by Lou Cameron
The fat woman answered, ‘¿Quien sabe?’ in a way that really meant it was none of his fucking business.
He didn’t press it. Gaston was right about the way some primitive Hispanics felt about even repeating the name of a woman without her big brother’s permission and he didn’t even know what that other dame looked like, for God’s sake.
The little kid came back in, soaking wet, to report to his mamacita that La Señorita and her barb would be staying under her roof until the storm passed over and that the nice lady had said two pennies of the change she’d given him were for him, as punt a por servicio.
She took it all away from him, pointing out that if God had meant children to have their own fortunes, there would be no need for Him to give them madres y padres. Then she told him to show these other two caballeros to their quarters.
The three of them had to go outside in the rain to circle around to wherever. It turned out the way led through an archway between the cantina and a stable next door. It was raining like hell in the pateo they entered too, but it was only a short dash to the dripping overhang. The kid pointed at the row of doors lined up along the stucco wall
and said they could choose any they linked save for the one at the end, where La Señorita was waiting out the storm.
Captain Gringo asked him which were the better accommodations. The kid shrugged and said they were all the same. So Captain Gringo handed him two centavos, told him it was up to him whether he showed them to Mamacita or not, and told him to get lost. Gaston by this time had naturally grabbed the nearest door knob, so Captain Gringo had to take three paces to get to the next – closer to the dame, but not that close. Gaston said he, for one, meant to strip and hang his clothes to dry, if the doors locked on the inside. Captain Gringo said to wake him up if it ever stopped raining and ducked into his own hired room.
Calling it a room was stretching things a bit. It was more like a cell, three-quarters filled with a raw wood bedstead and an end table that was either crude carpentry or an orange crate. He shut the door, and sure enough, it locked okay with a big wooden bar.
There was one tiny window beside the door. He stared out through the grimy glass at the now flooded as well as empty pateo, made a wry face, and proceeded to strip his damp duds off. He wasn’t tired enough to sleep and he’d neglected to bring along a lot of reading material. But lounging on any bed had to beat hiking through a deluge, right?
He wasn’t so sure as he hit the sack. The mattress was literally that – stuffed with dry corn husks. It sounded as if bedbugs were dealing cards under him every time he took a deep breath. He hoped he was kidding. He sniffed harder and could smell, to his relief, that someone had been smart enough to include at least a few tobacco leaves in the mattress stuffing, bless them.
Humans seemed to be the only pests who enjoyed the inhalation of tobacco. Just to make sure any mosquitos flying by day got the same message, he lit a cigar and, while he was at it, the candle stub someone had left on the end table at his side. It was dark as hell outside now, and mosquitos as well as bedbugs tended to be night fighters.
In the event of invasion by more serious enemies, he had the .38 handy, out of its holster, next to the candle. So when a blur passed in front of the window and someone that couldn’t be Gaston rapped gently on his door, Captain Gringo had the candle snuffed, the gun in hand, and was at the door in a flash. He popped it open, and when he saw a total stranger standing there, hauled her in, tossed her on the bed, and rebarred the door as he snapped, ‘Just stay as you are, hands polite, till I pat you down, doll face!’
The girl on the bed had lost her picture hat in her flight across the room. The rough landing had unpinned her long black hair. She rolled on her side, staring up at him with frightened eyes as green as emeralds, and asked, ‘Och, can ye nae see I’m but a lass, ye brute?’
He moved closer, sighing, ‘Oh shit, here we go again. Where does Greystoke find you dames?’
She said, ‘Stay back, I say! It’s naked as a jay you are, wha-sae-ever a Greystoke may be!’
He climbed on the bed with her and proceeded to pat her down for weapons as the corn husks joined her in protest. She wriggled like an eel, demanding, ‘Unhand me, sir! Wha ever heard of a lass carrying a gun there, ye great beastie!’
She didn’t seem to be carrying concealed weapons after all. But everything else under her damp riding habit felt so nice they were both breathing sort of excited by the time he let her go, propped himself on one elbow with his cigar, a dawning erection, and of course the .38 pointed at her to growl, ‘Let me guess. You’d be Flora MacTavish’s other cousin, right?’
She looked away, blushing, to reply, ‘Nae, I’m her sister, Jean MacTavish. Hae ye nae heard about poor Flora’s murder?’
