by Lou Cameron
*
By the time the two soldiers of fortune were locked alone together in the hold, they’d learned that Carson was a lieutenant J.G. and that the other guys aboard the gunboat weren’t such bastards. The U.S. Navy didn’t pay enough to attract many really dedicated bastards like Carson.
The skipper, an older officer whose name they didn’t catch, ordered their cuffs removed once they were safely locked below. Carson was in charge only of them, not of the gunboat. It had been his idea to lock them in an empty ammo locker under the stern guns, where the vibrations of the screw could shake the shit out of them every time they topped a ground swell. The locker had never been intended as a brig, so there were no sanitary facilities. A crewman issued them blankets to spread on the riveted steel deck. He said he was sorry the deck was wet. The gunboat was old, Washington was on yet another economy drive, and, aside from being low on food and ammo, the old tub leaked a lot
A new door of boiler plate had been fitted in advance on Carson’s orders It was solider than the somewhat rusty side plates of the vessel and the prick had seen to it that the padlock couldn’t be reached from inside.
Captain Gringo spread his blankets on the wet steel deck and went to sleep for a million years. He had some really lousy dreams. But when he woke up he said he felt better. Gaston said it was no wonder, as he’d slept around the clock. He added, “I hope you don’t mind my eating your food as well as mine. Lieutenant Carson is trés fatigué, but the enlisted men seem decent enough. I extended my compliments to the chef. The food aboard is quite reasonable.”
Captain Gringo sat up, moving his back when he felt a trickle of sea water running down his spine from a sprung rivet. He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw and asked, “What time is it?” Then as he stared up at the little barred opening in the door, he asked, “What the fuck is that?”
Gaston followed his gaze and smiled crookedly at the little hangman’s noose someone had improvised with twine to sway just outside the bars. Gaston said, “I told you Lieutenant Carson was trés fatigué.”
He snapped another card down on the wet deck between his legs, and for the first time Captain Gringo saw he was playing solitaire. He asked Gaston where he’d gotten the cards and Gaston said, “From a rather pleasant Yankee seaman. They took everything we had in our pockets, as you know, but I was able to convince him that playing cards are hardly deadly weapons, and he agreed it was improper for a man my age to jack off all the way to Mazatlán.”
Captain Gringo moved again and muttered, “We may not get that far in this tub. We seem to be just about at the waterline, and the water’s coming in a lot!”
“Oui, from the way the plates are rusted, under the surface neatness of that last paint job. I would say water line is midway up the bulkhead. Hopefully, the pumps below us can deal with the leakage for now. Once we arrive in Mexico, I really don’t care if she sinks or not”
“Gee, thanks. They’re taking me on to San Diego!”
“Do you really care if you get back there or not, Dick?”
Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “Guess not. Drowning can’t feel much worse than hanging. I’m sorry, Gaston. We wouldn’t be in this fix if I’d listened to you back there.”
Gaston shrugged and said, “Merde alors, they would have picked us up in any case, once they had the machinery in gear. Has it occurred to you we were on their hook from the first, my guilt-ridden youth?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Carson must be so pleased with himself that he’s coming in his pants. Boy, to think I fell for his yarn about being from the embassy! They had to get us down to the coast to nail us, and I thought I was being so damned smart as they reeled us in!”
There was a clatter of steel on steel and the door opened to let a seaman in with a tray. A pistol-packing C.P.O. stood behind him, just in case, so neither prisoner moved as the seaman put the tray down near them. He said, “Sorry about that dumb noose out there, guys. It wasn’t our idea.”
Gaston said, “We know, mon ami. But listen, could you possibly get us another deck of cards?”
“How come? How many cards do you need, for Chrissake?”
“Fifty-two, if we are to pass the few days remaining to us in serious gambling. This deck is missing a pair of aces. No doubt some member of your crew has been having astonishing luck of late, hein?”
The seaman laughed and said he’d see what he could do. When they were locked in again, Gaston took his tin plate in his lap and went to work on it as he chuckled fondly to himself and said, “Such innocent children you recruit for your navy, Dick. I was afraid he’d ask about a certain piece of cutlery, but, as you see, he did not!”
