by Lou Cameron
He didn’t answer. He was coming and it was none of her business whether Gaston was in Sinnamary or not. The sodomy served to stimulate her to new lows, as he’d hoped it would. So he lay on the bed as she went to the dresser to get a wash cloth. As she turned, she said, “For God’s sake, you still have your boots on!” and he said, “Why not? I like the way you look in those long black stockings. Shall we take time out to strip all the way?”
“I haven’t time,” she said. “I have to go soon.” And then she dropped to her knees between his open thighs and proceeded to make him come some more by wiping him clean and taking it between her lips. As he reclined on his elbows with his feet on the floor, gazing fondly at the bobbing part of her hair, he knew she was trying to wear him out faster than usual. The last time she’d preferred a long, all-night orgy. It made him feel a little used and abused, but she sure did that nice. He lay back and said, “Watch out, Old Faithful’s getting set to shoot!” and Liza laughed as she removed her lips just in time to hop up on the bed and land like a sex-mad frog on a lily pad with it up inside her, gushing.
She said, “Oh, I felt that!” Then, as she started moving up and down with her legs spread wide on either side of his hips she added, “Poor baby, I’ll bet you haven’t had another girl since I left you in Bogota! Let Baby do all the work, but play with my titties like you used to, won’t you?”
She was full of shit both ways. But her love box was pure heaven and her flat chest was a novelty. The first time he’d had her it had been a sort of rape occasioned by her feeling like a boy when he accidently brushed a hand over her chest and wondered if a fairy was playing a nasty trick on him. Her nipples were large and turgid as a woman in heat were supposed to be. But her upper torso looked like some fourteen-year-old boy had pasted them on his skinny chest. He’d never gotten around to asking if she had some glandular problem, since it seemed impolite in the first place and her other glands worked swell in the second. Whatever quirk of nature had made her flat chested had given her little body hair as well; but the snatch inside that tomboy body was awesomely female. He chuckled as he remembered something and Liza asked, “What’s wrong?”
He fondled one of her nipples, moving it around on the little pad of softness it rose from as he said, “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about the time you hid those emeralds up inside you. That was a hell of a big poke, even greased, wasn’t it?”
She flushed and said, “I’m not too loose for you, you monster!” and proved it by clamping down hard, even as she started to giggle at her own memories of her duty to Queen and country. He rolled her over to finish right with her skinny legs hugging him and her nails digging gently into his buttocks. That reminded him of another lady. So when they stopped for a smoke and a bit of cooling off he asked, “Do you want to deal a bit before I do it some more? You know I’ve always leveled with you, Liza.”
She took a puff on his cigar as she pulled his hand in her lap, saying, “I don’t see how my current mission can have anything to do with you, thank God. We had no idea you were here in French Guiana. Who are you shooting for money these days, Darling?”
“Damn it, Liza. I told you I’m a soldier of fortune, not a hired killer.”
“There’s a difference? All right, I’ll put my cards on the table. We heard a revolution is brewing down here. We want to know if it’s true.”
“Does Britain have designs on French Guiana?”
“Heavens, no. We’ve been cultivating France as an ally against the silly new Kaiser of Germany. Our only interest is that British Guiana and Trinidad are just up the coast, and these revolutions will spill over.”
He thought and said, “I think I’ll buy that. Britain’s been buttering up Uncle Sam, too, and my old country would wave the Monroe Doctrine a lot if Her Majesty got greedy again. The U.S. and Britain just came within a gnat’s whisker of war over the Venezuelan dispute and you folks are too cool to start up again with Grover Cleveland.”
“You’re right. He seems a rather surly chap. I’ll tell you frankly that Whitehall’s not worried about a home-grown revolt of these French colonists. France can swat them like a fly if that’s all there is to it. We’re trying to find out if anyone else is stirring up trouble. You remember that nice-looking German military aide in Colombia?”
“Von Linderhoff? He wasn’t such a bad egg. When the rebels in Bogota started shooting at all foreigners on sight he worked with the rest of us to save our mutual tail. What about him?”