He gasped, ‘The pretty little redhead’s dead? Good God, who killed her and ... hold it, doll face. I know by now the Brits must know I figured their first ringer out. Their agent calling herself Flora MacLeod was pretty convincing too. So if you don’t mind ...’
‘Wha’s Flora MacLeod?’ the brunette cut in, adding, ‘Clan MacLeod sent nae people to the Darien colony. Sae how could a MacLeod claim kinship wi’ my poor murdered sister and me?’
‘Maybe they didn’t do their homework. I noticed her brogue was more music hall than yours too. On the other hand, the one Flora I know for sure as real never mentioned having either of you as relatives. I’m open to suggestions, but you’d better make this good.’
‘Och, gae to perdition! Do ye think I’d rut wi’ a total stranger on corn husks, like a wee muc, I mean a sow, just to get him to avenge my sister? Flora told me aboot ye and she. Sae I thought ye’d feel it yer duty!’
‘I would if I didn’t think you were full of crap. For openers, suppose you explain how in hell I’d manage to meet the real thing out here in the middle of nowhere? They spotted us putting into port under those red sails they’d provided us with and sent you here to lay for us aboard faster transportation, right?’
‘Wha are ye jawing about sae daft? I ken nothing of red sails. It’s true I’ve been searching for ye and that wee Frenchie Flora told us aboot. I just rode doon fra’ Limón after searching in vain for ye in San José. Ye were nae at any of the haunts my sister ever mentioned. Sae I’d given oop and was on my way back to the Thistlegorm, just doon the wae, when—’
‘I spotted Flora’s pearler in the harbor. Why did you dock there instead of Limón? Strike that. Dumb question. We’re still stretching the laws of chance. But okay, suppose for now I buy it that a lady looking hard for a gent is bound to run into him sooner or later. Get back to why you’ve been looking for me enough for British Intelligence to notice, assuming you’re not working for them.’
‘Och, we’ve nae been British subjects since 1695, and even then we had reservations on the subject! It’s nae the British wha murdered poor Flora and at least a dozen others. It was Don Federico Gomez wha doon the dorcha deed! Or at least he was behind it. Tae blame it on the Indians will nae work, nae matter the reed arrows they put in poor Flora and her crew. We’ve nae had trouble wi’ the native tribes since our ain chiefs made peace wi’ ’em twa hundred years ago!’
‘I guess tribesmen know how to get along with tribesmen. You say someone killed Flora with an arrow!’
‘Nae, more like a dozen. The sort of reed arrows the Caribs put in their foes. But Flora’s crew was Carib too, as well ye ken!’
He grimaced and growled, ‘I do indeed, fondly. Two of her skinny-dip pearl divers saved me from drowning one time. You say someone murdered everyone aboard the Thistlegorm? Where? And more important, what’s the same schooner doing just down the coast from here if it was overcome by wild Indians?’
She propped herself up beside him as she explained, ‘We dinna think it was. Flora had steamed up the Rio Atrato, well above the tidewater, to see why Pacific pearls were coming doon it aboard Indian dugoots. Our ain friendly Caribs said they kenned nae way to get by boat fram sea to sea by way of the Darien jungle
s and bogs. But there’ve been rumors since auld Spanish times of a sea-level route through the vast morass.’
‘No kidding? I thought Greystoke just made that up. Keep talking.’
‘Och, there’s little more to tell. Less than a week after my poor sister left human ken aboard Thistlegorm, the craft came drifting back doon the Atrato wi’ all on board shot through wi’ arrows but nae great damage to the schooner her ainsel. Ye can imagine the condition of reek the bodies were in, after all that time on deck in the jungle heat!’
‘Jesus, Flora was so pretty, too. Naturally, the remains were buried poco tiempo and nobody looked for less obvious wounds.’
‘Och, would ye have wanted to? Our coroner, the Campbell, said it seemed obvious the schooner had been set afloat unharmed to deliver the dead to us as a warning. The coroner’s jury agreed. But they couldna’ accuse Don Federico of the dorcha deed by name, even if it would have done any good!’
‘Boy, this is some story so far. But I’ll bite. Who’s this Don Federico of yours?’
She gasped and snapped. ‘Och, bite yer tongue! The mon’s nae one of us! He’s a damn auld dago wha claims to hold a land grant from the Spanish empire, see?’
