Renegade 32

by Lou Cameron

  Rusty Lemmon said, ‘Ay, that’s the great Gatling gun the late Sandy Campbell ordered remounted properly. The cartwright next door made the gun carriage, and Ian MacGow just forged the new fittings. I, of course, provided the bullets. Yankee .30-30s it fires, from that hopper atop the breech, behind the revolving barrels.’

  ‘We know how a Gatling works, Rusty. Is it ready to fire right now?’

  The breed nodded and said, ‘Ay, if there was anything to fire it at. I dinna see how one could haul such a heavy weapon through the swamplands to the west.’

  ‘Maybe Campbell expected someone to come here. Did you get a look at a flying machine while Campbell was getting blown to hash?’

  ‘Nae. Wha looks at the sky wi’ the earth turning to jelly under him? But some of my Carib cousins say the Spaniards hae the infernal machine. As a trader I ken them better than most, ye ken, and they tell me they’ve seen it, soaring over the trees like a great fruit bat, droning doon at them like a hornet’s nest. Och, I wish they’d make up their minds which it was. I can picture a great bat and I can picture a great hornet’s nest. I canna picture both at the same time. Here we are, and mind the steps, gude sores. We do our best, but the termites will nibble at all wood close to the dirt, and that’s a fact of life.’

  They followed him up and into the trading post. They noticed he hadn’t had to unlock the front door. That spoke well for the local Indians as well as whites. The interior was dark and musty, but cluttered with treasures some natives in these parts would kill for.

  Rusty placed his pipes on one end of his counter and moved around behind it to rummage cigar boxes and ammo cartons out of a rat’s nest of jumbled stock held more or less against the back wall by raw mahogany shelving. The .38 shells looked fairly fresh. The several brands of cigars he had for sale were all a bit mildewed. They selected Havana claros, since a soggy claro had to smoke sweeter than any other mossy cigar.

  When Captain Gringo asked how much they owed him, the trader looked insulted and said, ‘Dinna talk daft, I said I heard aboot Annie MacDugall!’

  Captain Gringo nodded his thanks and said, ‘Prices sure are right down here. Would you happen to know who we owe rent to on that house across from Campbell's?’

  Lemmon nodded and said, ‘Ay, Campbell owned it, alang wi’ others. Ye see, Sandy held title to all the land in this section of the auld Darien colony, sae all the buildings aroond owed him a modest land rent. But as ye may hae guessed, the young ones tend to move away once they find out there’s a real world oot there. Sae of late there’s muckle an empty building for rent in New Dunmore. Ay, and diwel a family to move in. Sae dinna worry about yer quarters, gude sores. Ye’r free to stay there as lang as the termites wi’ let ye.’

  Captain Gringo asked, ‘If Campbell was the only landlord in these parts, who gets to be the landlord now?’

  Lemmon sighed and answered, ‘Och, that’s one of the things they’d be arguing aboot in yon kirk. I didna gae because I’d as soon practice wi’ my pipes as argue moot points. Twas my own opinion we had nae lawful tighearna even while the Campbell lived. For hoo can auld papers issued to an abandoned crown colony have any meaning in law? But the Campbells never charged enough land rent to frush anyone, sae I went alang wi’ custom. If they ever decide wha’s tighearna noo, I’ll pay him as well, I suppose. But I dinna see how they’ll settle it.’

  ‘I don’t either. Did Sandy Campbell have an actual deed on paper, Rusty?’

  ‘Och, after twa hundred years in this climate? The boogies here eat wood, gude sore! Like everything else of the auld ways, our common laws are kept by oral tradition.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s no wonder there seem to be some differences of opinion at the kirk. I notice you don’t seem to have to lock your doors when you go out, though.’

  The trader nodded and said, ‘Ay, nae Scot needs words on paper to ken the way ye deal wi’ a thief, and the Indians learned soon after 1695 that it was far safer to steal from each other. I’ve yet to hae a robbery here, though some of the gudes I deal in are worth stealing, if there was anywhere for a thief to hide.’

  Captain Gringo frowned thoughtfully and said, ‘The MacTavish sisters traded pearls for others here as well as themselves. What can you tell me about that, Rusty?’

  The trader reached under the counter as he replied, ‘Ay, it was too bad aboot wee Flora, for both them lassies hae ever been straight. They’ve sold muckle a pearlie for me in the outside world and never cheated me once.’

