by Lou Cameron
Gaston’s leg was stiff and he still felt weak, but he was trying to act as if he’d never seen that snake. Whoever had tried to kill one of them was probably watching and wondering what had gone wrong. But since he or she wasn’t coming ashore, that was that.
They were met at the foot of the gangplank by a pale, malarial young man who looked like he’d rather be playing tennis in England. He said his name was Webster and that he’d been appointed to escort them wherever during La Siesta. Nuevo Verdugo was ever so British, but there were limits in the tropics to what a sensible white man could get away with in the noonday sun. The ship had put in late because of the storm the previous night, and it was hotter than hell.
Mab said Gaston needed to be put in hospital at once, and asked where the company doctor was. Webster said, “The infirmary is that white-washed building just across the way, ma’am. We no longer have a doctor. What’s our emergency of the moment, the usual tropic tummy?”
Before either of them could signal her, Mab said, “M’sieu Verrier was bitten by a bushmaster and needs bed rest. What do you mean, you don’t have a doctor? I understood I was coming here to assist a Doctor Lloyd.”
Webster said, “Snake bite, eh? How curious. That’s what poor old Lloyd died of, too. Allow me to help you with your luggage, ma’am. I’ll have the niggers deliver your trunk in a jiff. Your patient does look a bit wonky, what?”
Captain Gringo saw Gaston was having trouble standing and took his arm while he frowned down at Webster and asked, “When did all this happen? How long ago was Dr. Lloyd murdered?”
Webster picked up Mab’s valise and said, “Oh, I’d hardly call it anything as dramatic as that. Poor blighter was taken by a snake as he was stepping out of his shower. He gave himself a shot, of course, but it didn’t seem to work. It happened about a week ago. Fortunately, it’s a rather healthy isle and the rest of us have been trusting to gin and tonic.”
Captain Gringo glanced westward beyond the moored steamer as he and the others followed Webster. The mainland was a dark line on the horizon, but there was a lot of shark infested water between here and there. He mused aloud, “Funny, I thought snakes were rare on offshore islands. I know there are none in Cuba. What kind of snake was it?”
Webster shrugged and said, “I’m sure I can’t say. Nobody but poor Lloyd ever saw the blighter and he obviously used the wrong antivenom. But you’re right about any sort of serpent being rare out here. We were all rather surprised about it at the time. As I said, it’s a rather healthy spot, despite this beastly heat and the trade winds that blow the wrong way for the mosquitos over there on the mainland. We didn’t know there were any snakes when we picked Nuevo Verdugo for our experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“Sugar, and all that rot. You surely know how fast vegetation grows in this humid heat. Our crops mature weeks ahead of those in Jamaica. But most places along the Mosquito Coast are simply impossible for white men. Even the perishing natives tend to curl up and die along the east coast of Central America.”
Mab said, “I know. I just came from Panama. Half the Canal workers seem to die before their first payday.”
Webster nodded and said, “Saves on labor costs, no doubt. But even a nigger has some value, and we can’t cut cane with corpses. So the company selected this relatively healthy island as its site to put Central American sugar on a paying basis.”
By then they’d reached the infirmary and a black girl in a white uniform came shyly out on the veranda to curtsy to Mab. Webster said, “Willie May, this is your new memsahib, Sister O’Shay. Mind you, obey her or it’s back to the scullery for you, my girl.”
He turned to Mab and added, “I don’t think she understands a word I say, but they respond like a dog to one’s tone of voice.”
Mab shot him an annoyed look and told the black girl, “We have a sick man here, lass. Is there a bed properly made up inside?”
Willie May said, “Yess’m. We was expecting y’all, and the place is spit an’ polish fo’ you’ inspection.”
The two women took charge of Gaston and their few bags, while Captain Gringo said he’d stay with Webster and meet the other company men. He waited until he was alone with Webster before he said, “That colored girl sounds American.”
