by Lou Cameron
They trudged on as it began to darken and stars winked in a purple sky. Far ahead above the surrounding crops the sky seemed a little lighter. They were either approaching a town or the moon was coming up from an unusual direction. When Captain Gringo commented on this Gaston said, “Oui, Mimi said it was only a few hours walk and I feel like I have walked far too far for a man of my dignified years.”
The road they were on took a gentle curve around a clump of gumbo limbo and when they could see down it again someone had built a bonfire by the roadside and some white clad men were standing around it with shotguns. The two soldiers of fortune stopped and Gaston sighed and said, “Eh bien, I consider hasty retreat our best strategy, non?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “No. They’ve seen us and don’t seem to be getting frantic about it. If we run away they might. There’s not a cross trail close enough to matter. They might be just local yokels gathered after working the fields or something.”
“With shotguns?’’
“Okay, let’s say they’re duck hunters. They’re watching us and the next move is ours, so let’s just stroll in and say howdy.”
As they moved closer, Captain Gringo saw he’d have made a mistake in backtracking, but wasn’t sure he wanted to come closer. The firelight gleamed off brass buttons and hat badges, so he knew what they were even before Gaston hissed, “They are colonial gendarmes!”
Captain Gringo nodded and kept going as a man with corporal’s stripes on his shabby white jacket stepped out in the road to block their way. Captain Gringo said, “Talk some French to them, Gaston.” So Gaston said, “Bonsouir, M’sieur Agent’ and the cop asked in French if they had any identification.
They produced their forged passports and when the corporal saw Captain Gringo was supposed to be a Canadian he switched to English, asking, “What are you two doing out here, M’sieur?”
“Uh, isn’t this the road to Sinnamary?”
“Of a certainty. But where in the Devil have you come from? There is nothing behind you but a trackless mangrove swamp!”
“We just found that out the hard way. The coach we hired couldn’t get through, so we hired a native guide. A black boy. He just headed back to Cayenne.”
The corporal motioned to another gendarme who brought a bullseye lantern over to shine on the passports. The corporal asked, “Why did you not take the regular coastal steamship, M’sieur? What business do you have in Sinnamary, eh?”
“Uh, you can see by my passport I’m a reporter for a Canadian newspaper. Our readers are interested in the Dreyfus Affair. I couldn’t find out much in Cayenne, so I thought I’d see what was going on in Sinnamary.”
Captain Gringo thought that was a pretty good cover story, considering how much time he’d had to make it up. But the corporal growled like a watch dog who’d just sniffed strange piss on his own garden gate and said, “I think the two of you should talk to my officers at headquarters. You will accompany four of my men there right now. Meanwhile, we shall keep your passports and weapons, hein?”
Before Captain Gringo could answer one of the others had stepped over to unbuckle his gun rig. Since a third man had the muzzle of a shotgun against his spine he could only smile and say, “That seems reasonable.”
He hoped for a moment they’d miss the .38 under his jacket. But the man who’d removed his gun rig patted him down, found the .38, and put it in his own side pocket with a grin. The corporal raised an eyebrow and observed, “M’sieur seems well armed, for a reporter.” And Captain Gringo shrugged and answered, “What can I tell you? I heard there were a lot of bad guys down here.”
The corporal smiled thinly and as they’d disarmed Gaston, too, by now, he barked off two more names and as a four man detail formed around the two prisoners he said, “We intend to leave the, how you say, good guys in charge, M’sieur. Go with these men. Our officers can decide whether they want to talk to you about that accursed Jew or send you out to meet Dreyfus in the flesh!”
Captain Gringo started to argue. Then somebody jabbed him with a gun muzzle again and he said, “Okay, Gaston, let’s go with these gents and get it straightened out, right?”
Gaston didn’t answer. Captain Gringo knew that when Gaston wasn’t talking he was coiling like a cobra and he could only hope the old bastard wouldn’t kick anybody in the ear until they were well out of range of the road block. He wasn’t sure it would be a good idea even then, since the bastard holding a shotgun muzzle against his spine seemed nervous enough already.
