by Lou Cameron
Gaston said, “That means few outsiders know anything about the settlement itself, then. I know several ports of call on the Barbary Coast that present a smiling mask to the seaside. A tourist can spend a jolly evening along the waterfront at Algiers. But should one venture a block or more into the casbah, and survive, he may leave with a more realistic picture of life among those homicidal lunatics.”
He lit his own smoke and pointed the smoldering match shoreward as he added, “The whole place is dimly lit as a North African port of call, too. I don’t like it here, Dick!”
“Oh, hell, it’s a rebel-held area with Colombian gunboats looking to bust all the windows they see brightly lit. You sure have a vivid imagination, Gaston.”
“True. That is why I am still alive. At the Siege of Camerone, none of the other Legionnaires could imagine the Mexicans winning. As my dear old Tante Ynez, the one who rolled drunks for a living, used to say as she was teaching me about sex and other matters, when in doubt, run like hell!”
Esperanza laughed and said, “I do not think I approve of your aunt’s views on child rearing, but she had a point about survival, muchachos. Why don’t you just stay aboard and come back to Limón with me?”
Captain Gringo was too gallant to say that would make the whole trip pointless. But it seemed safe to say a deal was a deal, after he and Gaston had accepted front money. So they chatted awhile as the decking under them vibrated with the heroic efforts of the rebels trying to unload the schooner the day before yesterday, and then it was too late to change their minds.
The same spiffy officer came aboard to get them. He was neatly clad in the Prussian blue uniform of some army Captain Gringo had never met up with before. A crucifix complete with corpus formed the rather odd badge of his peaked cap. But if he was a chaplain he was breaking the rules by wearing that saber and six-gun. He introduced himself strangely; too. He said he was Jurado Numero Ocho and that he’d been sent to escort them up to the Citadel of Justice. So they said adios to Esperanza and went ashore with him.
There they found an eight-man corporal’s squad, with a corporal, waiting for them. As the two soldiers of fortune walked with Jurado Numero Ocho, the uniformed soldados formed a square around them and walked in step with the officer.
Gaston fell into step when he saw Captain Gringo automatically do so, but asked the young officer with the odd insignia if the stoic riflemen were really necessary. Their escort said, “It pays one to be careful, señor. There are always malcontents, and we would not wish for anything to happen to you before El Criado even orders such a thing, eh?”
Captain Gringo made a mental note that the locals called El Criado Publico merely El Criado and didn’t ask if that had been a veiled threat. There was no sense giving anyone ideas if it hadn’t been.
Jurado Numero Ocho and his men were well legged up, so they didn’t even slow down when they hit the steep slope leading up to a vague black mass against the starry sky. The two soldiers of fortune hadn’t gotten used to being back on dry land yet, but they were able to keep up without comment, and if this was hazing, stuff it.
They were marched through the gateway of what they now saw to be a big star fort built along seventeenth-century lines. The coral masonry was obviously Spanish, but the layout reminded Captain Gringo of the old French-built Fort Ticonderoga in upstate New York, save for being twice the size of that other colonial frontier outpost. The outer glacis and sloping walls formed a six-pointed star, with gun positions atop the earth-filled triangles. So the interior was a spacious hexagon with lamp-lit quarters, stables, and other buildings facing one another across the central parade. A flagstaff rose from the parade’s dead center and, although it was nighttime, a flag fluttered in the trades at the head of the staff. There was just enough light to see the rebel faction’s ensign—a gold Latin cross with the scales of justice superimposed on a blood-red field.
The riflemen halted and stayed put as Jurado Numero Ocho led them into a stone-walled building and up a flight of stone steps. He showed them into their adjoining quarters, two rather Spartan cells connected by a common door, and said, “You will wish for to make yourselves presentable before I take you to meet our leader. I shall return for you in fifteen minutes.”
Then he turned in place like a puppet with a lollipop stick up its ass and left them to their own devices.
