Barahona’s prayers went unanswered; the following day, scouts brought news of approaching Nicaraguans. Barahona soon realized his position was hopeless. Without experienced reinforcements, all he had at his disposal were cadets fresh out of the academy, most of them between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. One decisive charge from the enemy would likely end the matter; Barahona suspected most of the boys would bolt. He convened his officers to discuss the possibility of surrender.
* * *
Before the meeting, Lee went to speak to Fred Mills, a fellow American who had abandoned his mining concern days beforehand, bringing twenty of his native workers along for the adventure.
“Fred, this game ain’t for you. We’re in a tight spot.”
“Aw, I’ll be all right, Lee.”
“I’m serious.” He put a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “This could get bad.”
“You know what?” Fred grinned. “I was so bored up at that mine, I used to pray someone would take a shot at me.”
Lee shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He looked over at the command tent where the other officers were beginning to gather. “Come on, Fred.”
They entered the tent together, smiling, in contrast to the grim-faced Hondurans. General Barahona nodded at them and began. “Amigos, it looks like the reinforcements aren’t coming. Our line of retreat to Tegucigalpa has been cut off. The enemy surrounds us on all sides. In short, our position is hopeless. I suggest we try to negotiate the best surrender we can, but I’m open to ideas.” Barahona spread his hands. “Please speak freely.”
There was a moment of silence before Lee stepped forward, his right leg tapping. All eyes were on the yanqui general as he spoke. “I don’t know about the rest of you.” He smiled. “But I know what will happen if those bastards get their hands on me. After all, I arrested that damn Policarpo, right there in Congress. Slugged him too.”
The men laughed as he continued. “And that general, Valladares, I closed down his print shop. That cost him a pretty penny. They ain’t going to do nothing but shoot me for a lesson.” He paused, looking at each of his fellow officers in turn. “And if I’m going to be shot, I want to take some of those sons of bitches with me.”
Barahona turned to him. “You mean to break through their lines?”
“You’re damn right,” he said. “And you would be wise to come with me, too. Weren’t you part of the court that sentenced Policarpo? That bastard won’t have forgotten.”
“A scattered charge might just work.” Barahona rubbed his chin. “Some of us could get through. It’s a roll of the dice.”
“I’ve got eight bullets but the last is for me—in case they catch me. I’ll never let anyone drag me out in front of a mob and make a show out of it.”
Barahona pulled his shoulders back. “I’ll ride with you.”
“And I!” Colonel Reyes, Barahona’s third in command, stepped forward.
“Well,” Fred Mills put his hand in the air. “If you’re all going, I’m coming too.”
Lee shook his head. “Not you, Fred.”
“Like hell!” said Fred. “Try and stop me, you big oaf.” Laughter filled the tent.
The plan was set. At dawn, the four men would face an entire army. The rest of Bonilla’s men were to wait in reserve, and Barahona made it clear to them that they were to decide their own fate. They could choose to surrender, they could melt into the surrounding countryside, or they could defend their position from attack.
He reminded them that living to fight another day was just as patriotic as a brave and glorious death.
39
Just as the sky began to brighten, Lee mounted his gray horse. He grimaced when he saw Barahona and Reyes had chosen a pair of mules; then he watched as a troupe of Indians helped Fred into the saddle of his white mare. Fred shrugged. “They insist on coming with me.”
Lee shook his head and drew his Luger from his belt, checking the magazine. Seven bullets and one in the chamber. He looked to his friend. “Last chance, Fred.”
“You kidding?” Fred smiled. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Lee gathered his reins in his left hand. “Good luck, boys. See you on the other side.” He wheeled his mount around while Barahona kicked his heels in and charged ahead, his tiente Reyes in his wake. Lee snorted at the comical sight of two officers on mule-back attempting to outrun an army, before winking at Fred and racing after them.
