Renegade 36

by Lou Cameron

  The aide assured him young Churchill had been assigned a special bodyguard to keep him away from dangerous rebels in or out of concentration camps, and left. Weyler phoned the navy and passed on his idea about sea sleds and a high-speed torpedo ram, perhaps anchored in the fresh-waterless and hence deserted bay of Guantanamo. The admiral agreed few rebels were apt to notice war vessels in a bay where nobody ever put in for water. So Weyler hung up and pushed the button on his desk. A few moments later a tearful young woman came in, trying to look less terrified than she no doubt was.

  Weyler rose from behind his desk, smiling graciously, and said, “I have done with matters of state for the moment, Señora Lopez. Let us go into the next room, where we can be more comfortable as we discuss the matter of your husband’s arrest, eh?”

  She followed him into the bedroom; she had no choice, but she bit her lower lip and repressed a hiss of dismay as the man her Carlos called The Butcher removed his officer’s sword belt and draped it over a bedside chair. Weyler began to unbutton his tunic as he told her, “Your husband was most foolish to have that rebel literature in his print shop when my muchachos raided it the other night, señora.”

  She pleaded, “Carlos never printed the pamphlets as he was asked to, Señor Gobemador Real. As I told you, we are simple people caught in the middle of matters we do not understand. It is true men came to Carlos with some handwritten pages they wished for him to print up for them. But when he read them, he did not think this would be wise, so he put them aside and—”

  “Let us discuss it later,” Weyler cut in, adding, “Take off your clothes, señora. It is not civilized to rut with one’s clothing on, like the lower classes.”

  She gasped and sobbed, “Pero no! I could not do such a thing! I am a respectable married woman, Señor Gobemador Real!”

  Weyler sat on the bed, naked from the waist up, to remove his jack boots as he assured her, “You are indeed, as of the moment. Your man is still alive in Morro Castle. Neither he nor I would wish for you to be a widow soon, eh?”

  She stared at him in utter dismay, too horrified to answer. He said, “Damn it, I knew these boots would take forever for to break in. Come over here and help me off with them, Señora Lopez.”

  “You wish for me to take your boots off for you? I came only for to talk about the injustice your policia did my Carlos, but if you agree to listen, I feel I can at least help you with your boots with honor.”

  She moved over to the bed, grasped one of his booted feet, and began to tug at it without much luck. He said, “Estupida, that is not how it is done. Turn your pretty rump to me. Grasp my boot between your thighs tightly.”

  She did as she was told, blushing furiously. He raised the other booted foot to press it against her derriere and shoved. As the boot she was clasping popped off, she staggered forward and fell to her hands and knees on the floor. Weyler laughed and was up and after her like a shot. He had his pants down, her skirts up, and his erection in her, dog style, before she could do anything about it. But once she grasped the simple fact she was being raped in a rather uncouth position, she made up for lost time and began to struggle madly to get free of his bestial thrusts. He hit her in the small of the back with a clenched fist and said, “No! Goddamn you for a rebel slut! You will not struggle. You will fuck me good, and then you will suck me hard again so I can do it some more!”

  She stopped struggling and went limp, with her tear-streaked face pressed to the tiles and her dishonored rump at the mercy of her abuser. They had warned her this might happen if he granted her an audience. It was not, in fact, so bad once a married woman got used to it. Then her eyes widened as he shoved her skirts down over her and removed his moist shaft to sodomize her as well. As he shoved brutally into her bowels, she pleaded, “Por favor, you are hurting me!” But when he growled, “Would you rather be gang-raped on your way to the wall?” she knew there was nothing to do but take it and hope she might at least escape with her life, if not her honor. For instincts handed down from Mother Eve warned the young wife the despot abusing her was more dangerous than a lust-maddened rapist. His brutal thrusts were the passionless mild amusements of a self-indulgent reptile. So, to stave off finding out just what he’d want to do to her next, the terrified Cuban girl began to cooperate with her tormentor despite her discomfort, disgust, and self-loathing.

