by Lou Cameron
Wallace nodded and said, “I said he was a bloody sod, He just managed to mire his wheels out there, and I must say that took ingenuity, even for a moron! There’s no way to stall a steam car if you have a full head of steam, damn his drunken soul!” Captain Gringo saw Sylvia and Pat doing something under the hood of their Stanley. He moved over to join them, as Wallace strode up and down the bank, yelling out across the water for Marlowe either to wade ashore or, preferably, to drown himself.
Gaston came over too, as Sylvia slid the burner pan out to let the asbestos kerosene wicks have some air. Captain Gringo saw why Gaston was so interested in engineering these days. Both girls had removed their hats and veils, since the mosquitoes had been replaced by humid heat in the shade. Pat was a roguish-looking little Irish redhead with big green bedroom eyes, and the little Frenchman had dibs on her, damn his horny old soul!
Sylvia looked prettier, albeit more reserved, even with that grease on her pale cheek. He looked up at the sparkling green forest canopy and told them, “You’d better keep your lids on, ladies. It’s not the sunlight you see that does you in in the tropics. The bigger trees have almost locked arms over this overgrown trail, but almost isn’t good enough and some rays are getting through.”
Sylvia said, “In a minute. The air’s so perishing damp it’s going to take forever for the burner to dry. Are we going to have to knock down trees all the way to Laguna Caratasca, for heaven’s sake?”
“If we’re lucky. The map says we have less than thirty miles to go. God knows what the jungle says.” He turned to Gaston to ask, “Does the road ahead beeline or make like a snake, Gaston?”
Gaston snorted and said, “What road? M’mselle is correct in assuming it to be a rhubarb patch, these days. Most naturally it has always wound its weary way trés fatigue. I think we’d do as well driving cross-country between the trees, non?”
Captain Gringo thought about that. He’d run through enough jungle by now to know it was true that the going was easier in the cathedral gloom of tall timber where sunlight never reached the ground to drive the underbrush crazy. He frowned and said, “Guys can walk pretty good between the big timber’s buttress roots under virgin canopy. I’m not sure there’s room to squeeze a motor vehicle through. You get to step over lots of fallen logs in the tall timber, too. Besides, how the hell could you ever find the way if we leave the only trail there?”
Gaston pointed to the gumbo limbo leaning away from Sylvia’s front bumper and said, “Easy. This adorable hedgerow that used to be the trail should be headed the same way it always has, non?”
The taller American nodded thoughtfully and said, “It might work, if we kept a bearing on this wall of greenery as we drove. So which side do you suggest, east or west?”
“West, of course. One wishes to stay on the dry side.”
Pat asked, “Coo, do you call this dry? I feel like I walked into a steambath with all my clothes on!”
Gaston suggested she take them off, adding, “We shall be wetter long before we are drier, even if it fails to rain today, M’mselle Pat. This trail followed such high ground as there was between here and the lagoons to the north. Fortunately, our high wheels should do most of the wading in the muck I foresee ahead.”
Sylvia took Captain Gringo’s elbow and steered him away from Gaston and the giggling little redhead. As they walked toward the river’s edge, he thought she wanted to watch Major Wallace do something about the steam car still stuck out in the middle. But she avoided the pacing and cursing Wallace, too, as she murmured, “Dick, we have to do something about your friend Gaston.”
“Really? I thought Pat had her eye on Gaston.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, and it’s not bloody funny. He seems intent to have his way with her.”
“I noticed. So what? Is she under twenty-one?”
“Mentally? I’d say she has the mind of a nine-year-old. One who’d just love to play doctor in the shed with the lad next door.”
He chuckled and said, “Yeah, and I let Gaston get in the first bids. I guess you’re not interested in playing doctor, huh?”
“Don’t be beastly. How are we to keep that dirty old man out of poor Pat’s knickers?”
“Are you her mother? Dirty old men need love and affection, too, and Pat can decide for herself about her knickers. He won’t attack her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Sylvia grimaced and said, “He won’t have to. I noticed coming over on the ship that she can’t say no. Had a dreadful row with her when she tried to bring a second-class passenger to the cabin I was forced to share with her.”