The Luger was gripped tight in his right hand as he galloped, one eye on the distant, telltale puffs of smoke—rifles firing in his direction. Bullets whizzed all around him. The enemy charged down toward them, filling the slope. He checked his pace a touch, keen not to overtake the two Honduran officers in front of him, and then looked back over his shoulder. Fred was some distance off. Lee clenched his jaw. It appeared Fred didn’t want to outpace his Indian companions. That’ll get him killed, he thought.
Lee watched Reyes, now in the lead, hit the ground—both he and his mount shot dead. After letting off a couple of rounds, Lee looked back to see Fred’s horse go down, its rider thrown clear. When Barahona went down next, Lee jerked on his reins, banking sharply, looking back to see if the general had been struck or whether his mount had taken the bullet. The general’s chest was crimson with blood.
Still got three bullets. He’d been counting carefully, desperate to save one for himself and die by his own hand rather than face capture. Adelaide and Lee Junior would be spared the indignity of him being executed like a common criminal on some trumped-up charges. He kicked on, letting his mount out into a full gallop, only to feel something slam into his left calf. His horse whinnied and reared before collapsing in a heap on top of him, pinning his one remaining good leg.
Trapped, hopelessly contorted, and screaming in pain, Lee could do little as the enemy sped toward him. His eyes watering, he wriggled into a firing position and took aim at the leading charger, shooting him from the saddle. Then the next. But there was simply too many. As the pack drew closer, whooping and hollering, Lee said a silent goodbye to Adelaide and Lee Junior, and to Magdalena and their two daughters, Leah and Juanita, and then lastly to his first love, Mamie, and their three offspring—Ed, Hattie, and Sadie—cursing himself for not fulfilling his promise to do right by them. Lee raised the Luger to his temple, its muzzle still hot. With his eyes closed, his finger curled around the trigger.
He squeezed.
Nothing happened.
Lee examined his gun, staring in shock at the open magazine. In all the excitement, he must have counted wrong. Damn it.
He winced from the pain of his shattered leg as the enemy swarmed around him. A soldier lunged, bayonet fixed, but in his inexperience chose Lee’s head as the target rather than his body. Instinctively, Lee rolled to the side, and the blade merely grazed him.
“Not the head, puta!” A bayonet thrust to the head would prolong Lee’s agony, not end it. A fatal blow must aim for the breast, like that shotgun volley Dr. Waller had saved him from ten years beforehand. But before the second thrust could be delivered, a Nicaraguan officer appeared and stayed his subordinate’s hand.
“Bastardos!” Lee was apoplectic. “Chickenshit sons of bitches. Hijo de putas. Finish me off. Shoot me!” He hoped to provoke them; Lee knew a soldier with a cooler head might seek his capture. A general was worth a lot more alive. “Shoot me, goddamn you!”
“Oh, you will be shot, General, sin duda.” The officer smiled. “But it will be a formal execution.”
“Shoot me now, if you have the guts. But do me one favor.” Lee paused. “Don’t bury me.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Don’t bury you?”
A small crowd had gathered around the stricken gringo general. “No,” Lee continued. “Don’t bury me, you sons of bitches!”
“Why not?”
This was what he’d been waiting for. He glared at the enemy officer. “Because I want the buzzards to eat me, fly over you afterwards, and shit on your goddamn fac
es.” Lee shut his eyes, bracing himself for the mortal blow.
The officer laughed. “You’re a brave man. Maybe we won’t execute you after all.”
Lee blinked his eyes open in confusion, then grinned. The enemy soldiers smiled back. They removed Lee’s fallen horse and tended to his wounds. To his surprise, he found Barahona wasn’t dead after all—although badly wounded. The two generals were carried to a hut, and Lee’s shattered leg was bound in a splint.
Barahona didn’t make it through the night, but Lee was carried in a litter as the invaders marched on the capital.
40
Lee sat up in bed, mustering enough strength to tuck into a plate of oranges. He ripped the flesh from the skin and popped a piece in his mouth, not bothering to wipe the orange drool that dripped from his chin onto the bedsheets. His appetite was back, and the oranges were a hell of a lot better than the soup he’d been on. His leg had healed pretty well, too, considering. He would have a nasty scar, but he was going to walk just fine once he built his strength back up. A knock sounded on the door. Dr. Waller entered just as Lee wiped the juice from his chin and gathered the scattered rinds.
