Guy had enough too, and slipped away quietly. If his time in the Philippines had taught him anything, it was that this was no time to be sitting around listening to these guys jabber on. He took three men, all armed with shovels, and headed for the riverbank. They begin digging, relentlessly urged on by Guy when they took a breather.
“Here! You really mustn’t, you know!” One of the British naval officers ran toward the digging crew.
“Mustn’t what, exactly?” Guy sneered.
“Fortify your position,” replied the Briton in a haughty tone. “We’re here under a flag of truce. You really mustn’t. It’s just not cricket.”
He dropped his spade and balled his fists. “I’ll give you cricket.” He pointed to La Ceiba. “Tomorrow, it’s me they’re going to be shooting at, not you.” He picked up his shovel once more, jabbing its blade at the Brit. “Besides, I’d like to see anyone try and stop me.”
Their raised voices attracted the attention of the truce party, who approached, their numbers restoring the British officer’s bravery. “Don’t you see?” He addressed Guy in a shrill tone. “You are preparing a fortified position under our flag of truce. The town’s defenders can’t fire on you while we are here, and you are taking advantage. That trench is going to be very useful to you tomorrow.”
Christmas caught up and winked at Guy. He clapped the haughty British officer on the back, almost a little too hard; he nearly slipped into the trench. “We won’t be here long enough to use it,” he said. “We’ll be in La Ceiba before dinner.”
“Laid out, and covered with blankets,” said the officer. “Ready for burial.”
Christmas grinned. “In that case, make sure to pick out a dry spot for us, because we’re wet enough now to last through hell.”
His mood brightened by this interchange, Christmas signed all the documents requested of him. A few hours after they departed, he received one final message from the delegates, reminding him of his responsibility under the rules of war to request the town’s surrender before launching any attack.
Molony stood back as Christmas turned the air blue.
61
On the morning of January 25, 1911, Lee gathered his officers in the tent at the mouth of the Cangrejal River, just short of La Ceiba. Terms of surrender had been rejected the night before, meaning the rebels had finally satisfied the Byzantine conditions of the British and American naval officers. Lee went over the plan of attack one more time with his officers, a gentle breeze passing through the tent as he spoke.
“We have two main problems here,” he said, “aside from being outnumbered, of course. But we’re used to that. Luckily, some of you can take whole towns on your own.”
McLaurie slapped Gonzales on the back, as Lee continued. “The neutral zone—as I’ve explained already—cannot be breached, no matter what.” He paused, eyeing the men in turn. “I’m serious about this. The Americans and the Brits are itching to get involved, and believe me when I say they won’t be joining our side.”
“I wouldn’t mind havin’ a pop at that Brit,” said McLaurie.
Lee chuckled. “Guy, too, I’d imagine.” He stopped and looked back over the assembled faces. “Where’s Molony?”
McLaurie yanked a thumb in the direction of the river mouth. “Still digging that trench.”
“Still?” He waved a hand. “Anyway, you’ll both have plenty to shoot at later on. But before I get to that, between here and La Ceiba is this jungle.” He indicated the dense foliage on the other side of the river. “If you try to cut through it, you’ll get all tangled up before you know what’s what. Only one road through it. Crosses the river by a ford a little bit inland.”
He looked to one of his commanders. “Leiva, you’ll take your men up to that ford. They’re dug in on the other side, and I’m guessing that’s where most of their troops will be—that’s where they’ll expect us to attack, at least. But all you’ll need to do is keep them engaged.”
Leiva nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I mean it,” he said, his eyes darting to Gonzales. “Don’t attempt to push through unless they start falling back. We just need you to keep ’em busy.”
“As ordered, sir.” Leiva shared a grin with Gonzales.
“Meanwhile, me, Ed, Joe, Pedro, and Guy will take a detachment of men along the strip of beach fronting the jungle.” He took a deep breath then exhaled. “It’s gonna be tricky. The beach turns into mud pretty quick—a swampy marsh they’ve strung eight lines of barbed wire across. They’ve got some fortified trench down there with a Krupp gun covering the whole thing, probably a company of men also. Not too many, though. They think it’s impregnable,” Lee smiled, “but we’ll find a way through.”
