by Lou Cameron
M’Chuma frowned and growled”, “Alone? Coming this way?”
“I swear it, Lord of the universe under the trees! They are on the trader’s trail, walking as if they owned it. One is short and the other is as tall as you, meaning no insult to your majestic carriage! They are armed, but their actions do not seem threatening. Our scouts are watching from all sides, of course. But we thought you’d like to know before we killed them.”
M’Chuma’s guard captain said, “Let me kill them, my King. It’s good to go into battle with blood on one’s blade, even if they are only lost travelers.”
“No,” M’Chuma said. “I must study this strange happening. My children know that some whites are not evil and there is wisdom in the words of this runner. I shall hear what they have to say before I dance to their blood.”
And so, as Captain Gringo had gambled, M’Chuma and his bodyguard advanced down the trail to meet them. As they spotted the crowd of Ashanti blocking the trail ahead, Gaston sighed and said, “Well, your ears have led us to the black bastards. Now let us pray your mouth can get us out of this alive, hein?”
Captain Gringo grounded the heavy machine gun and unbuckled his gunbelt to let it fall at his feet as Gaston swore softly and did the same. The gesture was not lost on M’Chuma, who handed his spear to a servant and strode forward to speak to them. He said, “I am M’Chuma, King of the Ashanti and Lord of tributary tribes. What are you doing in my forest?”
Captain Gringo said, “You speak good English. I’m called Captain Gringo and this is my friend, M’sieur Verrier.”
“He is French? I am sorry, but he must die. I don’t think I wish to kill any English or Dutchmen but the French have abused us and we mean to pay them back.”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “You’re wrong. It’s not the French you’re after. It’s Van Horn, the planter. He’s tricked both you and the French. As we speak he’s on his way here with an armed band and he means to wipe you out.”
M’Chuma frowned and said, “Impossible. Van Horn has traded with us for years. He says he is our friend.”
“He says a lot of things. He’s lied to the French government and gotten a hunting permit to kill Ashanti and seize their lands. He lied to us. We thought he was arming to rebel against France, but he’s not that dumb. He wants to expand his plantation lands and the treaty you have with the colony forbids this as long as your people live in this forest at peace with France.”
M’Chuma looked dubious and asked, “How do you know so much about me and my people? You are strangers here.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “That was why it took me a while to figure out Van Horn’s game. I know more about you than you think. Your wife, Tonda, told me you were wise and good. I hope she was right.”
M’Chuma’s face softened and then went hard as he asked, “You spoke to my woman before the French took her away to sell in another colony?”
Captain Gringo muttered, “Oboy.” Then he said, “If Van Horn told you that, it was another lie. He told me she’d run off to rejoin you when she learned you were the new chief. The French government had nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“Then where is my Tonda, damn it?”
“I’m sorry, your Majesty, I think they killed her and buried her somewhere. They didn’t expect you to become chief and they were afraid she’d tell you how she’d been treated on the Van Horn plantation.”
M’Chuma swayed as if struck, recovered, and gasped, “That Dutchman defiled my woman? He swore the last time we spoke that she was only a guest at his plantation, to save her from the witch doctors who are no longer with us. He said he was my friend! I believed this!”
“Yeah, he still thinks he has you fooled. That’s why he left his sister and plantation guarded only by a couple of fairies as he went looking for you. He’s got over a hundred armed convicts and two machine guns like this one. He used to have three, but he used this one to ambush some French soldiers who wanted to parley with you. The French think you did it. That’s why they keep lobbing those shells into this bush.”
“You are confusing me with all this news! I know nothing of an ambush!”
“I didn’t think you did. They set it up so you and your people would get the blame. They even left a dead Black man posed with a dead Frenchman that simply never could have moved that far with so many bullet holes in him. Fortunately, I found them first and couldn’t figure out why a war party that had time to take heads hadn’t recovered their own dead and a perfectly good rifle.”
“Heads? We are not headhunters. Some Indian tribes take heads, but it is not an Ashanti custom.”