‘No. The Spanish empire’s been out of business in Central America since the early twenties of this century.’
‘Ay, that’s what our kennedies keep telling him. But he’s a prood stubborn mon wha claims to be our ain tigherna as well!’
He sat up, crunching like a scarecrow despite his nudity, and suggested wearily, ‘Could you try that again in something closer to Connecticut Yankee? I can figure out a clan Kennedy, but what in the hell is a “tie-harn”?’
‘Och, some do use Kennedy as a family name, but that’s nae what I meant. It’s short for the Gaelic Ceann na’ taigh, or head of a hoose. Ye’d ca’ them chieftains in Connecticut. I’d guess. A tigherna is a landed laird, wi’ the powers of an English earl. Sae ye can see why we canna accept Don Federico’s claims, written in any language. His people, the clan Gomez, hae been across the rio and oop the west shore for muckle a year, ye ken. But we never had any trouble wi’ our dago neighbors until Don Federico came back fra’ Europe a year or more ago filled wi’ fairy dreams aboot being a grand Spanish Hidalgo.’
He blew a thoughtful smoke ring or two before he shrugged and said, ‘That part’s convincing enough. There’s nothing like a college education to convince a jerk-off he’s smarter than his parents. Where’d he go to get all these grand notions – Madrid?’
‘Nae, they say he was educated in Paris, if that’s their idea of an education. He brought back more than a French diploma wi’ him. He came back wi’ a shipload of modern weapons for his ain mestizo and Indian followers. But my late sister, Flora, never threw away the great Maxim and Gatling guns the twa of ye used on other dago pirates that time, sae ...’
He shushed her with a frown and mused aloud, half to himself, ‘Greystoke would have to have done his homework indeed to know about that Gatling we left aboard Thistlegorm when we got off in Limón a million years ago. Tell me what you know about the ketch Murrighinn.’
She stared blankly at him, repeated, ‘Murrighinn?’ then added, ‘Och, that would mean sea princess in the auld tongue. It’s a bonny name. But nae kith or kin of mine hae such a vessel, Dick. If I call ye Dick, will ye nae take it wrong wi’ your pants off?’
He laughed and replied, ‘Relax. How many times am I suppose to fall for the same trick? Greystoke told you to make nice nice with me and ask if I just wouldn’t love to trot down to the lost colony with you, right?’
‘Och mo mala, ye accuse me of talking daft? I swear I dinna ken anyone ca’d Greystoke. But, ay, we hae been praying ye’d coom doon and help us resist the pooshy Spaniards. For we’ve kept the machine guns well-oiled and even sent for more. But none of our Kerns ken how to use such modern weapons!’
‘What can I tell you? 1695 was a long time ago. I’m sorry, Jean, or whoever you are, but I’ve been around this same block before and my trust muscles are worn sore. Besides, as I keep trying to tell you guys, I don’t know the way to New Dunmore!’
‘Och, did ye think I needed a guide, ye great fool? I just came from there wi’ my ain native crew, aboard my murdered sister’s Thistlegorm!’
‘Sure, sure, after the Royal Navy seized it from whoever really owned it at the time. Nice try, doll. But your first agent told me that he knew the Thistlegorm and that a redhead named Flora MacTavish had been spotted aboard her, alive, up the coast at Gracias a Dios, so—’
‘That’s nae true!’ she cut in, insisting, ‘Flora’s been dead over a month and I’d sailed nae so far north as Gracias a Dios this year. Can ye nae see the Sassenachs are trying to play some fairy trick on us both, Dick?’
‘I don’t know how many fairies British Intelligence has on its payroll, doll face. But they’re not going to sucker me again!’ I’m back on Costa Rican soil, where neither Uncle Sam nor John Bull can lay a hand on me, so I’ve given up shipping out aboard mystery ships this season if you don’t mind.’
She covered her face with her hands and began to cry. He let her. That was pretty bush league, too.
This time the story was a little better. But not that much better. He started to ask her if this time a strange lassie would actually be coming aboard with him and Gaston to lead the way. He decided not to bother. Greystoke had probably coached her pretty good. He pulled on his pants instead and got up to stare out the window. He didn’t see any kidnappers out there in the rain, but maybe the Brits had something else in mind this time. On the bed behind him, Jean sobbed, ‘Och, I dinna ken what I’ll ever tell them back hame. We counted sae on yer help, for the love of Flora. But I see ye’re an uncaring brute wha’d leave us to face the don and his flying machines wi’ only our wee rifles!’
