Blood Runner

by Lou Cameron

Taking Gaston and the others, he followed the two scouts through the mangrove as, every few minutes, they heard the whip crack of the same rifle. As the trail led through tall salt-water reeds he spotted water between the thick clumps and paused to study a small white steam yacht a few hundred yards out. The smokestack was belching a dark plume of oil smoke, and the water under the fantail was churning white, but the boat wasn’t moving. As Gaston joined him, he said, “There, by the bow. The anchor chain is down and that’s a body on the deck just for’d the cabin.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Of course, Every time someone on the yacht tries to weigh anchor, our invisible friends up ahead take a shot at them. I see no flag over the stern. However, the yacht’s lines are Yankee.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and moved on. The saw grass faded into trampled beach grass under palmetto and sea grape, and Little Turtle joined them to tell Blanca the spit was clear, save for the tip guarding the mouth of the lagoon.

  They moved forward until, about a hundred yards beyond the last brush, they could see the improvised fortress of packing cases the rifle fire was coming from.

  As Captain Gringo lowered the Maxim to a firing position on his hip the rifle spat again, sending a plume of water up near the stern of the yacht. Gaston said, “I saw someone move back there. They were wearing a red shirt, I think.”

  Captain Gringo said, “Yeah. Has anybody got a reasonably clean white kerchief?”

  - One of the Balboas pulled out a filthy but sort of white rag, and the American told him to tie it on a stick and move away from it. Then he waited until everyone took cover, raised the muzzle of his machine gun, and fired a short burst, arching the bullets over the fort of packing crates to spatter dramatically in the seawater beyond.

  There was a moment of utter stillness. Then a bullet tore through the leaves above the tall American’s head, followed by the crack of its slower muzzle blast.

  Captain Gringo saw they hadn’t gotten the message. He ran his second burst along the bases of the crates, spattering the wooden planks with hot sand and keyhole-cutting ricochets. Then he crabbed sideways into some sea-grape bushes to await further developments.

  Gaston shouted, “The boat!” and the American called back, “I see it. Keep your head down!” While, out on the water, a white flag fluttered to the masthead.

  A few moments later someone waved an undershirt above the packing-case fort and Captain Gringo yelled, “Stay covered, boys! You guys in the fort: Get somebody out here on the double! I won’t say it twice!”

  There was a long lull and it was just beginning to look like the sound of unexpected machine-gun fire hadn’t really impressed anyone after all. Then a man waving the undershirt climbed over the boxes and called out, in Spanish, “Hey, we’re not surrendering, but we want to talk!”

  “Come forward and say what you have to.”

  “Hey, don’t we get to meet you halfway, out in the open?”

  “No. You’re the one waving the white flag. I said I’d listen to what you have to say. If you don’t have anything to say, get back inside and stick your fingers in your ears. It will be very noisy around here in a minute.”

  The man with the undershirt in his hand moved gingerly toward them, calling, nervously, “Hey, look, I’m not armed. No nasty tricks, huh?”

  Captain Gringo sized him up as he drew nearer. The stranger was obviously Hispanic, about twenty-five, and dressed in threadbare khakis. He looked more desperate than desperado, and as Captain Gringo stepped from cover with the Maxim braced on one hip, the stranger looked like he was about to wet his pants. But he managed a brave little smile as he nodded and said, “I told them it had to be a machine gun. You hombres aren’t Army, are you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions for now. Who are you, who’s on the yacht, and what’s going on?”

  The man with the limp rag said, “We’re not sure. It looks like a double cross. They said they’d come back, but we don’t believe them. The others left yesterday with most of the guns. When they told us to load the ammunition, but said there wasn’t room in the boat. . .”

  “Back up. You’re getting way ahead of me. Who are you working for?”

  “The Panamanian Republicans, of course. Who are you with?”

  Gaston moved up beside Captain Gringo, saying, “I know the group. They are backed by certain people on Wall Street.” Gaston raised his voice to add, “Hey, muchacho, you are on the wrong team. We’re the Balboa Brigade.”

  “Radical wingers, eh? We have heard of you, too. You Balboas don’t have a chance.”

  “Really? Is that why we’re armed to the teeth and holding the ground while you fools of El Pulpo squabble for room in the last boat out?”

  The Republican guerrilla sighed and said, “At the moment things are not going the way we were told they would.”

  Captain Gringo called out, “Who are the people on the yacht?” and the guerrilla answered, “Yanquis. Our brave leaders. They have a bar full of liquor, a Couple of girls from Jamaica, and no room for us. We told them if we had to stay here, they had to stay here. That is where the matter stands at the moment.”

  “How many on the boat? How many of you in that fort?”

  “Two men and the women left aboard out there, we think. We put one on the deck and another over the side when they tried to weigh anchor. There are six of us onshore. The bastards were trying to maroon us!”