He drew himself up to his full height. “Boys, I want this fight over quickly. They might outnumber us, but a lot of their men have been conscripted and have sympathies with our side. If the tide turns quickly in our favor, I think they’ll lay down their guns. But if it gets drawn out, they may take a liking to their side after all. Got that?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Anyone I spoke to beforehand, follow me. The rest of you, go with General Leiva. And I’ll see you in La Ceiba.”
He walked out of the tent, down toward the cayucos, looking back up at the trench—the digging of which had so antagonized the British. His men piled into the dugout canoes, leaving Lee last to step aboard. As they pushed off, he looked back once more in Guy’s direction. “Hope he’s ready,” he said.
“He’s been digging all night,” said McLaurie. “If he ain’t ready now…” He shrugged.
Lee switched his attention to the opposite bank. “Keep your eyes peeled, boys.” There were more dangerous elements of the plan, but nothing that left them quite so exposed. He noticed a few of his men muttering prayers as they paddled across. To his relief, they reached the other side without incident, the first cayuco of troops taking position while the rest landed and pulled their boats ashore.
He signaled back to Molony. The ditch wasn’t needed after all. After waiting fifteen minutes for the machine gun crews to make their way down and paddle across, Lee was desperate to get into position before Leiva’s men engaged the main body of La Ceiba’s defenders, so much so that he almost yanked Molony out of the cayuco.
“Take a couple of men and start out ahead of us,” he instructed. “Keep your eyes peeled. We don’t know exactly where this trench is yet. Find a position to bed down. Two machine guns and the Hotchkiss should do the trick. Take out that Krupp gun first chance you get.”
Molony squinted back at him. “When?”
“What do you mean when? Now!”
“I’ve been in that trench all night. I haven’t had a damn thing to eat.”
Lee reached into his pocket and withdrew some stale animal crackers. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Molony, stuffing his face, crumbs coating his stubble. “I mean real food.”
Lee smiled and nodded toward the town. “There’s plenty of good grub in there.”
Before Molony could respond, gunshots rang out in the distance. “That must be Leiva.” Lee turned back to Molony. “Git going!”
62
Guy Molony started off along the beach with the other gunners and their crews, still sore about missing breakfast. He heard the crackle of defensive fire almost instantly. Something slapped his face and he looked around, confused; none of the others were close enough to have struck him. Pulling his hand away from his cheek, he noticed the blood. Must have been grazed by a bullet. Further rounds kicked up sand far behind him. “Hit the deck!” he bellowed.
Once Guy got his bearings, he figured the enemy was firing high because they were behind some kind of tall embankment. He propped himself up on his knees. When no fire came, he ordered his men to do likewise and rigged up his machine gun on the spot, aiming it at the origin of the enemy fire on the other side of the marsh and letting off a few short bursts. Silence was the sole response, punctuated by distant gunfire from Leiva’s inlan
d engagement of the enemy. Molony looked back to see Christmas, McLaurie, and the rest of the men advancing toward their position, only to come under heavy fire. When Guy went to lay down cover, his gun jammed; he cursed.
The dense scrubland around the swamp screened the enemy from view, and the barbed wire ran right out into the water. He couldn’t get enough of a fix on the enemy’s position to take them out with the Hotchkiss. Guy’s palms blistered on the searing-hot gun barrel as he tried desperately to un-jam it, while Gonzales braved a hail of bullets to wade out and try to get eyes on whatever was halting their advance.
Running back from the water, bullets splashing all around him, Pedro dove onto the sand beside Guy. “Enemy position,” he panted. “Fortified. Maybe one hundred and fifty yards ahead.” Gonzales held a hand up as he gathered breath. “Barbed wire only goes a few yards into the water. We can wade around it and charge them.”
“Like hell, we’re supposed to…” Guy paused, snapping his fingers. “Did you say a hundred and fifty yards?”
Gonzales pointed. “Right there.”