“I know. I read that in a book. It made me wonder when we found all those decapitated bodies. I couldn’t see you manning machine guns, either, no offense. That’s why I came to warn you. By bulling through without wasting time on scouting we’ve beaten Van Horn’s column, but he knows where your village is and he can’t be far behind. Do you want to help me or do I have to take them on with just my friend, here?”
M’Chuma frowned thoughtfully before he said, “You say you have dared my wrath to help us. I find this strange. Who asked you to take part in this business?”
Captain Gringo’s eyes were cold as he said, “Van Horn killed a woman of mine, too. He left her head on a stake to make it look like you and your people did it. If you need another reason, I just don’t like the fat bastard! I don’t want him to get even richer by trickery and slaughter.”
“But I don’t know you. How do I know this is not another White man’s trick?”
“Easy. Help me set up a defense of your village. If I’m not telling the truth, it won’t be needed. If Van Horn’s men get here before we’re set up it will be too late!”
M’Chuma nodded and said, “That makes sense. Come with us. We shall do as you say, for now. But if you are a liar, you will never leave my village alive. It is true we don’t take heads and the story about us eating people is another lie. But there are many ways to make a man die slowly, and both of you will know them well if this is some kind of a trick!”
~*~
Chef turned to Van Horn in another part of the jungle and said, “Hey listen, the drums have stopped!” as he held up a hand to halt the rag-tag column of white clad convicts. Van Horn peered ahead through the dripping gloom and said, “Push on, I know where M’Chuma’s village is and those drums were-a bore in any case.”
“Yes, but doesn’t it mean they’ve all assembled, Le Grand Chef?”
“I hope so. Our two machine guns set to fire crossfire into the grass shacks should clear the vermin well. I wish to God you hadn’t abandoned that other one, Chef.”
“Look, I told you it was busted. That American you hired to show us the ropes warned that they got out of order easily. Where the hell did he and that little guy vanish to, anyway? I wish I had them with us right now.”
Van Horn shrugged and said, “Captain Gringo was too smart to be useful. He doubtless left on that American tramp steamer that we spotted from the ridge back behind my place. It’s just as well. We’d have had to get rid of him later and he might have been a disposal problem. Once we wipe out the Ashanti the colonel will be easy to deal with and, oh, look, another mahogany and there’s a nice quinine tree just beyond.”
Chef grinned and said, “Yeah, there’s a fortune in here, even before we clear it for crops. Somebody should have run the spear-chuckers off this prime land a long time ago, Le Grande Chef.”
Van Horn smiled smugly and said, “I know. They weren’t as smart as me.”
They came to a narrow game trail. Van Horn nodded and said, “I know where we are, now. As I planned, it took longer coming this way, around the back of M’Chuma’s village, but they’ll never be expecting an attack from this direction.” He held up a hand and called back, “All right, boys, listen to me. We’ll be coming to the cleared millet fields around the main Ashanti village in a few moments. I want you to form a skirmish line like that American taught you
. We’ll come out of the treeline abreast and it’s only a short advance across open ground to their stockade. Move shooting from the hip in a crouch as you cross the cleared ground and the millet will give you some cover, but move fast and don’t stop until you reach the stockade. The machine guns will hose ahead of you and the stockade was never intended to stop anything more serious than a goat. Our bullets will go right through it and the first men to reach it should be able to hammer it flat with their body weight. Smash the stockade and flatten out to pick your targets. The machine-gun fire will sweep over you and blow the straw huts down like the big bad wolf in that story. The idea is to lick them good and make sure no survivors go whimpering to the government with a tale that might jibe with mine. Are there any questions?”
A convict held his hand up and yelled out, “Yeah, Le Grande Chef. What if the black bastards are expecting us?”
Van Horn shrugged and said, “I don’t expect that, but if they are, so what? They don’t have a dozen old trade muskets between them and if you’re dumb enough to let a nigger get near you with a spear or machete then you don’t deserve to live. Naturally, any casualties we take will add to the veracity of this punitive expedition.”