“I see you don’t like parties, either. Don’t worry, Sylvia. Old Gaston is too sneaky to do anything naughty in front of you, unless you ask him. He’s not a kiss-and-tell guy, if you’re worried about the other guys getting jealous. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask how you four dames and eight guys pair off.”
“We don’t,” she said flatly, adding, “I told you in the beginning this was strictly a business syndicate. All of us but Marlowe, of course, knew Major Wallace socially in Blighty. When he approached us with the story of the treasure, each of us chipped in to mount this expedition. I confess my own interest was as much for the adventure as anything. I already have sufficient income for my needs, but, God, it can get dull in Belgravia if one’s not interested in musical beds or an early grave from drugs and drink!”
He nodded as a couple of pieces fell into place. Belgravia, he knew, was a pretty fancy London neighborhood. He’d thought they all seemed sort of hoity-toity for a knock-around crew. It explained the dames tagging along, too. A bored rich dame who invested in a treasure hunt wasn’t about to sit home with her sewing as she waited for results. It was still a hell of a way to run a railroad. He asked, “Is there any chance you kiddies could have been led down the garden path? Treasure hunts are a pretty standard con, you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Major Wallace rowed for Harrow. Besides, he was a great friend of my late husband and—”
“You’re a recent widow, Sylvia?” he cut in.
She shrugged and said, “Bruce died about two years ago. That’s recent enough, if you’re asking if I’ve another bloke in Blighty.”
He didn’t ask. He could tell by her occasional lapses into East End slang that she’d married up a couple of notches. That explained a few things, too. Even a nice Cockney widow with the wherewithal to go on living in Belgravia wouldn’t make many friends of her own there. Major Wallace accepted people socially if they had the dough to back his whatever the hell. It was possible he really thought they were hunting for a long-lost treasure. There didn’t seem to be anything more interesting up the coast.
One of the other male drivers and two of the remaining women in the party came over to join them. Captain Gringo couldn’t remember their names and Sylvia didn’t see fit to reintroduce them. The dames were both okay, although Sylvia and Pat were the prettier members of the pack. One of the other English girls wore glasses and spoke so veddy-veddy he could barely understand her as she asked how long they would be staying here. Captain Gringo pointed at the stalled steam car in the river and explained they had to wait until Wallace had power to winch Marlowe ashore. She said, “Oh, good. In that case I have time to take a shit,” and strode grandly out of sight into the trees as Captain Gringo tried not to laugh. He knew she’d been born with her money. People raised by servants who always told them they were right didn’t have to bother with learning middle-class manners.
The other man said, “I never would have hired that remittance man. Had to drive around him when he stalled out there. That Marlowe’s a rum chap, even for a beachcomber. He lies, you see.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”
The other man nodded soberly and said, “Marlowe claims to come from a good family in Essex. It so happens I have relations in Colchester.”
“That’d be the county seat of Essex, right?”
The other man turned to the remai
ning other woman and said, “You see, Phoebe? Even a Yank knows his English geography better than that rum Marlowe beggar! The blighter tried to tell me his home was in Norwich, in Essex, of all bleeding shires!”
Captain Gringo envisioned his old geography atlas. It had been a long time since things like that had seemed important, but even he knew that Norwich was either in Connecticut or somewhere on the east coast of England. He shrugged and said, “Maybe he just didn’t want to tell you where he really comes from. Family skeletons and all that.”
“That’s no flaming excuse to put Norwich, the cathedral town of Norfolk, in flaming Essex, two flaming shires to the south!”
The girl with him soothed, “Now, Bertie, don’t be unkind. Mr. Marlowe’s been away from England a long time and I’m sure Captain Walker’s right about him wanting to hide some sticky family business.”
“Then why can’t he do it right, for God’s sake? A bloody Welshman would know where Norwich was! Norwich is hardly a hidden village in the Outback of Australia, you know!”
“There, there, I’m sure Mr. Marlowe’s not a Welshman. He speaks with an educated home-county accent.”
