by Lou Cameron
Chambrun grimaced and said, “If the Ashanti know what’s good for them they’ll stay well clear of the thugs working for you. I have never understood your reasons for selecting such hard-core criminals from among the trustees labor force, M’sieur Van Horn. The army works closer with the police in this colony than in others, for obvious reasons. So I know for a fact that you seem to have gone out of your way to select the rotten apples from the barrel. One assumes M’sieur had a reason for choosing long-term Apache over petty thieves and swindlers?”
It was a good question, but Van Horn was good, too. He smiled and said, “I know it seems odd, but you forget I was raised here. I long ago discovered that petty thieves are lazy failures who fell into a life of crime simply because they were not fit workers.”
“Ah? I take it men who chop up their wives in the bath tub swing a machete with more skill?”
“Exactly. I’ve found that the natural bully and street brawler has more natural energy. Most of my workers are not too bright, muscular types who got in trouble with the law because they couldn’t sit still. I agree they are worthless in a civilized community, but out here with nothing on their minds but their next meal and nothing to hit but men just as brutal as themselves—”
“Eh bien, I know your views on the reforming powers of hard work and firm but kindly discipline, M’sieur Van Horn. Now you know my views on letting one of those White savages anywhere near a serious weapon. You can’t have an arms permit, and since you don’t want me to provide a military guard detail, I see no point in further discussion of the matter. You will of course let us know if there are any distressing signs of an impending move by M’Chuma, hein?”
Van Horn nodded and Chambrun got to his feet. His junior officer blinked in surprise, gulped his drink, and followed suit. So Captain Gringo knew Grandville didn’t speak a word of English.
As they all followed the two officers out to their horses tethered by the front veranda, Chambrun said, “One hopes there shall be no trouble. I am going into the jungle tomorrow morning in hopes of a meeting with the new tribal leadership. With a strong escort, of course. We know little of this M’Chuma, save that he is young and headstrong. Perhaps if we get to the bottom of what’s disturbing him, we can calm him down with a few cases of trade goods. This is certainly no time for another bush war.”
Captain Gringo saw the fat Van Horn just wanted to get rid of them. But he had a question. So he asked, “Are you expecting other trouble, Captain?”
Chambrun looked him over like he had some questions of his own to ask if he’d had more time. But his voice was polite as he replied, “I don’t think anything will happen before you have your pepper aboard that American ship in the harbor, M’sieur Walker. But we are always expecting trouble. For some reason the, ah, colonists that France sends here seem unhappy with their new lives.”
“Oh, I thought you were expecting something worse than the usual escape attempts.”
“Ah, you’ve heard the local gossip about a grand uprising, too, hein? They plan revolts all the time. Unfortunately, this year it seems more serious. Some thrice accursed troublemaker has been running guns ashore, as if that stupid Dreyfus Affair didn’t have people excited enough. Have you read Zola’s J’Accuse, yet?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and replied, “No, but I heard about it. I thought it was a dirty book, like his Nana.”
Chambrun sighed as he untethered his horse, saying, “Nana loses its point in the translations. Zola is another idealistic reformer. And if you think Nana was shocking, wait until you read J’Accuse! Zola promises to be another guest of Devil’s Island if the government can find out where he’s hiding these days. An expose of Paris prostitution is one thing. This time he’s attacked the French high command!”
The two officers mounted up, saluted, and rode off as Van Horn turned to Captain Gringo and said, “Damn it, I told you to be still! I’m trying to butter the bastards up, not irritate them!”
“I noticed,” Captain Gringo said. “He turned you down on that gun permit before I said a word.”
Van Horn pursed his lips and said, “He’s only a captain and he’s going into the bush tomorrow. I’m going over his head as soon as he’s out of the way. His colonel is a rum soaked ass.”
“Most high ranking officers who can’t avoid a post like this have to be. But what do you need a permit for in the first place, Boss? You’ve already got more guns than your men can carry.”
