by Lou Cameron
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she asked, “You really mean to stay here like a coward, as we march on?”
That crack had obviously been meant for some of the others, mounted or afoot, who’d drifted over to enjoy the show. Captain Gringo said flatly, “Don’t push it, doll. I’m not trying to take over your outfit. I’m not trying to give any orders at all. You do whatever you want to do, and we’ll do what we have to do.”
“Dick,” she pleaded, “I thought we had a certain understanding?”
He said, “We do. I’ll never forget you. Go with God, if you must, but don’t fuck with my horses if you want to part friends.”
She told him he was impossible, wheeled her own mount away, and rode off, yelling, “¡Vamanos, soldados de Cuba!” as if that really meant something. The ones already mounted followed her. Some still on foot started running for their own mounts. Some few didn’t seem to be going anywhere at all. One was Suarez, of all people.
Captain Gringo raised an eyebrow at him. Suarez said simply, “I did not leave my farm for to run for Cuba. I left my farm for to fight for Cuba. I am not sure you know what you are doing, yanqui. But I know what Nopalita and the others are doing. They are doing nothing'.”
A shorter, somewhat older guerrilla sporting a Spanish officer’s cap said, “I know what they are doing. They are marching west when the enemy is to the east. I confess this made a certain amount of sense to me at first. Nopalita led us from a death trap. She led us well. She knows more about such matters than me. I was only in the Spanish Army two weeks before I was able to escape. Pero you seem to know even more, Captain Gringo, and I swore to a dying comrade I would someday get back and kill the bastards!” Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Bueno. How are you called and how come that officer’s cap?”
The older man smiled modestly and replied, “I am called Rosario. My people grow tobacco in Matanzas. This cap once adorned the head of a Spanish lieutenant who cursed us as he made us work on the railroad tracks. One day he fell off his high horse. It is surprising how well some labor troops can throw a railroad spike, you See. Since we had no officer for to curse us, we saw no reason for to tamp more ballast. The rest you know, Captain Gringo.”
The American chuckled, but said, “No I don’t. You say you used to work on the Spanish railroad? How far is it from here, and what’s the security situation?”
Rosario shrugged and replied, “Alas, we were working far to the east. I know roughly where the line in these parts ought to be. As to how well guarded, it is well guarded everywhere. When I was in the Spanish Army, they used to warn us to look out for guerrillas intent on wrecking trains. I never saw any trains wrecked. Pero I saw many soldados patrolling the line. The real Spaniards would rather work with guns than picks and shovels, you see. They have some men moving up and down the right-of-way on horseback while others ride the rails in armored cars, pushed, not pulled, by the engines.”
“How far apart would you say their guard posts are, Rosario?”
“¿Quien sabe? It depends on the lay of the land, señor. Out on open range, as it seems to be to our north, they would have the strong points farther apart. Perhaps five kilometers or more apart?”
“You’re asking me?” smiled Captain Gringo, turning to see how the rest of the outfit was making out. He didn’t see anyone riding now. Nopalita and her followers were screened from view by the trees between him and wherever they were. He turned back, counted noses, and saw he had a half dozen guerrillas and, of course, their adelitas to work with. Lola had ridden out with the others. That didn’t surprise him, although Gaston looked a little insulted. He nodded and raised his voice to announce, “All right. For openers we need a lookout up on the rise. How are you called, hombre?”
The man he’d pointed to admitted to being Pedro. Pedro got to stand first watch. Captain Gringo told the others, “Get your gear over here where you can keep an eye on it and the ponies at the same time. No fires until after dark, muchachas. You, with the red skirts, what can you tell me about the rations we have to work with?”
The girl said, “Nada, Captain Gringo. The others left us only our water canteens and such food as we did not cook last night for breakfast. I got a couple of tortillas and a sock of coffee grounds I saved.”
None of the other adelitas had that much. Captain Gringo nodded as if the news had cheered him immensely and said, “Bueno. As long as we have enough water for now. We’ll forage for rations later. Right now I intend to set up a machine gun nest at the edge of this cover again. The rest of you carry on. All but you, in the brown sombrero. How are you called?”