  Captain Gringo turned to Gaston and asked, “What do you think?”

  The Frenchman shrugged and said, “The Balboas can use six men who are not afraid to stand up for their rights. It seems more practique, as well as more just, than simply killing them.”

  The Republican had heard the exchange and was a quick study. He waved his limp rag and shouted, “¡Viva la Brigada Balboa! I will get my poor comrades from the fort and you will see. They will be most happy to join you! Your unkind remark about Yanqui tools was well taken. We have been discussing how everyone uses us for everything but the liberation of Panama!”

  But as he started to turn away, Captain Gringo snapped, “Hold it. Gaston, take some men forward with you and secure those packing cases. Send the defenders out unarmed. We’ll let Sor Pantera decide if they can join her outfit or not.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Meanwhile, that boat remains where it is, eh?”

  “Right. They’ve raised a parley flag. So don’t fire on them unless they fire at us, or try to weigh anchor.”

  “And if they try to take advantage of our little transfer of property?”

  “For God’s sake move in and mop up. I’ll cover you from here with the Maxim ‘til you signal all clear. Then I’ll join you and we’ll work something out about the damned boat.”

  Gaston signaled the men around him and, together with the man with the white rag, they moved toward the crates. In a few minutes he saw others jumping over the tops to run his way, unarmed.

  Sor Pantera and some of the others came up behind him, demanding to know what was going on. He explained in a few terse words and as the first marooned gun runners reached them, said, “You know the rebel movement, Sor Pantera. Talk to these hombres and see if they’re any use to you. I’m going out to the point to see what we can do about that boat.”

  He hoisted the machine gun to his shoulder and lugged it over to the improvised fort. As he’d almost reached it, a rifle cracked on the far side of the crates and he dropped to one knee for cover until Gaston called, cheerfully, “I just caught someone trying to sneak up to the anchor windlass on the far side. I think I got him.”

  Captain Gringo handed the gun up to two guerrillas and followed it, noting the crates were mostly ammunition, according to the black lettering stenciled on the sides. The men who’d thrown the fort up had been bright enough to stack canned food and medical supplies on the side facing the boat in the lagoon. Someone had sent a lot of expensive stuff in here, and now they seemed willing to abandon it.

  He slid the machine gun into position atop the crates as Gaston said, �
��A row of poc-poc-poc along the water-line would end this nonsense once and for all, non?”

  “Hell, what do we want with a sunk steam yacht?”

  “Ah, yes, they say there is plenty of la booze et les bebes aboard her, too. Whoever is in charge out there is a fool. Why does he not swing his stern away and back off, dragging his anchor until he is out of range?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. These guys they were trying to leave behind must have put the master on the deck or over the side in the first gunfire. We’re probably dealing with some very worried landlubbers. How many men would you say it takes to crew a tub like that?”

  “Not many. The boilers appear to be oil-fired, so the engine can be run from the pilothouse. In a pinch, one man could take her out to sea, weather and gunfire permitting. Two men, spelling one another at the wheel, could take her almost anywhere.”

  “Okay, the guerrillas we just bought this action from said there were two men and two women aboard. You say you might have just nailed one. I’d say we’re dealing with one guy who can’t make up his mind. He has the white flag up, but he’s afraid to surrender.”

  Captain Gringo added, “Let’s see if we can help him make his mind up,” as he opened up with the machine gun. He traced a line of geysers aft the stern, elevated the muzzle, and tap-danced slugs along the cabin roof and standing rigging. He released the trigger as he swept across the smokestack, avoiding any real damage as he tried to gain their attention.

  A burly figure in blue dungarees and a red sailor shirt dove off the stern and started swimming madly for the mangroves on the far side of the lagoon as Captain Gringo stopped firing to watch with interest.

  Gaston said, “He seems to be excited, does he not? I’ll bet you two to one he doesn’t make it.”

  Captain Gringo said, “No bet. He’s a mile from the nearest mangrove root, and he didn’t look like he was in condition. Probably thought we were out for blood when the mahogany splinters started to fly.”

  “Automatic fire has that effect. But regardez, his head just went under.”

  “I noticed. Remember the salt-water crocodile I told you about? Let’s see. I make it a clean sweep, unless those two girls they had on board want to fight.”

  Almost as if in answer to his remark, a curvy form in a light print dress popped up near the stern, waving what looked like a white towel. When Captain Gringo held his fire, she was joined by a second feminine outline in a man’s jeans and basque shirt. Gaston grinned and said, “The battle seems to be over, and to the victor belongs the spoils, non?”

  Captain Gringo climbed up on the wall of crates and waved to the girls on the yacht. They waved back, but they were out of voice range and even if they’d been willing to launch the dingy davited by the smokestack, it was doubtful they knew how.