The six of them headed toward the distant lights of Sinnamary as the tall American considered their options. None of them were very good. Taking on four trained gendarmes without a weapon between him and Gaston sounded like a lousy idea. On the other hand, once they were in the hands of the police in town it would be even harder to get away. The chance of bluffing themselves out of this fix were less than fifty-fifty. The Sinnamary Headquarters would have copies of the wanted fliers on Gaston and himself and word had already gotten around that the two of them were in French Guiana. Both the Dutchman’s gang and those weird French Catholics claiming to be an international Jewish organization had known they were in Cayenne. The cops had to have at least a few informers scattered around.
Their fake passports were good enough to get past the average customs inspector. They wouldn’t hold water if anybody checked by sending one lousy cablegram.
They left the sugar cane behind, passed through a strip of what he now knew were more peppers, and he saw they were approaching a banana plantation. The banana fronds arched out over the road, making it a dark tunnel. He knew Gaston might think it would be the place. But he was afraid the four men guarding them might have that figured out, too. So how the hell could he signal Gaston to behave himself?
He kept his voice casual as he said, “At least we’ll be close to town when we get it straightened out, eh, Gaston?” And Gaston replied, “Ah, great minds run in the same channels.”
One of their guards told them to shut up, in a nervous voice. So they did. They both knew, now, that the next time either of them said anything it was time to make their move. Captain Gringo knew Gaston would start by knocking the shotgun away from his back. They seemed more nervous about him than Gaston, which was reasonable even if it was dumb. He was younger, a lot bigger, and they probably thought he was more dangerous.
A lot they knew. He hit a lot harder than Gaston, but Gaston could hit three times and kick a target six feet off the ground in the time it took anybody else to throw a solid one-two combination.
They were told to put their hands up as they approached the shadows of the bananas. So they did, and the guards marched them through, separated by a good ten feet. As it turned out, that was a good thing for them, albeit not for the guards. As they passed through the tunnel and were almost out the far side, all hell broke loose.
Captain Gringo dove headfirst for the dirt even before Gaston yelled, “Down!” for he’d heard the nasty ringing of a machete cutting through flesh and bone a split second earlier! The shotgun covering him went off, blasting a flaming hole through the air his back had just occupied as another steel blade cut the guard’s head open like a cantaloupe!
Captain Gringo landed on one shoulder and rolled to the roadside ditch as somewhere in the distance a police whistle trilled above the nearer sounds of meat chopping. He yelled out, “Gaston?” and heard his sidekick call back, “Here! What’s going on?”
Before Captain Gringo could reply that he had no idea, human hands grabbed him by the ankles and proceeded to drag him, cursing and trying to kick, into the banana stalks beside the road. Somebody sat on his chest in the gloom and held a blade against his throat to growl, “Be quiet, ami.” So he asked, “Who’s talking?” and stayed put. He could just see well enough to make out that there were a hell of a lot of guys in here with him. They were white shadows against the darker banana stalks. He figured they couldn’t be cops, so what the hell.
He knew he had that part right
when, a few minutes later he heard a burst of gunfire nearby and a suddenly sounding police whistle choked off in mid-trill. There were a few more shots, a long ominous silence, then someone came over to where they were holding Captain Gringo to say, “Merde, I tried to avoid gunplay, but now the fat is in the fire. Let’s get out of here!”
“What about these men, Chef?” asked the man sitting on Captain Gringo’s chest. The leader shrugged and said, “Bring them along and we’ll sort it out at the plantation. They are obviously not gendarmes, hein?”
So Captain Gringo was hauled to his feet, and he saw others doing the same to Gaston a few yards away. The one called Chef slapped Captain Gringo’s face and asked, mildly, “Do I have your attention, M’sieur?”
“Yeah. I’m on your side, I hope.”