“Fernando, Captain Gringo,” answered the suddenly nervous youth.
Captain Gringo said, “Bueno. You come with Lieutenant Verrier and me, Fernando. You can be our runner. I want the rest of you to pay attention. If Fernando runs back here with orders from me, you’re to carry them out to the letter. As of now this is a Cuban Army unit, not a debating society. Any questions? Bueno. Let’s go, guys.”
Whoever first said warfare consisted of hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror and confusion had been right on the money. This was a point often lost on green troops and barely considered by most self-taught revolutionaries. Young Fernando was already going nuts less than two hours after they’d set up near the bottom of the slope. He kept asking dumb questions, even though the reasons seemed obvious to the soldiers of fortune.
Captain Gringo had scooped out a shallow foxhole in the sand where chaparral gave way to grass the rest of the way down the slope. He’d emplaced two Maxims side by side because they had plenty of guns and ammo and he could shoot a machine gun on a tripod with either hand. The other gun, dug in but unmanned, farther up the slope at the edge of the taller timber, was of course a backup, should they have to pull back in a hurry. Fernando asked what good one gun would do against anything that could not be stopped by two. Gaston sighed and said, “Should we be forced to retreat, we shall of course attempt to carry these two with us. Should they have enough force to get past three automatic weapons, do not concern yourself about it, my child. By then you will no doubt be dead.”
Fernando gulped and asked, “Who fires the third gun? Do not look at me!”
Captain Gringo took pity on him and explained, “Gaston can fire anything, even though I want him here as my loader for now. If it gets really hairy, I’ll send you back with a message for the others.”
Fernando looked relieved and asked, “What message, señor?”
Captain Gringo growled, “Damn it, I’ll know that when it’s time to come up with one. Can’t you just jack off or something for now? I don’t see a fucking thing out there. With luck, it ought to stay that way until it’s dark enough to do some scouting.”
They had been able to see the distant dust of Nopalita and the others when they’d begun. Now the horizon was a featureless line of tawny grass meeting sky just as uninteresting, albeit a pretty shade of robin’s-egg blue. It was a little hazy right where the sky met open range. Fernando kept seeing movement, no matter how often they told him he was spooking at heat waves. But when he spotted smoke and commented on it, Captain Gringo said, “Yeah, it must be from that house or whatever I spotted from the ridge last night. Hold the thought. It’s moving.”
The three of them watched as the rising smoke plume crept along the horizon line for a time. Gaston decided, “Eh bien, since a steamboat is seldom seen on land, I make it out a railroad locomotive on its way east. Let us hope it keeps going, lest it be a troop train, non?”
Captain Gringo grinned and said, “It has to be a train. Not as far off as we feared.”
Gaston said, “Speak for yourself. It was my fond hope the tracks, and species of Spaniards guarding it, would be at least ten miles away. I make it less than that, curse its foul breath!”
Captain Gringo said, “It’s hard to tell, the way the savannah rolls between here and there. We’re not getting a true horizon. From its speed I’d say it was less than five miles off.”<
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“You know how fast it is going?” asked Fernando.
Captain Gringo shook his head and explained, “Not within a mile an hour. But it’s moving straight on a clear track across open country. So she has to be doing between thirty to fifty, depending on how far. What do you say, Gaston?”
The Frenchman pursed his lips and decided, “Railroaders are not as reckless down this way, Dick. When I rode the line that time, we never got up above, say, forty miles an hour, and that was with no rebels tearing up the track to worry about, hein?”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “That means she’s between six and eight miles out. That light I spotted last night could be a section shack.”
“Or an army post,” Gaston suggested grimly, adding, “There would be no reason for either a switch or a siding over that way, unless there was a larger settlement.”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “We’ll find out tonight, if we make it through the day.”
Fernando was on his feet and pacing. He moaned, “It is not nearly noon yet, and it is already getting hot. I do not think anyone will be out on that furnace floor this late in the day, señores.”
