by Lou Cameron
“How the hell should I know? Never seen it in these waters before. Never seen this port so crowded before, neither. Don’t like it. But a deal’s a deal and they did signal us right. So I’ll give ’em a few minutes. Not too damned many, though. Ain’t been paid enough to tangle with no gunboat, Mexican or, hell, Bulgarian!”
Gaston said, “Regardez, a steam launch approaches,” and the skipper said, “I see it. Ain’t the lighter I was expecting, neither dammit to hell. What have you boys gotten us into?”
Captain Gringo said, “I’m not sure. Could I borrow that hat of yours, skipper?”
“My hat? What in the hell do you want with my hat, Mr. Walker?”
“That’s a U.S. Navy captain’s gig, or I’ll eat it, and your hat, bill and all. It’s too late to run for it and my blond hair shows in the moonlight. You don’t look like anyone they could be after.”
The older man handed his merchant officer’s cap to Captain Gringo, saying, “I sure hope you’re a good talker. It’s you they’ll question when they see you on this poop with this skipper’s cap.”
Captain Gringo said, “I used to be an officer,” as he put the rather greasy cap on and pulled the bill low. Gaston said something about inspecting the cargo and headed forward to make himself scarce. A few minutes later, the padded bow of the steam launch bumped the steel hull of the schooner, near the sea ladder, and a voice called out, “Ensign Westfield, U.S. Navy. Permission to come aboard?”
The real skipper muttered, “Oh, Jesus!” as Captain Gringo called back, “Permission granted, swabby. Sorry we can’t pipe you aboard fancy, but this is a working vessel, not a seagoing show-off.”
The older American at his side whispered. “Have you gone crazy, Walker?”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “No talking on my bridge, mister. Just go along with me for now and I’ll show you how to deal with junior officers.”
“You’re going to make him mad, dammit!”
“Hold the thought. He’s coming aboard, with company.”
The white-clad ensign had two enlisted men, with pistol belts and SP armbands on, to keep him company as he came up the ladder and strode pompously aft. Captain Gringo moved forward to stare coldly down at them from the poop as he said, “Well, I see you made her up the ladder without your mama’s help, sonny. What can we do for you?”
“My captain’s compliments, and we’d like to ask a few questions, ah, sir.”
“You got a search warrant, sonny?”
The young ensign snapped, “Look, I’m trying to be polite, but I don’t like to be called sonny and there’s a full-grown gun turret trained on your vessel, if you get my meaning.”
Captain Gringo snorted in disgust and said, “Bullshit. This is a Yankee schooner with proper registration and a license to trade in these waters. You may scare Uncle Sam’s little brown brothers. But you don’t look like much to us! Before you hand me any more bullshit, it’s only fair to warn you I served a hitch in the service one time. So I know the standing orders better than you do, sonny.”
The pissed-off ensign sniffed and said, “I take it you were an enlisted man, of course?”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “Damned A. Chief petty officer, before I wised up and got out of your chicken shit school for seagoing servants. I haven’t had to sir one of you jerk-offs for some time. But I’ll be a good sport and meet you halfway if you’ll tell me what the fuck you want.”
The two enlisted men behind the pompous young officer were trying not to laugh as he threw back his shoulders and said, “That’s better. My orders are to ascertain what this vessel is doing in these waters.”
Captain Gringo turned to the real skipper at his side and asked, “Don’t they teach them to talk pretty at Annapolis?” Then he turned back to the navy men and said, “What we’re up to is none of your fucking business. But I’ll tell you anyway, because you’re so pretty in them tropic whites. We put in here to pick up a passenger. She’ll be out here soon or we’ll be leaving without her.”
“She?” asked the ensign with a puzzled frown. Captain Gringo wanted the navy to stay puzzled and, hopefully, distracted, so he answered, “Yep. Can’t tell you what she looks like or how she feels about sailors. They just told us she wants to go up the coast to Mazatlán. You can’t get there by land, as you’d know if you ever read your charts.”
