Mercenary

by David Gaughran

  A call came out from below deck, and Lee realized that while his men could hear the gunboat discharging its guns and the shells whistling through the air, they had no idea how close they were landing. He decided to have a little fun.

  “Shit, that one was close,” he called down. “Just passed over our sail.” But before Lee could continue his torture, the gunboat gave up and headed back to the harbor. He turned to Molony. “Too chicken to try and board. I knew it.” He rubbed his palms together. “And you owe me a new hat.”

  “Only if we get to Tegus!”

  Lee narrowed his eyes. “Oh, we’re getting there all right.”

  They spent most of the day sitting there in a dead calm, inching toward the coast, until the Emma appeared—powered by gasoline and no slave to the wind—to tow them out to sea.

  Bonilla had some more bad news, however. Their bush army had been surprised and scattered, no doubt tipped off by the papers found on Marín. Bonilla suggested returning to Glover’s Reef to see if any of their plans could be salvaged.

  As night fell, the now-terrified captain lost his bearings. When dawn arrived, the Centenilla was back where it started—right off the coast of Puerto Cortés. Lee turned the air blue.

  Molony waited until Christmas had got it all out of his system before asking, “What now?”

  Lee drew himself up to his full height. “We’re going to get something to eat.” He smiled. “And there’s only one thing on the menu.”

  Utila was the smallest of the three Bay Islands—just enough room for a boatman’s village guarded by six soldiers and a solitary officer. Lee had visited the islands when comandante of Puerto Cortés, so he knew the locals spoke English and were no friends of the Spanish-descended Hondurans. The Bay Islands had originally been part of a British colony, and the slave-descended locals were an independent bunch. He explained to Molony that they’d side with anyone deposing the hated garrison.

  Night had fallen when the Centenilla reached Utila’s small harbor. Lee squeezed as many of his thirty men below deck as he could manage and ordered the rest to lie flat. Satisfied they were out of view, he turned to the ship’s captain. “Drop anchor, and don’t be shy about rattling those chains. Make sure they hear you.”

  The loud crash alerted the garrison, and the entire complement of six soldiers and a tiente rowed out toward them. As the officer’s head came alongside, Molony grabbed him and wrestled him onto the deck of their boat.

  Lee took the dagger from his belt and kneeled down beside him. “Tell your men they’re taken prisoner.” He leaned in and pressed the tip against the lieutenant’s throat. “I’m Lee Christmas, and Utila is mine now.”

  The garrison on this sedate island paradise had no interest in getting in a firefight. The men surrendered immediately before ferrying the rebels to shore in turn. A rudimentary watch was left on the boat, and the rest of the men sallied forth to enjoy the island’s pleasures: fresh fish, lobster, and crab—all washed down with coconut rum served by exquisite women who greeted the men like heroes, kindly offering them a bed for the night. When the men returned to the Centinella the next morning, they found further tribute. The deck was piled high with provisions: coconuts, papayas, melons, and oranges—more than the men could hope to eat. But their joy was cut short when a kid rowed out with a message for Lee. He balled the message, tossed it over his shoulder, and began pacing the deck, muttering increasingly inventive expletives.

  He stopped pacing only when he noticed the concern on his men’s faces. “Boys, I’m afraid the vacation is over. It seems we left a bit of a mess behind in Glover’s Reef. The Brits stumbled across our little hideout. All the ammunition boxes lying around on the beach…” He spread his hands. “They put two and two together.”

  The men groaned as he continued. “That’s right. As far as they’re concerned, we’ve launched an assault on a friendly nation from their soil—violating their neutrality. The long and the short of it is that warrants are out on all of us.”

  As the news sunk in, Lee kicked a loose coconut. “Goddamn it!”

  Molony stepped forward. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Well,” he said, straightening up. “First things first. We have to find Bonilla before the Brits do. I reckon he’ll be hugging the coast, and we should do the same. The Brits have a battle cruiser out looking for us—the HMS Brilliant—and I don’t want to die in this damn rust-bucket.”

  Murmurs spread among the men.

