by Lou Cameron
Filipa sighed and said, “I have lived here most of my life, and this virgin child here was born in Gilead. I came as a girl from my old village for to work for more dinero, here in the crown colony, see?”
“Yeah, I see. But meanwhile your old village is still out there in the woods somewhere, right?”
“Si, about a day’s walk from here on a bay to the north, good for fishing. But how can we go back for to live like peones in a little fishing village where not even the alcalde knows how to read and write, Deek?”
“Easy. You wait till it’s dark and start walking. By the time it’s light enough for anyone to hunt for you in the jungle, you’ll be clear of this mess for good. Don’t interrupt me, damn it! I’m thinking of your future, too, and you just don’t have a future as a housemaid in a British colony these days! If we tried to take you down to Zion we could get you killed, and even if we made it safely across the river, you’d just wind up having to return to your home village within a month or so at the most. So why take chances? Do you want to get this virgin here killed for nothing?”
That worked. Rosalita helped by telling her mother she’d always wanted to meet her grandparents, anyway. So in the end, the sun went down, a guitar started strumming wistfully at what sounded like a safe distance and the two soldiers of fortune were able to take leave of their gracious hostesses without too much of a scene. Gaston got to kiss Filipa adios. Captain Gringo didn’t think he’d better kiss Rosalita with her mother guarding her virginity again. So as the two of them slipped down the alley in the gathering dusk, he growled at Gaston, “Some guys get all the breaks.”
Gaston chuckled and replied, “Age has its privileges, but what are you complaining about? As usual, you got the best-looking one!”
*
There was no hurry in getting to the guarded ford, and guards tended to be most alert when first posted. So, as long as they had time to kill, Captain Gringo insisted on having a peek at the steam locomotive they’d heard that afternoon.
Gaston told him he was going to get them both killed. But it was easier than that. They simply worked their way due north until they came to a narrow-gauge rail line running through the outskirts of the barrio. Then they followed the tracks toward the waterfront.
Since the settlement, while more developed than it looked from the sea, wasn’t exactly Kansas City, it only took a few more minutes to reach a modest switchyard; and sure enough, a little Shay logging locomotive stood on a siding up ahead, outlined by the waters of the bay beyond. There was nobody guarding it. But Gaston still said, “Eh bien, now that you have satisfied your curiosity, my cat of nine lives, let us haul ass, as they say in your adorable army. There is no place to go avec the silly locomotive, even if we could get it started, hein?”
Captain Gringo said, “Hell, starting it up would be a snap. The tender’s full of wood. Must be green, from the smoke it was throwing before. But once you get a fire going in her box—”
“Sacre goddamn, I shall box your deaf ears in a moment!” Gaston cut in, insisting, “Regard, as I said, there is no place to go in the triple-titted machine! To the east the tracks end in trés soggy ocean. To the west the tracks may go a few miles into the jungle and then what? If you wish to scamper madly off into the coastal jungles, I shall scamper with you at least as far as the first crocodile-infested swamp. But why leave a trail of steel rails for anyone to follow us, no doubt trés pissed off at us for stealing that toy?”
Captain Gringo said, “Relax. I know a colonial lumber line can’t take us anywhere important. I’m just doping out the lay of the land where it’s sitting. It’s hard to tell in this light, but isn’t that the tin roof of the warehouse Estralita led us to … over there past that pepper tree?”
“It may be. So what?”
“El Chino’s schoolhouse GHQ is just beyond it: say, less than a quarter mile. And he probably sleeps in a house when he’s not playing school principal. I see why his bimbo didn’t want us poking around down this way. There’s a cluster of more imposing housing in the angle between the tracks and waterfront. Probably where the guys who used to own this railroad lived.”
“Again, so what? We can ask them when we meet them on the safer side of the river, non?”
“Maybe. At least some of these English colonists are up to something I don’t think Queen Victoria knows about. El Chino couldn’t have had an appointment with his banker down in Zion, and we know old Perkins is still hoping to stay on after the transfer of power. How do we know how many other lime-juicers don’t intend to give up all they’ve worked to build here? Olivia seemed mad as hell about it, and she was willing to leave!”