“I want you to start training them,” added Van Horn. “We can’t fire any weapons until we have a legal excuse for the sounds of distant gunfire, damn it!”
The tall American said, “Most of them probably already know how to pull a trigger. Want me to start them on some basic field tactics with dry fire?”
“Dry what?”
“Empty guns go click click click. You want them transformed from a rabble-in-arms to a field battalion, right? Okay, they have to know how to form ranks, move in lines of skirmish and so forth. Your guys are already natural fighters. But I can show them the basic shalls and shall riots. It’s mostly shall nots. Green troops make the same basic mistakes with monotonous regularity. Once upon a time there was a company of colored troopers the real Apache had been making hash out of. In less than a week, the company left the base and was turned into soldiers, good soldiers.”
“Really? I didn’t know you could train a man to shoot and salute in only a week.”
“Hell, the Tenth Cav had already taught them to shoot and salute. The other white officers tended to dismiss them as poor dumb coons and didn’t think they could grasp basic tactics. I damned near shit the first time I led them on patrol. They bunched up when they should have spread out. They charged decoy Indians blind and brave. My black non-coms yelled mother fucker instead of giving sensible commands and, well, it was a good thing the Indians weren’t very good, either. I took them back, chewed them out, and started explaining the way it was done. Some of them couldn’t read or write. But nobody likes to die in combat and the rules of soldiering aren’t that complicated once somebody explains them to you.”
“They sound complicated to me,” Van Horn admitted, “but you’re the expert. Tell Chef I said you were to train him and his men in this dry fire business. How long will it take you to train three machine-gun squads?”
“Too long, if you want good ones. I can probably teach them how to fire from fixed positions without having the breech block imbed itself in anybody on our side. If I can select good platoon sergeants and explain how machine guns are used defensively, they might come in handy. What kind of automatic weapons do the colonial troops have?”
“I don’t know. But I can find out, if it’s important.”
“It’s important. The machine gun’s new and I notice the French army is cheap. You’ll be badly outnumbered, at least until you can capture some arms and recruit more followers. If the government armories have some other Maxims, maybe. If they don’t, your revolution promises to be long and bitter. Guys potting at one another with rifles takes forever to settle.”
Van Horn told them to do their best and wandered off to do some paper work, jerk off, or something. As soon as they were alone, Captain Gringo told Gaston, “Let’s wander out back and see what we can do with the slobs.”
Gaston followed him from the house, but protested, “This is getting trés serious, Dick. I deserted the legion, it’s true, but I admit to a certain latent patriotism to La Belle. These worthless sons of France can’t hope to win, but the blood they spill will be French and I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either,” Captain Gringo confessed, “but until we can get the hell out of here, we have to go along with the joke. There’s going to be bloodshed anyway. I ran into Liza Smathers of British Intelligence in town and she says the Germans are stirring up trouble here, so—”
“Ah, I wondered where you’d been in town. Do you trust the British? Liza lied to us the last time, non?”
“That was in Colombia. Quee
n Vickie doesn’t want a revolt in a French colony so close to her own. We know the young Kaiser is crazy, although I’ll be damned if I can see his point, either. The Germans must know Uncle Sam would never stand for a German colony on this side of the pond and they seem to be busy enough carving up Africa, right?”
“Merde alors!” Gaston said, frowning “I think you just hit on something, Dick! I had forgotten the German colonies in West Africa! These orphaned Ashanti on this side of the sea speak related dialects! What if German agents are inciting the Bush Negroes over here to fight the French?”
“Hmm, the way I hear it, the Germans have been pretty brutal to the natives in Africa. But M’Chuma might not know that. Nobody can be as charming as a German when he doesn’t have you by the throat. But what’s the angle? How could Kaiser Willy gain by starting a jungle war in any part of the globe he isn’t interested in?”
