by Lou Cameron
Captain Gringo introduced himself as Capitan Ricardo Walker. It didn’t work. More than one of the deserters gasped, and the one who did not fired his carbine in the air and shouted, “¡Viva Captain Gringo! Everyone knows who he is!”
Pancho saluted soberly and asked, “Why did you not tell us sooner, Captain Gringo? It has long been whispered in the marketplace that if ever Garcia and Captain Gringo made it ashore at once, the Spanish would no doubt wet their pants and start packing!”
Captain Gringo said, “It might take them awhile. Meanwhile, I landed here with guns and ammo for Garcia. The people here were afraid to help me get it to them. I haven’t had enough brave men up until now to move the supplies.”
“You got ’em now, Captain Gringo. Just show us what you want us to move where and stand back. We are all strong peones. That is for why they drafted us into a labor battalion, see?”
“It might not be that simple. We’re talking about more stuff than twice as many men could pack. So let’s talk about where you guys just came from.”
Pancho waved his free hand to the north and replied, “Hey, we can’t go back to the post now.”
“First tell me where and what it is, Pancho.”
“Where it is? Over by the tracks, maybe five or six kilometers. What it is is a railroad worker’s camp. That is what they had us here for, to keep the damned track in repair for their damned troop trains. They’ve been moving heavy guns by rail too. It’s the guns that warp the rails and the heat that’s been driving us crazy. When we saw our chance just now, we took it so as never to return to that hellhole, see?”
“Right. How many men did you leave behind, and how many of them do you think the other side can count on?”
Pancho frowned and decided, “Half the men in a company of two hundred are too scared of the Butcher to join us. The other privates might. The officers and maybe half the noncoms are loyal to His Most Catholic Majesty in short pants. What does it matter? I got all the tough ones here with me. We can handle any sissies they send after us.”
“I’m not worried about the mountain coming to Mohammed. Do they have freight wagons over there?”
“Sure, some, for to move ballast and fresh ties when the big guns mess up the roadbed. Let’s see now, they got eight four-wheelers and a couple of carts. Would that be enough to carry the guns you have to Garcia, Captain Gringo?”
The tall American shook his head and said, “Not all at once. Not all the way. But we could probably get ten tons over to the railroad in a few trips.”
Pancho scowled and asked, “For why would we wish for to move guns for Garcia to a Spanish-held railroad, Captain Gringo?”
He said, “Let’s go up to my camp and work out the details before dark. First we have to capture your old army post. Then we get to capture the railroad, see?”
To be fair to Butcher Weyler, the whole sick Spanish Empire was a bewildering blend of up-to-date technology and medieval notions. Spanish soldiers were issued smokeless powder ammo and rifles more accurate than those of the United States or British armed forces of the era. Yet they marched in threadbare cotton on rope-soled zapatas, ate swill unfit for pigs, were paid less than two cents a day, and worked like mules.
The railroad labor camp betrayed the same enthusiasm for modernity and lack of concern for the lower classes of humanity. A siding and small switchyard had been provided for the state-of-the-art machinery. A cluster of unpainted wooden shacks had been lifted off a flatcar by crane to house the workers. The officers, according to Pancho, used the glistening passenger coach at the end of a siding for their orderly room and BOQ. The whole mess was surrounded by concertina wire. The east and west openings for the main-line trains constituted the only gates. A ramshackle watchtower rose above the telegraph poles following the single track of the main line. The guard on duty that afternoon was bored, resentful, and sweating like a pig as even the enlisted men below enjoyed la siesta. Captain Gringo had timed his approach with la siesta in mind.
He’d long since learned that the Latin American siesta was not a matter of laziness. It was a matter of survival south of the tropic line. By dozing away the hottest part of the tropical day and working earlier in the morning and later in the evening than North Americans, most Latin Americans got about as much work done in a given twenty-four hours. Cubans, according to Gaston, were hard workers even by Yankee standards. But asking even a Cuban who had nothing to say about it to do heavy labor on an oven-hot afternoon was asking for a heat-stroke victim, and not even a Spanish officer could get much further use out of a man or a mule who was down for the count.