“I know Mazatlán is cut off from the inland by mountains, dammit. Never mind your Mexican passengers. Are you landing anyone or anything here?”
“Who wants to know? Are you a Mexican customs officer? I’d have taken you for U.S. Navy. I sure hope you haven’t boarded me under false pretenses, sonny. What the hell are you guys doing in this port, by the way?”
“I’ll ask the questions here, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, sonny. This ain’t your yard I’m anchored in. You’re just down here showing the stars and stripes to the natives, and I ain’t no native. So don’t try to push an old sea lawyer around. You’re talking to a licensed master of the U.S. Merchant Marine. So if you don’t want to talk polite, get the fuck off my vessel!”
By now the two tougher shore patrolmen were grinning at each other behind their officer’s back. The ensign was smart enough to know he was being made a fool of, too. But, as Captain Gringo had hoped, he didn’t know what he could do about it.
He said, “Very well. I’ll inform my commanding officer how you feel about the U.S. Navy and we shall see what we shall see.”
Captain Gringo chuckled indulgently and said, “Oh, hell, I don’t want a war with you, sonny. Just so we understand I don’t have to take no shit off you, I’ll let you see our papers and show you the cargo manifest. My mate here has ’em.” He turned to the real skipper and said, “Show junior our papers, Smitty.”
The Yankee skipper swore under his breath and said, “They’re in my desk, ah, Skipper.”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Go get ’em, then. May as well send these boys away happy.”
The real skipper moved for the nearest hatchway, fast, as Captain Gringo told the navy boarding party they could smoke if they had ’em, and asked casually, “Have you checked out that cargo vessel closer to shore yet? Now there’s a tub that could be landing all sorts of awful things, if you ask me.
The ensign laughed and said, “A lot you know. We just escorted it down from San Diego. It’s a Red Cross mercy ship. You’ve heard about the earthquakes and ash falls not far from here?”
“Heard something about something like that in the hills of Guatemala. But this is Mexico, mister.”
Relieved not to be called sonny, the ensign nodded and explained, “You can’t get into the disaster area from Guatemala. The newer and bigger team means to try getting in from the north.”
“No shit? Well, I’m glad I’m not going with ’em. Hear it’s mighty rough country, inland from here. I hope, for their sake, it’s a big expedition with lots of guns.”
“It’s not the navy’s problem, once they’re all safely ashore and on their way.”
“How come you had to escort ’em down the coast, then? I’ve never met with coastal pirates in these waters, mister.”
The ensign grimaced and said, “The biggest pirate in Mexico seems to be running the country at the moment. President Cleveland himself asked Diaz to allow the International Red Cross to enter the disaster area via Mexican territory, and the greaser said no!”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “I figured there had to be some reason for a gunboat in this harbor. Ain’t it a bitch how reasonable some old boys can get when you’re pointing four-inchers at ’em?”
The ensign said it was nice to see they agreed on some things, and so, by the time the real skipper came warily back with the ship’s papers, they were on somewhat friendlier terms. The ensign scanned the papers in the poor light, as if he knew what he was reading. Captain Gringo knew he’d go back to his gunboat to report that he’d checked them out, if only to look more important than they’d made him f
eel. He hoped the skipper of the gunboat would buy it. He knew from his own experience as an officer that while one could push green shavetails and ensigns around, anyone who’d held his rank a little longer tended to push back.
As the boarding party went back over the side, Captain Gringo gave back the real skipper’s hat. The older man heaved a long sigh and said, “All right, it worked, for now. I mean to weigh anchor before they come back for a rematch. Our next port of call will be Tehuantepec. I sure hope you boys have friends there. Because that’s where you’ll be going ashore.”
Gaston came out from under the rug to join them as Captain Gringo said, “Let’s give our friends here another few minutes. That navy launch is almost out of sight now.”
The skipper started to say something. Gaston casually took out his six-inch blade and began to clean his fingernails with it as Captain Gringo put a hand inside his jacket and added, “Pretty pretty please?” So the skipper said he’d wait another five minutes, period.