“I did not know there was a part of the globe the Germans were not interested in,” Gaston spat. “I think it distresses them to see a map that is not all German green. You are probably right that seizing French Guiana for the Kaiser would draw some harsh words from your President Cleveland. But consider the advantages to Germany if the French army was tied up in a long tedious jungle war far from the African continent! French West Africa joins the German Kameroon and who is to say just where the border is when one has business elsewhere, hem?”
Captain Gringo frowned. “Pretty crude, but they say Kaiser Willy has lousy table manners. You may be right. Between the Dreyfus Affair causing street riots in Paris and a three-way guerilla war between convict colonists, Bush Negroes, and the French military, France would be busy as hell.”
“Mais oui, and we all know that sooner or later France and Germany mean to have another discussion on Alsace-Lorraine. France is not expecting another all-out war with Germany for at least twenty years. But Kaiser Willy may be feeling impatient.”
By now they were near the workers’ sheds and Chef came out to see what they wanted. “Le Grande Chef,” Captain Gringo started, “wants me to teach you and your boys some basic infantry tactics.”
“Most of the men are working in the fields, Captain Gringo.”
“Okay, let’s start with the ones goldbricking in the shade. They’re usually the smart guys in an outfit.”
Chef shrugged, turned, and bellowed for everyone to come outside. It took longer than it should have, but after a while Captain Gringo was facing a ragged, sullen line of about a dozen. None had brought their rifles or shotguns, but some had pistols and knives strapped to their bodies.
He said, in his high school French, “I’m sorry if you’re having a hard time understanding me, but this is the best I can manage.”
There were a couple of snickers. He stepped over to a grinning lout and said, “I know my French is bad. Do you speak English?”
“No, my friend.”
“Then wipe that stupid smile off your face, and I’m not your friend. I’m your commanding officer unless you think you can whip me.”
The man he was chewing didn’t answer. But a bigger one laughed and said, “Hey, I think I can whip you, big shot!”
Captain Gringo stepped over to him, smiled pleasantly, and knocked him on his ass with a vicious left hook before he said, “I think you’re wrong.” Then stepped back to see what happened.
What happened was that the man he’d flattened came up with blood in his eye and a knife in his fist, looking like he meant it!
Gaston drew his pistol and snapped, “Everybody back and give them room!” So the convicts scattered to form an interested circle at a safe distance.
Captain Gringo saw the guy wasn’t thinking, so he didn’t draw either of the guns strapped to his hips as the convict came in low with the blade held point first against his chest, the left hand out in a clenched fist. The American said, “Knife fighter, eh? It’s not too late to kiss and make up.”
“Kiss my ass,” the convict said, “You hit me, you son-of-a-one-titted whore!”
Then he charged.
Captain Gringo sidestepped and whipped off his gun belt as if to throw it aside. But as the enraged knife fighter slashed the hell out of the space and whirled on one heel to face him again, the big American swung the heavy gunbelt, guns and all, and slapped him to the dust once more. As he tried to rise, Captain Gringo kicked him in the face and flipped him on his back, like a flap jack. The convict landed spread eagle with a surprised expression but rolled over and tried to get up again, still gripping his knife. So Captain Gringo booted him in the ass and sent him skidding on his already battered face. Before he could recover, Captain Gringo sprang forward and licked the knife from his hand. But the guy just wasn’t paying attention. He came up bare handed and waded in windmilling, screaming terrible things about Captain Gringo’s mother. Captain Gringo landed a rabbit punch into an upcoming knee and the next time he went down he just lay there, muttering to himself.
Captain Gringo stood over him and said, “I’ve had enough. How about you?”
The convict sat up, spat out a tooth, and growled, “I give up.” So Captain Gringo nodded and put his guns back on as he said, “All right, boys, the show’s over. Line up and calm down. I don’t like spit and polish any more than you do. But if you mean to go up against trained troops, you’re going to have to know some basics. Forget salutes and standing at attention, but pay attention and speak when you’re spoken to.”