“We shall see which side you are on. You and your friend, as well as ourselves, will have a date with Madame La Guillotine if the police connect anyone who was here tonight with that rather neat ambush. So consider this before you make any rash moves, hein?”
“I already have, Chef.”
“Eh bien, let us march. Please forgive our surly manners, but you will not get your side-arms back until Le Grande Chef decides what is to be done with you.”
“I said we were on your side. Did you get all of them? The guys from the road block, too?”
“Oui. We had no choice, since they responded to the sound of that gun we did not wish to have going off. We only wished to see who the gendarmes were so interested in. But every dead gendarme is a net gain for our side.”
“Who’s side is that, Chef?”
“Keep moving. Le Grande Chef will explain to you, if he decides you can be of any use to us.”
“And if he decides we’re not?” The Chef didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
~*~
Captain Gringo had expected to be led to some bandit camp in the bush. So he was surprised when they crossed a drainage canal and were herded up a gentle slope to an imposing mansion built in the Steamboat Gothic style he remembered from New Orleans. Out in the open he could see the men around them wore the straw hats and white pajamas of the prison colony’s trustees. The French authorities had missed by a mile in trusting these guys, though!
They all wore gunbelts and ammo bandoleers to go with the machetes they were packing. As they neared the big house he noticed some peeled off to head for more modest outbuildings off to one side under more trees. He and Gaston were escorted to the front veranda by Chef and less than a dozen others. A portly man in a white panama suit was standing in the doorway, smoking a dollar Havana Perfecto. As they joined him on the veranda, the man smiled and said, “Ah, Captain Gringo and M’sieur Gaston. We’ve been expecting you. It was good of you to come.”
“We had a choice?” asked Captain Gringo.
The planter laughed and told Chef to give them back their guns and papers before he said, “Come inside, my friends, we have a lot of things to talk over.”
So they followed him, strapping on their gun rigs and putting away the possibly still useful forged passports. They noticed the Chef and the others didn’t follow. The planter led them into a huge parlor decorated like a whore’s dream with red velvet drapes and upholstery. The Louis XV furniture was gilded and if there’d been any point in having a fireplace this close to the equator, the baronial marble job dominating the room was a pisser.
The planter sat down on a throne-like chair near the fireplace and indicated where they were to sit on the far side of a low rosewood table between them. He shoved a humidor of cigars their way as he said, “I am called Le Grande Chef, but my name is Van Horn. I have sent for some refreshments, you must be famished.”
Gaston reached for a cigar as Captain Gringo leaned back to take one of his own somewhat soggy claros from his shirt pocket and light up. He hadn’t thought the guy had a French accent. His English was that perfectly pronounced and hence annoyingly officious variety spoken by a very well educated European. Van Horn didn’t miss the gesture with the cigar. He smiled and said, “Ah, you still have misgivings about me.
I can understand. As you see, I know all about you. So let’s talk about me. Officially, I am a French national, since I was born and raised on this plantation. But this land was originally Dutch, as were my ancestors. We have never been quite comfortable under French rule. Aside from religious differences, we have never liked France’s colonial policy. We Dutch learned long ago that slavery is not just morally wrong, but financially stupid. How can one; hope to build a viable colony when none of the colonists have any money to spend? France doesn’t want Guiana to be self-sufficient. She wants us to send her cheap sugar and spices in exchange for being a dumping ground for her most desperate criminals.”
Captain Gringo blew a smoke ring and said, “I notice you have a lot of prisoners working for you, Van Horn.”
The planter nodded and said, “They give us no choice. How can a planter who pays his help compete with one who does not? But, as you can see, I treat my workers better than most and they are devoted to me.”