“Jesus H. Christ! You held back a knife and got away with it?”
“Mais non, anyone who’s spent as much time as I in various jails knows better than to try to steal a knife! Knives are counted. Spoons are no doubt supposed to be. But as I handed back our mess gear, all cluttered together, as you lay in the arms of Morpheus—”
“Gotcha,” Captain Gringo cut in. “But what the hell are we supposed to do with one lousy spoon?”
Gaston got up, moved to the door to make sure nobody was near enough to matter, and slid the stolen spoon from his shirt, saying, “There are spoons and there are spoons, once one knows how to work metal, hein?”
He hunkered down near his younger companion and showed him what he’d done to the spoon, as they both sipped coffee, heads close together. Captain Gringo whistled. The bowl of the spoon had been flattened by Gaston’s boot. He’d scraped it to a spade-shaped point. A sharp one.
Captain Gringo said, “You sure were a busy little bee while I was asleep.”
Gaston said, modestly, “I had a loose rivet to draw it through. It’s the one that’s leaking so badly at the moment. I thought I’d kill two birds with one spoon, hein?”
“Are you nuts? Even if you could work enough rivets loose to matter, we’re on the high seas, at the waterline!”
“True. Relax. I have no intention of carving my way through a steel hull with a kitchen spoon, Dick. I simply want to work a mouse hole here and there before we put in to Mexico.”
Before Captain Gringo could ask him what he meant, the door opened again and the same seaman came in to tell them he had to take the tray and utensils back to the galley. He handed Gaston a fresh deck of playing cards before adding, “I know it’s not like you guys have to eat in a hurry, but the J.G’s given orders. He says I’m to count all the cutlery, too. Ain’t that something?”
Gaston innocently smiled up at him, having slipped the knife-spoon out of sight, and said, “I’m sure you’ll find we have not swallowed any silverware, this time. Tell me, is there any chance we could have some tobacco and matches?”
The young seaman glanced at the heavy set C.P.O in the doorway and asked, uncertainly, “Chief?”
The C.P.O. shrugged and said, “Sure. Why not? There’s nothing in here anyone can set on fire.”
The seaman said he’d see if he had any butts to spare. Captain Gringo smiled up at the C.P.O. and said, “We won’t forget this, chief.”
The burly old pro repressed a grimace and said, “Yes, you will. We’re halfway there already. But what the fuck, I run this watch and I don’t need snotty J.G.s telling me how to treat prisoners, see?”
The door clanged shut. Gaston sat hugging his knees as he tried not to laugh. Captain Gringo said, “Big deal. So now we have a sliver of steel, two decks of playing cards, and hopefully some smokes. What’s so funny, dammit?”
“Your droll Lieutenant Carson. After plotting a Byzantine trap worthy of a Borgia, he has, how you say, fucked himself just because they never taught him never to cross your senior noncoms.”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Okay, so the crew doesn’t like the prick. They’d have to be freaks if they did. The chief has his nose out of joint because Carson’s been giving him chicken shit orders. That doesn’t mean he’s about to help us escape, you know.”
Gaston shook his head and said, “But, Dick, he already has! As soon as I have matches in my hot little hands, I shall proceed to show you how an old jailbird does his, how you say, stuff.”
Captain Gringo stared around at the four steel walls, steel ceiling, steel deck, and said, “Right. You’re going to cut through steel plate with a wooden match, huh?” Gaston said, “I am. But you are such a stubborn willful child I don’t think I’ll tell you how, just yet. You really must learn a proper respect for your elders, Dick. Did you really think they could hang a brilliant criminal like me, if they gave me all these hours of privacy as well as the tools of the trade?”
*
Despite all Gaston’s bragging, and he bragged a lot in the time left, it was still a damned near thing. The skipper pushed the old tub hard, as if he wanted to get rid of the unpleasant Carson and his prisoners as soon as possible. But as they steamed up the coast toward their slated dooms, the two prisoners worked like hell, taking turns at the door as the other used the one improvised knife to shred the two decks of playing cards.