“My point exactly. Why put on the airs of a middle-class education if you don’t know the geography a schoolboy would need to know to get out of the lower forms? Mark my words, Phoebe, he’s a ruddy valet or footman who learned his manners from his betters and probably had to leave England after he committed a terrible crime! ”
Bertie brightened as a new thought hit him and he announced, “I say, Marlowe could be Jack the Ripper! They never caught Saucy Jack, you know, and it’s only been a few years since he gave up his disgusting habits in the East End! What do you think, Captain?”
Captain Gringo laughed as he stared out across the water at the sad dejected figure sitting in the stranded White before he said, “If Marlowe had ever been Jack the Ripper, Jack the Ripper would have been caught.”
Everyone laughed but Sylvia. He decided he liked old Phoebe better, even if she wasn’t as pretty. It was a waste of God’s time to create beautiful women with brooding dispositions. He suspected that even if he could get next to Sylvia he’d regret it in the cold gray dawn. Moody bitches were only fun going in. Getting out could get tedious as hell.
Major Wallace came their way, holding one end of a manila line he was uncoiling from under the rear of his own steam car. He nodded at them and said, “Got my fire going again. Must say these little flash boilers build pressure quickly.”
He moved to the river’s edge until his boots were starting to sink in the mud before he called out, “Hoy, Marlowe! Wade in and take this line.”
Out on the river, Marlowe called back, “I’ll get wet!” Wallace yelled, “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day! Of course you’ll get wet, you idiot! Who the flaming hell is supposed to get wet for you, me? Not bloody likely! You stalled out there. Come in and take this line!”
As the remittance man stepped warily down into the waist-deep water, the major growled in a lower tone, “I’d leave the sod, if it weren’t for the car and its supplies. Must say he’s a fair driver. Can’t understand how he managed to stall out there, though.”
Captain Gringo told the major about Gaston’s plan to leave the old trail and try for a run between the jungle trees. Wallace frowned and said, “Doubt it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. If we can’t get the machines between the big stuff, we can always work back to the trail and merrily mow our way through the lighter second growth.”
Sylvia protested, “Not while I’m driving the lead car! Half the shattered branches landed in my lap just now!”
Captain Gringo said, “She’s got a point, Major. Actually, most of the stuff she flattened fell the other way. But there are tree snakes to consider, and, worse yet, we’ll be making one hell of a racket as we push blind thought the gumbo limbo like tin elephants.”
Wallace didn’t answer right away. Marlowe floundered up the bank and the major handed him the end of the line, saying, “Take this back and make sure you tie it to the frame properly. What are you waiting for, a kiss goodbye? You’ve delayed us a flaming hour, you stupid bastard!”
Marlowe reddened and started back with the line, head downcast. Captain Gringo didn’t blame him. It hadn’t been an hour and most of the steamers were still waterlogged. Anyone could get stuck in the mud. The guy had just driven into a soft spot that his wet tires couldn’t handle, right?
Major Wallace turned to signal his associate standing by his own car. As the other Englishman bent to start the steam winch, Captain Gringo said, “Hold it! If Marlowe’s in mud to his hubs, you could wind up with two cars in the river!”
But the manila line had already snapped taut, and anyone could see that the car stuck in the river was the only one moving. Captain Gringo stared thoughtfully at the red tires of Wallace’s machine. The brakes of course would be locked. But Wallace hadn’t choked his wheels on the mud and fallen leaves over there. Captain Gringo told Wallace, “When you get him out, take his gun away and hold him here till I get back. No time to explain, but fort your people up between the steam cars and the river!”
And then he was running back to where he’d left Gaston, Pat, and the machine gun. He grabbed the Maxim and kept going, letting the ammo belt lash behind him like the tail of an angry boa. Gaston ran after him, and as he caught up under the trees he gasped, “Who are we after, Dick?”
Captain Gringo snapped, “Not sure yet. Keep it down to a roar and watch the undergrowth to our right!”
He leaped over a fallen forest giant, spotted a shaft of sunlight in the distance, and cut sharply to the west. Gaston had spotted sunlight where sunlight didn’t usually grow, too. As he kept pace with his longer-legged comrade he said, “Very clever. They knew we’d scout the ford before we let everyone cross, non?”
