by Lou Cameron
“Where did you tell them to stop and wait?”
“I didn’t. I knew you and I would catch up sooner or later. These people are new at walking. How many did you get back there?”
“Five, maybe six. One was the patrol leader. We should have at least an hour on them, now.”
“Perhaps more. Those are not French Legionnaires chasing us. They may sit down to wait for their momma to kiss it and make it well.”
“Let’s hope so. But don’t bet your life on it. I got a look at their bayonet drill. They’re trained soldiers. They’ll follow slower now, but they’ll keep following.”
The three of them started down the stream in the sluggishly moving brown water. Chino said, “We’re going to pick up leeches wading like this.”
Gaston said, “You’ll bleed worse if a bullet hits you, mon ami. Nobody invited you to a stroll through the park to a picnic. You amateurs never seem to understand the seriousness of this profession.”
Captain Gringo said, “Ease up, Gaston, Chino’s all right. He cut the false trail I asked him to and he stayed behind with you to back me. He can bitch all he wants to. Good soldiers always bitch.”
Chino blushed with pleasure like a girl and said, “Fuck the leeches. Fuck the frogs, too.”
Gaston laughed and said, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Chino. I don’t like boys. Is that a snake over there to our right or have I been drinking?”
Chino laughed and said, “It’s only a culebra. A harmless snake despite its looks. They’re the creatures these mountains were named for. Of course, they do eat frogs.”
The American asked, “Do you know a bushmaster or fer-de-lance when you see them, Chino?”
The boy replied, “You don’t see a fer-de-lance before it strikes. The bushmaster is bigger and sluggish, like a fat rattlesnake. I know it when I see it. One bit my cousin a few years ago. He died before the priest they sent for arrived.”
Gaston repressed a shudder and said, “The bushmaster and fer-de-lance like dry ground, non?”
Chino said, “Yes. In knee-deep water one must only worry about the cottonmouth or anaconda. I think we’re too high in the hills to worry about caimen or crocodiles.”
“Sacre! What is this caimen creature?”
“It is like an alligator, only not as friendly. Don’t worry. We don’t have many caimen this far north. Just alligator in the fresh water, crocodiles in the salt marshes.”
Gaston slapped at his neck and muttered, “One or the other just bit me,” and Captain Gringo said, “Me too. Remember that Maya girl I was with in Tehauntepec? She showed me a trick the Indians use to keep the bugs off.”
“For God’s sake, let’s use it then. I’m being eaten alive.”
“Wait ’til we catch up with the others and put some distance between us and those troops. They won’t get really bad before nightfall.”
Gaston slapped again and muttered, “Merde alors! They are trying to fly away with me in broad daylight.”
Captain Gringo winked at Chino and said, “What did I tell you? Old soldiers always bitch.”
Chino blushed again. He was seventeen years old and frightened out of his wits, but the big American was treating him like a man. Chino decided he would be a man, even if it killed him. The hazing was working as they’d known it would. Between them, Gaston and Captain Gringo made quite a team. If they could keep these people alive a few more days, some of them might turn out to be real fighters.
In less than an hour they caught up with the others, resting by the side of the stream, and once again Gaston played the martinet as Captain Gringo played father figure.
The tough little Frenchman bawled the tired rebels out for acting like a bunch of weak sisters, and when one man protested he’d cut his foot in the stream Gaston snapped, “I spit on your foot and I spit in your mother’s milk! You want to rest just because you’re bleeding a little? Eh bien, wait here for the soldiers and you can bleed all over the place!”
Sor Pantera protested, “The boy is covering up for me, Gaston. It was I who asked them to stop and wait for you.”
“Sacre! We have barely started and already maidens are fainting among us! I told you this was no business for a woman, Sor Pantera! We have at least one hundred and fifty kilometers left to march. Had you told us you wanted to stop and have a baby—”
“That’s enough, Gaston,” said Captain Gringo. Then, as the others looked relieved, he added, “Everybody on your feet and let’s move it out. We don’t have an hour’s lead and we’ll have to do some fancy foot-work to throw them off our trail before it’ll be safe to hole up for the night.”
