by Lou Cameron
When they had the crane car hooked to the engine’s cowcatcher, Captain Gringo turned to Gaston and said, “Okay, hold this position as long as you can, but don’t take chances. If it looks like you’re about to be overrun, haul ass and I’ll see you around the campus.”
“Make it Costa Rica. If I can’t hold a bridgehead with this many men and a machine gun, I intend to depart Cuba on the double indeed!”
They shook on it, and Captain Gringo climbed up into the cab with Ciboney and the engine crew. He told the two Cubans, “End of the line, amigos. If you don’t want to stay here and fight beside my guys, you’re free to go anywhere you like.”
The two Cubans exchanged glances. The engineer nodded and said, “If they will give us guns, we will stay and fight. Pero how can you go on without us, if that is your mad intention?”
Captain Gringo said, “I know how to run anything,” as he stepped to the throttle and opened it, adding, “All ashore that’s going ashore.” So the train crew jumped off as the engine began to back toward the river, pulling the crane. Ciboney asked in what way she could be of service. He told her, “Keep down. I don’t need a hand on the dead-man’s switch. I don’t belong to any union.”
She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she did as she was told and it was just as well. Rifle bullets began spanging off the steel plates around them as soon as they backed around the bend and started across the long bridge, gathering speed. Captain. Gringo finished tying the dead-man’s switch with a length of latigo so he could leave the throttle open as he moved past the frightened girl to the twin Maxims mounted beyond her. It was now so dark he could only see the river water to either side as a lighter shade of black, but the firefly winking of gun muzzles on the far side gave him swell targets to aim at with his deadlier fire. It was impossible, of course, to tell how many he hit or how many he just scared skinny and quiet with his sweeping automatic fire. He still had some ammo left, if not much, when they were on dry land again and nobody at all was winking flame at him from the darkness on either side of the track. He waited until they’d rolled a ways, still picking up speed. He decided enough was enough and moved back to ease off on the throttle. As he stepped over Ciboney, she asked, “Are we safe now?’’ and he said, “No, but we’re across the river and through whatever we just punched through.’’
As he cut the steam and hit the brakes, she asked why they were stopping. He said, “Because I’m only crazy, not suicidal. Drop off and hide in the bushes for now. If we get separated and they pick you up, tell them you never heard of me and make up a new name for yourself while you’re at it.’’
She said she would stand by him to the death. He made her climb down anyway as he followed. She followed him back to the crane and watched as he lowered the hook of the rail wolf. He made sure it rested on a cross-tie and said, “With luck it ought to skip a bit before it digs in.’’ Then he moved back to the engine, made Ciboney wait on the ground, and climbed up to open the tied-down throttle all the way before jumping down to join her. He grabbed her arm and herded her into the trees as the engine started up with a wheel-spinning scream of protest. He shoved her down and got behind a tree to watch or, at any rate, listen. He couldn’t see, but he could hear as the engine chugged off, snapping ties behind it in what sounded like a cross between machine gun fire and a big picket fence being treated just awful.
He chuckled and said, “That ought to confuse the hell out of ’em, and they’ll start hunting for our trail where and when that engine winds up. Ciboney, why are you unbuttoning my pants?’’
She looked up from where she knelt at his feet to ask, “Is that not why you threw me down just now? You did not have to be so rough. You know I like you, Dick.”
He laughed, said he liked her too, and hauled her to her feet to make some tracks. He held her arm with one hand and felt ahead with the barrel of the carbine he’d taken from the train to keep from running into anything important in the dark. Ciboney kept asking where they were going. He said it wasn’t important, as long as it was well clear of the tracks. But as they struggled to the crest of a wooded rise, she insisted, “Wait, I do not know exactly where we are, but the Spanish front has to be between us and the Sierra Maestra, no?”
He stopped and said, “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. Let’s see now. The moon rises twenty minutes later every night, and it almost made it the last couple of nights. So we ought to have some moonlight tonight, just before dawn. Hold the thought. I have to climb a tree.”