They never got to discover just how he meant to weigh anchor without licking them both. Because it was less than five minutes before a dark lighter, lying low in the water, bumped alongside. Nobody came aboard. Someone in the lighter called out, in Spanish, “If anyone wishes for to go ashore, they had better move fast. We are not getting paid enough to spend the night out here!”
The skipper shouted orders in English to his crew and warned the men in the lighter that he’d shoot them if they tried to leave before he got rid of a couple of lunatics and their belongings. So a few minutes later Captain Gringo, Gaston, and their gear were on their way across the dark harbor with a Mexican crew not any friendlier than the guys who’d almost literally thrown them off the schooner.
Gaston asked the nearest sweep a polite question about their destination and was told, “We are not paid for to talk. We are paid for to take you ashore. The people we are delivering you to may wish for to gossip with you. They may not. If you don’t like it, swim.”
*
The lighter put in on a shingle beach beyond the last lights of the quay that less-secretive people tied up to. The men who’d brought them ashore dumped their bales and boxes on the sea-wet rocks and told them to get the hell out of their boat. Captain Gringo didn’t see anyone else around. When he asked about that, the lighter skipper told him they wouldn’t have put in there if there had been anyone waiting. He told his men to shove off. So they did, leaving the two soldiers of fortune and their gear to their own devices in the moonlight. Gaston sat on an ammo box and said, “The natives I met in North Africa with the Legion had better manners. Have you ever had the feeling you were not welcome, Dick?”
“Yeah. Don’t light that smoke. Someone’s coming.”
Gaston got back to his feet and they both took out their revolvers and held them in the side pockets of their jackets as bare feet padded over the shingle toward them. As the strangers got closer, they turned out to be a gang of kids. The biggest one, no older than twelve, took off his straw sombrero and asked, “Do you need help with your luggage, señores?”
Captain Gringo replied, “¿Quien sabe? We would have to know where we were going before we decided, muchacho.”
“I am called Gorrion. I know where you are going, señor.”
“Would it be too much to ask you where, Gorrion?”
“Si, señor. We are being paid for to take you and your luggage there, not to ask or answer questions.”
“That sounds fair. Let’s go, then.”
Gorrion told the other kids to pick up the stuff as he told the two soldiers of fortune to follow him. He didn’t offer to carry a thing, himself. Gaston muttered in English, “What a lovely child. Can you imagine what he’ll be like by the time he’s old enough to shave, Dick?”
Captain Gringo smiled thinly and said, “Rank has its privileges in any organization. They’d probably be acting nicer if they were out to screw us. But keep your eyes peeled and your hand in that pocket anyway.”
“Merde alors, did you really think you had to tell me that? But let us look at the bright side. Since everyone we have met up to now insists on treating us so rudely, we should not feel guilty when we have to cross them double, hein?”
“Watch the mouth. Kids who carry things for tourists tend to pick up English fast.”
If the punk in the lead had any idea what they thought of his manners, he didn’t show it. Gorrion led them inland into a tangle of cabbage palmetto, then cut left along a dark dirt path toward the lights of the little fishing port. But before they got close enough to the lights to worry about them, Gorrion cut right along another byway, this one through prickly pear, and led them around the outskirts of town to the back door of a low rambling building. His followers placed the stuff they’d carried this far against the stucco wall on either side of the door. Then Gorrion snapped, “¡Vamanos, muchachos!” and they all scampered off into the darkness without another word.
The soldiers of fortune looked at each other. Captain Gringo said, “Dis must be de place. Cover me while I knock.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s run.”
Captain Gringo ignored him and stepped over to knock on the door. It opened before he could, and a voice, from the inner darkness said, “Entre por favor. We have been expecting you, Captain Gringo.”
The voice sounded pleasant as well as feminine. But Captain Gringo asked, “Could we have some light on the subject, señorita? I mean no disrespect, but my mother told me never to walk into anything blind.”
