Mercenary

by David Gaughran

  He signaled down to Molony to shift the gun up the hill, hoping to cover their advance on the cuartel. The machine gun in place, Lee ordered the charge. He combined with McLaurie’s forces at the base of the bluff, and advanced street by street toward the wide-open plaza that fronted the cuartel. Lee was just about to order his men into position when he took one last look at the target. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Gonzales, alone, was accepting the surrender of the garrison, directing the enemy soldiers to lay their arms against the wall.

  After signaling Bonilla for the Hornet to come ashore, Lee grabbed Pedro Gonzales. “What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, with a slight smirk. “As soon as I hit the other side of that river, I just started running.”

  “Guess you forgot about the machine gun we were hauling,” growled Lee. “And my orders to keep together.”

  “I know,” said Gonzales. “I didn’t mean to go any further than that hilltop.”

  Lee rolled his eyes. “And yet…”

  “I must have surprised the team manning the cannon.”

  “Surprised them? You surprised me!”

  Gonzales nodded. “Shot three before they knew what was happening, but two of them ran down toward the town, heading for the cuartel.”

  Lee grunted, as Gonzales continued, “It was too late then to wait for reinforcements.” The Honduran smirked again. “Or orders.”

  It still didn’t make sense. “How did you get the entire cuartel to surrender?”

  “I chased those hijos de putas all the way into town. They’d ditched their weapons, so they were moving a little faster than me. I let off a couple of rounds, hoping they’d hit the dirt, but they just kept running.” He shrugged.

  “Then what?”

  “Well, I had to keep going at that point, so I chased them all the way through town, across the plaza, and right into the cuartel.” Lee shook his head in amazement as Gonzales continued. “The comandante surrendered on the spot. Guess they thought I had an army right behind me.”

  Lee slapped his leg. “Shit. If we don’t get a real firefight soon…” He embraced Gonzales, but growled in his ear. “Now don’t do that again.”

  Not only had Lee captured Trujillo without the loss of a single life, he had increased the rebels’ stores by adding one cannon, four hundred rifles, and twenty thousand rounds of ammunition. Bonilla entered the town to a surge of recruits, and several businessmen also pledged their support. He’d left Guatemala two weeks beforehand with an “army” of thirty officers; now, his gringo general commanded four hundred men.

  It was looking promising—until another American warship, the USS Marietta, sailed into the bay of Trujillo.

  58

  Aboard the USS Marietta, Commander George Cooper beckoned his first officer. “When does Christmas get here?”

  “Sir?”

  “The damn mercenary,” snapped Cooper.

  “He’s on his way.”

  “Good. Anything on the wire?”

  “Yes, sir. An army of Bonilla sympathizers that had been hiding out in El Salvador has raided across the border, striking at several small towns. Dávila estimates their numbers at several hundred. He has dispatched five hundred reserves to drive them back. He has also instituted the draft in La Ceiba and Puerto Cortés. Every Honduran male of military age is required to report to their local barracks. Our local consul reports increasingly frantic requests for US intervention.”

  Cooper nodded. “I just wish Washington would give us some clear orders.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. I’m taking the matter in hand. Let me know as soon as Christmas comes.” Cooper retired to his State Room, always preferring to negotiate amidst its gilded splendor. Opulence had a funny effect on people. Some men grew weak-kneed just going in there, especially after walking the length of the deck and seeing the firepower at Cooper’s command.

  He didn’t know much about this mercenary, Leon Christmas. The file was alarmingly thin, his Washington contacts had informed him. From what he could tell, Christmas was just a hired goon with a knack for being in the right place at the right time. He’d had no formal military training, despite seeming competent enough in the field, and Commander Cooper had been around long enough to respect Napoleon’s maxim about lucky generals.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and his aide slipped in. “General Christmas is here, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  The mercenary stepped inside, smiling, and then strode over to Commander Cooper and gave him a hearty handshake.

  “Damn,” said Christmas, taking the room in and beaming at Cooper. “Nice digs.”