“Von Linderhoff’s been spotted by our agents here in French Guiana. He’s not working as an embassy aide this time. He’s in mufti, meeting lots of people in dark places.”
Captain Gringo whistled and said, “Yeah, I met a guy who says he’s a Hollander and who can tell a Hollander from a German speaking English?”
“I can.” She shrugged, adding, “You must mean Van Horn. We know he’s with the rebel party, but he checks out as a real Dutchman, left over from the old days. We think he’s mad, but I doubt he’s a German agent.”
“Does the name Claudette ring any bells?” Liza shook her head and said, “Lots of French girls are named Claudette, Dick.”
“This one has a American accent and says she’s with some Jewish organization that’s out to free Captain Dreyfus. Are you saying Whitehall hasn’t got a line on them?”
Liza frowned and said, “Not in connection with Dreyfus. I’d forgotten the poor sod was Jewish. The only important Jewish group London is worried about is a budding Zionist movement with connections between London and the Continent. If they ever get anyone to take them seriously their ideas about a Jewish home state in Turkish Palestine could stir up trouble near the Suez Canal. But, frankly, we think it’s just talk.”
“Well, this other Jewish outfit is talking big money. I turned down a fortune when they asked me if I thought I could get Dreyfus off Devil’s Island. I needed the money, but M’selle Claudette sounded pretty wild and I didn’t trust her.”
Liza moved one of his fingers into her moist slit as she asked, “Oh? Was this Claudette built anything like this?”
He laughed and started fingering her clit as he considered. It was funny how the one you were with always seemed the best. He knew he could answer Claudette as truthfully when he said, “Baby, nobody is built like you and you know it.”
“But you did lay her, didn’t you, you brute?”
“Hell, what’s with this jealousy, Liza? You’ve been around since the last time we played house and tonight, for all I know, you’ll be doing it with some other guy.”
“No I won’t,” she said, “If I meet Von Linderhoff at the meeting he’s slated to attend, my mission is to kill him. Would you like to come along?”
“I’d like to come, but not along.” He grimaced, snubbing out the smoke and rolling atop her again. She wanted it and she took it. Sobbing in mingled pleasure and ... regret?
When they’d finished, she said, “You really have to go now, Dick. I never meant to spend so much time up here with you and it’s getting late.”
She was full of shit. It wasn’t high noon yet. But he’d found out all she was going to tell him, too. So he sat up, lit up, and proceeded to get dressed as Liza studied him, reclining like a painted nude they’d forgotten to paint the tits for. She sighed, “God, you have a lovely body. Isn’t it a shame we’re both in such active professions? I wonder what it would be like to spend a month or more with you.”
He said, “What can I tell you? We’ve made love twice in less than a year. We’re ahead of the game for knockaround guys and gals. Before I leave, what’s Britain’s interest in the Dreyfus Affair, Liza?”
She shrugged one shoulder and said, “None, except we wish the perishing Frogs would settle it. The French are on the verge of Civil War over the poor twit, and we do so wish they’d find something else to talk about so that we can get them to arm against the damned Germans as we want them to.”
“I noticed they’re pretty worked up about it. Do you think Dreyf
us is innocent or guilty, Liza?”
“Oh, there’s little doubt he’s innocent. He was what you Yanks call the fall guy for a cover up in high places. The French high command knows who was really selling secrets to the Germans, and they’ve taken care of him.”
“They have? Then what the hell is poor Dreyfus doing in prison?”
“Taking the blame for his superior’s blunders, of course. They got rid of the real French traitor, but they see no need for the whole perishing staff to resign. Poor Dreyfus wasn’t popular in the officer’s mess in any case. Anti-Semitism and all that rot. It’s easier to leave him where he is and you’re right that it’s impossible to get him out. Where can I reach you if, uh, we want to compare notes some more, Dick?”