The doctor waved a hand. “Don’t mind that. It’s good to see you sitting up.” He took the bowl from Lee’s lap and set it down on the bedside table, dropped into a chair, and sighed. “I have some news.”
“Fred?”
Dr. Waller nodded. “He’s dead, Lee. I’m sorry. He didn’t get away as you’d hoped.” The doctor paused. “But there’s more—”
“How did he die?”
“What I was going to tell you was—”
“How did Fred die, doc?”
“All right.” Dr. Waller took a breath. “Way I heard was Fred got thrown clear during the charge. I don’t know if his horse bucked, hit a rock, or was shot. But he was thrown clear. The Nicaraguans caught up to him.”
Lee punched the pillow. “Told him not to come, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Seems like all he had to do was surrender,” said the doctor. “Put his hands in the air, or just stay there on the ground. But he got excited and made a run for it.”
“Goddamn it, Fred.”
“Some Honduran rebel—”
“Who?” demanded Lee.
Dr. Waller shushed him. “I’ll get to that. Anyway, this officer cocked his pistol and was about to shoot when Fred tripped.” He paused before continuing. “Then he walked up and shot him right between the eyes.”
Lee threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the other side of the bed. “I need a name, doc.”
Dr. Waller didn’t make a move, watching Lee sweat and curse as he struggled to put any weight on his leg.
Lee slumped back onto the mattress. “I still need that name.”
“Rosa,” said the doctor. “But you’re too late.”
“Huh?”
Dr. Waller tucked the blanket back over Lee’s legs. “Comandante Rosa might have thought the matter settled when he put that bullet in Fred Mills, but his Indian companions were watching from the trees. Rosa returned to his general store in Tegucigalpa. I guess business was booming, given all those furloughed troops knocking around the capital.”
“I’d never seen it so busy,” said Lee.
“Anyway,” he said, scratching his nose. “One day, some Indian came in looking for a weapon.” He looked at Lee. “A thirty-eight caliber revolver, to be exact. The Indian asked permission to examine the gun, and Rosa took it out of the glass case and slid it across the counter to him, safe in the knowledge that it wasn’t loaded. Pretending to examine the pistol, the Indian waited until Rosa was distracted by another customer, someone asking about a bulk order, and then slipped a bullet into the chamber. When Rosa returned, he raised the gun and shot him square in the chest.” The doctor smiled. “Then melted away.”
Lee looked down at his hands.
“It’s not your fault,” said Dr. Waller. “Fred made his own decisions. And his death has been avenged.”
“I know.”
“You should count yourself lucky the American consul intervened and got you safe passage out of here.”
Lee sighed. “I know.”
The doctor waited for a moment. “Remember the first time I treated you?”
“The poisoning?”
Dr. Waller laughed. “All right. The second time.”
“Shit,” said Lee. “That was a close one.”
“I was scared. Thought you wouldn’t make it.”
“You were scared?”
“I saw a lot of men die in the war.”
“Back home?”
The doctor nodded. “Most didn’t have wounds as bad as yours.” He gestured to Lee’s leg. “You were lucky this time too.”
“Don’t I know it.” He remembered the panicked recruit trying to bayonet him in the face. “I’m just looking forward to getting back on the road. Not that I’m ungrateful…” He chuckled at the doctor’s mock offense.
“I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to Adelaide and Lee Junior. Where are they now?”
“Guatemala City. Shipped them out as soon as this all started.”
“Wise.”
“Soon as I’m able, I’ll head down to Puerto Cortés and take the first steamer north.”
“That should be in a few days, the rate you’re recuperating.” Dr. Waller noticed his patient’s eyelids growing heavy. “You’re tired.” He stood. “I should let you rest.”