He told one of the stronger-looking mestizos to pack the Maxim and took the point of the column, pistol in one hand and a machete in the other. The man with the Maxim followed closely, with Sor Pantera at his side and Gaston bringing up the rear.
No orders had been given, but he knew Gaston would quietly kill any weakling who fell out. The ex-Legionnaire was most practique when it came to leaving prisoners for the enemy to question.
The tall American led them downstream for another couple of miles. Then he found a stretch of red shale running up from the water and cut across it, knowing they’d leave no footsteps from the stream. He used his machete sparingly as he led them through another brush wall. The edges of the clearings were the only places really overgrown with tangles. Once in deep shade the walking was easier, but unfortunately the damp forest mold held water-filled footprints after it had been walked over. He set a pace calculated to allow a reasonably healthy adult to maintain and was pleased to hear no complaints. The early crackdown by the authorities had weeded out the unfit to survive with Darwinian effectiveness. They’d already taken the usual wastage of green fighters. He wondered who had sicced the Army on them early. It hadn’t been Sir Basil’s plan for them to be crushed before they could demonstrate the Colombian Army’s need for modern arms. The Colombian Army was doing just fine. Either one of the rival rebel factions had betrayed the Balboa Brigade, or else Sally and Greystoke had figured out how much he knew. He hoped Sally wound up with piles, but it didn’t seem possible. He’d never figured out why buggery was so popular with English and German girls.
He came across a vine he remembered and snapped off a few leaves. He handed them to Sor Pantera and said, “Pass these back and tell the others to pick as much as they can on the fly and put them away for later.”
She did as she was told before catching up with him to ask what they wanted with the pungent leaves. He said, “I don’t know what the Indians call the stuff, but if you throw it on a fire and smoke yourself all over with the fumes, it keeps mosquitos away.”
“Oh, is that why Los Indios smell so smokey when they come to trade? As you know, we are mostly middle-class Creoles used to city life. Just how do we manage to get the smoke under our clothing?”
“We don’t. When it starts to get dark again we’ll have to build a smudge fire and take turns standing over it, naked.”
“Surely you jest! Do you really expect me to undress in front of seven grown men?”
“It’ll be fairly dark. Can’t build a fire until we’re sure nobody can spot the smoke above the trees.”
“But, if I stand nude, above the glowing coals … Forgive me. I don’t think I can do it.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Sor Pantera. If you want to be eaten alive by mosquitos, that’s your business. While we’re on the subject, a woman alone among so many men may tend to worry more than she needs to. You’re going to be forced into more intimacy than your upbringing may have prepared you for. Just remember there’s safety in numbers. A woman alone with seven men is safer than if there were only one or two. Nobody will make the first move, because of the others.”
“I am not afraid of being mistreated. But I’m starting to feel very naked already. If I have to answer a call to nature—”
“You will, before the day is over. There’s no way around it. You just squat behind a tree and catch up as b
est you can. If Gaston makes sure of what you’re doing, think of him as a brother. He won’t cut you down for answering the calls to nature. Only if you can’t keep up.”
“My God! That’s hardly a way for a gentleman to talk to a lady!”
“I know, but we’re not at a fancy-dress ball. If we get out of this alive I’ll ask you to dance with me. Meanwhile, I’ve got to treat you all the same, as soldiers.”
She saw one of the pungent leaves, plucked it, and tucked it in her bodice as she sighed, “I don’t feel like a soldier. I feel like a frightened child.”
“Welcome to the club. Any soldier who’s not frightened is on his way to being dead.”
“But we’re not really soldiers. We’re a ragtag band of fugitives and there are so few of us!”
“I make it a corporal’s squad of infantry. It’s not the brass buttons and waving guidons, or even a person’s sex, that separate the soldier from the civilian. A soldier is a person who fights other soldiers, and we’re not being trailed by stray kittens.”
He bulled through some thorny brush and she fell back in file. He was forced to use his machete, but tried not to leave any more fresh-cut wood than he could manage.