  Butcher Weyler wasn’t surprised. Seduction was for sissies, and rape was too fatiguing for a middle-aged executive with a lot on his mind. He’d long since learned that nine out of ten women would rather screw like a mink than die like a dog. Like their menfolk, Cuban women simply had to be shown their proper place was groveling at the feet or servicing the cock of a Spanish officer and gentleman.

  Far to the south Esperanza was servicing Captain Gringo’s with a lot more skill and mutual enjoyment than the pair in Cuba when they both heard Gaston’s familiar knock on her stateroom door. Esperanza, on top, called out, “Go away, Gaston. This is a most private party, eh?’’

  But Gaston knocked again, insistently, and Captain Gringo said, “We’d better see what’s up,’’ and even though he was up Esperanza, he added, “He knows better than to bang on doors during la siesta unless it’s important as hell.’’

  Esperanza swore in Spanish and Basque, called Gaston a cocksucker in English, and rolled off to grope for the sheets as Captain Gringo rose nude to let Gaston in. The little Frenchman looked green around the gills instead of staring at either of them as he leaned against the bulkhead and muttered, “I regret this intrusion more than you, my children. Mais we have two problems. I am très unwell avec a fever of astounding proportions. ”

  Captain Gringo felt Gaston’s clammy forehead and said, “You’re not running a fever. You’re cold as ice. But either way, you sure must be sick. Okay, I’ll finish your watch and you’d better take some quinine before you hit the sack.’’

  “There’s more.” Gaston sighed. “I thought it could wait until you two were back on deck, until I suddenly began to die. Some of the crew are behaving oddly. There is a muttering of mutters and guilty glances cast one’s way when they assume one is not looking. I fear we may have a problem of the Columbus species. I assured José just now that we are sailing for Cuba, not over the edge of the world, mais he seemed unconvinced.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “So what else is new? Can you make it to your cabin on your own, old buddy?”

  Gaston nodded, but as he straightened up his knees buckled. Captain Gringo caught him and hauled him over to the bunk, sitting him down by Esperanza as he told her, “He’s really caught something serious. I’d better get dressed and topside before they turn this tub around on us. Can you look after him, Esperanza?”

  She nodded, dropped the sheet she’d been holding over her heroic breasts, and climbed out, stark naked, to lift Gaston’s feet and stretch him out on the rumpled bed. Gaston’s eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to notice the bawdy view the big Basque brunette was offering. So it was safe to assume he was really sick.

  Captain Gringo slipped on his pants and boots, strapped on the big Colt .45 Esperanza had issued him to replace the .38 he’d lost in the swamp, and stomped out, shirtless, to see what else was going wrong.

  He found plenty to find fault with. He could tell as soon as the trade wind hit his love-warmed flesh that La Nombre Nada was not on the same tack. As he moved aft toward the helm, he heard José call out an order to man the Genoa jibs.

  He yelled, “Belay that!” and ran the rest of the way to the stern, drawing the .45 as he did so. It was just as well. José was not alone at the helm. Aside from the ship’s cook, the mate who’d surprised him in the swamp with the shotgun was there to back José’s play. He still had the shotgun. Captain Gringo said, “Drop it. I won’t say it twice!”

  José smiled in a sickly way and said, “We spotted smoke to the north. We did not wish for to bother you and the skipper as you were enjoying la siesta, so—”

  Captain Gringo fired. The man who
’d been holding the shotgun let go of it and staggered back to the taffrail, clutching at his chest in wonder. He gasped, “¡Madre de Dios! I have been shot!” and went over the stern backward. Captain Gringo said, “I told him I wouldn’t say it twice. José, you had no orders to change course. Our course is due north. I’m not going to say it twice.”

  José gulped and replied, “Sí sí, señor, due north it is!” and swung the wheel hard over. Captain Gringo raised an eyebrow at the ship’s cook and asked what the fuck he was doing there. The cook gave a sickly smile and said he’d just come aft for to offer some coffee to the others. Captain Gringo glanced down at the one tin cup rolling on the deck as they changed tack and said, “I want you to listen very carefully before you answer. I’m more interested in my friend’s health than I am in hanging you from a yardarm. So what did you put in the coffee you just served him?”

