by Lou Cameron
Captain Gringo thought about that as the train bored on under a blood-stained sky. The zombies didn’t fight or fall like humans, but not even black magic could make a leg work once the bone was shattered, and dead as their eyes looked, they couldn’t see once you put them out.
Their vital organs seemed in a state of suspended animation. Could a dead body move without blood or something circulating through its revived muscles?
“Four or five minutes,” he decided. One minute was a hell of a long time in any fight, and four minutes was a boxer’s full round. If the brain could last four minutes without fresh blood, that could explain a lot of impossible stuff. Most men went right down when they were hit because the shock and pain told them they were dead. If a guy was too doped up to give a shit… but could a guy actually crawl out of his grave after he’d been declared dead?
“So who’s to say who’s dead?” he said and frowned, remembering even Prue had been placed in that coffin without a medical examination. He’d sure thought she was dead, but who was he? Damn it, he hadn’t put a mirror to her lips or even felt for a pulse! He’d taken the word of a semi-trained nurse’s aide. What if Prue was still alive? What if they’d made a zombie out of her? What would he do if he spotted a tall shapely form leading another attack on them? He sighed, patted the warm breech of the gun in his lap and tried not to think about that.
They came to a switch point. Pedro stopped the train and jumped down to switch them on to the cross track. One of the others yelled, “Mirar!” and Captain Gringo saw a line of figures outlined by the red skyglow. Pedro saw them, too, but he kept working the switch lever. The guard in the cab stepped over to the throttle. Captain Gringo said, “Touch that and you’re a dead man! How are you coming, Pedro?”
The boy heaved the lever desperately, the switch clicked into place, and Pedro ran back to climb aboard without answering. But he’d heard the exchange and as he opened the throttle he called up, “I am called Pedro Herrerra y Valdez, and my people will remember this night if ever you should have need, Captain Gringo.”
The man who’d panicked said, “Hey, I knew you’d make it, muchacho”
Pedro just shrugged and said, “Put some more fuel in the firebox.”
Going back was much the same as going forward had been. In all, they saved thirty-eight men and three machine guns during the long running fight. About twelve company guards and workers were unaccounted for as they chugged back into town. Utopiaton was buzzing with excitement and everyone was running around like chickens in the ruby light, but the drums, and the attackers, seemed content to hover a mile or more away from the city limits. They were doubtless busy burning everything they could lay hands on out there.
He put Pedro in command on the guardhouse roof, leaving him the machine gun and some men who’d proven themselves, to cover the rail yards.
He found Gaston had herded most of the company personnel into the nearby warehouse and set up machine gun nests at each corner. Gaston and the colonel met him out front. He brought them up to date and said, “I don’t think they’ll try an attack on the town, just yet, but why take chances? I’ve got to scout up the alcalde and do something about the Creoles. They should be safe if we can just get them all behind some walls, and post some lookouts on the roofs. There’s a good field of fire all around and those fires were a tactical error if the Caribs are really serious.”
Colonel Gage looked defeated, sighed and said, “My God, do you call this attack anything but serious? We’re ruined! They’ve completely destroyed our crops and by now they’ll be tearing up our tracks as well!”
“Relax, Colonel. Your workers and equipment are safe here, where Pappa Blanco can’t get at ’em. Those fields have been cleared and the right of way for your tracks are cleared and graded. In a few months you’ll be back in business, and this time you’ll have the bastards walled off on their own end of the island.”
“That’s easy for you to say, dear boy. But London has cabled that the stockholders are not happy, and they haven’t even heard about this! I’m afraid we’ve about had it.”
“You’re pulling out? Okay, who’s buying your island, Colonel?”
“Buying the island? Surely you jest! Who the devil would offer two bob for the bloody island now?”
“You mean you’ve had no offers at all?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“Simple. Those natives may be in this for fun, but the son of a bitch leading them knows enough to send men to knock out tracks and switch points. I don’t think Pappa Blanco is trying to put you out of business as a hobby, sir.”
“I quite agree. Someone’s put considerable thought and at least some money into this sticky business. But what are we to do?”
“Fight, damn it. Look, you haven’t lost as much as it looks like. The sugar cane will grow like weeds out of those ashes. Tell your stockholders you burned the fields to get rid of cane borers or rats or something. Get them to give you another season.”
Gage sighed and said, “I’ll try. After this afternoon I’m surprised you take me for a fighting man.”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “What you do for, uh, relaxation is your own business, Colonel. But if it’s any comfort, Julius Caesar shared your, uh, tastes. He never let it get in the way of a good scrap.”
“By George, you are an understanding sort of chap. I will give the blighters a run for their money. Playing fields of Eton and all that rot, eh what?”
Captain Gringo nodded and moved on. He’d heard funny things about the lads at Eton too, but the colonel had probably been talking about the Duke of Wellington, who’d liked girls, according to official history.
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Gringo assumed Gordo and Padre Hernando would know who and where the alcalde was, so he went back to the church.
Gordo’s detail was finished and scared skinny. They’d dug up over fifty graves and every one had been empty. Gordo said the dead had all been off islanders who’d died working for Pantropic. He had no suggestions as to how they’d gotten out of their graves, but Padre Hernando insisted there was only one possible answer. Someone had dug them up.