The guard shouted down when he spotted Captain Gringo and his new followers coming in. The Spanish OD stepped shirtless out onto the platform of the headquarters car to see what was up. The lookout shouted, “It looks like that patrol we sent out this morning, Lieutenant. Pero they seem to have rounded up some prisoners. I make it five or six campesinos. They seem to have met another Spanish officer as well. I see two, not one rider in officer’s kit out on either flank.”
The OD swore softly and called back, “Bueno. Have the prisoners chained to a flatcar for now and ask Lieutenant Vargas to report to the orderly room.” Then he went back inside, flopped down behind his desk, and proceeded to build himself another gin and tonic.
An even sleepier looking superior officer came out of the sleeping quarters, naked under a terry-cloth robe, to yawn and ask what was going on. The OD explained, “Vargas is coming in with his patrol and some prisoners, Major. Do not concern yourself. I can deal with it.”
The major said, “I heard some of it. Why did you order the new boys chained in the hot sun? Before you were sure they were rebels, I mean. I told Vargas to round up any local peones he could find, for to help us carry out our duties here. They may not be rebels at all.”
The OD shrugged and suggested, “In that case, an hour or so chained in the sun may be just the initiation to army discipline they need, no? You know how lazy these Cuban scum are, Major. One must convince a Cuban of one’s sincerity before one can expect him to obey without question.”
The major scratched his belly absently, shrugged, and said, “I don’t suppose a little toasting will hurt them. You do as you wish. Wake me after three and I shall question them.”
Outside, the lookout was shouting down the OD’s orders. Gaston, more the size of the late Lieutenant Vargas, nodded wearily but did not shout back. He knew that while he might or might not pass for the dead man in his saddle and odds and ends of Spanish battle kit, it was doubtful the Spanish officer had spoken Spanish with even a slight French accent.
The lookout didn’t think to question who the taller rider under yet another officer’s cap might be. He’d shouted the information down once, and enlisted men were discouraged from thinking in his army. So it went even smoother than Captain Gringo had planned. Nobody else looked out of the trackside shacks or railroad cars as Pancho took the lead, since he knew where the hell he was, at least. When they got to the headquarters car, Pancho nodded. Captain Gringo and Gaston dismounted and moved up the stairs, with Pancho and a trio of his fellow mutineers in tow.
The OD looked up casually as they entered in a bunch. His eyes widened when he saw the gun in Captain Gringo’s hand. He asked, “Who in the devil are you, and for why are you pointing your sidearm at me, ah, Lieutenant?’’
Captain Gringo smiled fondly down at him and said, “Close enough. Keep both hands on that desk and keep your mouth shut if you don’t want it full of flies. Pancho, round up the others pronto. Bayonets are optional, but no gunfire, comprendes?’’
His enlisted men, if that was what one could call deserters, moved on into the car as Gaston helped himself to the gin bottle. Captain Gringo asked the OD whether all the officers in camp were with them in the fancy car. The Spanish officer curled his lip and said, “I will tell nothing. I am not afraid to die.’’
“That’s good. I’d hate to shoot a guy who was. Go easy on that gin, Gaston. You m
ay have to do some straight shooting too. This is too smooth to last. Where the hell are those other guys?”
As if in reply, Pancho came back, followed by his comrades. They’d come back alone. All five of their bayonets were crimson to the hilts, and some had spots of blood on their pants as well. Captain Gringo nodded grimly and said, “Okay, how many were there and do we have any others to worry about?”
Pancho said, “There were seven all told, including this son of a Spanish whore and her pet pig. We just took care of six. Since rank has its privileges and that one struck me with his riding crop more than once, he is mine!”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Sorry about that, Pancho. I need him alive to give some orders. You do want to give some orders for us, don’t you, pal?”