  “I know what some of you are thinking.” Lee stared them down. “But if we cut-and-run and leave Bonilla to the Brits, or, worse, the Hondurans, this revolution is over.” He smiled. “And you boys won’t get your pay. Now, are we ready to go a huntin’?”

  The crew responded in unison. “Yes, sir!”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Molony, mount a machine gun at the stern—just in case.” Lee nodded to a couple of the Hondurans. “You two, pile some sandbags up either side. Captain,”—he looked at Captain Woods—“let’s get the hell out of here. Point her south. Aim for Trujillo. We’ll work our way back up the coast.”

  A couple of hours later, about eight hundred yards from the coast, Lee warned the captain not to get any closer. “Keep her steady. If Bonilla’s around, we’ll spot him.”

  It had become clear that every garrison town along the Caribbean coast had been notified about the Centinella. As they passed the town of Balfate, four hundred soldiers marched out to the strand as a show of force. Molony grabbed the binoculars. “General, a small vessel is approaching.”

  Lee followed Guy’s line of sight, shielding his eyes from the sun. “A cayuco. It’ll be a message.” He turned to the captain. “Stop her dead. Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  It was addressed to Lee, and was to the point: come ashore and surrender. He turned to his men. “Feel like surrendering today?”

  “Hell no!”

  He chuckled. “All right, then. Let’s have some fun.” He sat down to scribble a message in his barely legible hand. Grinning, he passed it down to the cayuco.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Molony.

  Lee smiled. “I invited him out to sea to settle the matter.”

  Thirty minutes later, the cayuco was back with a reply.

  Lee opened it and guffawed. “This is swell. We’ve really got under his collar.” He ran his finger under the jagged script. “I’m a yanqui something … a mercenary … a gringo something else—well, we knew all that! And I can make out his name this time: Pedro Díaz.” He looked at Molony. “Give me those binoculars.”

  Lee peered out at the coast. “Yep, thought so.” He turned to his men. “I know this guy. Short, fat, and ugly to boot. He almost killed his tiente one day after catching him in bed with his wife. I don’t blame the poor woman. Díaz looks like he’s never broken a sweat in his whole sorry life.”

  He hastily scrawled another message, handed it to the cayuco peddler, and turned to the ship’s captain. “Start her up, nice and slow. We’ll get Díaz sweating yet.”

  Under the noonday sun, the Centinella started moving, just a little faster than walking pace and parallel to the coast. The soldiers took turns peering through the binoculars, watching Díaz and his men struggle to keep up in the baking heat.

  “Spread out some awnings over the decks,” Lee told the men. “And let’s get some of these coconuts open. It’s getting mighty hot!”

  The men lined up at the rail, relishing the sweet juice, laughing as the soldiers toiled in the heat to follow the Centinella all the way to Nuevo Armenia. Once there, Lee ordered the captain to stop. He stepped up to the rail and stretched, yawning in full view of Díaz and his troops. “Nice ride,” he said, grinning. “But maybe it’s time to head back.”

  To the despair of the soldiers tracking them, the Centinella turned and headed back where it had come from—at the exact same speed. Through the binoculars, Lee could see Díaz spitting and cursing. His soldiers roared in frustration, aimed their rifles at the Ce
ntinella, and began firing wildly. Much to the men’s amusement, the captain hit the deck in mock terror and crawled to the sandbags that shielded the machine gun, despite the boat being well out of range.

  He turned to Molony. “Time to give ’em a taste of your gun.”

  Molony took his position at the machine gun and kicked the captain. “You’re in the way, you’d best move.”

  The captain looked up in fright. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Molony chuckled. “On your head be it.” He shifted the gun slightly so the red-hot casings would fall directly on the captain’s head. Kneeling, he let out a short practice burst, just to get his range, and then got into position. With the next burst, he raked the white sand. The terrified soldiers ran straight into the bush. Even though the beach was now clear, Molony kept firing, amused at the yelps of the ship’s captain.