  As Christmas gaped at the room’s finery, Cooper took the opportunity to examine him. He cut an impressive figure, Commander Cooper had to admit, despite being a little rougher around the edges than expected.

  Uninvited, Christmas dropped into a chair opposite Cooper’s grand mahogany desk. “Been roughin’ it the last few weeks.” He smiled again. “But I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “Drink, General?” Cooper didn’t wait for a reply, instead taking a bottle and two glasses from a drawer.

  Christmas held the glass to his nose and inhaled. “Much as I like Hondurans, they have no clue about whiskey.”

  “I’ll say.” Cooper clinked glasses with the man before taking a sip. He let the smile fall from his face. “Let’s get down to business.”

  Christmas drained a considerable measure in one gulp, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ready when you are.” He grinned.

  “Bonilla won’t let me put a guard aboard,” said Cooper. “I don’t want to leap to conclusions about your actions, but that does make me suspicious.”

  “Would you?” Christmas smiled again.

  The mercenary’s demeanor was putting Cooper off his stride. “Would I what?”

  “Let us put a guard aboard your vessel.”

  Commander Cooper eyed the man for a moment. “That’s what Bonilla said. The reason I asked you here was to urge you, in the strongest possible terms, to await the decision on the status of the Hornet before engaging in any further revolutionary activity. You must convince Bonilla.”

  “And who makes that decision? Washington?”

  Cooper nodded.

  “It will be next year before those blowhards make up their minds.”

  Cooper suppressed a laugh. “Look, Lee, I’ll be frank. I think you’re engaging in activity that your country—the United States of America—does not desire. I also think you pulled a fine ruse getting the Hornet out of New Orleans. But the game is up.”

  Christmas produced a small cigar and lit it, inhaling deeply. “The Hornet is a transport vessel, nothing more.” He blew a circle of smoke across the desk toward Cooper, exhaling the rest through his nose. “You’ve searched her for arms,” he added. “She’s clean. And she’s flying the Honduran flag. You have no lawful reason to impede her operation.”

  “Let’s be absolutely clear.” Cooper tried to keep an edge out of his voice. “This treaty will be signed. And the Hondurans will ratify.” He stood, his knuckles on the desk, leaning toward Christmas. “Once that happens, any of your mercenaries in the field will be considered enemy combatants.” He leaned in further. “American or not.”

  Christmas exhaled another circle of smoke. “We prefer the term ‘soldier of fortune’.” He stubbed out his puro in the whiskey tumbler. “And I’ll take this damn country before you get your boots wet, Commander.”

  59

  The Americans were going to put a stop to the revolution—or such were the rumors after the Paredes–Knox treaty was signed in Washington. However, it was still unclear whether the Honduran Congress would ratify the treaty. Bonilla and his rebels would need to capture the entire northern coast before a vote was held; yet the rebels weren’t quite ready to launch an attack on La Ceiba. Recruits were still pouring into Trujillo, and Bonilla wanted them equipped and trai
ned first. With the Americans on his back, he figured he’d only get one chance. Instead, he dispatched Lee to seize Iriona, fifty miles further down the coast.

  Lee took Ed McLaurie and thirty men and seized the town with minimal resistance, the only blow being their first casualty. But the rebels were bolstered by the contents of Iriona’s customs treasury, the ammunitions in its cuartel, and another surge of recruits.

  Once the fallen Honduran recruit was given a proper burial, Lee ordered everyone back aboard the Hornet with as much of Iriona’s armory as the vessel could safely hold.

  “Spare no fuel,” he told the captain, anxious to see if Bonilla would finally grant permission to move on La Ceiba.

  Just short of Trujillo, a sloop bore down on them at top speed. “Hand me those binoculars,” said Lee. As he brought the vessel into focus, he could tell it was crowded with men—Bonilla’s men, waving rifles and machetes, desperately trying to get their attention. “Kill the engines.” He turned to the skipper. “Now!”

  The Hornet sat dead in the water, waves bobbing it from starboard. McLaurie came up on deck, swearing. “Something up?”