He expected more shaded forest beyond the thorns. Instead, he came out on a swampy expanse of saw grass with a rusty abandoned steam dredge bogged down in the middle. As the others joined him, he said,
“We’re getting into the low country. This must be about as far as the French engineers got.”
Sor Pantera asked, “Is that the Panama Canal?” and he said, ‘Hardly. It looks like a feeder ditch. You have to keep the water level in a canal. They must have dredged dozens of feeders like this to divert streams from the hills. This one’s already clogged with weeds and silting up.”
The man packing the Maxim asked, “How do we get across?” and the American said, “We can’t. That saw grass would cut our legs to ribbons if we tried to wade, and there’s not enough clear water to build a raft. We’ll have to try to work our way around. We’re east of the railroad. So we’ll keep bearing east to higher ground and hope for a dam or bridge closer to the watershed.”
He led out, following the marshy shore of the wide feeder canal. They’d gone away when the woman said, “We’re leaving footprints.”
He said, “I know. Can’t be helped.”
“Won’t the soldiers see them?”
“Probably. That can’t be helped, either. If we duck back under the trees we won’t be able to follow this ditch, and we’ll leave a trail in there, anyway. Even if we could walk like fairies, any smart tracker will know where we’re headed. There’s no other way to go!”
Knowing it was the only hope, Captain Gringo picked up the cadence and led them at a grueling pace across the marshy ground. They slipped in the slime and tripped over roots. They cursed and sweat and were bitten repeatedly by little black flying things from the reeds. But they kept going, and in another two hours they found the ground drier underfoot as the land rose a bit. The deeper canal narrowed, albeit was too wide to cross. Then Captain Gringo spotted a long, low mass ahead and called a halt, saying, “Things are looking up. There’s a dam. We can cross the spillway to the far side.”
He led them slowly forward, as he studied what the Suez Society had wrought. The dam was a primitive temporary structure of earth piled behind driven piles and cross timbers with a long sheet of water pouring over the lip of the central spillway. They’d obviously meant to finish it with concrete, and why it was still standing was a mystery. Wood didn’t last long in this hot, humid climate. He climbed the dam wing gingerly and stared out across the acres of impounded scummy water upstream. The dam had an eight-foot head, and the rotten timbers held a fair-sized lake in temporary captivity. He stepped out on the spillway and stamped experimentally. Gaston came up beside him and said, “If we pried some timbers loose and let the damned thing burst, we wouldn’t have to worry about it holding.”
Captain Gringo nodded, but said, “I thought of that. It might wash out completely and we’d have nothing left to cross. Let’s cross one at a time and hope for the best. You get the others over and I’ll cover from here with the machine gun.”
“I thank you for the opportunity,” said Gaston dryly. Then he shrugged and walked across in the ankle-deep water over the spillway. He made it safely across and called out, “What are you people waiting for, an engraved invitation?”
The others ran across single file as the tall American waited with the Maxim braced against his hip. He saw the last man was over. So taking a last look down the path they’d come by, he hefted the heavy gun to his shoulder and started across. He was heavier than the others, even without the gun. The water-logged timbers quivered alarmingly under his feet, but held. He rejoined his comrades on the far shore and Gaston said, “So much for dramatics. Shall we be on our way?”
Captain Gringo handed the gun to Chino and said, “Not yet. Let’s burst this dam.”
Gaston started to say something. Then he looked across at the muddy trail they’d left and nodded. They cut down some poles with machetes and Gaston got in waist deep on the uphill side to wedge his pole between a pile and a weak-looking timber. Captain Gringo was about to join him when one of the others cried out, “Soldados!” and he looked to the west across the waving saw grass to see distant mustard figures moving up the far bank they’d just traveled.
Chino asked, “Do we run or shoot, Captain Gringo?”
The big American said, “Neither. Start moving into those trees over there.” Then he jumped in beside Gaston, chest deep in the water, and jammed his own pole into the dam.
Neither could see the oncoming soldiers as they worked with their heads below the level of the spillway. But Sor Pantera called out, “They see us! They are coming muy pronto!”