There was a worried mutter, but no further questions. Van Horn grinned and said, “Right. Let’s move it out in line of skirmish.”
The long ragged line of convicts started moving abreast through the trees, guns at port with the machine-gun crews on either flank, and Van Horn and Chef in the middle. They saw light ahead as the forest floor tilted down to a murky jungle streamlet. As they reached the bottom of the draw they paused, for beyond the stream lay a clear slope up to the Ashanti stockade on higher ground. Chef said, “They’ve just harvested the millet, the bastards! The stubble is only ankle deep!”
Van Horn hesitated, said, “Well, apparently it was riper than I thought. But, hell, there’s nothing moving up there. We’ve caught them napping. So let’s go!”
He pointed his six gun at the stockade and charged forward, firing, as the machine guns on either side opened up to blow splinters from the flimsy stockade and the whole line surged forward, shooting from the hip!
There was no return fire, not even a spear, and as the skirmish line moved up the gentle slope the gun crews ceased fire to lug the heavy weapons forward. That’s when Captain Gringo and M’Chuma sprung their trap.
The big American rose from an apparently harmless clump of weeds on Van Horn’s right flank, firing his own machine gun from the hip along the line of advancing convicts while Gaston and a squad of M’Chuma’s warriors jumped one gun crew crossing the stream and filled them with six gun rounds and spears. At the far end, M’Chuma in person stepped from behind a tree buttress to blast his trade musket, charged with a handful of nails, into the other machine gun squad and then stood, looking dignified, as his grinning warriors mopped up, shouting “S’kee! S’kee!” as they plunged their blades into the screaming Whites!
The main party, caught in the open on the stubble Captain Gringo had ordered cleared, went down like duck pins as he hosed them with hot led, aiming low so that a man with his legs shot out from under him could fall into the fire. The gun on his hip got hot but he ignored the blisters and gambled on the head spacing as he emptied the belt into anything and everything that moved. But of course one or more made it back down to the stream since he couldn’t be everywhere at once with his lead spitter.
Chef, wounded badly but too scared to let it slow him down, splashed through the mud, screaming in terror, as he met a grimly smiling Ashanti and his spear. He gasped, “Oh, no!” as the Ashanti drove the tip in just above the belt buckle and ripped up, spilling Chef’s guts, and Chef, in the mud.
Van Horn staggered for the trees like a dignified drunk, three bullets throbbing hot in his fat as he wondered what had gone wrong. Gaston stepped over a dead convict machine gunner and raised his pistol. Van Horn looked owlishly at him and said, “Please don’t!” as Gaston fired, pumped another round into him to make sure, and muttered, “I didn’t do it for you, my friend.”
A few others lay still alive, moaning on the stubble, as M’Chuma joined Gaston and said, “I wish you hadn’t done that. I wanted to talk to him about my woman as he died over a slow fire.”
Gaston said, “Oh, I am trés mortified at my own inability to think ahead!”
Captain Gringo dropped the Maxim before it could blister his hands further and walked down to join them: M’Chuma grinned boyishly and clapped him on the shoulder, saying “You are a good fighter as well as a newfound friend, Captain Gringo. I’m so sorry you are not black. You would have made a good Ashanti.”
Another warrior came over to burble at M’Chuma. The king nodded and bubbled back, explaining as he left, “I said it was safe for the women, children, and old ones to return to the village. He says they did little damage firing into the empty huts. I still don’t know how you could foresee an attack from this direction.”
Captain Gringo said, “It was the best way for them to hit you and I gave them some basic infantry tactics before I caught on to what they were up to.”
M’Chuma laughed, “I’d like you to teach my men some, too, before you leave. You shall stay while we have a victory feast. I will give you trade rum and women and we will make a night of it as the survivors scream over slow fires, eh?”
Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “It sounds like fun. But I have a better idea. You said you liked my advice, right?”