  The cook looked blank and asked innocently, “Besides sugar? Nada, señor. He did not ask for cream. This is just as well, since we have none in any case.”

  Captain Gringo cocked the .45. It was double action, but the otherwise pointless movement made his point for him. The cook licked his lips and said, “Hey, was just a little joke on the old Frenchman. Was not meant to really hurt him, see?”

  “What did you dose him with? I’m not going to ask again.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot! Was only a little liquid soap for stubborn pots and pans. We just got tired of him giving orders like he was skipper, see?”

  Then his eyes got even wider as he stared at something behind Captain Gringo’s back. Neither he nor José were close enough to have an old, stale trick in mind. So Captain Gringo stepped to one side and half turned to see Esperanza joining them, naked from the waist up and mad all over. The big brunette said, “He just threw up and shit his pants in my bed! He says it made him feel much better. I wish I could say the same. What is going on back here?”

  Captain Gringo told her, “A half-ass mutiny. They dosed Gaston with the strongest poison they could come up with on short notice to get him below. As I came topside, we were heading west by northwest.”

  José protested, “We saw smoke! Besides, is better to hug the coast on a run like this one, Capitana.”

  Esperanza glanced at the sky, saw they were on the right heading again, and said, “Bueno. The two of you, over the stern.”

  “For the love of God, Capitana, we are over a hundred kilometers from the nearest land!”

  “Feel free to swim in the direction of your choice. You desire to see the coastline enough to attempt murder and mutiny, is only fair we give you every opportunity for to see it, you treacherous son of unwed toads!”

  The cook fell to the deck on his knees, pleading for his life. José seemed to think that was a good idea. So he let go of the wheel to kneel beside the cook. As Nombre Nada swung into the wind with no hand at her helm, Esperanza swore, moved aft between them, and grabbed each by the hair to drag them kicking and screaming the rest of the way, and as Captain Gringo and the men in the rigging watched bemused, she lifted each grown man by the hair in each single hand and shoved them backwards over the taffrail. Then she turned, grabbed the wheel, and cranked the schooner back on course as she roared the length of the vessel for all hands on deck.

  Everyone but Gaston obeyed her orders. Though none came too far aft as they warily eyed their bare-titted skipper and the big-armed yanqui at her side. Esperanza shouted, “Pedro, you just made ship’s cook. Do you think you can handle it?”

  The youth who’d been mess boy up until now smiled nervously and nodded modestly.

  Esperanza snapped: “Bueno. Get back to your galley, and from now on see that nobody aboard this vessel suffers indigestion. For should anyone else look even sickly, I shall feed you to the sharks.”

  As the new cook turned away, Esperanza shouted, “Montez, you are now third mate. Captain Gringo here is first mate and the Frenchman is second mate, whether he lives or not. You, of course, know for why I have chosen you, Montez?”

  The mestizo grinned and said, “Sí, Capitana. Is no secret José and me did not get along too well.”

  Esperanza nodded and shouted, “Some of you may miss José. If you wish, feel free to dive overboard. If you wish for to remain aboard this vessel, there shall be no further discussion of her course and command. Do we understand one another, muchachos?”

  There was a murmur of agreement. Some of it was a little guilty. Esperanza told everyone to get back to work, and as they dispersed she asked Captain Gringo to take the wheel so she could at least put her shirt on. He laughed and did so. But as she turned away, he goosed her and said, “I think you just showed them a lot of hair on your chest for a dame with such great tits.”

  Apparently she had. There were no further incidents, and the meals, if anything, tasted better as La Nombre Nada made her way north off the beaten sea lanes. Gaston was still sick as a dog. Captain Gringo had learned in his U.S. Army days that recruits suffering the trots from soapy pots and pans needed a few days of easy duty to recover. Gaston began to feel okay, stretched out on Esperanza’s bunk. But he couldn’t hold anything down, and every time he got up he felt lousy again.