“Shut up. We’ll work around by swinging wider and move in from their rear flank. You were here before; what’s just up the trail from the river?”
“You told me to shut up. Besides, I don’t remember anything.”
Captain Gringo judged they’d moved far enough to the northwest and started moving due east, silent as a cat as his boot heels met only the evil-smelling soggy mat of rotting leaves between the big trees. He saw the pale green glow again and homed in on it. Gaston started to say it looked like someone had macheted a clearing and been camped there sometime, but he didn’t. He knew Captain Gringo had it figured.
The ragged line of white-clad ambushers, lined up with their guns trained casually on the gumbo limbo they’d left so considerately for the motorcade to follow, looked like natives as Captain Gringo eyed them over the top of yet another mossy fallen log. Gaston crawled into place at his side and moved the ammo belt to make sure it wouldn’t snarl, when and if. The if didn’t seem too likely. Gaston grimaced and whispered, “Ladróns. Regard those ashes over there behind the last man. They’ve been here some time. Business must be slow.”
“They were waiting for us. Nobody else is expected.”
“Merde alors, why? The triple-titted treasure is supposed to be up ahead, not on us, yet! What are we waiting for, Dick? Have you for some reason grown fond of that corporal’s squad of thieves?”
Captain Gringo shook his head as he sighted along the nine-man line with its exposed right flank to them. He murmured, “It is a corporal’s squad, and those are military rifles. Bolt-action repeaters. Makes a guy wonder. How do you figure we take at least one alive?”
“I don’t. I do not make it my habit to converse with strange men with guns in their hands.”
Before Captain Gringo could answer, they heard two distant gunshots. The ambushers had ears too, so they started to move on the sounds of fire. Captain Gringo didn’t want them to, so he fired before they could get out of line. The machine gun-cleared its throat with a mad woodpecker death rattle. He had to traverse to hose them all down, since a couple moved like old pros and almost made it to cover before the Maxim fire laid them low.
&nbs
p; As the machine gun fell silent, leaving them with ringing ears, Gaston spat and observed, “As I was saying, it is trés difficult to carry on civilized conversations at times like these. You were right about the military training. That last one you got hit the dirt and rolled like a jolly U.S. Marine!”
Captain Gringo saw he had a third of the belt left. He said, “Stay here and cover me while I see if we had any luck.” They hadn’t. As he stepped out in the clearing and started rolling people over, none of them had anything to tell him. He went through the pockets of the dead, getting nothing for his pains but pocket change and sticky fingers. He wiped the blood off on the shirt of the last man down the line, then went back to rejoin Gaston by the log, saying, “That’s the trouble with soft-nosed slugs. They kill you almost anywhere they hit you in the trunk. The rifles are Krags.”
“U.S. issue?”
“Can’t tell. Uncle Sam buys Krags from Sweden because they shoot so good. But the Swedes sell ’em to anyone with the money. The eight-man squad and whoever was their leader all had the same arms and ammo. No I.D. You figure it out, Gaston. You’ve been a soldier of fortune longer than me.”
As Captain Gringo picked up the warm Maxim, Gaston shook his head and said, “I confess it is beyond me, too. Honduran soldiers should have had on Honduran uniforms. Perhaps Nicaraguan rebels?”
“Why pick on us, then? The Nicaraguan establishment wants our heads on a plate, and if rebels knew we were coming…”
“Nicaraguan military? Wearing peon cottons and sombreros to avoid an international incident working in another country.” Captain Gringo started walking back to where they’d left the others as he tried that, saw it wouldn’t work either, and said, “Nicaraguan troops don’t read right. We just came from Nicaragua, damn it.”
“Ah, but we were only there long enough to share that blonde.”
“Don’t talk dirty. That ambush was meant for the Brits we signed on with. If Nicaragua wanted ’em dead, they’d have taken them out while they were fucking around in Puerto Cabezas all that time. Besides, those guys were good. You were right about them moving like guys who’d been under fire before. I read ’em as European-or U.S.-trained.”