He started to tell her, but thought better of it. He said, “I’ll be around, Liza. I like to put my head together with yours.”
She called him a bastard again as he rose to let himself out.
He didn’t know if it was because he’d neglected to kiss her goodbye, or because any kind of a goodbye upset her. That was the trouble with laying people you sort of liked.
He went downstairs, saw Gaston’s mount was still next to his, and was wondering what to do about it when Gaston came down the walk to join him, saying, “I’ve been looking all over for you, Dick. Somebody just found two trustees dead on the edge of town and the police are asking trés tiresome questions. Let’s get out of here, hein?”
They mounted up and headed out before Captain Gringo told Gaston about his brush with the thugs. The little Frenchman said, “I might have known when they said they’d both been killed lumberjack style. Did anybody see you?”
“Of course not. What did you find out? Can we get a berth aboard that tramp moored at the docks?”
“Mais non. She is American Registry and you know every Yankee purser has your wanted poster pasted to his bulkhead. They are doubtless as dishonest as anyone else, but what could we offer that would top the rather alarming rewards out on you, hein?”
“Oh, well, at least we have a place to stay tonight.”
“Oui, and the food’s not bad, either. One assumes you will resume your droll discussion of African customs with M’selle Tonda?”
“I think she’s mad at me, but the contrast should be interesting if she’s not. Did you pick up anything else along the waterfront?”
Gaston shrugged and answered, “Too much. Everyone here is talking about a revolution, but no two stories are the same. They say they are expecting native trouble, too. Most of the whites here are more afraid of the Ashanti than they are the rebels or French garrison.”
“I thought the coast settlers and the Blacks in the interior had some sort of agreement.”
“So did everyone else, until recently. It seems some idiot has been selling modern arms to the Bush Negroes. A white mahogany cruiser came down the river with his dugout full of 30-30 rounds and the Ashanti have a new chief, or perhaps he would like to be called their king. They say he has a gilded stool and an admiral’s hat and this would seem to make him feel important.”
“Come on, somebody’s always running guns and rum to natives. They might be able to fight pretty good on their own ground, but if they were to invade the coastal settlements the French military would make hash out of them.”
“Oui, if they were not busy making hash of somebody else, hein?”
“Oboy, I see what you mean. What’s the story on the new chief, aside from his fancy hat? Does he have a name?”
“Oui, it is M’Chuma. It seems to have the same effect on these settlers as Geronimo had back in your States.”
“Holy shit!” Captain Gringo replied. “That’s Tonda’s husband, and Van Horn is holding her as a slave against her will!”
“Oui, one gathers M’sieur M’Chuma has grievances against the Whites in these parts. If I were you, Dick, I would not seek a personal meeting with King M’Chuma. You know, of course, that the practique thing would be to, ah, dispose of M’selle Tonda discreetly?”
“Jesus, are you suggesting I murder that poor girl?”
“I agree it does not sound gallant, but if both of you are to stay alive, make sure she never gets back to her husband to discuss you with him, hein?”
~*~
Paul Van Horn had gotten back to the plantation ahead of them. He was hopping around like a kid having to piss as they walked back from the corral to join him on the back veranda. He said, “Where in the devil have you been? I left no orders for you to leave the plantation.”
Captain Gringo said, “You left no orders not to, either. We just rode in to pick up smokes and dirty books to read. What’s up?”
“The damned Bush Negroes are up in arms, for one thing. How in the devil was I to know that damned Tonda would make up with her husband?”
“Tonda ran back to the Ashanti?”
“It would seem so. Her husband has become the chief and done some dreadful things to the witch doctor who banished her before M’Chuma inherited the golden stool. I don’t know how she heard about it before we did this morning, but she must have, for she took off during the night. Regardless of the details, she seems to have made it. When we tried to catch up with her we ran into an ambush and were lucky to get out with our lives.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “So that’s where you’ve been. Your sister said you were trading with the Ashanti.”