  Lee pointed to the sloop. “We got trouble.”

  McLaurie turned to bark orders down to his men, but Lee grabbed his arm. “Not that kind of trouble, Ed.”

  They watched as the smaller vessel drew alongside and lashing ropes were thrown across. He sought out the sloop’s captain. “What the hell is going on?”

  The skipper came to the rail. “Bonilla sent us,” he said, as his men tethered his boat to the Hornet. “Trouble with the yanquis. All weapons must be transferred to us.”

  Before Lee finished cursing, McLaurie had organized a chain of men from starboard to the bowels of the ship, passing up crates of rifles and boxes of ammo until the sloop looked as if it might sink under the weight. The men worked as fast as they could; if that American spotted them before the transfer was complete, they could lose everything. As soon as the last crate of rifles was on the deck of the sloop, Lee ordered the ropes untied.

  The sloop took off in the opposite direction, and the Hornet sailed around the headland and into the bay of Trujillo, right into the path of both the Marietta and the Tacoma.

  She was seized before she could even dock, and Lee’s men ordered ashore. Together, they stood on the pier with a mixture of relief and despair, watching the Tacoma tow their vessel toward Puerto Cortés. They may have lost the Hornet, but they would likely have lost their inspirational leader, too, had the Americans caught them with all of those rifles.

  60

  Losing the Hornet was a blow, but it had served its purpose: gaining Bonilla’s men a foothold on the Honduran mainland. Lee couldn’t dwell on it. He had bigger fish to fry. With the Americans ratcheting up their interference, he’d finally been granted permission to march on La Ceiba. He set out from Trujillo with a force of five hundred men.

  The small town of Nuevo Armenia was in their path, but scouts had already confirmed that any government troops stationed there had high-tailed it, probably retreating to La Ceiba. The rebels took the town unopposed, and Lee was happy to give his men a rest and a proper meal. The next morning, while he was checking supplies with Ed McLaurie, a sloop delivered a letter from Bonilla. He cursed as he read its contents. “Goddamn it!” He kicked over a crate of bananas.

  “What’s up?” asked McLaurie, beginning to place the fruit back in the box.

  Lee didn’t answer for a moment, instead pacing back and forth. “New orders from Bonilla.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yep. We gotta stay put.”

  “Goddamn it.” McLaurie flung the bananas to the ground.

  “That’s what I said.” Lee smiled momentarily, and then a frown furrowed his brow. “It’s not that bad. Apparently some army of partisans is making its way down the mountains. They’ve joined up from all over. Bonilla wants us to arm them and bring them with us.”

  “How long have we gotta wait?”

  “A couple of days,” he said. “But I don’t like it.”

  He waited, nonetheless, all the while fretting that something else would further delay their attack and worrying that the defenders of La Ceiba would perceive his stalled advance as indecision or trepidation.

  His mood soured when Molony walked into the cantina Lee had requisitioned as his headquarters, accompanying a messenger under a truce flag. “It’s the Brits this time,” said Molony, handing Lee an envelope. “He insisted on delivering it in person.”

  “This should be interesting.” Lee knifed through the waxy seal. As he scanned the contents, his face darkened. He dismissed the messenger.

  “What is it?”

  “These bastards are trying to trip us up any way they can.” Lee curled his lip.

  “Who is it from?” asked Molony. “What does it say?”

  “The captain of a British ship, this time, sticking his oar in. The HMSBrilliant.” Lee tilted his head back, sticking his nose in the air. “Captain Woollcombe relies on me to prevent my men from endangering the lives and property of British subjects.”

  Molony shook his head. “Does he now?”

  “Yeah, and it gets worse. He says it’s ‘in our best interests’ to follow certain rules he’s got laid down. And if we don’t, he has a force of men in La Ceiba that will drive us off.”

  “What rules?”

  Lee opened the convention, read the contents, and then spat on the ground. “Rat bastards. They don’t even recognize Bonilla.” He waved the document in Molony’s face. “The local garrison commander has agreed the rules of engagement with this British captain. Both their names are signed below.” He pointed at the bottom of the page. “Look.”