  He produced a limp leather pouch and poured a handful of pearls into a bowl as he added, ‘I dinna ken when Thistlegorm wi’ be off again. But when she gaes, these wi’ be ga’ing wi’ her. I dinna dive for them in the great ocean. But Indians bring them in to exchange for sugar and salt. Some of the inland tribes are mad for salt, ye ken.’

  ‘Indians too far from the sea to boil for salt still manage to find pearls, Rusty?’

  ‘Ay. Dinna ask me where. I’m nae jeweler. I’ve been told some pearls I get in trade are Pacific. These wee blue ones are fresh-water.’

  ‘Okay. How do you suppose a Pacific pearl would wind up in Caribbean waters, Rusty?’

  ‘Och mo mala, how should I ken? Or care? I said I was a trader, nae a pearler/Indians trade things among themselves as well, ye see. The far coast is nae that far. So mayhaps west coast Indians trade them inland until they somehow wind up in my sporran on the east coast. Poor Flora was curious aboot them, too. And ye ken what that led her to! Even my Carib cousins are wary of the interior tribes, gude sore. I tried to warn the lass against ga’ing up the river beyond human ken, but ...’

  Captain Gringo didn’t hear the last of it. All hell seemed to be breaking loose outside. So he dashed out onto the veranda, with Gaston and the trader following.

  They weren’t the only ones who’d heard the odd buzzing in the sky. The dirt street out front was filled with gaping citizens of New Dunmore, all staring up at the impossible.

  Captain Gringo muttered, ‘Son of a bitch!’ as the big black sausage balloon soared their way, across the bayou, against the prevailing wind! A gondola of basketwork was suspended below the much bigger gas bag by a spider web of cables. An air screw was windmilling at the front end of the gondola. A sail that belonged on a Chinese junk seemed to be steering the weird machine from the rear. And it was steering it their way!

  So Captain Gringo started running for the smithy as he shouted, ‘Everybody take cover, damnit! They’re not holding a balloon ascension for amusement!’

  He didn’t wait to see if anyone was paying attention. He ran into the smithy, picked up the trail of the Gatling gun, and swung it around the drag outside. Some silly son of a bitch had locked the wheels. He dragged the heavy weapon clear of the tin roof anyway as the dirigible flew right over him. The son of a bitch in the gondola was staring down at him through a pair of auto driver’s dust goggles. Captain Gringo tried to elevate the Gatling straight up, but it would only go to about thirty degrees and now they were tossing something over the side up there!

  He braced himself as he tried to decide which way to run. Then the bulky mass coming down at him broke into a cloud of ... confetti?

  Most of the scraps of paper were caught by the wind to land out on the bayou or beyond. Captain Gringo didn’t worry about the few sheets of foolscap landing near him. They’d flown on to the east and were circling back. At that range, he had them in the Gatling’s sights! So he commenced to crank like hell, spitting hot lead at their gas bag, he hoped.

  He saw he was hoping in vain for a lucky round as the slow but high and now distant contraption changed course to go bye-bye, out of range. On the other hand he knew he’d worried them at least a little. If he couldn’t hit them with ground fire, he’d at least taught them to think twice about flying, directly over the settlement, right?

  Gaston joined him, waving a scrap of paper, to observe, ‘Nice shooting, Dick. I feel sure you worried the monkeys on the far side of the bayou a great deal. Mais next time, try to aim at
the balloon, hein?’

  ‘I could have done better with a Maxim held freehand. What’s that shit you’ve got there?’

  Gaston said, ‘An eviction notice, worded in better English than anyone on this side of the delta speaks and run off on a printing press as well. Our droll Don Federico must be up to date indeed.’

  Captain Gringo took the paper and scanned it. It read, ‘This could have been a bomb, as you well know by this time. But we want no further bloodshed if it can be avoided. Therefore we are giving you twenty-four hours to agree to our terms.’

  It was signed Don Federico Gomez, sole owner of the Atrato delta by the grace of His Most Catholic Majesty, the king of Spain. It didn’t say which king, but that didn’t matter much, since no king of Spain owned anything this side of Cuba, and Colombia probably didn’t give a shit.

  Captain Gringo balled up the inane note and threw it away as Gaston said, ‘I wonder what terms the maniac is offering. If I were ordering people off my property or else, I think I’d tell them what the else might be, hein?’