He did. The pine he chose was tall, the ridge was fairly high, and as he’d hoped, the Spanish didn’t worry about campfires behind their line. The line was a long one, he could see as he traced the dotted line of winking pinpoints out of sight to east and west. He slid down to tell Ciboney, “The front’s about six or seven kilometers on, with a couple of other wooded ridges between here and there. If we wait ’til an hour before moonrise, we’ll have just enough light to see what we’re doing as we slip through. They won’t be expecting heavy traffic the other way, and we’ll make poor targets in the tricky light. Meanwhile, we should be safe enough up here for a few hours.”
She said, “Bueno,” and slipped out of her blouse and skirt. She had no shoes and socks on. She dropped her duds on the pine needles and lay down atop them. He knew they both needed a bath bad, but in this light who could tell, and who cared?
He said, “You sure are a friendly little thing,” as he leaned his carbine against the tree and peeled off his own duds to join her. He hadn’t had any lately. From the way she sobbed and clung to him as he mounted her, she hadn’t had any either for even longer. He was glad. Her warm little body smelled like sweating codfish as she ground it hard against his, and it was nice to know it was all her.
She hugged him tightly with her thighs, crushed her moist breasts to his sweaty chest, and pleaded, it, Dick! Do it to me hot and dirty!”
He’d thought he was. But he aimed to please. So they were both sweat slicked and panting like playful pups by the time they came together hard. It was surprising how anything that smelled so gamy could feel so sweet. She giggled and said, “You are dripping sweat in my face. It is so romantico. To screw so hard a man must really like a girl, no?”
He laughed and said, “If you’re as good a guide as you are a screwer, we’re as good as there! Do you smoke too, or is this your only bad habit?”
She said, “Of course I smoke, and this is not a bad habit. It is a most good habit I have not, alas, been able to indulge in lately. Let me get on top if you wish to rest a bit.”
He let her. He didn’t get much rest. Not content with the usual way it was done, with the female on top, Ciboney squatted atop him with a bare heel firmly planted on the pine duff to either side and proceeded to indulge in what could best be described as deep knee bends, albeit she never rose high enough to lose track of him completely. She hissed, “Oh, you are so nice and long, Dick! See how far up and down I can slide on you?”
He couldn’t see. But it sure felt grand, and when sweat began to drip on him from her bobbing nipples, he found it sort of romantico too. She sure was putting a lot of effort into showing him how much she liked him. But he knew her strong little legs would have more vital if less pleasant work to do in the near future. So he rolled her over, spread them wide as they’d go with an elbow hooked under each of her knees, and showed her how much he liked her as she pleaded, “Not so deep! Don’t stop! What a marvelous way to die!”
She let him light one of his last cigars later. But when he said they ought to try for a little sleep in shifts, Ciboney protested, “Pero no, we have only come twice, and who can say if we shall ever have the chance for to come again?”
That sounded reasonable. He was able to save a little energy for both of them by giving it to her dog style, slowly and teasingly, as he smoked the claro. She liked it that way. He wondered if there was any way she might not like it. He wondered if this unwashed albeit lovely little primitive would, in fact, be the l
ast woman he ever did anything to. It was possible. He knew sooner or later this mad renegade life had to end. But what the hell. If Ciboney was to be the last he’d ever lay, at least she was a great lay.
Getting through the Spanish lines to rebel territory was less work, as well as less fun, than getting Ciboney to come that last time had been. When it was safe to run again instead of crawl, he helped the girl up and they just ran like hell for a hundred paces, walked fifty, and ran another hundred until they were sure they were well clear of the Spanish forward outposts. It was just as well they were when the sun popped up to catch them on a waist-high chaparral-covered slope. Ciboney looked around, uncertainly at first, then clapped her hands and pointed at a distant peak, saying, “That is Old Aquilar. I know where we are now, Dick!”