  By the next morning, they were back on Utila. Good news awaited them for a change. Bonilla and the Emma were safe—waiting at a small island just outside Puerto Barrios. “This is it, boys,” said Lee. “In Guatemalan waters, the Brits can’t touch us. We’ll ship out at nightfall.”

  47

  Lee and Molony paddled over to the island where Bonilla’s men had decamped, and the Honduran embraced them both warmly.

  “My general,” he said to Lee, “good to see you again.” Their disagreement had been forgotten in the face of a greater threat.

  “If you’re looking for a plan,” said Lee. “I don’t got one.” He dug his toes into the sand.

  “I do.” A mysterious smile spread across Bonilla’s face. “We surrender.”

  “Are you crazy?” yelled Lee. Lowering his voice, he added, “What the hell do you mean surrender?”

  “Not to Davíla,” Bonilla said. “Or the British.”

  Lee eyed him, confused.

  “To Cabrera.” Bonilla smiled once more.

  It took a moment for it to sink in. Surrender to the Guatemalan authorities would be in name only, but would satisfy the diplomatic protocols that the British—with their battle cruiser—were so fond of. Lee allowed himself a smile before his brow creased with worry again. “What about the guns? The munitions?”

  Bonilla tapped his nose and walked up to the tree line, where a bunch of crates sat out of reach of the water. “Tranquilo,” he said, kneeling in the dirt. “Everything has been arranged.” The boxes had not yet been nailed shut, and Bonilla flicked one open with the knife from his belt. He held the lid while Lee peered inside. It was filled with sand and shells.

  “Ingenious,” said Lee, putting his arm around Bonilla. “But where do the real guns go?”

  Bonilla pointed across the bay. “Our friends in Livingston.”

  Lee chuckled and called Molony over, pointing at the boxes. “Nail all these shut. Good and tight, now.”

  In the meantime, Bonilla divided up the remaining three thousand dollars of the revolutionary kitty to pay each man what he was owed. Lee watched in admiration, knowing full well that the men would have accepted less, given they had seen no real action. He also knew that money would be badly needed for the next attempt at winning back his country.

  By the time Bonilla was done, the sun was peeking over the horizon.

  48

  Three days later, Lee and Bonilla sailed into Puerto Barrios and surrendered to Guatemalan authorities.

  The Guatemalans did nothing, other than put them on a train to Guatemala City; there they met their old benefactor, President Cabrera, who gave them the freedom of the city.

  Adelaide was happy to see him, but Lee sensed some residual frostiness. He was back earlier than planned, in one piece too, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he disappeared again. Sure enough, after Lee had been lying low for a few weeks, Bonilla sent a message. They were to travel to Puerto Barrios to meet El Amigo.

  Lee found Bonilla on the train and took the seat beside him. They shook hands solemnly; no grand Latin embrace this time. “Who’s El Amigo anyways?” Lee asked, leaning in close.

  Bonilla raised an eyebrow. “What do you call him?”

  He had to think about it for a moment before realizing whom Bonilla meant. He chuckled. “Why, the Banana Man, of course. Although, I’ll admit El Amigo has a certain charm.”

  When they arrived at Puerto Barrios, an intermediary took them straight to the clandestine meeting place—a deserted storeroom in an abandoned hotel. Sam Zemurray sat alone at a table, two empty chairs facing him, clenching and unclenching his fists. Lee could tell Zemurray was tense and knew he was no wide-eyed yanqui mixing in matters he didn’t understand. Zemurray couldn’t afford for this revolution to falter either. He had too much invested in it. It was his only chance to level the playing field with competitors like Standard Fruit or the giant United Fruit Company.

  Zemurray greeted them with a curt nod. “We have to be quick,” he warned. “If this treaty goes through, I’m finished.”

  Bonilla did his best to calm him. “We have some time.”

  Lee lit a puro, as Bonilla continued. “Even if Dávila signs the treaty, it won’t get through Congress—not on the first attempt, at least. Too many people have a personal interest to hand over the customs houses without a fight. And the people aren’t happy with their yanqui cousins right now. As I said, we have a little time.”

  Zemurray nodded a few times, as if digesting the information with each movement of his head; then he looked to Lee. “What do you need to get things moving again?”