  Molony’s face scrunched up. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “It’s about respect. They agree the rules between them, don’t ask Bonilla, and don’t put his name on the bottom.”

  “What rules?”

  “They’re making it next to impossible for us to launch an attack. They’ve established some kind of ‘neutral zone’ where no fighting can take place, or they’ll get involved. The Americans too. The Tacoma is guarding La Ceiba along with the British.” Lee examined the document once more. “Listen to this crap,” he said. “If any bullets even pass through this neutral zone, they’ll sound their ships’ sirens. If fighting doesn’t cease, they’re gonna open fire on both armies. This is horseshit. I’m sending a reply.”

  Lee grabbed a pencil and scribbled an angry letter, denouncing the lack of consultation, the withholding of proper recognition of Bonilla’s standing, and accusing the British of breaching their neutrality by affording the defenders of La Ceiba their protection. He declared they were one day’s march from La Ceiba, and he was proceeding with his assault regardless.

  He read the letter back to Molony, who winced. Thinking better of it, Lee crumpled the page. With a sigh, he handed the communications from the British to Molony. “Have this wired to Bonilla in Trujillo.”

  Later that day, he received Bonilla’s response, ordering him to send a far more respectful reply that promised to obey the rules of war.

  * * *

  Guy Molony avoided the cantina as much as possible over the next two days. Lee was like a cat on a griddle, liable to spit at anyone who so much as looked at him. Instead, Guy busied himself with stripping and reassembling his machine guns and trying to teach others the finer points of handling such a weapon.

  Lee’s mood broke on January 22, when he got the go-ahead from Bonilla, and Guy joined the rest of the officers in the cantina for the briefing. With the plan of attack agreed upon, the rebels moved out that evening, in better spirits now that they were finally closing in on La Ceiba. It was only supposed to be a day’s march, but the incessant tropical rains hampered their progress. Guy marveled at how much water could fall from the sky, reminding him of the downpours in Manila, which could last for a week. Three days of squelching through the jungle later, the rebels finally reached the mouth of the Cang
rejal River, just short of their target.

  Before they could even set up camp, another emissary approached under a truce flag. This time, Guy let McLaurie take the messenger up to Lee. When Ed returned, Guy raised an eyebrow.

  “US Consul wants to meet Lee before he attacks La Ceiba,” McLaurie said, before smiling. “Or, should I say, the ‘Honorable General Christmas’.”

  Guy spat. “I’d say he liked that.”

  “Yup.” McLaurie chuckled. “Consul offered to come unarmed, only with his assistant, and Lee said he could bring whoever he damn well liked.”

  Guy gave McLaurie a wry grin. “This should be fun.”

  The next morning, Guy was up by the mouth of the river—where the land jutting out past the jungle afforded a view of La Ceiba—trying to determine the best spot to place his machine gun. His first job tomorrow would be covering the rebels as they crossed the river. Gazing back at the town, he spotted a launch puttering out from the wharf, and he hollered back for some binoculars. When he was able to take a closer look, he saw the boat was filled with officers. He’d never seen so much gold braid or so many unearned medals. His lip curled in disgust. “They’re coming,” he yelled.

  Ten minutes later, the dignitaries disembarked on the rebels’ side of the river mouth and marched up to Lee’s command post. Guy watched as they were all introduced: the US consul, the British vice-consul, Commander Cooper of the USS Marietta, and Captain Woollcombe of the HMS Brilliant, as well as a host of lesser officers and flunkies.

  Molony guessed it was an attempt at a show of force, and he watched Lee stifling his laughter, especially when shaking hands with the pompous British captain. They carried a whole host of agreements they wanted Lee to sign. Aside from the restrictions regarding the neutral zone, the rebels were forbidden from launching an attack that afternoon, and from initiating one at night whatsoever.

  By the final stipulation, Lee had clearly had enough. “What the hell? Is this going to be fought under the Queensbury rules? President Bonilla is a gentleman. And I’m ready to be reasonable, but goddamn all these rules!”