  ‘Yeah well, maybe they already know and … hey, where is everybody going?’

  ‘Merde alors, they would seem to be returning to that church, tout ensemble! I know the sun is beginning to heat things up, mais this is ridiculous, non?’

  Captain Gringo agreed. They left the Gatling where it was, just in case, and followed the crowd heading back to the kirk. Naturally, they were the last ones in. So naturally, everyone was cackling like geese again as they entered. Captain Gringo strode to the empty pulpit, climbed up in it, and raised a hand for silence. When that didn’t work, he drew his .38 and fired a shot through the tin roof high above.

  That worked. Everyone turned to face him with a surprised collective gasp. Before anyone could get wound up again, Captain Gringo shouted, ‘Shut up until you hear me out, goddamnit! I don’t know beans about anything but Scotch booze. But even I can see you guys are in one hell of a mess. Who’s in charge of this settlement now that the organized side has killed Sandy Campbell?’

  An old man quavered, ‘Och, we dinna ken! Each hoose holding hae its ain chieftain, as ye say in the Sassenach, but the Campbell acted as our high chief as well as landed laird!’

  Before anyone else could muddy the waters, Captain Gringo yelled, ‘Okay, you can worry about the land rent later, after you find out if you get to stay here at all. How do you guys elect a high chief?’

  ‘Laddie, that’s wha we’ve been trying to choose ever since they blew our auld one to kingdom come! But nae mon of clan Gregor would follow the orders of a Colquhoun and in the auld country the clan MacLaren was on grim terms wi’ the Buchanans, sae—’

  ‘Never mind ancient history,’ Captain Gringo cut in, adding, ‘Your common enemy just gave you twenty-four hours to either surrender to him or lick him. You need a commander-in-chief in a hurry, so I nominate me.’

  That really made them gasp. A blond giant whose brows met in the middle shouted, ‘Och, dinna be daft, Sassenach! Ye’re a clanless stranger here. Wha’d follow ye?’

  ‘You, if you know what’s good for you. Look, you jerk-offs, I don’t want to collect the rent or tell you who you can marry. I just want to organize some damn defenses while there’s still time! It’s true I’m not a member of any goddamn Scotch clan. That’s why I’m your logical choice. I’m in no position to favor my own group over any other, and I am a professional soldier. So enough of this bullshit. You let me and Lieutenant Verrier here show you how to soldier the way it’s done in this century, or we just pick up our marbles and go home. So what’s it going to be?’

  Someone shouted, ‘The Yank did act bragh under fire, and Sandy Campbell thought he was worth having!’ But then another yelled something dumb about never trusting a mon wi’ a name like Walker as it could be Irish or, worse, even English.

  Captain Gringo yelled, ‘It’s Connecticut Yankee, and you’d better make your minds up poco tiempo. We’re going back to our quarters for now. Don’t count on us waiting too long for you to decide.’

  He got down from the pulpit and headed for the door, Gaston in tow.

  The blond giant with the bushy brows blocked his way and growled, ‘My sainted mathair said all Sassenach sit doon to pee.’

  Captain Gringo punched him in the mouth.

  ‘Nae in kirk! Nae in kirk!’ someone shouted as the big Scot shook his head in disbelief and roared, ‘Ay, coom outside and fight like a mon, ye damn auld disturber of God’s peace!’

  That suited Captain Gringo. He was steamed enough to take them all on – not because they kept calling him silly things, but because they were acting so stupid with women and children to worry about instead of obscure Druid lore.

  Out front, the crowd formed a circle as Captain Gringo handed his coat, hat, and shoulder rig to Gaston. As he turned to face their champion, he saw he-was about to catch a treacherous sucker punch. But he blocked the big Scot’s ham-like fist with his right forearm and planted a left hook to the giant’s jaw.

  It rocked him but didn’t put him down. He lowered his head to charge like a bull as someone in the crowd shouted, ‘Gae get him, Wee Angus!’

  Captain Gringo couldn’t help wondering who they called big Angus as the towheaded giant walked into a right cross and just kept coming. Captain Gringo was bigger and stronger than most men he had met, but this one was a monster. The only thing the American had going for him was that while Wee Angus was bigger and stronger, he couldn’t box worth shit. Captain Gringo landed punch after cutting punch as he danced around the circle, with Wee Angus pressing the fight, windmilling and shrugging off shots to the head that would have killed many a smaller man.