“In other words you have a private army. It’s pretty slick, Van Horn. The dumb prison authorities assign trustees to you, and once they’ve tasted a little decent treatment they’re on your side. Nobody checks on what’s going on out here in the woods, as long as you seem satisfied and keep them peppers coming. I get the picture, but what’s the play, a revolution to make French Guiana part of Dutch Guiana?” Van Horn looked pained and sighed, “No. The Netherlands has a treaty with France and you know what they say about stubborn Dutchmen. Since they were recognized as a free nation after breaking away from the Spanish Empire in the fifteen hundreds, the Netherlands have never broken one treaty. They seem smugly proud of this for some reason. It’s probably why they have such a small country. But that is their problem. My plan is to form a free republic of Guiana, with myself as president, of course.”
“President or dictator, Van Horn?”
Van Horn smiled. Captain Gringo had noticed he smiled a lot. Van Horn was one of those big pink men who look like giant infants. But there was nothing harmless about his rather feline eyes. They looked like the eyes of a tiger staring out of a chubby infant’s face. Van Horn said, “My provisional government may hold elections someday, after I’m dead. Meanwhile, I see no need to act so reserved. Surely you can see that almost any government would be an improvement over the one the French have imposed here. Ninety percent of the population lives under the gun, with no rights at all.”
“Right. So if you take over they’ll all live like you run this plantation? As well treated servants?”
“They see it as an improvement, too. But enough about me. My cards are on the table, since I know you two are the last people on earth the French authorities would listen to if you tried to stop me. I don’t have to pay my prisoner recruits anything but a little drinking money. But officers who know modern weapons are worth a thousand a month to me. I understand you were a heavy weapons expert in your own army, Captain Gringo. M’sieur Verrier, here, can be almost as valuable as an ex-legion man who knows how to whip French scum into soldiers. Are you interested?”
Captain Gringo heard Gaston whistle thoughtfully, since the offer was better than they usually got. Five hundred a month was the going rate for soldiers of fortune and that was ten times what a skilled worker got in the States these days. He said, “The money sounds fair. But let’s backtrack a bit to stuff I’m really interested in. How in the hell did you know we were coming? We didn’t know ourselves until we were half way here!”
Van Horn chuckled and said, “I know about the trouble you had collecting from the Dutchman. You see, some of my men hijacked the arms he was supposed to sell for you. You’ll be paid, of course, if you see fit to join us. As to how I knew you were heading this way, I didn’t. My men saving you was our mutual good fortune. They were covering that road for other associates of mine. I’m as puzzled as anyone as to what could be delaying them.”
&nb
sp; Captain Gringo smiled and said, “Things are beginning to fall into place. Let me see if I’ve got it right. A certain ketch carrying certain arms from overseas was supposed to meet up with an old ex-prisoner in the mangrove swamp, right?”
Van Horn frowned and asked, “Who told you this?” and Captain Gringo answered, “Relax, the cops don’t know anything. We found the old guide dying on the far side of the swamp. Some toughs who suspected he wasn’t buying new lamps and so forth on pepper profits beat him to death trying to cut themselves in. He died without talking.”
“Oh, damn! He had a woman living with him! If she talked to anyone—”
“She didn’t. She can’t. The old man was slick about living on one side of the swamp and guiding your landing parties out the other. The girl had no idea what was going on.”
“You know her, too? They say she’s a wild little slut with a big mouth.”
“She didn’t tell us anything and we were on better terms with her than any cops are likely to be if they ever question her. She didn’t know what the ketch was doing in that cove. We spotted them, too, coming through the mangroves. They gave up and sailed away. So nobody else knows they were ever off this coast with anything.”
Van Horn said, “Damn! They had machine gun ammo on board, too!”
“Oh, you have machine guns, Van Horn?”
The planter nodded and said, “Of course. Three Maxims and a Spandau that I’ll expect you to train my men to handle. We’ve enough for training and perhaps a spot of guerrilla, but to mount a full scale independence movement we’ll need more. Oh well, now that we know what went wrong with that shipment it will be easy enough to work out another way to bring it in. It just means waiting a bit longer than I’d planned, but I am used to a waiting game. Ah, here comes the refreshments, gentlemen.”