Captain Gringo didn’t think it would work. But what the hell, it passed the time. He’d never noticed, until Gaston pointed it out, that standard playing cards were made of printed pasteboard coated with celluloid. By cutting the cards up a bit and working the edge of the honed spoon between card and coating, it was possible to peel off flakes of pure celluloid.
They looked a lot like the dead skin one peeled off a bad sunburn. Gaston saved every scrap, getting rid of the leftover paper by chewing it to a pulp and spitting it into the honey bucket they’d been issued to shit in. Since nobody gave a damn about examining human shit, the waste pulp was taken out and dumped overboard regularly.
Gaston hid the celluloid by stuffing it in seams after digging out the calking with his spoon-knife. When Captain Gringo asked him how the hell he’d ever get it out again, Gaston said it didn’t matter.
As an ordnance expert, Captain Gringo didn’t have to wait until Gaston had used up both decks of cards and started tamping the shredded celluloid with hoarded, compressed white bread before he told his enthusiastic comrade it just wouldn’t work. He said, “I know nobody but a nonsmoker should wear a beard and a celluloid collar at the same time, Gaston. But the stuff’s just highly inflammable, not explosive!”
“Pooh. Guncotton is only highly inflammable, outside the gun. This latest wonder of modem chemistry will never replace hard rubber, gutta-percha, or other sensible plastiqué materials until they learn to dissolve the cellulose in something less dramatiqué than nitric acid, non?”
“Yeah, yeah, I once tossed a busted celluloid pocket comb into a camp fire and it poofed pretty good. But you’ve got that shit stuff in wet rusty steel, tamped with moist bread.”
“What of it? The nitric acid is the oxidant, you species of pessimist. Here, take this blade and start unraveling my blanket. Wool yam mixed with the bread will form an even stronger tamping, non?”
Captain Gringo did as he asked. At least it gave Gaston something to do. As the hour for dropping anchor off Mazatlán approached, it was getting harder and harder to avoid needlessly sentimental conversation.
He was going to miss old Gaston, for a while. They’d been through a lot together. But, what the hell, they’d both be dead in a few days. He wondered if it was true that the army hangman lashed a board to your spine to make it snap high and neat as they dropped you through the trap. He wondered if it was true that a hanged man always had a hard-on when they took him down. He didn’t think he’d better discuss it with Gaston. Mexican hangmen were said to be less professional than the ones in the States.
Having finished Gaston’s experiment, they had nothing left to occupy their minds and hands and were running out of dirty stories when, one morning, noon, or night, it was hard to tell, they noticed that the deck had stopped rolling under them. The vibrations of the screw died down a little later. Then they heard the distant thunder of anchor chains, and Gaston said, “We made good time. Hand me the box of matches, Dick.”
“Hold it. Somebody’s coming.”
The door clanged open to reveal Lieutenant Carson, wearing full dress tropic whites and a self-satisfied smirk. He said, “Well, gentlemen, it won’t be long now. We’ve put into Mazatlán and Mon-Sewer Verrier will be going ashore soon. The greasers are having some sort of fiesta. I just sent a message to the local authorities, and as soon as we can find someone sober enough to take you off our hands, you’ll be on your way to your execution, Frenchy.”
Gaston smiled pleasantly and said, “My regards to your mother, m’sieur. Could you tell us what time it is? Some species of insect in a sailor suit stole my watch some time ago.”
Carson shrugged and said, “It’s just after sundown. Don’t be in such a hurry to leave us, Frenchy. I promise you we’ll have you off our hands by midnight. The greasers who want you have to be some damned place in town. They’ll probably execute you at dawn. Have you ever watched a public execution, Frenchy?”
“Oui, but I doubt I enjoyed it as much as m’sieur. I never masturbate in public places.”
Carson laughed cruelly and said, “You’re going to shit your pants in public, Verrier. They always shit their pants when the rope snaps tight around their neck and stretches it a foot!”
Captain Gringo muttered, “Oh, hell,” and started to get up. What could they do to him for punching the asshole in the nose, hang him?
But then another voice from out in the companionway snapped. “That will do, lieutenant. I’ll have none of that aboard my vessel.”
“I was just informing the prisoners we’d arrived, captain.”