He grinned at her in the dawn light, wondering if his face could be half as dirty, and how come it hadn’t mattered kissing in the dark. He said, “Well, don’t keep secrets from a friend, doll. Where would you be right now if you were Garcia?’’
She said, “¿Quien sabe? If he is, as you say, keeping an eye on the main Spanish forces, he could be over that way, beyond the peak where the eagles soar.’’
“How far in kilometers, or better yet, in days?’’
“Not too far, Dick. Two days at most.’’
“That’s not far?’’
“If Garcia was close to the enemy, he would have been captured by now. The group I was with was posted between the main rebel forces and the Spanish for to screen Garcia’s shifting headquarters in the higher hills. It worked too, even though Nopalita was a wicked Spanish agent. Do not look so concerned, querido. I am part Indio and this is my country. I know how to live off it. There is plenty water, plenty game, and all sorts of fruits and nuts you blancos do not know much about.’’
She took his arm and added, “Come, I shall show you how to survive in the high country, and at night you will show me more about the way people fuck in your country, no?’’
He had no other choice. The next few days weren’t bad and the next few nights were even greater, once they’d enjoyed a bath together in a mountain stream. But the time they were taking had to have Gaston and the others sweating bullets by now. He knew he was worried about how long they could hold out where he’d left them. Gaston had more hair on his chest than he let on. But fair was fair, and nobody could expect an old pro like Gaston to play Alamo when he was free to retreat at will into the chaos they’d left to the west.
In the end, they never found Garcia. Garcia, or rather one of his patrols, found them as they were getting ready to camp for the night by another purling stream. It was a good thing one of them remembered Ciboney. Nothing Captain Gringo had to say interested them once they’d seen his dirty blond hair and decided he had to be Castilian. But they agreed it hardly seemed likely the adelita of a dead comrade would be wandering about behind their lines with a fucking Spaniard. So they just took his guns, told him not to get cute, and frog-marched him a good ten miles to where Garcia was currently holed up in a big limestone cave.
When they met at last, Calixto Garcia y Iniguez in the flesh was a lot nicer than his guerrilla patrol and a lot neater than either Captain Gringo or Ciboney. He was seated behind a map table with his back to the damp wall at the rear of the cave. Captain Gringo decided he was about Gaston’s age but looked as if he’d led an even rougher life. No matter what the Spanish said about him, he looked white enough. Native Cubans, or Creoles, never commented on any Indian or Negro ancestry a neighbor might have, but he’d noticed Creole leaders always seemed pretty white anyway.
Garcia listened impassively as Captain Gringo told him the whole story. When they got to the part about the guns in the ravine near the railroad bridge, the Cuban general’s expression didn’t change. He picked up a stub pencil and made a mark on his map. He said, “I know the place. It is going to cost me some casualties to recover those guns. For your sake, they had better be there, yanqui,”
Captain Gringo snorted in disgust and asked, “Why the hell would I lie? I’ll lead your guys there anytime you like.’’
Garcia shook his head and said, “No you won’t. You shall stay here while I send at least a regiment. We shall try to make your visit with us as comfortable as possible, Captain Gringo. If you are not Captain Gringo and this is another of the butcher’s tricks, well, we do not have the facilities for holding prisoners the other side has. So let us hope you are a most brave friend instead of a most foolish enemy!’’
Ciboney said, “I can vouch for him and his story, my general. I was with them when they hid the guns in that ravine. I was with him when he killed many Spaniards too!”
Garcia shrugged and said, “So you say. That other adelita, Nopalita, was supposed to be on our side too. Since you are with him one way or the other, you shall stay with him under guard, my child. When the others return, you shall either get a citation from your country or a bullet in your pretty little head. Meanwhile, have you both eaten?”
In Havana a very sunburned young English reporter was finishing his packing when Greystoke of British Intelligence entered his hotel room without knocking. They’d met before at the nearby British consulate, so Greystoke was able to get right to the point. He said, “Churchill, old chap, I just read the cable you were trying to send home to your newspaper syndicate. I took the liberty of destroying it. It just won’t do to say such things about our Spanish allies, dash it all!”