“Yes, I never would have thought to clear the millet. If only you weren’t such an ugly color I’d make you a general. What is this idea of yours?”
“I want you to deliver the few prisoners alive to the French government under a parley flag. Wait, don’t cloud up and rain all over me until I’ve finished! The French still think you and your people ambushed Chambrun’s column. These convicts know you didn’t. The French will get the whole story of Van Horn’s plot out of them and you won’t have those’ 155s dropping in on you anymore, see?”
M’Chuma scowled and said, “I’m not afraid of the damned French.”
“No, your Majesty, but they’re sure afraid of you and I think you’d better make peace before somebody gets hurt.” M’Chuma turned and gazed up the corpse-covered slope.
Then he laughed and said, “Ha, somebody on my side, you mean. Wait until I tell that cowardly sub-chief, M’Fisi, about the fun he missed here. You are an awful spoilsport, but I see the wisdom in your words. We shall turn the survivors over to their government. They are convicts already and the French will keep them even longer as slaves. That will serve them right!”
He turned back to the fat corpse of Van Horn, spat on it, and added, “I never would have let this one go. There were many questions I wanted to ask him about my woman, Ton-da.”
Captain Gringo’s voice was gentle as he said, “She loved you to the end, M’Chuma. That’s all you have to remember about the lady.”
M’Chuma stared soberly at him, a dangerous question in his eyes. Then he nodded and said, “If you say this is true, it must be so. You are right. Nothing else that happened matters, now. Come, my warriors can deal with this carrion. You and my little friend Gaston have never received a proper Ashanti welcome and we have much to celebrate, thanks to you.”
~*~
The next morning Gaston limped over to Captain Gringo’s hut and called out, “Dick, are you still alive?”
Captain Gringo looked up from where he lay on piled skins with a sleeping black beauty nestled on either side of him and said, “I think so, but what the hell was in that rum we drank?”
Gaston came in, hunkered down, and sighed, “It tasted like gunpowder. I vaguely remember servicing eight women before I passed out. Do you think this could be possible?”
“We were both too drunk to count. What’s going on out there? It seems pretty quiet.”
“Everybody left is sleeping off the party,” Gaston said. “M’Chuma just left with the prisoners under a flag of truce. I thought you’d li
ke to know.”
“Yeah, good, I told him I wasn’t in the mood to talk to any French cops and he seemed to understand. I used to have some clothes around here. Let’s give them a few hours lead and see about getting our own tails out of here.”
As he sat up, one of the girls sleeping with him moved drowsily to fondle his shaft and Gaston cackled, “Well, now, who says we have to hurry, hein?”
He started to unbuckle his pants but Captain Gringo said, “Knock it off. You can jerk off on the trail if you’re still horny, you old goat. I want to get somewhere sensible before dark and it’s already broad daylight.”
He gently removed the girl’s hand and slid out from between them as Gaston sighed, “Oh, I like the little one. Was she good?”
“They’re all good, and let’s not wake them up for Pete’s sake!”
“Let Pete get his own ass,” chuckled Gaston as he handed Captain Gringo his pants. The tall American started dressing as the one who’d been playing with him groped absently, found the other girl’s lap, and began to finger her. The girl being stimulated fluttered her eye lashes, smiled sweetly, and murmured something that sounded like dirty words through a bubble pipe. Gaston said, “I like the sounds they make. It saves so much tedious dialogue when a woman has no proper way of saying no. Let me just tear off a quick one, Dick? She’s very pretty.”
“No, Goddamn it. We’ve still got to get out of French Guiana and the army may send somebody up here to look things over after they talk to M’Chuma.”
“Ah, you do have a convincing way with words. Sleep on, my pet. We must march.”
As they left, the Ashanti girls weren’t exactly sleeping, but they probably had no idea who they were going sixty-nine with, so what the hell.
Outside, a couple of little kids were screwing in the dust. No doubt inspired by the example of their elders. Gaston chuckled and said, “I’ve never had one quite that young, but why can’t we take them along for pets?”