Gaston grunted, “It’s no use. My compatriots built this thing stronger than it looks, curse them one and all!”
“Run for it, Gaston. Maybe you can hold them off with the Maxim.”
“Fuck the Maxim! Let’s both run for it!”
“Go ahead. I just felt something give.”
“Damn it, Dick, this is getting silly! What do you think you are, a barrel of dynamite?”
And then there was a loud sucking roar and all hell broke loose as something gave and the old dam burst with a thunderous roar!
The water level went down suddenly, and Gaston was swept off his feet by the undertow. But Captain Gringo caught the Frenchman with one hand as he clung to a timber for their lives with the other. The lake dropped away from them until they stood in shin-deep running water and Gaston grinned and said, “Sacre, you are a barrel of dynamite!”
They struggled up the slippery bank to join the others, staring in wonder down the valley. A four-foot wall of foaming green slime was racing away from where they stood, at express-train speed. It picked up fallen logs, old timbers, and Colombian soldiers as it tore away around the gentle bend. A few minutes later the sudden flood had dropped to its previous level, but not an enemy was in sight. The wide expanse was covered with green-brown slime, and any footprints anyone or anything had ever made within miles had been erased forever.
The others were more awestruck than delighted by the fantastic destruction. But Captain Gringo was grinning, and even Gaston looked less pessimistic than usual.
Sor Pantera gasped, “I can’t believe it! I think we wiped them out!”
Gaston shrugged and said, “There will be others. Don’t forget they have the railroad. They can drop patrols off ahead of us, and one of the captives will have told them where we are going.”
Sor Pantera looked pleadingly at the tall American, and Captain Gringo said, “He’s right, unfortunately. But we’ve bought ourselves at least another day. Let’s go. We have plenty of daylight ahead of us. I’d like to make another fifteen miles before sunset.”
Chino asked, “Where are we to spend the night? We’re in the low country between the coastal hills. It’s all jungle. All the same.”
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Gaston cursed under his breath and asked, “Do you want to tell them, Dick, or shall I?”
Captain Gringo said, “We’re not looking for a place to sleep, Chino. We haven’t time to sleep.”
“You mean we keep going through the jungle, at night?”
“Yeah, but first we have to wreck the railroad. We’ll do that as soon as it gets dark.”
Chapter Eleven
They could have walked across the isthmus in three or four days on a smooth road. On the map they were moving across a mere green sliver. But the Panamanian jungle looked a lot bigger when one tried to walk a straight line through it. Captain Gringo didn’t spare them by stopping to eat or even rest more than a few minutes at a time. He knew their fear and early strength would carry them farthest the first day, so it was important to make it as far as possible. By this time the next day on the trail they’d be separating the men from the boys as legs gave out and cuts began to fester. He was hoping the soldiers after them would set a more relaxed albeit steadier pace. His people had no hope of outdistancing legged-up infantry on a day-after-day basis. With a lot of luck they might manage to give the Army too much jungle to search, if they could get enough of it between them.
The refugees had brought little besides their guns and personal belongings. A few had thought to bring a little food. He didn’t attempt to ration it. It was enough that they shared what they had as they walked, and by noon it was all gone. It was doing them more good inside of them than out and offered one less thing to fight over when it started getting tougher. He knew an adult in a humid climate can go a few days without eating before strength begins to fade enough to matter. There was water, too much water, for the taking. The big problem was a mañana matter. They’d start giving out after the second night on the run. Once he really let them rest, muscles would start to knot. He knew the human body felt more tired after a good night’s sleep than during unusual stress.
He told them they were taking a five-minute break every hour. Then he used the old drill sergeant’s trick of marching them an hour and a half and letting them take three minutes. It worked the first few times, but as the day wore on they complained more and were harder to get moving again after each break. He’d have never gotten so much out of green recruits who, after all, only faced company punishment for shirking. He owed as much to the Colombian Army as he did West Point. Everyone in the group knew what it would mean if they were caught. So, somehow, everyone kept going.