Lamps were already burning in both rooms. So they could see they’d been provided with comfortable-looking four-posters, complete with mosquito netting—vital for these parts. A full-dress Prussian blue officer’s kit was neatly folded on each bed. In addition, they’d both been issued one chest of drawers, one washstand with mirror nailed to the stucco wall above, one bentwood chair, and one large, very realistic crucifix on the same spot on the wall of each room. The two rooms were in fact mirror images of each other.
Gaston closed the door to the corridor, shrugged, and said, “Eh bien. He said fifteen minutes. I hope they have my size right.”
He ducked into his own quarters to find out as Captain Gringo began to undress. He’d shaved that morning aboard the Nombre Nada, but when he saw they’d issued him a new toilet set as well as a full basin of water and an olla holding more of the same, he picked up the lamp and went over to check out his jaw in the mirror.
Captain Gringo still had sea legs, and the planks of the floor were uneven. So he snagged a heel on a warped plank and spread his arms wide to recover his balance. He had no trouble with that part, but he managed to snuff the lamp by waving it around like that.
He could still see well enough to put the lamp on the chest of drawers, thanks to the light from Gaston’s open door. But now it was too dark in here to shave or even to see if he needed a shave. So he reached into his pants pocket for a match.
But before he relit the lamp, a pinpoint of light where no pinpoint of light should have been caught his eye. He frowned and moved closer to see why light was shining through a stone wall at least six inches thick.
The wall had been cracked and replastered more than once, thanks either to the frequent earthquakes or to the occasional pirates of the recent past. As he examined the mysterious dot of light more closely, he saw that while the plaster on his side was almost whole, a chink had fallen or been dug out from the other side. He put his eye to the pinhole. He saw another four-poster, covered with red satin and surrounded by an expanse of plush oriental carpet. The bed was unoccupied. He couldn’t see enough to tell if the whole room was. He learned it wasn’t when the naked torso of a well-built woman moved across his line of sight.
He caught only a quick glimpse of her from pubic V to proud firm breasts before she moved out of sight again. He took it on faith that there had to be some other parts attached and that her face and legs had to be at least okay to go with what he’d seen. He also doubted very much, now, that the hole in the wall had been planned as an espionage device.
Had the lady next door noticed it before he had, she’d hardly have been parading around her boudoir bare-assed.
He grinned and helped himself to some soap from the washstand to plug the pinhole on his side, lest she trim her own lamp and notice it before he could at least see her face as well, at a more convenient time.
Then he relit his own lamp, decided his stubble wasn’t bad, and got out of his rumpled linen pants and into the blue uniform they’d provided. It fit perfectly. There was no telegraph line down the Mosquito Coast. So they’d either been very good guessers or they’d known in advance that he and Gaston were going to be contacted in San José.
He knew it had been the latter when the little Frenchman came in to rejoin him, looking dapper as hell in a perfectly fitting smaller outfit.
Gaston said, “I see they have yet to issue us side arms. But I have my adorable .38 under this tunic anyway. Does it show?”
“Not enough to matter. Does mine?”
“Mais non. But anyone who knows you well enough to choose your clothes would hardly expect you to meet total strangers unarmed. What
do you make of the religious overtones to this operation, Dick? I am of course a Catholic, when I think about such matters at all. But I confess it never occurred to us in the Legion to nail crosses to our barracks wall.”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Hispanics take such things more seriously than you frogs. It doesn’t bother me. I wouldn’t want this to get around, but we heretics have crosses on at least some of our church steeples back home.”
They were saved further religious discussion by Jurado Numero Ocho coming to get them. He led them past the mysterious naked lady’s bedroom door, then past a lot more doors until they entered a cavernous room that seemed to be trying to make up its mind whether it was an office or a grotto.
A single oil lamp burned on a huge oak desk, its rays barely making it to the rough stone walls all around. But they could see the silver-haired, black-clad man rising from behind it to circle around and greet them. El Criado Publico, it couldn’t have been anyone else, was a tall, distinguished-looking man of about sixty, dressed, unlike his followers, in the civilian clothing of a Spanish hidalgo. He walked as only a drunken American banker or a Spanish hidalgo walked, giving off waves of grave dignity as he waved his hand at the two comfortable-looking leather chairs facing his desk and said, with a warmer smile than one might have expected.