He muttered, ‘Sure, sure,’ staring out into the rain. Then her last words sank in. He turned and asked incredulously, ‘Did you just mention a flying machine?’
She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the rough sheet and replied, ‘Ay, Don Federico brought it back, alang wi’ a French crew, from Paris. He says if we dinna submit to his overlairdship, he means to drop dynamite on us from the sky until we do!’
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, ‘Horseshit! There’s no such thing as a flying machine. Everyone who’s tried it lately seems to wind up with a broken neck and ... Jesus, how could a wise-ass like Greystoke make up a story like that, expecting a wise-ass like me to buy it?’
‘I dinna ken this Greystoke mon. But Don Federico has a flying machine. For friendly Caribs have seen it flying above his plantation across the Atrato. It didna fly far, but it didna crash when it came doon. Sae it’s only a question of time before he means to attack New Dunmore wi’ bombs from the air, and what are we to do wi’oot professional help?’
He came back to the bed, sat down beside her, and proceeded to put his boots and shirt back on as well while he told her, ‘Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute with Gaston, and the three of us can work out how the hell we can get back to town on one horse.’
She sat up and clapped her hands in glee as she asked adoringly, ‘Och, then ye do believe me, Dick?’
He said, ‘Not really, but I’ll never get a wink of sleep until I check out that impossible flying machine of yours.’
‘It’s nae mine, Dick. Don Federico bought it in France, ye see.’
‘I see this is just too dumb a story for British Intelligence to come up with. And what the hell – you’re pretty.’
‘Och, dinna get ideas aboot my virtue, dear mon. For whilst I ken how ye mistreated my poor weak sister, Flora, I’ll hae ye ken I'm a woman of stronger will!’
He laughed again and said, ‘That does it. Nobody, repeat nobody, working as a pro could come up with this situation. So I’ll be damned if I don’t buy it, halfways at least!’
Considering all the fuss and false starts, getting back to Thistlegorm was more complicated than finding the lost colony with a skipper who�
��d never lost it in the first place. The uneventful voyage was boring as hell. Jean MacTavish ran a much tighter ship than her late sister, Flora. The Carib crew was all male and ugly. The voluptuous but reserved brunette locked herself in her cabin, alone, when she wasn’t on watch. When the two soldiers of fortune offered to help with the helm or, hell, sails, she told them not to be silly and gave Captain Gringo a book to read. It was in Gaelic. Gaston said some of the words resembled Breton French, but not enough to make the effort – even if the book was dirty.
On the other hand, they had to admit the shy violet and her laconic crew knew what they were doing. Thistlegorm was a fast, handy vessel to begin with, and Jean used the prevailing winds and currents to full advantage, dodging smoke plumes on the far horizon long before a distant lookout could make out the schooner’s dull gray sails. So they made the Gulf of Darien and ghosted along an apparently clear coast to the smaller but not that small Uraba Bay, after which the maps got fuzzy.
There was no great mystery about where the Rio Atrato emptied into the sea, but like many sluggish jungle rivers, the Atrato tended to overdo this. Countless channels threaded between too many islands to count, some of them floating, through a tree-covered delta Jean estimated at around five hundred square miles, with a few main channels mapped and the rest up for grabs. As they wound through oxbow bayous and punched through what looked like acres of solid ground that turned out to be floating weeds, Captain Gringo had to agree with Gaston that a stranger could get lost in this particular neighborhood.
Nevertheless, it seemed anticlimactic when, maybe twenty miles inland from open water as a bee would have made it, they simply pulled over to tie up at the mysterious settlement of New Dunmore.
The soldiers of fortune had no idea what Old Dunmore in Scotland might look like, but its daughter colony wasn’t very impressive. Beyond the mahogany docks and smaller fishing vessels hauled up on the mucky east bank, a handful of weathered frame and tin-roofed houses lurked in the shade of ancient trees. As people gathered on shore to either wave or grab a rope end, Gaston, standing at the rail alone with Captain Gringo murmured, ‘Eh bien, I did not know they sold corrugated iron in 1695, and regard the mundane peon costume of our long-lost Celts!’