Neither Gaston nor anyone else around there seemed to have any answers for him at the moment. So Captain Gringo glanced up at the quarter moon and said, “Let’s go. The guys at the ford have had time to settle down and start swapping dirty stories by now.”
They moved back along the tracks until they were well clear of the guerrilla forces camping closer to the waterfront—they hoped—and started working their way south along the dark, deserted streets of Gilead. Again, it didn’t take them all that long. But when they saw the river ahead through a gap in the riverside shrubbery, they knew they’d overshot and were too far west.
Captain Gringo said, “Bueno. The last place they’ll be expecting anyone from will be the inland jungle side. I don’t know how far ahead that guard post is, though. So keep your voice down.”
“Merde alors, have I said anything? Lead on, my Mac of Duff!”
Captain Gringo did, and they’d only eased a couple of city blocks along the rutted muddy lane when they spotted the glow of a night fire ahead. Gaston said, “Eh, bien. They have chosen to make things unusually easy for us. What is the form, Dick? Do we approach trés innocent and play our ears on them, or were you considering a cavalry charge?”
“We’ll get as close as we can, and take it from there as it comes. And will you keep your voice down, damn it?”
“Poof, we are well out of earshot from the idiots around that trés distant fire,” Gaston replied, and he was probably right. But their voices had carried at least as far as the house across the road. So Olivia charged out at them, loudly calling, “Is that you, Dick and Gaston! Oh God, I’ve been hiding all day and I’m so frightened!”
Captain Gringo caught her in his arms and clapped a hand over her mouth as she ran up to him. But the damage had been done. A distant male voice called out, “Hey, did you muchachos hear a woman scream just now?” And then, as the two soldiers of fortune flattened against the bushy riverside vegetation with the redhead now smart enough to quit struggling for Chrissake, they could see the black outline of a guard outlined against the fire’s glow as he came up the road, carbine across his chest at port arms!
Shooting him would have been easy. But then what? Captain Gringo growled, “Damn it, Olivia!”
But Gaston had a better idea. He hissed, “Let her stand out in the road in that trés feminine summer outfit, Dick. If he does not see something, he is only going to keep looking!”
Captain Gringo started to object. Then he caught on and told the redhead, “It’s the only way. Guys hardly ever shoot even ugly ladies, Red. Are you game?”
She’d caught on too, by now. She gulped and said, “No, but I’ll give it a bloody try if you’ll make sure he keeps his bloody hands to himself!”
They did. Olivia stepped out in the road, and as the sentry spotted her and stiffened, she called out, “Yoo-hoo, could you tell me where I am, sir? I seem to be lost!”
The guerrilla lowered the muzzle of his carbine and came closer as, somewhere behind him, another guerrilla called out, “Hey, José?”
The one moving up to meet Olivia called back, “Do not concern yourself on my account, Paco! I have just found some fresh fruit for the picking and I may be a momento or two, eh?”
Actually, he never did return to his comrades around the fire. He moved in on Olivia, stared hard at her in the dim moonlight and said,
“¡Ay, que linda! What is a sweet little thing like you doing in this part of town so late, eh? Are you not afraid of those terrible guerrillas some say are out here at night?”
She asked him to let her pass and, bless her, tried to get around him to his right. So his back was to Gaston as Gaston threw, and the knife went right where the deadly little Frenchman aimed it.
People were not inclined to make much noise after Gaston had his blade in them right. But he still made an awesome thud as he hit the dirt at Olivia’s feet, and his carbine clattered even louder as it fell to earth beside him. So the same distant voice called out, “What’s going on up there, José?”
Olivia gasped, “Oh, dear.” But then, she didn’t know Gaston was quick with his wits as well as his knife. The Frenchman had been speaking Spanish a lot longer than his version of English, so there was no trace of accent as he called back, “Leave me alone! I’m getting laid!”
It wasn’t really a perfect imitation of the late José’s voice, but the guys down the road all laughed indulgently, and one called out, “Bring her down here when you finish, eh? The corporal of the guard is not due by again for at least two hours!”