Lee began to speak, but the doctor waved away his protests. “One last thing, because I’ve a house call to make, and it’ll be late when I get back.” He smiled at Lee. “You’re gonna like this. Give me a minute.” He excused himself from the room but returned a moment later brandishing a newspaper, and a huge grin. “Picked this up in San Pedro this morning.” He handed Lee a copy of the New York Times.
“I didn’t know they got this in San Pedro.”
“Depends what’s in the news,” said the doctor, eyes twinkling.
Lee began paging through the paper, but Dr. Waller grabbed it off him and flipped it back to the front page. “Read the damn headline!”
He focused on the block capitals at the top of the page. “Christmas Slain In Battle: Daredevil American Cut to Pieces by Nicaraguan Soldiers.” Lee chuckled, and handed it back. “Keep that for me, would you?”
41
Adelaide became pregnant again not long after the family reunited in Guatemala City. In January 1910, she gave birth to another boy, this one christened Winfield, for Lee’s late father. She was nursing Winfield in the kitchen when Lee surprised her by coming home early. “I have some news,” he boomed, as he entered the room. “Remember those new Shea locomotives I was talking about?”
Adelaide rolled her eyes. “How could I forget?”
“Yeah.” Lee smiled. “I did go on a little. But here’s the thing. The government went ahead with the purchase.”
“Okay.”
“Means more routes to those coffee plantations.”
She gazed at him with a blank expression.
“Which means they’ll need more engineers.” He paused. “Better money, is what I’m saying.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“And I won’t have to work the passenger service anymore.”
“You certain you’ll get it?”
“That’s the other news,” said Lee with a smile. “New connection will make sure of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember the … other job I told you about? The one I had the last time I was here?”
“Oh, yes. The reports for—”
“Yeah, those guys. They want me back.”
Her brow furrowed. “Will it be dangerous?”
Lee chuckled. “Shouldn’t be.”
Adelaide’s brow creased with worry.
“It’ll involve a little travel.”
“Oh?” She shifted Winfield’s position and wiped some sick from his mouth.
“Just to Honduras
and Nicaragua, far as I know.”
“Nicaragua?”
“Only meeting contacts. Nothing to worry about.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And this isn’t dangerous?”
“I swear,” he said. “No more dangerous than being at the throttle of a locomotive.”
“You’ve already crashed one of those.”
Lee’s new role came at a crucial time. Discord was spreading in Nicaragua and Honduras, one faction seeking to overthrow another, and Guatemala’s President wanted to make sure friendly regimes won the day in both countries. Manuel Bonilla was still exiled in Belize, but he corresponded regularly with his gringo general. When a fresh revolution broke out in Honduras, he stayed Lee’s hand, arguing that any such revolt was doomed to fail without financial backing.
By the time Winfield was born, Bonilla had found his backer.
42
Sam Zemurray came from poor Jewish farming stock on the banks of the Dnieper River, in what used to be called Bessarabia back when he was known as Schmuel Zmurri. He came to America with his aunt at the age of fifteen, just two years before Lee Christmas fell asleep at the throttle and ran straight into an oncoming train. His uncle was already there, running a general store in Selma, Alabama, and enterprising young Sam worked every job he could get. Within three years he had saved enough to send for the rest of his family.
Wandering around Selma one day, Sam had stumbled across a man making a tidy profit from selling bananas to a grocer. Following the man’s tip, he headed down to the docks at Mobile and spent all the money he had on ripes—one-hundred-and-fifty dollars’ worth—from one of the United Fruit Company’s steamers. Lacking his own fare, Sam bedded down with the cargo on the night express to Selma. Ripes were much cheaper than green bananas, but they had to be sold quickly before they spoiled. Sam fretted the entire journey, worrying the bananas would rot before they could be sold, leaving him substantially out of pocket.
Shortly after five in the morning, the train pulled in at Meridian and Sam woke to see he was still one hundred miles shy of his destination. After what seemed an inordinate delay, he complained to the yardmaster about his rapidly spoiling fruit.
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