Webster shrugged and replied, “Dammed if I know. They’re all alike to me. We can’t get the perishing natives we found here to work for us, so the company has been recruiting from all over. What difference does it make? She doesn’t even have a nice ass.”
Captain Gringo waited until they were walking toward the headquarters building further up the green before he said, “You were a little rough on her with that remark about dogs. I used to command a troop of the colored Tenth Cav, back in the States. I found I got better results by treating my troopers like people.”
“Oh dear, you should have warned me you were a nigger lover.”
“I’m going to pretend you never said that. I fought Apache with some colored guys, but I don’t remember us getting mushy about it. The point I was trying to make is that you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar. If all of you have been talking to your help like that, I can see why you need machine guns.”
Webster smiled and said, “Oh, the niggers on our payroll know their place. But you probably know about our problem with the Voodoo chaps.”
“Yeah. What’s this shit about zombies over-running your guards?”
“Shit expresses my opinion rather neatly. I think our superstitious help tends to excuse their own cowardice and poor marksmanship with fairies in the bottom of the garden. Have you ever seen a zombie, Captain?”
“Not yet. What was the medical report on the attackers your men did stop?”
“Medical report? Good Lord, poor old Lloyd never got a chance to perform the autopsies he kept talking about. You see, the enemy has this distressing habit of recovering its own dead.”
He tittered and added inanely, “No doubt their Voodoo Queen repairs them and sends them back at us good as new, eh what?”
Captain Gringo frowned and said, “Voodoo Queen?”
Webster nodded and said, “Mamma Macumba. Wonky name, eh? The natives say she’s a beautiful mulatto who’s rather thick with some jungle god. called Mumbo Jumbo, or some such rot. He’s supposed to be a giant serpent as well as her lover. Sounds like some old nigger witch likes to stuff snakes up her twat. Disgusting, don’t you agree?”
Captain Gringo didn’t answer. Webster was a silly twit who was starting to get under his skin. Privately, the tall American knew Macumba was the South American version of what most Anglo-Saxons called Voodoo, and that it was Mambo Jumbo, not Mumbo Jumbo. It meant “Great Serpent” in some West African dialect. Conversations around a campfire with an old sergeant who’d been born a slave hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all, though he now wished he’d paid more attention. He didn’t remember Sergeant Brown discussing zombies, but he knew the Mambo Jumbo cult was older and more powerful than a lot of people thought. He had other questions. But he decided to wait and see if Pantropic had hired anyone with more brains than Webster. It seemed impossible that they hadn’t.
Webster led him up some steps and ignored the two mestizo guards who popped to attention and presented arms on either side of the doorway. Captain Gringo decided it was as good a time as any to start establishing himself. So he returned the salute, paused, and asked the more experienced looking guard, “Soldier, what’s your seventh general order?”
The guard looked surprised. Then he grinned and answered, “Sir! My seventh general order is to talk to no one except in the line of duty!”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Carry on,” before joining the bemused Webster inside the open doorway. The Englishman asked, “What was that all about?” The American said, “They presented arms U.S. Army style. I wanted to see if they were really trained or just going through the motions. Where did you recruit them?”
“Dashed if I know. All you soldiers of fo
rtune have rather murky records. I believe the one you spoke to is a Mexican now that I think about it.”
The American nodded. He knew the Mexican Army was U.S. trained, with a rather high desertion rate, thanks to the strange ways of the piss pot dictatorship Washington and Wall Street hailed as a “stable government.” Things were looking up. Pantropic had hired men with at least some military experience. But if the company guards were not the usual rag-tag collection of adventurous peones, how come they couldn’t stand up to untrained, jungle raiders? He didn’t know much about Voodoo or Macumba, but he tended to doubt many witch doctors gave close order drill.
Webster led him along a corridor and ushered him into a room where a fat pink man was sitting naked in a big galvanized tub of water while a rather pretty mestizo fanned him.