  “Not much in the way of arms and munitions. We still have most of that stored safely.” He took a drag from his puro, exhaling toward the ceiling. “But we need something else. A boat. I mean, a real boat—something fast enough to outrun the Hondurans.”

  Zemurray paused, nodding again. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Pretty soon, Lee was back to hustling for troops, selling the prospect of a grand adventure in Honduras to the many soldiers of fortune kicking around. When word got back to Washington, the Americans made known their displeasure. Their consul in Puerto Cortés had already alerted them that the whole northern coast was talking about Bonilla’s return. To assuage them, Cabrera deported Lee and Bonilla to New Orleans.

  Lee Christmas was on the way home again, but he didn’t plan on staying long.

  49

  Lee stepped off the steamer, Bonilla right behind him, and scanned the crowd for Guy Molony. “Shouldn’t be too hard to spot him,” he told Bonilla, over his shoulder. “Damn kid is a giant.”

  Bonilla dug him in the back and pointed. Molony, towering over the thronging hawkers and gawkers, was waving at them, a goofy grin on his face. He reddened as Bonilla enveloped him in a full-throated embrace, cringing at the snickers of the stevedores who idled nearby. Lee grabbed Guy’s hand and near shook his arm out of its socket. “Guy, we’re gonna hit them again.” He fixed him with a stare. “You hear me?”

  “Well,” said Molony, “that’s the best news since I got word you were coming.”

  Lee smiled. “Miss me that much?”

  “Honestly, I was more excited about getting the afternoon off.”

  “New job eating into your leisure time?” Lee poked him in the ribs.

  “You sound like my boss,” said Molony, before adopting a haughty tone. “The Otis Elevator Company doesn’t tolerate daydreamers, Mr. Molony.”

  “Ouch,” said Lee. “I’d probably knock his block off.”

  “Tell me about it.” Molony winced. “It was worth it for the cover story, but I think that’s blown now.”

  The smile vanished from Lee’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “Two men,” said Molony, leaning in. “Over my left shoulder. The taller one followed me here. The other guy, I guess he was here already.”

  Lee scanned the crowd until he saw the two Molony was talking about. He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “They know you spotted them?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Then let’s start walking.” He picked up Bonil
la’s suitcase and handed it to Molony. “Don’t pay them any attention.”

  Molony bent his head to Lee. “You still want to go to the place on Basin Street?”

  “It’s ready, ain’t it?”

  “Sure, I just thought—”

  “We act as normal. Stick to the plan.”

  Once the trio had made their way through the crowded pier, they took the streetcar up to Toulouse. Bonilla craned his neck during the short journey, drinking in the sights and sounds of New Orleans. He got even more animated as they walked through the French Quarter, clapping at the brass bands that played on every street corner, and marveling at the tuba player who danced while hitting his notes, the instrument wrapped around his corpulent frame. And he gaped open mouthed at the painted ladies of Basin Street who flashed their skirts at passersby, trying to tempt them into their abodes of ill repute.

  “Put the suitcase down,” Lee told Molony once they were inside the safe house. Then he turned to Bonilla. “These are your digs,” he said. “I’m staying with a friend.”

  Bonilla nodded and walked to the window to gaze out over the street. “Who was that following us?”

  “US Treasury,” said Molony. “I think, anyways. This treaty has been getting a lot of press. A lot of powerful people want this thing signed, and they don’t want any revolutin’ getting in the way. Not until it’s signed, at least.”

  “Zemurray’s backing will disappear if that treaty is signed,” said Bonilla.

  Lee smiled. “Well, then, we best act quick.”

  50

  Two weeks later, Zemurray came through, and Lee hurried down to Lake Pontchartrain to inspect the vessel. He strolled along the pier until he came to the right boat—the Hornet. A figure tooling about on deck waved to him. “You must be Lee, Sam told me you were coming.”

  He reached up and shook the man’s hand. “Captain Johnson, I take it.”

  “Please, call me Charles.” He smiled. “Hop aboard and I’ll show you around.”