He whooped, and called out to Joe Reed. The three of them hauled the Hotchkiss into position and aimed six shots, one after the other, right where Pedro reckoned the trench was. That was enough for Gonzales; he charged toward the water, wading until he could circumnavigate the first of the eight fence posts where the barbed wire terminated.
Guy sighed, picked up a rifle, and turned to Reed. “Watch these guns.” With four recruits in tow, he raced after Gonzales, holding his weapon high, out of the tide. For a moment, he thought the splashing of the men trailing him was a hail of enemy bullets, and he braced for the inevitable. It was a couple of seconds before he realized, somewhat sheepishly, that the enemy wasn’t shooting at all. He caught up with Gonzales, and they rounded the last fence post and looked back to see Christmas leading the remaining men into the water.
The six in the advance party charged the trench, yelling and hollering, only to discover it abandoned; the front of the fortifications had been completely blown away. He turned to Gonzales, grinning. “One of those potshots got lucky.” He looked around, remembering something. “Hey, where’s their gun?”
“Maybe they hauled it away.”
Guy shook his head. “Wouldn’t have had time. These guys beat it in a hurry.” At the waterline, he spied a dark shape lurking below the surface. “They dumped it. Come on.” Molony beckoned to the others. “Help me with this thing.”
It took all six of them, but they managed to haul the Krupp out of the ocean. Guy smiled. “They left the ammo too. Come on, boys, let’s swing this ’round and point it at that there cuartel.”
Before they could move into position, Christmas burst out of the water, hurtling toward them, a panicked look on his face. “Guy, are you okay? We heard the shooting stop…” He caught his breath, placing his rifle at his feet. “We thought you were a goner.” He tilted his head, examining Guy. “Hey, they got you.”
“Huh?” Guy’s hand went instinctively to his jaw. “Aw, just a lucky shot. Only grazed me. No big deal.”
Christmas gave him a stern look. “Try ducking next time.”
He grinned. “Why—”
“Enemy approaching,” screamed McLaurie, raising his weapon. “And I don’t think they’re surrendering.”
“Get to the barricades.” Christmas stooped low, grabbing his gun. “And start shootin’.”
Across the railroad track that separated the trench from the outer streets of La Ceiba, enemy soldiers advanced, ducking in and out of doorways, firing on the group’s position. Molony and the rest of the men laid down a withering response. The enemy began retreating. A gray mule rode into view, bearing an officer who urged his men forward, convincing them with the flat of his machete. Without Christmas giving the order, a dozen bullets tore into the officer’s torso. They watched in disbelief as he wheeled his beast around and sought cover in a side street. Before Guy could react, Lee clambered out of the trench and raced after him, with Pedro Gonzales right on his heels.
Christmas stopped at an abandoned machine-gun placement—a newer model too.
“She jammed, but I can fix her.” Guy kneeled down to examine the weapon. “No ammo, though.”
“Maybe in the cuartel.”
They kept moving, following the rest of their men, edging through the town, securing each side street as they passed. The cuartel was directly in front of them. When they charged, they found the enemy had already retreated and that Pedro Gonzales controlled the building. He was haranguing the sole occupant—the terrified warden of the arsenal, whose hands shook as he handed over the keys.
They immediately began loading up the machine guns with all of that fresh ammunition, and when they were done Christmas noticed Gonzales had disappeared again. He nudged Guy. “Pedro must have gone to liberate Puerto Cortés.” Their peals of laughter had only just subsided when Gonzales returned, red-faced and panting, triggering another laughing fit.
Gonzales tapped his foot, waiting for them to quit. “Found the rest of them,” he said. “They’re all in a trench on the other side of that cemetery we saw on the way up here. Only thing is, they’re right in front of that Neutral Zone.” He winked at Christmas, smiling. “And Pedro Díaz is with them.”