The young priest said, “I see now that the children who said they had seen ghosts must have observed grave-robbers.”
“That’s a lot of grave robbing, Padre. How come so many workers were buried here? I was told this was a healthy island.”
“It is, my son. Now that I think about it, most of the pobrecitos died soon after they arrived. You know the company recruits labor from all up and down the Mosquito Coast. Many of the impoverished peones must have been ill when they boarded the company boat. People who have lived here some time have no higher a death rate than anywhere else.”
Captain Gringo stared across the open graves, black blobs in the scab-colored grass under a ruddy sky, and said, “Hmm. If a guy was on drugs before he got here… yeah, you round up beach combers along the skid rows of a dozen ports, and you’re likely to wind up with pretty weird people, Voodoo drums or not.”
He turned to Gordo and said, “I’ve got to see the alcalde about a defensive perimeter. I’ve got another job for you, Gordo. Take some of these guys to the Anglican graveyard up at the far end of the green. Nobody’s there, so they won’t question what you’re doing.”
Gordo said, “I can see that, my Captain. But what is it that we are going for to do?”
“I want you to dig up Doctor Lloyd’s grave.”
Gordo and the priest exchanged nervous glances. Gordo asked, “You wish for to see the doctor’s body, my Captain?”
“Not particularly. If he’s still in his coffin, say you’re sorry and cover him up again.”
“¡Nombre de Dios! Don’t you think he is really dead, Captain Gringo?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I want you to make sure. Do you know what he looked like, Gordo?”
“Of course. But he has been dead a while and—”
“I’ll take your word for it if the m
ess looks anything like Lloyd. I never laid eyes on him. People keep telling me he’s dead. But they said Prue Lee was dead, too. I’m learning to take things with a grain of salt around here.”
He turned back to Padre Hernando and asked, “Can you show me to the alcalde, Padre?”
The priest said, “If you mean an elected mayor, we don’t exactly have an alcalde since the British came. Colonel Gage’s assistant, Webster, more or less takes care of things.”
“I know Webster takes care of the colonel’s, uh, interests, Padre. But surety you Creoles have someone you depend on, if only informally.”
The priest said, “Well, when the people want advice about temporal matters they generally ask Dama Luisa what to do. I will show you where she lives.”
Captain Gringo said, “I already know the way to Dama Luisa’s, Padre. Isn’t a woman an unusual boss down here?”
Padre Hernando nodded, but said, “You must understand that Dama Luisa’s family is ancient and honored here on Nuevo Verdugo. Her grandfather was the last Spanish viceroy, back in the twenties. Dama Luisa is the last of her line, but the people hold her in great respect.”
The tall American saw that the unexpected development offered possibilities. Dama Luisa seemed intelligent and friendly. But it offered unexpected questions, too. He asked the priest, “If Dama Luisa remarried what would that make her husband?”
Padre Hernando blinked in surprise and said, “Such a fortunate man would be most important, of course. But I don’t follow you, my son. Who is trying to marry Dama Luisa? I have heard no such gossip about the lady.”
Captain Gringo smiled thinly and said, “I’ll ask her. Oh, not to marry me, but if someone else has been working at it, that would answer a lot of questions.” He elaborated no further but sent Gordo one way and legged it the other to Dama Luisa’s nearby home.
The street out front was crowded with frightened but quiet people, who parted respectfully when he elbowed his way to the door. The footman who let him in was respectful, too, but armed to the teeth. As the footman led him back through the house, Captain Gringo saw that the patio was crowded; by the light of paper lanterns he noted mothers and children made up most of the mob. The kids were running up and down the patio, excited but unaware. Their mothers and some older men sat quietly listening to the distant drums.
He found Dama Luisa in a drawing room, presiding over an all-male contingent from the town. She was seated near the cold fireplace under the huge portrait of a man sporting a copper-colored spade beard and a chest full of medals. The family resemblance was obvious and the old viceroy looked pretty tough. His granddaughter looked pretty tough, too. She’d discarded her satin and lace for a whipcord riding outfit and two ammo bandoleers across her chest. Some of the armed mestizos in the room gave him dirty looks when he was shown in, but Dama Luisa smiled and said, “We were wondering when someone from the company would come. You were sent by the British governor general, yes?”
He nodded. It wasn’t a fiat lie and he could see they were feeling left out. He said, “We’ve secured the area around the green. This part of town is safe from attacks from the east and, of course, the sea to the north. Anyone crossing the open ground due south is subject to machine gun enfilade. So if they hit at all, it will be from the west, across the gardens arid orchards you folks have over that way.”
Dama Luisa nodded and said, “We were just considering that when you arrived. Is the governor going to issue machine guns to us?”
Again it wasn’t an out-and-out lie when Captain Gringo said, “No. Not unless some of your people are qualified machine gunners.”
A dark man wearing a pistol on each hip shouted, “Bah! Anyone who knows how to shoot can shoot a machine gun. Those Anglos do not care what happens to us!”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “It’s not that simple, señor. Do you know how to set the head spacing on a Maxim?”