Webster introduced him as Colonel Gage, the Governor General and Company Supervisor, all rolled in one florid package. Gage smiled up at Captain Gringo and said, “Forgive me for remaining seated and I’d offer my hand but it’s wet. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m soaking myself like this, eh what?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “No sir, I just came in from the noonday sun.”
Gage sighed and said, “Right. Nuevo Verdugo is no place for a sober white man. Webster there, survives on gin and tonic. But I find I tend to put things off if I’m three-quarters smashed.”
Webster said, “The captain brought that nurse we were expecting and the French chap they cabled us about, Gaston Verrier. He’s in the hospital at the moment with a snake bite problem. Rather wonky, what?”
Gage gasped and asked, “Snake bite, again? Dash it all, there aren’t supposed to be any venomous snakes on this bloody island!”
Captain Gringo said, “It happened last night aboard ship, sir.” Then he told the governor the story as the mestizo fanned him, and his fat face kept getting redder. When the American finished, Colonel Gage scowled down at the water he was soaking in and said, “That does it. I’m sending for the Royal Marines. I’m tired of mucking about with these bloody natives. It’s time they received a good lesson.”
It sounded like a good idea to Captain Gringo. He and Gaston were getting paid per diem no matter how it was settled. But Webster cleared his throat and said, “I’m not sure that would be wise, sir. You know what Whitehall cabled back the last time you asked for direct military intervention.”
“Bloody asses!” snorted Colonel Gage. Then he saw Captain Gringo wasn’t following the conversation and explained, “It’s your American Monroe Doctrine, no offense meant. London feels we have to slaughter natives delicately in these parts, since Washington can be so stuffy about a spot of gunboat diplomacy when it’s not a U.S. gunboat. We’re supposed to be able to handle things here without direct help from the Empire. But you know all about that, since Sir Basil sent you. How is the old pirate these days, by the way?”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Still pirating, I guess. Woodbine Arms Limited sent us to find out just what the problem seems to be with those guns he sold you.”
Gage nodded and said, “They don’t work. Bloody natives walk right into them and still do all sorts of dreadful things to our plantations.”
“I read the reports, sir. It’s my understanding Woodbine’s guns are a direct steal, or let’s say, a copy, of the American Maxim patent. Are you suggesting they don’t fire?”
“Oh, the bloody things make a dreadful racket and spit bullets all over Robin Hood’s barn at thruppence a round.”
“Anything wrong with the ammo? I understand they’re chambered for .30-30 deer rounds.”
“They are. I just said they cost too much. I’m ahead of you on the ammunition. We tested the guns on oil drums and made sieves out of them. The machine guns fire. The bullets hit hard enough to puncture mild steel, and the bloody raiders are half-bare. But I still say your guns don’t work. They didn’t stop the perishing natives like they were supposed to!”
Captain Gringo said he’d check the guns out and Webster offered to show him to his quarters. But the tall American asked the fat man still sitting in the tub, “How do you feel about this zombie notion, Colonel?”
Gage said, “I feel bloody awful. I don’t believe in magic. I served in India and they told us the Thuggee were immune to bullets too. But when we shot the perishing wogs they all fell down. I tell you, it’s those bloody new guns!”
He stared wistfully into space and added, “Don’t see any sense to so much racket anyway. In my day we did it with single shot Enfields with a spot of buttstock and bayonet at close quarters, eh what? Give me a platoon of Highlanders from the old Indian Army and I’d clean those black buggers out in a month.”
He suddenly looked older as he murmured, “As it is, we’ll be out of business in a month if we don’t start shipping sugar. The bloody stockholders are getting restless and, thanks to those damned natives, we haven’t shipped enough to matter since we took this fucking steam bath island over!”
Chapter Five
All the other Anglo-Americans seemed to be holed up for La Siesta. The dithery Webster showed Captain Gringo to the quarters he was to share with Gaston, when and if the Frenchman got out of the bed in the infirmary.
The American threw his bag on the bed and asked Webster, “Who’s in charge of the guard detail and when do I get to inspect the guns?”
Webster said, “I just told you Captain Burton was resting in his quarters. You’ll meet him this aft’ at tea time.”