  One of the big Scot’s punches landed. He was throwing so many at least one of them had to. It felt to Captain Gringo as if he’d been hit by a ship’s boom. He would have gone down had not the oh-so-helpful Scots he staggered into shoved him back at Wee Angus, head first, still dazed. Before he could get his guard back up, Wee Angus either hit him or ran over him with a locomotive and he wound up flat on his back, wondering how come all those stars were out so early in the morning.

  Gaston shouted in Spanish for him to stay down until he had his wind back. But he rolled over and somehow managed to get back up. He shook his head to clear it, sort of, and saw Wee Angus grinning at him, through a glass darkly.

  The big highlander laughed and said, ‘Awheel, mayhaps ye dinna sit doon every time ye pee.’

  Captain Gringo threw a right cross that landed but didn’t have enough steam to deck the giant. Wee Angus returned the favor with a mighty blow the American just managed to block, though the force of it drove him back a couple of steps. They stood panting at one another for a time.

  Then, as Captain Gringo came back for more, leading with his left, Wee Angus protested, ‘Hoot, mon, can ye nae take a joke?’

  ‘Have you had enough, Scotty?’

  ‘Och, nae mon can lick a grand fighter like me. But I do admire ye for getting back oop after I’ve dooned ye. There are few wha can, ye ken.’

  ‘Do you want to fight or do you want to bullshit? I still owe you some dust on your ass, you know.’

  ‘Och, dinna talk daft. It canna be done and it’s all hot and sweaty we’re both getting. Any mon here can see we’re both bragh scrappers. Sae why gae on wi’ it?’

  That was a good question. Wee Angus was bleeding from the mouth and one eye was swollen half shut, but nobody with the brains of a gnat would want to trade blows with anything that big unless he really had to. So Captain Gringo said, ‘I’d just as soon fight Don Federico as you, if you want to call this a draw.’

  The big highlander laughed and shouted, ‘I stand wi’ this wee maniac against the Spaniards. Wha stands wi’ me?’

  Someone in the crowd shouted, ‘Och, clan MacDugall saw him first!’

  There was a roar of approval, and Wee Angus took Captain Gringo by one arm to drag him to the only saloon in town to drink on it. It was just as well nobody needed to lock their doors in Ne
w Dunmore. The saloon wasn’t open. But one got the impression Wee Angus went through doors whether they were locked or not.

  The saloon keeper, of course, was one of the crowd. So he managed to get behind the bar and start serving drinks on the house before Wee Angus could rip the bar up by the roots. In no time at all, Captain Gringo seemed to be in charge of the local defenses after all, and so, while everyone was still in a good mood, he put them to work.

  The colonists were used to hard labor. The women, though not allowed in the saloon, were as willing to help once they found out what was going on. Some lassies seemed as handy with a pick, shovel, or axe as their menfolk. Neither the full-blooded Scots nor their part Indian or Criollo clans people had ever picked up la siesta from their “papist” neighbors, such as there were. So by mid-afternoon the settlement was in a lot better shape to ward off any attack by land or water and he’d gotten them at least started on such air defenses as he could come up with on such short notice. It wasn’t a subject he’d been taught at West Point.

  But the U.S. Army had taught the erstwhile cavalry troop leader one valuable lesson before they’d tried to hang him that time. It was probably as great a mistake on the part of the army brass. He’d been sent out west to command “colored boys” of the old Tenth Cav, a lot of them ex-slaves and none considered worth much as soldiers by many of the white officers stuck with them against their wishes. The then very green Lieutenant Walker had learned that the best way to lead any men was to weed out the few absolute fuck-ups and allow those who were willing to try to think for themselves. You didn’t have to button a trooper’s pants up after he pissed if he had any brains at all, and sometimes, if a leader was willing to listen, a buck-ass illiterate private knew enough to yell, “Duck!” when he saw an Apache in the bushes.

  So he led the willing but untrained settlers as he’d once led real soldiers – by telling them what had to be done and letting them figure out how to do it. You didn’t have to stand over a worried parent and make sure he dug a bomb shelter just so, once you explained why there ought to be one within easy reach of every household. The people who’d be diving into them with their kids had a pretty good idea just how deep and wide each hole should be.