Churchill straightened up and said, with a scowl he’d been working on some time, “By Jove, sir, I’ll have you know I’m a reporter, not a flaming diplomat. I was sent over here to report the situation as I saw it. If it’s any comfort, I won’t be able to tell my readers a lot of what I just saw. As a sworn neutral I’m going to have to be a bit modest about some of my more recent adventures. But everything I wrote about that concentration camp is true! The Spanish Crown may or may not have a just claim to this colony, but nobody has the right to butcher women and children! I spoke to more than one of the survivors. Have you any idea how ghastly conditions are in those camps?”
Greystoke said, “Of course. It’s my business to know what’s going on all over. Valeriano Weyler is everything his enemies say, and more. I just spoke to a Señora Lopez who sought sanctuary with us at the consulate. We’ll have to give it to her, of course. But I’m not about to tell you why. You’ve done enough damage as it is. Reporting on that concentration camp was bad enough. Whatever possessed you to say you thought the flaming rebels have a fifty-fifty chance?”
Churchill said, “My own eyes and a certain passion for history. I know Whitehall wants the Dons to win. I’m sure my father does, and I’m not sure Cuba will be any better off under native rule. Some Cubans are more passionate than educated. But a good reporter has to report the facts as he sees them and, damn it, Butcher Weyler is a flaming ogre no matter whose side he’s on!”
“He’s on our side,” said Greystoke flatly, adding, “I know he’s an ogre. He’s also the best military leader in the half-cracked Spanish Empire. Do you have any notion what will happen if they ever recall Weyler to Spain under outside pressure?”
“Of course I do. He won’t be able to slaughter Cuban women and children!”
Greystoke nodded and said, “That’s true. He won’t be able to stop many U.S. Marines either. I know the idiot they’ll replace Weyler with. Marshal Blanco is a dear old thing who read Don Quixote as a lad and didn’t get the joke! He’s a bloody paper-pusher who counts pennies and never returns to his office after la siesta. He doesn’t get along well with his junior officers, which is just as well perhaps, since he knows bloody nothing about military strategy. Should he be in command when the Yanks swarm ashore, they’ll go through the Spanish Army like a hot knife through butter!” Churchill shrugged and asked, “How did my mother’s family get into this discussion? The last I heard, Cleveland has assured Whitehall he has no designs on Cuba.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you this is Cleveland’s last term, you twit? O
ne has to think ahead in the great game. This Cuban mess has to be settled in Spain’s favor before the war party gains control of the U.S. Congress in just a few short years. If Weyler’s replaced by Blanco, Garcia will hardly need American help to overthrow the colonial government, though I rather imagine the Yanks will help him whether he wants them to or not. He does owe a lot of money to them. You can’t print anything against Weyler, Churchill. Not unless you want to see Cuba fall like a ripe fruit into the Yankee sphere of influence!”
Churchill got back to his packing, murmuring, “I rather like some Yanks, and my father’s not the only one in Lords who feels it’s Germany, not our American cousins, we’ll have trouble with in the coming century. I told you I daren’t print a lot of what I saw. I’ll decide when I see my father in London just how strongly I’ll have to put some matters every free Englishman has a right to know about.”
“If you do, Churchill, you could help bring down the Spanish Empire ahead of its time!”
“Oh, bother, the silly clods have already lost almost all they ever had, and if one news feature by an unknown reporter can muck things up for them more than they’ve already mucked it for themselves, all I can say is it’s about time. Spain’s no bloody use to Great Britain in any case.”
“Have you forgotten Spain could come in handy in another war with France?”
The young reporter blinked in astonishment and asked, “Are you sure you said you were with British Intelligence?” and when Greystoke nodded, Churchill added, “Good Lord, we’re really in trouble. You’ve got the next Great War all muddled in your flaming head!”