The OD’s face was frog-belly pale, and his lower lip was quivering. But he still had the balls to tell Captain Gringo to go fuck his gringo mother.
Pancho stepped closer and raised his blood-slicked bayonet as he explained, “You do not know how to talk to Spaniards, señor. Tell me what orders you wish this cabrón for to give, and I shall show you how loud he can shout, no?”
Captain Gringo stared thoughtfully at the OD and growled, “We can probably manage without you if we have to, pal. What are you trying to prove?”
The captive swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice from cracking as he replied, “I know I am dead. I am trying to prove I can die like an officer of His Most Catholic Majesty.”
“You’re talking about a ten-year-old boy, his dotty old Queen Regent, and a Cortes run by incompetents and crooks, pal. Be reasonable and you have my word as a fellow officer we’ll turn you loose, alive, as we pull out.”
The Spaniard shook his head stubbornly and replied, “A man who would lie about my King would lie about anything. I would not betray my country and my commission, even if I thought you would keep your word.”
Pancho lowered the blade on the end of his carbine as he softly inquired, “Have you ever watched a man die after he’s been stuck in the guts, my fine Spanish gentleman?”
Captain Gringo said, “None of that, Sergeant. Take him in the back and tie him up. Don’t do anything else to him. I mean it.”
“Pero Captain Gringo, this one is one of the cruelest officers in this outfit.”
“I believe you. You’d better gag him too. I still want him left alive. You other guys, go back and gather any clean officer’s kit you can find. Move it. We’ve got work to do before our luck runs out!”
As they herded the stubborn officer out of sight, Captain Gringo moved to the platform and called down to the others still assembled out there, “You guys in civilian dress, in here on the double. Corporal, I want you to relieve the sergeant of the guard this afternoon, first. Tell him he’s to report here to the orderly room. Do you know who’s corporal of the guard, and will he give you any back talk?”
The mutinous noncom grinned and said, “Not if I tell them I have been placed in command of the guard by an officer.”
“Bueno. Does that tower lookout have a connection to the main wires running back to headquarters?”
“Pero no, why should he?”
“This is too good to be true. I guess he can’t get in any trouble up there for now. When his tour on post is up, relieve him with one of our guys. Do the same with the others. Tell each guard coming off post to report to the orderly room for special instructions. If they ask questions, tell ’em their sergeant will explain things to them here.”
The corporal moved off, grinning like a kid on Halloween. Captain Gringo got Suarez and the others in civilian duds inside and out of sight. He had the remaining uniformed mutineers take up stations all around the car. Then he ducked back inside to sweat bullets for a while.
But things kept meshing like greased clockwork. Once the sergeant of the guard was bound and gagged up forward, it was a snap to get the first and duty sergeants to report to the orderly room. Once they were out of action, the post was Captain Gringo’s to command. Nobody left was about to question the orders of an officer they’d never seen before. Spanish enlisted men didn’t like to get hit with officer’s crops any more than anyone else.
So at three-thirty Captain Gringo announced the end of la siesta and began to issue orders. He sent a train of Spanish Army wagons and a Spanish work detail out, under Gaston, to pick up the Cuban rebel supplies “his” patrol had “captured.” It took more than one trip to haul all ten tons to the railroad line, and it took two flatcars to hold it all. It was dark when the heavy work had been taken care of.
Captain Gringo assembled his weary dupes, praised them for their devotion to duty as warmly as a Spanish officer was likely to, and told them to enjoy double rations and a good night’s sleep. He didn’t have to tell them twice. By this time Pancho had discreetly recruited other Cuban draftees who could be trusted, and of course Captain Gringo had his own sneaks standing guard as well as assigned to a special work detail. If anyone else bothered to peek out of a shack after dark, they wouldn’t have been able to see much, even though a lot was going on.
There was no locomotive, not even a switch engine, among the rolling stock assigned to the small yard off the main line. Pancho explained they’d moved the gear around the hard way, by grunt and groan. So they got to grunt and groan a lot as Captain Gringo made up his own version of a work train.