  Esperanza and Captain Gringo used Gaston’s smaller cabin and single bunk in the meantime. As she pointed out, it smelled a lot nicer in there, and while there wasn’t room for two to sleep comfortably in the narrow bunk, they had to take turns standing watch in any case. She was willing to trust Montez at the helm long enough to tear off a quickie each time they changed places on deck. It made the night watches go sort of slow, with nothing to worry about under cover of darkness and the anticipation of some more great sex once the damned ship’s bell got around to chiming.

  Despite her casual attitude to on-deck attire and belowdecks slap and tickle, Esperanza was a damned fine navigator. She’d timed her course so that the sun was setting the evening she joined Captain Gringo at the helm with all her duds on and told him, “We should make landfall in an hour. The peak of San Juan will of course be well above the horizon before anyone at lower elevation can possibly make us out.’’

  Captain Gringo glanced aloft at the evening star, saw no moon at all, and said, “They’d do pretty good making out our black sails on a moonless night in any case. I doubt if we’ll even be able to see the hill. What do we do if there’s no beacon fire?”

  She shrugged and replied, “We turn back, of course. For that will mean the rebels are not in position for to accept our cargo, and I did not contract to deliver it to anyone else.” He kissed her and told her he’d always thought she had a lot of common sense for a sex maniac. She sighed and said, “I shall hold you to that once we discharge our cargo and are once more safe upon the sea, querido. Alas, I fear we shall not enjoy much sex tonight.”

  He said he could take it if she could. She took the helm and he lit a claro. They’d only sailed on half an hour or so when Gaston joined them, groaning, “Merde alors, what are you smoking, Dick? It smells like the dried droppings of an unwashed species of chicken.”

  Captain Gringo said, “Never mind what I’m smoking. Have you eaten anything so far?”

  Gaston said, “Oui, the last few soda crackers I got down seem to be remaining in place for a change. I took liberties with some of the brandy I discovered in this child’s stateroom cupboard as well.”

  Esperanza said, “I have no brandy, Gaston. Only gin and rum.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Eh bien, it must have been the gin in that case. For a moment I feared I had swallowed some perfume. Mais when I belched I smelled no violets, so I assumed it was fruit brandy. As you may have guessed, my taste buds have been très confused by the très tedious vomiting of soap suds. May one ask, not that it really matters to a dying man, where we are, my children? Now that I seem to be recovering after all, I would like to know what the odds on my getting shot instead might be.”

  Esperanza laughed and gave him their position, adding that they ought to see the beacon atop San Juan Hill any mom
ent now.

  Gaston sat on the edge of a skylight, digesting her words as he fought to keep his crackers down. Then he said, “Mais non, there is some mistake here. You say we are on or about longitude eighty? That is much too far west for San Juan Hill, ma petite.”

  Captain Gringo said, “No, it’s not. Esperanza navigates pirate style. But I found an old pocket atlas the other day as I was rummaging around for something to read. The black-and-white map of Cuba was pretty small. But there is a San Juan Hill, a mountain actually, just about on the line of eighty degrees west.”

  Gaston put his head in his hands and groaned, “Sacré goddamn! I wish someone would ask the advice of their elders before they went after the goose of wildness! You retarded children have been making for the peak of San Juan indeed. It is also called Pico Paterillo and several other names of nickness.”

  “Okay, as long as San Juan is one of ’em, what difference does it make, Gaston?”

  “Idiot! Even I know Garcia landed in Oriente Province, and I do not even care! The rebels will be somewhere in the Sierra Maestra, overlooking Santiago de Cuba. I have been to Santiago. I almost married a cantina owner in Santiago once. The harbor is dominated by two hills. One is called El Caney. Guess what the other is called?”

  “Ouch! San Juan Hill?”

  “Oui, note that is hill, not mountain. The only San Juan Hill the rebels could have had in mind is the one they are close to, not a mountain more than two hundred and fifty miles to their west, behind the Spanish lines!’"

  Esperanza swore and swung her helm hard over as Captain Gringo insisted, “That makes no sense. Why would they have more than one San Juan Hill on one little shitty island, Gaston?”

  The Frenchman growled, “Do not look at me. I have yet to be consulted about Hispanic place names. There are, after all, only so many saints of either sex, and everyone knows it is safest to name a town, a river, a hill, or a child after some species of San or Santa.”