The yardmaster sympathized. “If only you had some way of notifying the grocers in towns ahead.” He let out a low whistle. “They’d likely buy the bananas right off the car.”
Sam stood. “Is there a Western Union here?”
“Sure, right over—”
Sam cut him off by shoving a bunch of bananas into his arms. “Don’t let this train leave without me.” He ran to the office and wired every telegraph operator along the line to Selma, promising a free bunch to any who spread the word: fresh bananas were coming. By the time he sold his last bunch in Selma, Sam had five hundred dollars in his pocket—more than tripling his investment.
Sam plunged headlong into the banana trade, first hawking ripes all along the line from Selma down to the Gulf Coast, before tirelessly expanding into more distant territories. By 1898, not long after Lee Christmas had abandoned New Orleans for Puerto Cortés, Sam had salted away one hundred thousand dollars. All before his twenty-first birthday.
In 1905, Sam decided to head to Puerto Cortés to see what kind of operation would be required to grow his own bananas—just like the United Fruit Company. It took five more years before his business was stable enough to make such a huge investment. Sam borrowed two hundred thousand dollars and purchased five thousand acres along the banks of the Cuyamel River, twenty miles upstream from Puerto Cortés and just shy of the Guatemalan border.
Sam had gone from running a small but profitable business to owning a huge concern that left him heavily in debt. He quickly realized that to compete with the other banana growers he would need similar concessions from the government: tax breaks, land subsidies, exemptions from customs duties on the equipment he would need to import, and, crucially, the right to build a railroad to ferry his bananas from the plantation to the wharf.
Disastrously, help was not forthcoming. The Honduran government—now led by Miguel Dávila after the ousting of Manuel Bonilla—was hostage to its creditors: European bankers who owned most of the country’s debt. Dávila was attempting to refinance and was fishing for an American loan. JP Morgan was keen on taking that bet, but only on the condition their agents could take over the operation of Honduran customs houses and veto any government-supported commercial development.
Zemurray knew that meant his business would flourish or whither depending on the goodwill of JP Morgan—whose help he couldn’t count on. Plus, it would likely cost him more than it was worth. He needed a friend in the Presidential Palace, someone opposed to the treaty, someone more favorable to foreign business.
Someone like Manuel Bonilla.
43
Lee Christmas watched the world go by from the window of the Puerto Barrio express. His last conversation with Adelaide hadn’t gone well. She had been unhappy about Lee’s frequent trips to Puerto Cortés over the past six months, but his hands were tied. His American citizenship made him the only one of Bonilla’s men who could travel back-and-forth freely, and someone had to make sure that drunk Marín kept his part of the bargain. If Lee screwed up, without an armed force on the ground ready to join their coup at a moment’s notice, the planned assault on Puerto Cortés was doomed.
Adelaide had really lost her cool when he told her he was heading down to Puerto Barrios and didn’t know when he’d return. She didn’t calm down when he explained that Bonilla now had his backer and had to move quickly. Instead, she seethed for a week, her anger not even dissipating enough to wish him a proper goodbye.
He replayed the conversation in his head, over and over, trying to figure out where it went off the rails. What could he have said differently? He moped all the way to Puerto Barrios, his mood so foul on arrival that he didn’t feel any pull from his old haunts, instead hiding away in his hotel room, brooding. A couple of days after Lee arrived, he got the green light from Bonilla—a letter borne by a ship’s captain who was to ferry him north to Belize, past Sapodilla Caye, and deliver him to the revolutionary headquarters at Glover’s Reef.
He was preoccupied throughout the voyage, answering the captain’s few attempts at small talk with a series of grunts. His mood only brightened when the captain woke him from his snoozing, pointing at Glover’s Reef in the distance. Finally, Lee saw the full import of Zemurray’s backing. He counted half a dozen boats at anchor, bobbing in the bay, filled to the brim with what he guessed was guns and ammo.