“Meanwhile it’s only a few minutes past noon and I still want to know who’s in charge. You do have somebody on guard, don’t you?”
Webster blinked and said, “Oh, I suppose Sergeant Montalban and his dagoes are watching the bush for us. I thought you meant a white man.”
“I don’t care if he’s purple if only I can get a handle on what’s going on. Where do I find this Montalban guy?”
“Good Lord, in this heat? I suppose he’s in the guardhouse. It’s across the green; I’ll show you how to get there. But you’ll find it a waste of your time as well as sweat. The blighter doesn’t speak English very well.”
Webster led him out to the veranda and pointed out the smaller, white, brick building across the way. He didn’t follow as Captain Gringo left the shade to leg it across the clipped bermuda grass of the green. The American was relieved.
Sergeant Montalban was a nice-looking mestizo sporting a neatly tailored cotton khaki uniform and a gold tooth. He seemed surprised that Captain Gringo Wanted to talk to him, although they’d told him an ordinance expert was coming to inspect him and his men. He leaped up and saluted before he said, “I am at your service, señor. Most of my men are out on their posts, but I can manage a guard mount for you if you wish to see how well we keep our weapons.”
Captain Gringo said, “I’m sure your men are spit and polish, Sergeant. I’m just trying to get the feel of things. How about a quick tour of your outposts? I may be wrong about the scale of the map they gave me, but you seem to have your sugar fields spread out all over the place. Is there any reason for this?”
Montalban nodded and said, “As you will see, señor, the plantings are widely spaced through the brush because this island is mostly rock. Come, por favor, you will see that thanks to science we do not have far to walk.”
He led the way out a backdoor to where a narrow gauge train sat steaming and dozing in the sun. There was a little Shay locomotive and a string of hopper cars with a canopied open caboose to the rear. A fat guard sat near the engine under the shade of a cabbage palm. He rose from his box when he saw them and presented arms with his Remington .12 gauge.
There was nobody else in sight. Montalban asked, “Gordo, where is the engine crew?” The fat boy said, “It is siesta time, my Sergeant.”
“¡Nombre de Dios! I didn’t ask what time it was. I asked where the triple-titted bastards were! We wish to ride the train around the plantings.”
Gordo said he’d see if he could find the crew, but Captain Gringo said
, “I know how to run a Shay, Sergeant. I’m in a hurry too.”
So Montalban shrugged and with the fat guard they climbed aboard. There was a full head of steam on the gauge and the tender was filled with bagasse, the bamboo-like residue of crushed sugar cane. The firebox smelled like a burning candy shop when Gordo opened it to shove in more fuel.
Captain Gringo cracked the throttle and with him driving they lurched forward, while Gordo acted as fireman and Montalban lounged out the far window of the small cab. The narrow tracks had been surface laid with no ballast between the hardwood tiles, so Captain Gringo drove slowly. When he commented on the casual construction of the roadbed, Montalban explained, “Termites, señor. We must keep replacing the ties and they last longer when exposed to the sun.”
Captain Gringo drove past a sugar mill, shut down for La Siesta, and as they passed the last ramshackle cabanas of the town he got a better look at the local terrain.
Nuevo Verdugo was built like Florida or Yucatan, far to the north. Limestone, the color of dirty plaster, cropped up between stretches of terra rossa, the rich red soil of limestone country. You have to melt a ton of limestone to get a pound of terra rossa, so the soil lay in shallow beds above and surrounded by bedrock. He nodded and said, “Now I see why your fields are scattered. Pantropic picked a funny place to set up a massive sugar operation.”
Montalban said, “Si, only a fourth of the land is good for growing anything, but it is a big island and they own it all, so there will be enough land once it’s all cleared.”
Something wet splashed on Captain Gringo’s elbow, resting on the sill. He glanced up and saw they were in for more rain. It promised a break in the heat and a pleasant evening after all. But he hadn’t come to talk about the weather.