Christmas clapped his hands together. “This couldn’t have worked out better.” He turned to Guy. “You take Pedro and that fancy new machine gun and pin Díaz down in that trench. Just be careful with those bullets. I don’t want to give anyone an excuse to stop this fight. Me, Reed, and McLaurie will stay right here. I’ve got a feeling that group engaging Leiva’s men might start retreating this way—they’ve nowhere else to go, and we’ve got to hold this cuartel. Díaz won’t be able to go anywhere. He’s backing right onto the Neutral Zone.”
They set up their machine gun right at the edge of the cemetery, using a tombstone for cover. Guy fed a belt into the gun as he surveyed the scene. The enemy was dug into a long trench at the back of the graveyard, firing occasionally from the top. Just behind them, in front of a row of houses, was the Neutral Zone—or so he guessed, given that it was fronted by a line of British marines with bayonets drawn. Guy trained the sights low. He didn’t want to draw those bastards into the fight.
After each withering burst of fire, the enemy was temporarily cowed, and Guy and his crew crept a little further forward. The pace of the advance was interminably slow for the likes of Gonzales, whose constant demands to charge the trench became too much for Molony. After another vicious blast from his machine gun, Guy turned to him. “Shut up, Pedro. I don’t want to hear it.”
“You don’t have any huevos, you know that?” Gonzales stood. “If I had that gun, I’d charge right over there, shove it down the throat of Don Pedro Díaz and—” His tirade was cut short by a bullet whizzing through the air and tearing through his upper arm. Gonzales looked down at his wound, furious, but he still didn’t take cover. “Hijo de puta!”
Guy smiled. “Best take yourself back to the cuartel, Pedro. That looks nasty.” As Gonzales trudged away, Molony called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry! I’ll try not to have too much fun.” He followed his comment with a lengthy burst of fire, as Gonzales sulked back to Christmas and McLaurie.
The defenders of the trench had suffered enough. They poured out, attempting to retreat, only to run into a wall of marines that wouldn’t let them pass. Guy held his fire, watching the spectacle unfold through his sights. There appeared to be an argument of some sort. Several men were getting right in the face of one British sailor, who didn’t even blink. Then the government forces dropped their weapons at their feet, raised their arms in the air, and walked into the Neutral Zone.
“All right, boys,” said Molony. “Let’s pack her up. We’re going back to the cuartel.”
He found Christmas in a heated discussion with British and American officers. His face darkened as he looked up to see Molony. “What are you doing here?” he growled. “I told you to keep ’em in tha
t damn trench!”
“They ran out,” replied Molony, shrugging.
“What do you mean ‘they ran out’? Where to, goddamn it?”
“The Neutral Zone,” said Guy. “They surrendered. The damn trench is empty, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.”
“Now, gentlemen.” Lee returned his attentions to the naval officers opposite. “You see?”
They nodded reluctantly. Guy watched as Christmas pressed home the point.
“Here are the facts,” he said. “I control the beach, the cuartel, the graveyard—the whole town from here up to the Neutral Zone. The only enemy troops that haven’t surrendered are down by the river. Their comandante is wounded, and Leiva should break through shortly.” He paused. “If you don’t go down there and ask them to surrender, I’ll take the rest of my men and attack their rear. They won’t have a chance.” Christmas spread his hands. “We could have a slaughter on our hands.”
Guy was impressed. He knew it was a bluff—they had no idea how Leiva was faring, and he didn’t sound like he was going to break through any time soon—but the sadness on Lee’s face looked so real that he was almost moved. The assembled naval officers stood as one and marched down to the remaining Dávila troops, insisting upon their surrender. Only afterward did it become clear that the disarmed government forces were far more numerous than the rebels they had surrendered to. Leiva had suffered numerous losses, and was in quite some difficulty toward the end.
But by two o’clock in the afternoon, La Ceiba had fallen.
63
The former comandante of La Ceiba succumbed to his wounds that night and was buried the next day with full military honors. Lee ordered the release of all captured prisoners, so they could show their respects at the funeral—with one exception, Pedro Díaz. Díaz had made many enemies during his stint in the Honduran army. With a large number of his ex-subordinates having defected to the rebels, the British felt it prudent that Díaz remain captive.
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