“A lot she knows! I was trading with them, and I hoped to enlist them on our side, until that damned girl messed things up. The old chief was a friend of mine. M’Chuma used to sit there glaring at me, and when I took Tonda from the village, simply to save her life, Goddamn it, M’Chuma swore he’d dance in my blood if ever he got the chance!”
Gaston sighed and said, “Ah, oui, that is why one should always be polite to the receptionist. For who knows when she may become the boss, hein?”
Captain Gringo asked Van Horn, “Has Tonda any reason to single you out for her husband’s particular vengeance, Van Horn?”
Van Horn grimaced and said, “I’ve never had her personally, but a lot of white men have, including you if she followed my instructions last night. I don’t know what could have gotten into the girl. I warned her M’Chuma would kill her if he ever got his hands on her again, but she kept saying she was in love with him or some such nonsense.”
Gaston sighed dramatically and said, “Ah, perhaps for her sake love shall conquer all. But in any case this M’sieur M’Chuma will no doubt wish to settle the, how you say, hash of his poor wife’s abusers. Don’t look at me like that, Dick, they always say they have been abused.”
Van Horn said, “Let’s go inside. Watch what you say but let me do the talking. We have visitors. I’ve told them you two are buyers from the north. Don’t let on you work for me.”
They exchanged puzzled glances and followed the fat man into the parlor, where two men in fresh white uniforms sat by the cold fireplace. As they were introduced as one Captain Chambrun and a Lieutenant Granville, they both rose and clicked their heels. They were army, not gendarmes.
Van Horn waved everybody to a seat and yanked the pull cord for more booze. The two French colonial officers were well on their way to insobriety, which might help or mess things up – depending.
Neither officer seemed interested in him or Gaston, although Captain Gringo was ready to kill Van Horn for introducing them as Walker and Vender instead of the names on their fake passports. Captain Chambrun was polite enough to speak English in front of a “Canadian spice importer” but the tall American took a seat and kept his mouth shut. For once Gaston seemed willing to do the same.
Lieutenant Grandville seemed a little left out and probably didn’t understand as Chambrun and Van Horn picked up the threads of their conversation about the “jungle menace,” as Chambrun put it. Van Horn said, “I am sure my workers can cope with any raids if M’sieur Le Captain will reconsider my suggestion about arms.”
Chambrun sipped his drink and said, “Arming trustees is out of the qu
estion, M’sieur Van Horn. I am aware your somewhat Owenite policies have made you many doubtless loyal employees, but it is simply against government policy to allow the convicts arms. I don’t make the rules. Although in this case I agree they make sense.”
Van Horn said, “I assure you none of my workers would take advantage of it if they had more than their machetes to defend themselves with when the Ashanti strike.”
Chambrun shrugged. “Perhaps M’sieur is right. Perhaps he is an idealist, hein? We are speaking of convicted murderers and rapists. The scum of France. Even if the particular scum assigned to this plantation should prove somehow improved by their association with you, the colonial governor would never allow it. There are thousands of other convicts and we know they are always planning escape, or, worse yet, revolt. If only a few weapons fell into their hands, the results would far outweigh anything a few savages from the jungle could hope to accomplish.” He took another sip and added, “It’s true this plantation is close to the tree line and obviously in more danger than the others. If you like, I can ask for a detail of soldiers to be quartered out here, hein?”
Van Horn looked like a fat baby who’d just been surprised with vinegar in the tit he was sucking, but his voice was cool as he said, “Oh, I don’t think it’s as serious as that, Captain! We don’t have any place to quarter troops and ...”
“They could pitch tents out back, non?” Chambrun cut in, curiously glancing around the spacious room. But Van Horn insisted, “I wouldn’t want to impose further on the government. This season’s crops are almost ready to harvest and I’ll soon be returning most of the trustees in any case. This house, itself, is well clear of the bush and as you can see, it’s built like a fortress. My free servants and I should be able to hold off any hit-and-run raids by the bush natives. My only reason for asking about a permit to arm the field hands was my natural concern for their personal safety.”