The door slammed shut as their voices moved off, so they heard only the louder words as the skipper chewed out the sadistic junior officer.
Gaston struck a match as he said, “The commander’s not a bad sort. I hope he does not drown.” Then he lit the end of the wick he’d improvised from shredded blanket and ground-up match heads, as Captain Gringo gasped, “Wait a second! Let’s talk about this!”
But Gaston had already balled up wet blankets and wadded them in place, and he said, “Get over here against this bulkhead with me. I don’t think we’ll get hit with anything at this angle, but, merde alors, I wish this compartment was bigger!”
Captain Gringo gulped, rolled over, and flattened out against the cold steel next to Gaston as, for a million years, nothing happened. Then, just as he said, “It’s fizzled,” the improvised guncotton charge detonated with a deafening roar.
The overhead Edison bulb was shattered by the shock wave, so they couldn’t see what was happening. But they could feel it. The sea water rushing in knocked them both to the deck and hosed them against the far bulkhead.
Neither could make himself heard above the roar of water. So Captain Gringo could only hope that Gaston was following as he bulled his way through knee-deep swirling water, and groped blindly until, finding the jagged edges of the hole they’d blown in the side of the hull, he ducked his head and hauled himself through it against the current.
He started swimming underwater, staying down as long as he could. When he absolutely had to breathe, he rose to the surface, took a deep gulp of air, and swam like hell. The next time he had to come up, he saw he was well clear of the gunboat and the water around him was black as ink. So he dog-paddled in place to consider his options. The gunboat back there was clanging its alarms, blowing its steam whistle a lot, and generally raising hell as its lights slanted ominously. He saw they were a little busy to worry about him right now, so he swung around to study the shoreline as he slowly swam that way. The seaport of Mazatlán was lit up like a Christmas tree. But it couldn’t be Christmas, because they were setting off fireworks, too. A sky rocket burst over the ink-black hills rising behind the town. But everyone wasn’t watching the fiesta. It wasn’t every day a Yanqui gunboat blew up in the harbor. So, people, lots of people, seemed to be crowding down to the beach, pointing, shouting, and some of them laughing.
He heard Gaston but couldn’t see him as the Frenchman sputtered and hissed, “Dick? Are you still with us?”
“Over here, you mad anarchist! Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve just sunk a U.S. gunboat, I think!”
Gaston chuckled and replied, “Sacré goddamn! What do you mean, you think? When I, Gaston, blow holes in ships, I do it right! Ah, oui, the lights have winked off. The water has reached the generator. Is not this fun? But enough of this chitchat, my old and rare. Where do you suggest we go now, hein?”
It was a good question. They sure as shit couldn’t stay here dog-paddling forever. Ashore, he saw some Mexicans launching a longboat to attempt a rescue, robbery, or whatever. The American crew would be abandoning ship in their own lifeboats, too. He said, “Let’s get out of here before it gets crowded. We’ll swim in line with the shore till we find a less public place to beach ourselves.”
That was easier said than done. Mazatlán was a good-sized harbor, the bastards had strung lights a long way along the shoreline, and they were both out of shape from their confinement. Captain Gringo was hurting but was good for maybe another mile when Gaston protested, “I’m getting a cramp. The light’s not bad over there. I don’t know about you, but I’m going in.”
Captain Gringo didn’t argue. By the time they made it to a boat ramp sloping into the water between two fishing boats, he was winded and beginning to wonder if any of this made any sense. They didn’t have a centavo or a bullet between them. They didn’t have one friend, but had all too many enemies, in the “stable democracy” of el Presidente Diaz. But they were still breathing.
They eased up the ramp, hopefully hidden in the shadows between the two fishing boats. The path ahead was lamp lit but deserted. Everyone in town had run along the waterfront toward the sights and sounds of the sinking gunboat. Captain Gringo said, “Here goes,” and casually walked out into the lamplight, with Gaston following. He saw a couple of men coming their way from the darkness to the south. Gaston saw them too, and slipped out the spoon-knife. Captain Gringo said, “Easy. They’re just peons,” as he kept walking to meet them, trying to look dry and Mexican.