Most impressive was the Emma, an oyster lugger by the looks of it. The faded paint on the hull revealed she was out of Gulfport, Mississippi, which made Lee chuckle for no reason in particular. And from the modern-looking machine gun he spied on the deck, he figured she’d come in very handy indeed.
Manuel Bonilla was waiting to greet them when they finally hit dry land. He embraced Lee, planting a kiss on each cheek.
“Steady on,” said Lee. “I haven’t even had a drink yet.”
“There’ll be time for that,” Bonilla said, “but not too much.” He thanked the captain, who got the hint and disappeared toward the camp. Once the captain was out of earshot, Bonilla leaned in to Lee. “Date is set. July twenty-first.”
“Good.” Lee turned to take in the revolutionary flotilla once more. “So, Zemurray came through, then?”
“You can inspect everything tomorrow. But we got two of those new machine guns you requested.”
He took in the view until Bonilla laid a hand on his shoulder. “Can you win me back my country, General?”
Lee turned to face him, but before he could speak, Bonilla extended his hand. “Or, should I say, commander-in-chief.”
Lee shook Bonilla’s hand vigorously, but then stopped all of a sudden. “Wait. You said the twenty-first, right?”
Bonilla nodded.
“And what date is it today?”
“The nineteenth.”
Lee glared at Bonilla. “Hell, why don’t we just go tomorrow, while we’re at it?”
The deposed Honduran leader raised a finger. “Because we’re waiting for one more to join us. He is steaming toward Glover’s Reef as we speak.” His eyes twinkled. “And I think you’ll find him useful.”
44
A curious side effect of the outbreak of the Second Boer War was a huge increase in the demand for Missouri’s mules, and Guy Molony was inexplicably fascinated with them. Only sixteen and already six-foot-six, his crouching gait and gangly limbs made him look as if he slept folded up in a box. Guy enjoyed making his way from the house of his Irish immigrant parents down to the docks of New Orleans, where he watched ship after ship fill with the recalcitrant beasts. If I’m not careful, he thought, those damn mules will see more of the world than I will.
Without informing his family, he obtained a job as caretaker to the beasts, tending to them during the long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way to war-torn South Africa. When the mules were unloaded at Port Elizabeth, Guy followed the last pair off. He had no real plan in mind, short of knowing that leaving the boat meant abandoning his pay and his ticket home. He didn’t care. He was keen to see more of the country, now that he had come all this way. Soon, his lack of funds led him to the local recruiting office of the British Army, where he signed on to fight the Boer.
At the end of the war, he returned to New Orleans for just long enough to see his family and enlist as a cavalryman in the US Army. When war broke out in the Philippines, Sergeant Molony was shipped out and learned how to operate the latest machine guns. By the time that war was done, the young sergeant could strip a machine gun down in the dark and put it back together without missing a beat, earning him the nickname “Machine Gun” Molony—a title he would truly earn in Central America.
He returned home from the Philippines by way of Tokyo, where he met a future brother-in-arms, Sam Dreben. Barely had Molony reacquainted himself with his family before his head was turned by Dreben’s promise of action in Guatemala. Once Zelaya was ousted, Dreben had another gig lined up.
“There’ll be a big show in Honduras next month,” he said. “A kid like you who knows machine guns could go a
long way.”
“Who would we be working for?”
“Some hotshot called Lee Christmas—a Louisiana man. They’re getting ready to knock off this Dávila. Want in?”
“Sure.”
Dreben scribbled a message on a small piece of card and instructed Molony to take it to Greytown, a small port on the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua, about sixty miles south of Bluefields. When he reached the address and presented the card, Guy was given two hundred and fifty dollars worth of gold. He also received another card, this time with instructions to travel to an address in New Orleans. He recognized the place: Café Maspero on Decatur, in the French Quarter.
The mystery of it all amused him, and he was happy to comply. At Café Maspero, which was frequented by the veterans of ten different wars, the regulars eyed him so much he thought there was going to be trouble. When the man he spoke to disappeared into the back, Guy was on guard, in case he was fetching a weapon. Instead, he received another hundred and fifty dollars in gold and a steamer ticket for Belize, with strict instructions that if anyone enquired, he was drumming hardware.