Gaston was facing them, too, so it was one of the trustees who called out, “Behind you, Captain!” and Captain Gringo turned to see the man he’d whipped coming at him again, with another knife he’d gotten somewhere in his pants!
“Oh, shit,” he said, “enough is enough!” as he drew the gun on his right hip and fired it point blank into the mad convict’s red face. The face got even redder as the soft-nosed slug took him between the eyes and blew what brains he had out the back of his shattered skull. Captain Gringo stared down in distaste at the body at his feet, then turned and said, “You and you, drag this off somewhere and get rid of it.” He nodded at the convict who’d sounded a warning and said, “I owe you. What’s your name?”
The man shrugged and said, “Call me Pepe. I had to say something. The man had no honor. He was a Corsican and you know how they are.”
Another grinned and said, “Pepe was right, Captain Gringo. We all heard him say he gave up. Corsicans have no honor.”
Captain Gringo ignored him. There was always some brownnose trying to get in good with the brass. “All right,” he said, “Pay attention. The basics of soldiering aren’t too complicated or they wouldn’t have such big armies. I’ll try to keep it simple. But the battle is the place you pay for not having done your homework, and you all just saw what can happen to a fool who thinks all a fighting man needs is a nasty disposition and some hair on his chest!”
~*~
With Gaston translating the difficult words, Captain Gringo drilled the men until others started drifting in from the fields. Then he formed them up and drilled them too. Somebody that hadn’t been paying attention bitched that it didn’t seem fair to have to go through it all a second time, so Gaston pulled him out of ranks and kicked the shit out of him while Captain Gringo continued his lesson. He could see the real problem would be discipline. Few of these guys would have been to Devil’s Island if they had any respect for authority. Those officers had been right about them being scum. But they were tough scum.
After a while it started getting dark and a servant came from the house to tell them dinner was about to be served. Captain Gringo dismissed the convicts and said they’d see if they could do better in the morning. As he and Gaston walked away, he heard one sigh, “Merde, that’s what I was afraid of!”
They went inside and washed for dinner. As they reached the dining room the fat Van Horn and his pleasantly plump sister, Wilma, were already stuffing their faces.
The girl had piled her blond hair atop her head and wore a frilly white lace dress. She looked as if she were pla
nning to go to the opera, if they had an opera in Sinnamary. The two were arguing with their mouths full as Captain Gringo and Gaston sat down. Van Horn cleared his mouth for action with a healthy gulp of coffee and said, “No, no, and no! I told you it was not a social function at the colonel’s home this evening, Wilma. You would be bored to tears if you came along.”
Wilma swallowed her own food and snapped back, “I am bored to tears already, you oaf! I didn’t get all dressed up to sit here listening to the damned mosquito songs! You have to let me come along. I refuse to stay here alone.”
Van Horn nodded at Captain Gringo and said, “You won’t be alone, you silly girl. These gentlemen will be here to keep you company.”
Wilma looked at Captain Gringo as if she’d just spotted him slithering out from under a rock and sniffed, “I want to go to town with you. I never get to meet anybody but your shady friends and hired thugs.”
Captain Gringo winked at Gaston and helped himself to some Spanish rice.
“I’ll take you to the reception at the German consulate next week,” Van Horn said, “if you behave yourself. My visit tonight is strictly business and no other ladies will be there.”
Wilma picked up her dish, threw it at him, and when she saw she’d missed she jumped up and ran out of the room crying.
As a servant knelt to pick up the broken crockery behind him, Van Horn sighed and said, “You must forgive my sister, gentlemen. I fear life here bores her a bit.”
Captain Gringo nodded sympathetically and said, “I noticed. I didn’t know there was a German consulate here in Sinnamary.”
Van Horn said, “Just a branch office, but they do give nice receptions. I don’t think you should go with us, though. They say the new German attaché is inclined to ask a lot of questions. He seems unusually interested in our affairs, considering the tension between his country and France at the moment.”