Gaston snorted in disgust and said, “Merde alors, it’s no wonder the Dons caught you all napping, you species of unripe cherry. Did you expect them to announce they were coming in writing a week ahead? To give the devil his due, the Spanish regular is a soldier, not a child playing hide and go seek until some other game is suggested by someone in the crowd. Real soldiers do not guess, or hope, where the enemy might be. On the offensive he goes looking for the enemy. On the defensive he watches for the enemy, and we, my impatient grasshopper, are on the defensive. Sit down and count your blessings. I have been on the offensive with this Yankee maniac. Take my word for it, this is much more comfortable!”
But Fernando didn’t sit down. So he was first again to detect motion, real motion, on the skyline. When he pointed it out, Gaston grabbed his leg and pulled him down. Captain Gringo said, “Yeah, I make it about thirty guys on foot in line of skirmish, with one on horseback out ahead. Scout or leader, Gaston?”
Gaston said, “Spanish officers never walk. He’s too close to his men to be scouting for them. I would suggest it’s an infantry platoon. Those others, yesterday, were dragoons or mounted infantry. Perhaps we got most of their horses?”
Fernando said, “I shall run and tell the others now, no?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and asked, “Tell ’em what? We don’t need any help. Those poor bastards will, if they keep coming this way. ’’
Both Maxims were of course primed to fire automatic. As Captain Gringo snicked the safeties, Gaston chuckled and said, “They must be looking for their lost patrol. Regard, the mounted officer just pointed down at the grass. For a man who reads sign in the field so well, he has a lot to learn about field tactics. Regard how he advances in the direction he knows he lost some men in, as if he were a small boy in command of a box of wooden soldiers!”
Captain Gringo was too professional to enjoy killing. So he grimaced and said, “Yeah, the poor bastards. They should be spread out more, and the asshole has no flank scouts out at all. You’d think they were on parade. Why the hell are they advancing so dumb if they know we’re around here somewhere?”
Gaston decided, “They don’t. They were ordered by yet some other species of asshole to go in search of those others. They have picked up the trail. It is leading them this way for obvious reasons. Since they by now see nothing ahead but the beach, they assume their comrades perhaps went swimming, since they are nowhere in sight. We know desertion is a problem, even in decently run armies. That dandy on the horse has assumed the missing men rode off on purloined horses. He is not really searching for them. He is going through the motions. He knows there is no way to catch up with mounted deserters on foot. He shall no doubt ride as far as the beach, scratch his head, and attempt to lead his platoon back in time for la siesta.”
Captain Gringo said, “I hope you’re right.”
Young Fernando whispered, “How soon do we get to shoot them?”
Both soldiers of fortune grunted in disgust. Gaston said, “We shall not be shooting anyone, my trigger-happy little monster. If le bon Dieu smiles on all of us, nobody will have to shoot anybody. They are not moving directly at us. We were most discreet about brushing the beach neatly yesterday. So the trail they follow ends near the water and leads nowhere else, hein?”
Fernando said, “Sí, pero they will be in range as they line up at the water’s edge like those others, no?”
Captain Gringo said, “You’re right, Gaston. He must have played cowboys and Indians a lot in a misspent youth. That’s not the way it’s done in real life, Fernando. The name of this game is survival. It’s dumb to die for one’s cause. The idea is to let the other side die for their cause.”
Fernando frowned and said, “I can see that. I cannot see why you wish for to hold your fire. They are well within rifle range now, and even I can see they have no cover for to fall back to. For God’s sake, don’t you intend to mow the bastards down?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “That’s not our job. Our job is to get all those guns and bullets to Garcia. That gets harder every time I wipe out a Spanish patrol miles behind the Spanish lines. We don’t want them to know we’re here, Fernando. We don’t want ’em even guessing. If that patrol reports nothing over this way, we may not have to worry about another for a while. But if it doesn’t report back either, they’ll send another, and then another. Am I talking too fast for you? Do you need diagrams on a blackboard, for Chrissake?”