She laughed and struck a match as she said that her own mother had told her never to do a lot of things she’d done anyway. He believed her. She was a tough-looking little mutt with mixed Indian and Spanish features. She wouldn’t have been bad looking if she hadn’t looked so hard and unkempt. She held up the match long enough to let him see that she wasn’t pointing anything but her pelvis at him and that the room behind her was empty. Then she shook it out, saying, “Lights attract moths and other insects in this part of town. I am called Pilar. Did you bring the machine gun?”
He said he had. So she told him to get everything inside, for God’s sake, and it only took the two men a few moments to do so. As they straightened up in the darkness, Pilar shut the door, bolted it, and struck another match to light a coal-oil lamp, saying, “Bueno. We should be safe here for the night. We will be leaving for the mountains in the morning.”
Captain Gringo asked, “Where’s here, and what do you mean when you say we in connection with the Sierra Madres, Pilar? Gaston and I learned our soldiering in armies that didn’t march with adelitas much.”
Gaston muttered, “Merde alors, speak for yourself!”
But since he said it in English, Pilar ignored Gaston and told Captain Gringo, “We are not adelitas, we are smugglers. Come, I shall introduce you to your other guide, Concepción.”
She picked up the lamp and turned away toward another door. So they followed her, if only to avoid being left in the dark. In the next room an older and fatter mestiza who’d obviously heard their arrival was putting tin plates of refritos and tortillas on a crude table, painted blue of course. Pilar introduced her companion as Concepción and told them to sit down. So they did. Captain Gringo assumed it was about time he put his .38 back in its holster under his left armpit, so he did that, too. Pilar nodded approvingly and said she admired men who thought on their feet.
As she took her own seat, Concepción brought a pitcher of sangria to the table as well. As she sat down and dug in with no further ceremony, Captain Gringo said, “Well, you girls look tough enough to climb mountains with. But what about our stuff? We brought too much for four people to pack.”
Pilar said, “I know. That is for why we have two mules. They are in what was once a spare bedroom, next to the room we left your things in. It is not safe to leave anything outside in this part of town.”
“I asked you before just where we were, Pilar.”
“I know. It is not important, since you shall never see this place again
and, should you ever be picked up by Los Rurales, would not really have any need to give them this address. We have friends who watch the old dump when we are out of town. We are out of town a lot.”
“I gathered as much, Pilar. How many smuggling runs have you girls made, so far?”
“Enough for to know the way. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking we do not look like border jumpers. That is one reason we have never been caught. It will be harder, this time. A party of two men and two women look like they are going somewhere, even when the men look like Mexicans. Sombreros are no problem. But we are going to have to do something about those gringo linen suits.” Concepción poured herself some sangria as she said, in a much softer voice, that she thought the stand that sold peon clothing at the village market would still be doing business, since it wasn’t late.
Pilar shook her head and said, “They are both too blanco for to pass as charcoal burners. I think it might be best for to disguise them as native Mexicans of some substance. We shall tell anyone we meet near the coast that we are going prospecting.”
Gaston asked what about people they met further inland, and she laughed harshly and said, “Anyone who asks questions of strangers in the Sierra Madres is too crazy for to go on living. The idea is to look like a party too dangerous to attack without a good reason, and too poor to offer a good reason, eh?”
Gaston chuckled fondly and said, “I am beginning to believe you lovely ladies do know your way around in these parts.” He turned to Captain Gringo and added in English, “What do you think, Dick?”
Captain Gringo said, “Speak Spanish. We either trust one another or we don’t.” He turned back to Pilar and added, “I think you girls must know the way, since you’ve made it back and forth more than once. If you know my nickname, you know a little about me, too. The company hired you as guides. They hired Gaston and me to head the expedition.”
She shrugged and replied, “So?” and he said, “So we begin by cutting out all this street-gang tu madre nonsense. When I ask questions, even Gaston here answers them. If you’re afraid we might turn you in, you don’t know enough for us to bother taking you along. You girls, at best, are wanted for simple trespass and customs violations. The two of us are wanted for more grown-up shit. Is any of this getting through to you, or do I have to talk slower and move my hands a lot?”