He met Manuel Bonilla the night he arrived in Belize. Despite his adventures in the Philippines and Nicaragua, the only phrases Guy had picked up were the inventive curses Spanish speakers were so fond of. The Honduran appeared to be asking him something about machine guns, so Guy took a chance. “Sí,” he said, which seemed to satisfy Bonilla, whose only instructions were to keep quiet and not get drunk.
A week later, Guy was put aboard a sailboat. After sailing through the night, the crew stopped at a remote cay to collect conches for a lunchtime stew before continuing on to Glover’s Reef. Guy was transferred to another vessel in the Zemurray-financed flotilla—a sloop called Centinella—and immediately bedded down for the night.
The following morning, as he shared a pineapple with a crewman, a tall, blond figure appeared at the side of the boat. This must be Christmas, he thought.
The man spoke in a low growl. “So you’re the machine gun expert.”
Guy nodded.
“We got two of ’em, brand new, and one of ’em won’t work. Let’s see what you can do.”
The machine guns were the new, high-speed kind, supposedly able to fire four hundred and fifty rounds a minute, but they must have been damaged during shipment. Molony spent the next few hours on the deck of the Centinella, stripping the gun down to its many components. Christmas checked his progress now and then, but Guy never even looked up. Eventually, he pieced the gun back together and set it up over the starboard rail for a test burst.
When he heard the noise, Christmas came running. “You got it working?” He slapped Guy on the back. “I’ll be damned.”
Guy allowed himself a smile. “She’s down to about three hundred and fifty rounds per minute, but she’s working.”
“Good work, son.”
Later that evening, July 20, Manuel Bonilla joined his little army and instantly ordered a hundred rifles and ten thousand rounds transferred to a little goleta and shipped to a detachment secreted in the bush outside Tela. When the wind picked up, the rest of the revolutionary flotilla cast anchor and headed south.
To Honduras.
45
The fleet reached Puerto Cortés two hours past midnight. Aboard the Centenilla, Bonilla ordered a messenger dispatched. Lee watched as he rowed toward the shore. “Now we wait,” said Bonilla, joining him at the rail.
“I still think we should attack right away.”
Bonilla sighed. “Then what was the point of all those trips to Puerto Cortés?”
“Pah,” said Lee. “Marín and his boys would know to come running as soon as the shooting started.”
“Lee, I trust your judgment but Marín has two hundred men under his command, and all of them should be armed now after that last shipment of rifles. This has taken months to organize. Months.”
“As soon as the sun comes up, we’ve lost the best thing going for us.” Lee looked straight at Bonilla. “The element of surprise.”
“Claro,” he said. “But while they’re looking out at us, Marín will cut them to pieces from the rear.”
“You hope.”
Bonilla put a hand on his shoulder. “We hope. Now how about a game of cards? I need something to take my mind off this wait.”
Lee wasn’t done arguing, though. When Lee raised it the third time, Bonilla threw down his cards and walked to the prow. After a few minutes, he turned back and hollered. “Vamos!”
Lee raced to the front of the boat and peered out to where Bonilla was pointing. Sure enough, it was a cayuco bearing their messenger.
The messenger tossed up a rope and then climbed aboard. He saluted Bonilla as he unloaded an excited stream of Spanish, too fast for Lee to follow.
“Woah, there,” said Lee. “What’s going on?”
Bonilla’s eyes flicked to Lee, his face drawn. “Marín was captured.”
“What? How in God’s name—”
He was quieted by Bonilla, who indicated for the messenger to continue. When he was done, Bonilla turned to Lee. “It seems Marín decided to start the revolution himself.”
Lee cursed. “And the two hundred recruits?”
“No,” said Bonilla. “I wasn’t clear. Marín decided to start the revolution solo.”