Gaston pulled the youth lower in the chaparral and muttered, “Live and let live can be better soldiering than bang-bang-you’re-dead, at times like these. Now shut up and stay out of the way as well as down in case this exercise in sweetness and light does not work, hein?”
It started to. The officer rode out on the damp sand and pranced his horse up and down the beach for some reason. The ragged rope-soled infantry stood morosely watching him, as if they didn’t know what he was doing either. Captain Gringo had them lined up nicely between his twin muzzles. If he had to open up, he could scissor them down in one double burst and deal with the jerk-off on the horse with a traverse.
The officer got tired of looking at sand and reined in to stare thoughtfully at the wooded slope, unaware he was staring into a pair of machine gun muzzles. He called out, loud enough for Captain Gringo to hear, “We’d better scout that ridge, men. Perhaps they camped up among those trees.”
A weary-looking sergeant was protesting the order, too softly for Captain Gringo to make out his words. The American shrugged fatalistically and began to squeeze both triggers at once. But then someone else fired a single round and the officer was off his horse and on his hands and knees in the shallows as Captain Gringo held his own fire, muttering, “What the hell?” But there was still a lot of noise as the lined-up Spanish infantrymen proceeded to blow the wounded officer to bloody ocean foam, firing shot after shot long after he was mostly under and bleeding good all over. Gaston spat and said, “Eh bien, we had officers like that one in the legion too.”
The noncom who’d blown the officer out of his saddle fired his carbine in the air and yelled for silence. As the others ceased fire, laughing like hell, he called out, “I do not have to tell any of you what happens if you are caught now. I am off for the Sierra Maestra! Who goes with me?”
There was a chorus of agreement. Some clown fired his carbine in the air and shouted, “¡Viva Cuba Libre!”
The sergeant began to reload his weapon as he started walking in Captain Gringo’s direction. The American asked, “What do you think, Gaston?” and the Frenchman said, “Mais non, kill them while you have the chance. Such unpredictable people make me très nervous, even when they are not carrying repeaters.”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “You two slip back up to the other gun and cover me.”
“Mais Dick, aside from being m
utineers, they are on foot and no use to us as baggage handlers.”
“You heard what I said. Get going. I want some cover when I hear what these guys have to say.”
He waited until he was alone and the Spanish mutineers were too close for comfort before he rose to his feet, waving a pocket kerchief, and called out, “Feliz navidad?”
The sergeant in the lead stopped but kept the muzzle of his carbine polite as he called back, “Are you crazy? Christmas was at least a week ago. Who the hell are you, a hermit with no idea of the date?”
Captain Gringo said, “I’m a Cuban officer. My men have you covered. I just watched you shoot a Spanish officer. I thought I’d like to hear why. That’s why you’re still alive, see?”
The leader of the mutineers shrugged and said, “We shot him mostly because he was Spanish and partly because we would not have liked him if he’d been Cuban.”
“Are you guys Cuban draftees?”
“By the beard of Christ, would you expect Cubans to volunteer for such a shithead army? They had to take us. Garcia has most of their regulars from Spain tied up at the front right now.”
Another man in Spanish uniform shouted, “¡Viva Garcia! Fuck the old whore who rules Spain, and while you are at it, fuck the little sissy they call a king!”
The sergeant yelled for him to shut up and told Captain Gringo, “Anyone can say he is an officer in any army. That one we just shot said he was an officer, and you see what it got him. I do not know you, señor. I do know we are a long way from the Sierra Maestra, and Butcher Weyler has spies everywhere. Perhaps you would be good enough to convince us you are what you say, if you can?”
Captain Gringo nodded, turned, and signaled Gaston, who then put a withering blast of automatic fire to either side of them. As they soberly regarded the chopped-up chaparral and settling dust, Captain Gringo said, “I have two guns just as good here, a lot closer. I had you all in my sights while you were murdering your commanding officer. Do you think you’d still be alive if I’d been on his side?” The sergeant moved closer, spotted the nearest machine gun behind Captain Gringo, and said, “I am called Pancho. Last names are not wise to give when one has a family in Havana Province.”