The flatcars with the guns for Garcia lashed to them were of course placed in the middle. He put the headquarters car, prisoners and all, up front. The biggest mass of rolling metal in the yard was a steam crane mounted on its own heavily ballasted flat. Pancho said he had no idea why they’d assigned the big crane to his labor outfit in the first place, since there was no coal to run it and the officers had made them move everything by hand. Captain Gringo said the weight was his main consideration and asked how soon the next night train would be along, preferably from the west. Pancho thought and said, “Is a troop train due through here about ten, carrying wounded from the front in mostly empty cars, señor. Alas, it will be coming from the east, of course.”
“I guess we could let it through. Get to the next train from the east.”
“Around six in the morning, perhaps. They do not like to run trains heavy with fresh troops and supplies in the dark, you see. You may have noticed there are Cubans everywhere who do not admire ten-year-old kings as much as they do.”
Captain Gringo muttered, “Shit. Oh well, a locomotive running ass backward offers some advantages if you mount machine guns on the tender. Let’s get all the leaders together, pal. We have some fancy timetable changes to dope out before that west-bound shows up.”
It wasn’t much cooler on the rear platform of the troop train, and the Spanish chaps had warned him he was asking for a sniper’s bullet in his pith helmet, but at least the smell wasn’t so dreadful out here. More than one of the wounded troopers up front was suffering gas gangrene, but when he’d pointed that out to the one nursing sister they seemed to have aboard, she’d just looked blankly at him. The young Englishman was aware his Spanish left much to be desired, but it wasn’t that bad, dash it, and the woman had to have a sense of smell.
He leaned back in his folding chair, savoring the excellent Havana perfecto stuck in his pudgy, girlish face as he absently ran a thumbnail through the faint stubble on his upper lip. Young Winston Churchill had been trying to grow a manly mustache for some time now without much luck. Mama was probably right. He probably would look silly with a mustache. But the youth was painfully aware he’d fibbed about his age to be sent overseas as a war correspondent, and all these Spanish chaps seemed so bloody hairy by the time they were teenagers. Like most young men of ambition, Winston Churchill wanted to be taken seriously. At least, he thought, nobody who read his dispatches from Cuba would be able to tell if he shaved regularly or not.
The notes he’d taken in recent days were in his compartment up front. He wasn’t worried about anyone reading them without his permission. He’d been warned by his p
aper to write nothing but nice things about the touchy Dons and keep personal reservations to himself. He didn’t have too many. He wasn’t sure he fancied Spanish discipline. He knew Tommy Atkins would never take such guff from his officers, and Tommy Atkins was expected to take a lot. The Dons had refused to show him any of those concentration camps everyone was talking about. But most of them seemed decent enough chaps, and that was more than could be said for the savages they were fighting to the east. He’d seen what those improvised bullets made by hammering stolen telegraph wire into a loose ball could do to human flesh. He’d held the hand of a dying Spanish officer who’d stepped on one of Garcia’s land mines. The rebels had not the slightest notion of civilized warfare. They simply hit and ran, like ruddy red Indians. His Spanish friends had told him most low-caste Cubans were, in fact, a rather nasty brew of Indian and Negro, hence their cruelty and cowardly cunning. The few unpleasant things he’d seen Spanish troops do to the local peasantry could no doubt be explained by the savagery the rebels displayed to captured Spanish prisoners. He still wished they’d treat women and children a bit more politely. But it was his first war, after all, so who was he to say how such a beastly business should be conducted?
The train began to slow down. Young Churchill grimaced and got to his feet so he could lean out and see what it was this time. The rail service in this country left a lot to be desired, however modern the Spanish armed forces might be. The train ground to a complete stop. Up the line the young Englishman saw lights and could barely make out some sort of arm-waving discussion going on up by the engine. He climbed down and crunched along the ballast to see what was going on. Obviously, the train wouldn’t be moving for a while.