“Probably moon-eyed on aguardiente.”
“He’s already been executed.”
“Shit.”
“The papers,” said Bonilla, rubbing his face. “Goddamn it! He had everything. Plans. Names. Dates.”
The messenger burst in with another torrent of Spanish.
“He wasn’t the only one executed,” translated Bonilla. “Don’t know how many, but they had all the names. We have to assume they’re all dead.”
Lee struggled to contain himself. “So let’s attack now, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t you get it?” demanded Bonilla. “The whole plan is blown. The cuartel is on high alert. Soldiers have already been drafted in from San Pedro.”
Lee cursed and strode off to the other end of the boat before he said something he might regret. He continued to cool his heels until Bonilla transferred over to the Emma.
The next morning, he saw how suicidal an attack on Puerto Cortés would now be. His binoculars revealed a town brimming with soldiers. Snipers on every rooftop. And streets barricaded, manned by what looked like machine gunners.
Lee was dismayed. It should have been so different. How had such a carefully calibrated plan fallen into such disarray? From Puerto Cortés, he’d intended to secure the northern coast, town by town, increasing his stores of men and ammunition with each conquest. With the lucrative customs houses under his control, he figured it would be only a matter of time before enough Bonilla supporters flocked to his standard that the whole country would fall. But none of that mattered if he couldn’t take damn Puerto Cortés!
There is only one thing for it, Lee thought. We need a new plan.
46
As the wind picked up, the revolutionary fleet separated. The plan was to rendezvous the following night off the coast of Tela, twenty-five miles east of their target. Marín may have foolishly jumped the gun, but his bush army had more sense. Bonilla hoped they were still out of sight and awaiting orders. With their hidden reinforcements, they could still surprise the defenders of Puerto Cortés by storming the town from the interior, around the back of the defenses.
Lee watched the Emma and the Britannic slip out of view. His ship’s captain was a bit slower to get going, only having a skeleton crew of one: his blind son. Lack of vision was no hindrance to the boy, who seemed to have memorized every square inch of the boat, moving around it so efficiently that the men had first doubted his sight was impaired. But no sooner had the sails filled than the wind dropped dead. The other boats had already disappeared over the horizon, and no help would be forthcoming. Most worryingly of all, dawn was approaching and the gentle tide was bringing them ever closer to the shore. If they had to be
ach the boat here, they were as good as dead. In desperation, the captain sent his boy out to the prow to whistle for wind.
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, all eyes were trained on the coastline. Molony gazed through his binoculars, spying a trail of smoke in the distance. “There’s a ship coming.”
“A banana boat?” Lee growled. “Or have we got company?”
Molony played with the focus. “I can’t tell.”
Lee grabbed the binoculars off his subordinate and pointed them at the harbor. “Everybody below.” He turned to face his men. “Now!”
“We got the entire Honduran Navy heading for us,” he explained. Seeing the worried look on Molony’s face, he grinned, adding, “It’s only one vessel, but it’s a gunboat, and we’re a sitting duck.”
“Armed?”
“And armored,” said Lee. “She’s steel, with two 42-millimeter guns.”
Molony gulped. “I reckon we swim.”
Lee laughed and slapped him on the back. “Let’s save that plan for when we really need it.” A telltale puff of smoke belched from the forward turret.
“Incoming!”
Molony went to take cover, and Lee chuckled once more. He leaned in to whisper. “There’s no way he’ll hit us from there. Don’t you worry.”
They couldn’t even see where the shell landed and watched the unwieldy gunboat go through the laborious process of repositioning. With any kind of half-gust, they could outrun it. Another shell fell harmlessly short; the gunboat began chugging toward them once more.
Molony looked worried. “General, it’s only a matter of time before—”
“You don’t know these guys. I bet he fires off a few more rounds and then quits.”
Molony smiled. “What’s the wager?”
He considered his answer for a moment. “A new hat,” he said. “When we take the capital. This thing ain’t done yet.”
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