So now it was three-on-three, counting Olivia; and now they knew how much time they had. Captain Gringo picked up José’s carbine as Gaston hauled the body off the road in a hasty attempt at neatness. The American asked the English girl if she knew how to handle a gun. She took it from him, worked the action and said, “Coo, it’s not too different from my dad’s old hunting rifle.”
“Okay, don’t spill any more good ammunition working that bolt and don’t fire it unless you have to. Just hang back and watch what we do, see?”
She said, “I’ll try. I’m not sure I’m up to shooting anyone, though. I’ve never even killed a deer, and the time I shot a rabbit made me feel just awful!”
Dames were like that, generally, except the rare individual who was more bloodthirsty than most men. So he didn’t argue. He led the way, and as they got closer to the firelight spilling out of the natural archway, moved across the road to take them at a better angle. Olivia wasn’t supposed to cross with him. But she did, and they were too close to argue about it now. Captain Gringo stopped when he got to the edge of the firelight shafting across the road. Olivia was well back, bless her, and Gaston was in position to take them from his own vantage from across the road. So Captain Gringo took a deep breath and braced himself to do the scary part.
But then, behind him, coming along the road leading to the ford, he heard a distant voice counting out, “Uno, dos, trés! Uno, dos, très! Goddamn it, Obregon, you are supposed to stay in step!”
The guards posted at the ford heard it too, of course, and one of them yelled, “Hey, José! Let that puta go and get back here on the double! El Repollo’s out patrolling again, and you know how picky he can get!”
Captain Gringo started to fade back: there was still time as the helpful buddy of the late José stepped into view to call him back to his post. But Olivia was sort of new to night fighting. So she whipped the carbine stock up to a dainty shoulder, took dainty deadly aim and, for a lady who hated to hurt rabbits, blew a lung out the back of the guy’s rib cage pretty good!
Captain Gringo grunted, “Oh, shit!” and stepped out into the light, gun trained before he’d had time to size up what he was aiming at. The two surviving guerrillas posted at the crossing were rising on either side of the machine gun mounted to face the other way. But their carbines weren’t. So Captain Gringo dropped the closer one first as Olivia fired again and sent the other ass over teakettle against the oil drum they’d built their night fire in. It fell over, spilling hot coals and blazing branches all over the place as Captain Gringo charged in to kick the can of fire, or most of it, into the river just beyond the mounted machine gun. That plunged the gap in the riverside vegetation into darkness—just in time, because other guns were squibbing in the distance now, and those didn’t sound like night flying insects humming through the leaves above and all around!
Captain Gringo snapped, “Gaston, get her across, poco tiempo!” and Gaston didn’t argue this time. He simply picked Olivia up, threw her over his shoulder and waded into the river with her still hanging on to her carbine while Captain Gringo dropped to one knee by the Maxim, made sure it was armed, by feel, and yanked it from its mount to rise with it aimed the other way, braced on his hip.
In the distance—not as distant as he’d have chosen if it had been up to him—orange fireflies of muzzle flash were winking at him as blind-fired lead whizzed by all around him, too close for comfort, indeed. He heard the green-sombreroed El Repollo shouting, “Goddamn it, spread out and take cover! Don’t stand there in the road like a bunch of bananas waiting for to be plucked!”
That was good enough for Captain Gringo. He fired a long, withering burst of automatic fire into the target area El Repollo had been kind enough to indicate, and from the sound of screams and clattering carbines, he knew he had to be doing something right!
But firing at muzzle flashes in a night fight worked both ways. So a whole swarm of angry lead hornets buzzed through the space he’d just fired from, even though he’d been smart enough to crab sideways and brace his other hip against a tree. He let them have another burst, leapt the other way across the clear space—and sure enough, they damned near skinned that tree alive with their return fire. But there didn’t seem to be as many of them firing now.
