central American warfare. Unlike the old Gatling guns, the Maxim didn’t have to be hand-cranked and could unleash a vicious, continual burst with the trigger depressed. And those bullets could cut right through an eighteen-inch tree trunk.
Bonilla’s men were encamped in the hills overlooking Namasigüe. From mid-afternoon on March 17, Zelaya’s army began a relentless barrage of their position. The shelling continued until midnight, resuming again at first light. Knowing they couldn’t remain in the hills to be picked off by the enemy’s superior artillery, Bonilla’s army attacked the Nicaraguans head-on, charging straight into a hail of machine-gun fire that crisscrossed the plain in front of the town. Thousands of Bonilla’s men were butchered on the spot, mercilessly cut to pieces by the continuous spray of intersecting bullets from the deadly Maxim guns. Almost his entire army was slaughtered over the next
three days. Never in human history had such a high proportion of an army been destroyed in a single battle.
A fever spared Bonilla’s life; the president had been left behind in a native’s hut to recover, missing the entire debacle. This stroke of good fortune allowed him to escape to Tigre Island, where he gathered five hundred surviving supporters. Soon, though, this fortress came under siege. Keen to prevent another slaughter, Bonilla agreed to surrender, on the condition that he lay down his arms to a Honduran general rather than the despised Nicaraguans. President Zelaya agreed and dispatched Bonilla’s old enemy, Terencio Sierra, to oversee Bonilla’s disgrace. As part of the peace deal, Bonilla boarded the USS Chicago to Guatemala, where he was permitted to travel overland and take sanctuary in the British colony of Belize.
38
When he received President Bonilla’s telegram, Lee packed Adelaide and Lee Junior aboard a steamer. With his family safely on the way to Puerto Barrios, over the Guatemalan border, he took his old toy train up to San Pedro Sula. There, he switched to horseback and raced across the country, all the way to Maraita, just south of the capital. His orders were simple. The men under General Barahona—Bonilla’s minster for war and the de facto head of the armed forces—were the last line of defense before the seat of government at Tegucigalpa. Lee’s job was to inform them that reinforcements were en route from El Salvador, and that Barahona must hold his ground.
By the time Lee arrived, the invaders had captured the heights of the Los Coyotes mountain range. Barahona had entrenched, and his position was easily defendable. For three days, a stalemate ensued. “I haven’t been able to draw them out,” Barahona told him.
Lee pursed his lips. “Sounds like they’re waiting for something,” he said. “Probably the same thing we’re waiting for.”
“Let’s just pray our reinforcements arrive first, because there’s no way we can retreat now, not in any orderly way.”
Mercenary Page 9