“Head spacing? Maxim?”
“That’s what I mean. I haven’t time to go into it, but if you fail to adjust the size of the breech in a hot machine gun it tends to blow up in your face. The brand name matters, too. No two makes of machine gun work the same way.”
The mestizo patted one of the Colts he wore, and grumbled, “We have other guns.” There was a growl of agreement. They were frightened but full of fight and Gage was being dangerously negligent. The Brits had screwed up like this in India during the Sepoy Mutiny. If you’re going to ask natives to fight for the Queen it’s a good idea to keep an eye on them. An armed man keyed up for a battle is going to battle somebody. The Sepoy troops had turned on their officers after a long series of false alarms had worked them up to itchy trigger fingers with lots of ammo. They’d have fought for the Brits if a serious enemy had been available. But since there hadn’t been, they’d remembered a long list of insults from the Pukka Sahibs and figured, what the hell.
He saw Dama Luisa was with it when she asked, “Do you think we should cut down the fruit trees to the west?” and gave him the chance to be a nice guy. He shook his head and said, “No. I wouldn’t advise that, folks, though it would give us an improved field of fire if they hit us with an all-out charge. But I think we have enough good fighters to stand them off and your people have invested a lot of time and labor on their gardens and orchards.”
A Negro with a rifle slung on his shoulder nodded, and said, “By the bones of Christ, that is true.”
Captain Gringo saw less resentment in the faces around him now, and said, “I do have a few suggestions, but only if you guys want them.”
The mestizo with all the pistols said, “Of course we want them, Captain Gringo. You are a professional, no?”
Dama Luisa was smiling at her American guest with her eyes and he knew what she was thinking. He said, “All right. I’m going to write a note and we’ll send a detail to the warehouse. My friend, Lieutenant Verrier, will issue a machine gun and some rolls of barbed wire.”
“But you said we could not have a machine gun, Captain Gringo.”
“I said I wouldn’t issue one to an inexperienced gunner. I’m going to man the Maxim.”
“You will fight with us, at our side?” The mestizo grinned and another man shouted, “Viva Captain Gringo!”
Dama Luisa rose and went to a secretary against the wall, opened it and said, “We have paper, pen and ink, Captain. How many men do you want to send for these things?”
He sat down and started to scribble and suggested, “A couple of dozen, as long as they’re going. We’ll build our defenses on the walls of the houses along that side of town, with wire between and a line out between the houses and the gardens. If I set up the Maxim on a corner rooftop I can sweep either way. We’d better build a bonfire out along the tree line if there’s time. That way they’ll be visible to us before we’re visible to them.”
He finished his short note to Gaston and handed it to one of the men, who took off shouting for some strong backs.
Captain Gringo got to his feet and told Dama Luisa, “I’m going out to start putting things in shape. You’d better stay here and take care of the women and children.”
She patted the S & W .38 on her shapely hip and said, “My servants will show them where the bathroom is. I’m going with you.”
He didn’t argue. Dama Luisa was obviously used to having her own way. The two of them led the others out into the semi-darkness where the drums seemed louder now. The sky was a red-echoing bowl of swirling blood as the trade winds mixed sea mist with the rising smoke from countless fires. Dama Luisa glanced up and said, “Mirar! They are burning closer to town now.”
He said, “Yeah. They have a lot of railroad ties to play with. But that’s Pantropic’s problem. Are these friends of yours the bigger frogs in this puddle?”
“They are the leading men of the Creole community, if that’s what you mean.”
He said, “That’s what I mean.” He stopped to turn and yell, “Each one of you fan out and gather eight or ten peones you can orde
r around. I’m making each of you a squad leader. Meet us at the south-west corner of the quarter and we’ll take it from there.”
Then he started legging it to his planned command post with Luisa matching his stride in her whipcord skirts. By the ruby glowing sky, he saw the last house down the street. It was a one story flat-roofed cube of stucco and baked brick. Luisa said the family who lived in it were huddled on her patio. So he tried the door, found it locked, and kicked it in. She asked, “Are you always so direct, Captain?”
“Call me Dick. There ought to be a ladder to the roof and … hold it, someone’s coming.”
The fat sergeant, Gordo, was running toward them, panting and shouting Captain Gringo’s name. The American yelled back, “Over here. What’s up, Gordo? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Gordo joined them, leaning a hand against the door jam, wheezed for breath and said, “I think I did, Señor. You remember you told us to open that English doctor’s grave?”
“Yeah. What did you find?”
“You are not going to believe me, Captain. You had better come and see for yourself.”
“I’m busy, damn it. Get to the point.”
“It’s insane, Captain. We did not find Doctor Lloyd in his coffin when we pried open the lid. We found somebody else!”
“Jesus, don’t tell me it was that black girl, Prue!”
“No, señor, it was the white girl, Mab O’Shay! She was in the doctor’s grave, where the doctor was supposed to be. We could not find a trace of him!”
Captain Gringo felt sick to his stomach and as if his head was screwed on wrong, but he muttered, “Jesus, Mab’s dead too?”
“I sincerely hope so, señor. She looked most dead and her features have started to discolor, but lately one never knows.”