“Please be seated, caballeros.”
As they did so, their host turned to the officer who’d brought them and softly suggested that his guests might require refreshments. Jurado Numero Ocho saluted, whirled around, and took off like a scalded cat.
El Criado chuckled softly and moved sedately back around the big desk to take his own seat before he said, with a faint smile, “I have already spoken to our friend from los Estados Unidos, Señor Bowman. Ah, he has informed me the shipment will not tally with the bill of lading this time, due to your, ah, unauthorized use of some of it.”
Gaston snorted in disgust and answered, “Merde alors, your precious cargo would be on the bottom of the sea at this moment, along with Bowman as well as ourselves, had not Dick here hosed a Colombian gunboat down with a small part of it!”
El Criado Publico nodded gravely and turned to Captain Gringo with an expectant smile. The tall American said, “I thought we had that settled. I see Bowman’s one of those guys who covers his own ass first. I asked his permission to break out two Maxims and some ammo. I guess he forgot. He was semiconscious at the time.”
“Es verdad? Señor Bowman did not mention giving you permission, Captain Gringo. He tells me he told you not to trifle with the shipment at all.”
Captain Gringo took out a cigar and held it up unlit to ask, “Permiso?” and, when the older man nodded silently, lit up before he leaned back and said, “Let’s save time and call me a liar. The point is that you guys hired me to fight Colombia for you. I put at least six or eight Colombian seamen out of action for sure, and maybe saved la Nombre Nada and the rest of the shipment for you. So sue me.”
El Criado Publico chuckled and replied, “That could be dangerous, if half of what I have heard of you is true, Captain Gringo. I just wished for to clear the matter up. I am satisfied you did the right thing. Just between the three of us, I have the impression your Señor Bowman is muy estupido at best and may present us with some problems. But I am required for to be nice to him, lest my backers in New York suspect I am the difficult person my enemies say I am.”
He waited expectantly, saw that neither had any comment to offer, and added, “You both know, of course, that some former comrades of mine in the Cuba Libre movement have been telling wicked lies about me?”
Gaston shrugged and replied, “Oui, I heard something to the effect that they had different views than yourself. The exact details escape me. I confess I have not been following current events in Cuba.”
El Criado Publico shook his head wearily and said, “They are all quite mad, you know. They accuse me of being, ah, eccentric. But I tell you they will never establish anything but another pathetic little banana republic up in Cuba unless they mend their ways.”
They forgot to ask him what the Cuba Libre guys were doing wrong when the door opened and a Negro came in with a silver tray of wineglasses and a carafe of red Madeira. The servant placed the tray on the desk and crawfished out. So El Criado Publico poured as he said, “Cuba is ancient history. My dream of an ideal republic will work just as well here in Panama. But, as I said, we must treat this Bowman with tact no matter how we may feel about him, eh? It’s no great secret t my Yanqui backers are not interested in my dreams because they admire my no-doubt amusing Spanish accent. I make no secret of the fact I am using them as well. But I am dealing, as they say, from the top of the deck. I intend to let them dig a canal, or a hole to China, for all I care, once my Republica de Panama is set up according to my own advanced theories. To do that I must have money and other weapons of modem warfare. So be nice to Señor Bowman, por favor. As I said, I have enemies who do not deal from the top of the deck, and it is most important he gives us a favorable report, eh?”
Captain Gringo said, “You’re the boss. While he was ratting on us, did Bowman mention what I said about him bringing that dumb redhead along?”
The older man chuckled and said, “He did. I confess in my younger days I might have brought Señorita Pendergast along myself. But I am too old and far too dedicated to my dreams to concern myself with such matters now. I agree the man is a fool. But the girl should be safe enough. We have female dependents with us and I assure you none of my followers would dare to trifle with her. As a matter of fact, I have my own daughter, Inocencia, here with me. I was afraid to leave her alone in New York at the mercy of my former friends.”