He decided to quit while he was ahead. He backed into the water. It was warm as vomit and didn’t smell much better, as he tried to keep his balance backing across a shallow enough but slimy bottom. He knew he could do better if he dropped the heavy weapon. But it still had a quarter of a belt trailing in the water after him. So he hung on to it, straining his eyes as he faced the blackness he’d just left for any movement as he moved even more blindly the other way. It seemed to take forever to cross a ford he didn’t remember being that wide. Then a voice behind him called out in English, “All right, you ruddy nigger! We have you covered, so … I say, this one seems to be a white man too, Sarge!”
Captain Gringo turned around, holding the Maxim at port so they wouldn’t mistake him for an unpleasant person; and as he waded the rest of the way, close enough to see what was going on that way, he saw Gaston and the girl standing by the water’s edge with a mess of guys in lighter uniforms and pith helmets. As he moved ashore he dropped the Maxim in the grass politely, but muttered, “Wouldn’t a ruddy nigger be a contradiction in terms, Constable?”
The constabulary man with the most stripes on his khaki sleeve moved closer to say, “If this other bloke’s Fontleroy, you must be the one called Crawford, eh what?”
“That depends on who wants to know. I guess I could be a guy called Crawford, if you’ll just stop pointing that revolver at me.”
The constabulary sergeant looked down blankly at the big Webley in his fist, said, “Oh, sorry,” and put it away as he explained, “All that gunfire has our wind up, I fear. Bad lot on the far side, you know.”
“Yeah, we just noticed. Are you two all right, Gaston?” Gaston called back, “One hopes so. These adorable British police would seem to have been expecting us, for some reason.”
The sergeant explained, “Oh, rather. We heard a couple of banana chaps called Fontleroy and Crawford had been left behind when a steamer put in on the silly side of the bay and had to weigh anchor in a hurry. We sent a launch over to warn them off this afternoon. They’d already dropped some cargo they’ll never see or get paid for, I fear. But her skipper said it was only canned goods. So no real harm done, eh what?”
“We’ve been wondering what was going on over there. Every time we tried to ask, someone pegged a shot at us. You just heard the last directions they were giving us. The lady with my friend is Olivia Perkins, she’s—”
“Oh, we know the minister and his wife, sir. Pity he’s being so stubborn about evacuating, but the governor forbids us to cross over and force our own lot to leave. I say, is that a ma
chine gun you just carried across as well? The governor will be ever so pleased. We don’t have much in the way of weaponry, you see. The bloody Dons were supposed to give us time to move out before they moved in, so we weren’t really expecting trouble.”
He turned to order a couple of his followers to pick up the Maxim. Captain Gringo didn’t think they wanted to argue about whom it might belong to now. So he just kept his mouth shut and his ears open.
The sergeant said, “Right, Chalmers and Wilson, you and your rifle squads stay here for now. The rest of us will escort this lady and these gentlemen to the government house.”
Captain Gringo didn’t think it wise to argue about that, either; and he had to dry his socks some damned place. So he fell in with Gaston and the girl as the sergeant and a few others led them along a barely visible path through an overgrown patch. They hadn’t moved far when they could see lights ahead. The sergeant said, “The governor will want a full report before we find quarters for you people. But it shouldn’t take long. He already knows about the situation on the other side of the river, and as for that murderer off your ship … ’ell, the blighter’s stood trial and been found guilty, so I doubt he’ll want you two to give evidence in a closed case, eh what?”
Captain Gringo frowned and asked him what he was talking about.
He said, “Oh, didn’t you know? Apparently your skipper was keeping it under wraps until he could turn the culprit over to us on shore. It seems some dago chap named Romero was murdered the other night aboard the SS Trinidad. Never found his bleeding body, of course. But they found spots of blood on the deck just outside the main salon, and that was good enough for the jury. Serious business, murdering people on the high seas aboard a ship flying the British flag. We’ll be hanging the blighter as soon as we have the time. You’ve no idea how busy we’ve been in Zion of late.”
Captain Gringo and Gaston exchanged blank looks. Then Gaston asked, “It sounds too fatigue to endure, Sergeant. But tell me, does this accused murderer of yours have a name?”