Captain Gringo didn’t comment. He knew all too well that Latins tended to drag women along on military expeditions, and they got so unhappy when you told them they were stupid.
Gaston asked about the guns that might go with the shells just delivered, and El Criado Publico said, “I have been promised a battery of field guns. That’s another reason we must be nice to Señor Bowman.”
“Merde alors! Don’t we have any artillery at all?”
“Not at the moment, alas. But so far, through the grace of God, no Colombian land forces seem to be headed our way, and meanwhile we have plenty of small arms, the machine guns you two came down with, and all the ammunition we could possibly need, no?”
Captain Gringo said flatly, “No. There’s never enough ammo when you need it. Whose idea was it to hire us, sir? I got the impression it couldn’t have been Bowman.”
The older man laughed and said, “He and the other Yanquis were dead set against it, as a matter of fact. But I insisted. I know you both by repute more than you apparently know me, eh?”
That was true. So Captain Gringo didn’t answer. Gaston asked, “May one ask about the species of presidential pardon they promised my young friend here?”
El Criado Publico said, “I insisted on that, too. One can hardly establish a reputable republic with the help of a wanted criminal, eh?”
Gaston said, “Oui, that would seem perhaps a bit gauche in the history books. But we were told the pardon would be conditional on the success of this interesting project.”
The would-be father of his country nodded sadly and explained; “I said not everyone is dealing as fairly as myself. But at any rate I did get them to agree to a pardon, once you’ve helped us rid our land of Colombian tyranny.”
Captain Gringo asked, “What if they double-cross us? Don’t bother about what happens if we lose.”
EL Criado Publico said firmly, “They will have to give you the pardon they promised, if they want me to give them the rights to their canal. On that you can depend. You have my word.”
“I’m sure it’s good, sir. But I don’t know about theirs! Does old President Cleveland even know about this deal down here?”
The older man’s face went blank as he answered softly, “Let us simply say certain senior members of his party do. Never fear. If they betray
our trust, I can always issue you a pardon myself, and we can dig the canal ourselves and keep all the tolls, no?”
Before Captain Gringo had to think up an answer, the door opened once more and both soldiers of fortune managed, just, not to gasp aloud at the sight of what was coming in.
A regal young woman with chestnut hair, that odd ripe peach complexion only certain high-born Spanish women ever seemed to have, and a figure Captain Gringo remembered last from seeing it through a pinhole, was standing in the doorway, dressed now in black velvet. But that was only part of the surprise. She was leading a full-grown black jaguar on a leash. The big cat matched her dress perfectly, but the way it was staring at them with those big yellow eyes made them wonder how good a grip she had on that damned skinny leash!
The girl said, “Father, you are preventing us from dining and I am most hungry. The other guests are waiting too.”
El Criado Publico rose with a sheepish smile and introduced her to them as his daughter, Inocencia Zagal. That wasn’t half as surprising as her choice of pets. She returned their greeting with a polite cold smile and eyes about as friendly as her black jaguar’s. But neither of them bit anybody as they all went out and down the corridor to the dining room.
There they found Bowman and Martha Pendergast already at table, with a half-dozen officers dressed like Numero Ocho. When the one nearest the head of the table was introduced as Numero Uno, it was easy to see why Numero Ocho had to be left out. There just weren’t enough chairs for that many Numero Guys.
El Criado Publico took his place at the head of the table. His daughter sat at his right. Where in hell that big cat might be under the table at the moment was something to think about. But as servants began serving the first courses, none of the other guests seemed to be having their shins gnawed, so Captain Gringo decided just to enjoy the meal.
Neither he nor Gaston made a habit of discussing blood and slaughter at the dinner table, but the redhead across from him kept asking dumb questions about the current situation. Their host looked pained and said, “I am not the military expert here, señorita. I am more intent on my new constitution at the moment. But perhaps one of my younger associates could inform you about our present battle lines, eh?”