  From his commanding position he saw a couple of Indian dugouts left at the edge of the water when Blanca’s people had fled. They were filled with rainwater, but since the water in the dugouts rose above that of the shallows around their sterns, he knew neither had split enough to leak since being abandoned to sun and sea.

  He turned to glance down at Gaston and said, “We’ll take one of the canoes out, launch the yacht’s own dingy, and—”

  “For once you’re making sense,” Gaston cut in with a laugh as he sprang up beside his taller friend, then dropped lightly to the sand beyond. Captain Gringo hesitated, then picked up the heavy Maxim gun and followed. As he lugged it to the dugout Gaston was rolling on one side to drain, the Frenchman asked why he wanted to bring it along if they were coming right back.

  Captain Gringo said, “People change sides awfully fast around here. Sor Pantera and the other rebels might join forces. They might not. It makes me nervous to paddle with my back to a machine gun when I’m sure what’s going on!”

  Gaston laughed and murmured, “He’s learning, however slowly.”

  Then Gaston righted the canoe, drew paddles from a bark case pegged to the midship thwarts, and launched it ankle deep before climbing into the bow. Captain Gringo put the gun on the bottom between them, climbed into the stern, and began to paddle the bow around to face the yacht. As Gaston tried to help, Captain Gringo said, “You just enjoy the ride and cover those ladies with your pistol. We still don’t know what we’re getting into.”

  Gaston did as he was told, but observed, “Oh, I don’t know. One is a high yellow and the other seems to be white. I doubt if it’s a trap. We know the bloated pig we saw go off the stern had no brains. Either one of us could have taken that boat out, under fire or not.”

  They were within earshot of the stern, now, and the white girl, a vapidly pretty little thing with English features and light brown hair, called, “Thank God! When Bernie swam away and left us we thought we were being captured by those awful greasers!”

  Captain Gringo drew alongside and Gaston climbed the stern ladder, holding onto the canoe’s painter. He steadied the canoe as his bigger comrade joined him on the stern deck. Captain Gringo asked the girls if anyone else was aboard. They said no. He nodded at Gaston and said, “Cover me. I’m going below for a look-see.”

  He opened the cabin hatch, pistol in hand, and ducked in and to one side, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darker light before he moved forward. The main salon was luxurious, with the pilothouse connected, for’d, through a split-level opening. He saw half-empty bottles and glasses on the mahogany bar and the remains of a Havana Perfecto in the glass ashtray on a rosewood table by the built-in couch. He muttered “bastards,” as he opened another hatch near the steps of the pilothouse. He could see there’d been plenty of room for the men they’d been trying to maroon. The fat cigar-smoking slobs had died needlessly, victims of their own unthinking greed.

  He opened the engine-room hatch and stared morosely down at the purring oil burners and well-kept brass fittings of the powerful Corlis steam engine. The yacht was fitted up with a faster drive than the U. S. Coast Guard could afford. She was a disguised gun runner, sure as hell.

  He ducked out the side hatch of the pilothouse, went forward, and opened the deck hatch. He peered down, saw the small hold was half filled with crates marked “AGRICULTURAL MACHINERY,” and murmured, “Yeah. Somebody called off a revolution. These slobs retrieved the most expensive stuff and were trying to abandon the bulkier items and their cheap labor to the mosquitos. Nice guys.”

  He went to the bow, saw the body of a blond man lying face down by the anchor windlass, and asked, “You still here?” before rolling the body over the low gun’l with his boot.

  Gaston joined him there as the body drifted off with the current. The Frenchman said, “The girls are cleaning up and mixing drinks. I checked to see if they had concealed weapons. Sacre, the little quadroon has tits like rocks. Why have you not weighed anchor?”

  Captain Gringo stared across the water at the little Wooden fort onshore. He said, “I have to think. The combined rebel bands and Blanca’s Indians make a nice little army, if they can stick together. There’s more ammo in those crates ashore than they could shoot in a month of Sundays. I’m trying to figure out how a shore-based guerrilla force can use this tub the best way against the government.”

  Gaston sighed and said, “I might have known.”

  Then, as Captain Gringo stood staring at the shore. he felt a sharp crack against the side of his neck and as he grunted, “I’m hit!” he felt his legs go rubbery. Gaston grabbed him as he fell, and dragged him around the corner of the low for’d cabin, as if to get him to cover. After that, Captain Gringo was unconscious for a time.

  He was out for at least an hour. When at last he was able to fight his way up from a ghastly dream and open his eyes, he stared up at the paneled ceiling for a time, wondering where he was and how he’d gotten there. He felt the side of his neck, where the bullet must have hit him. But there was no bandage and no blood, just a bit of swelling he knew would make a swell bruise in a day or so. He felt woozy as he swung his legs off the couch in the main salon. H
e muttered, “What the hell?” as he realized it wasn’t his head that made the funny motion under him. The yacht was underway and moving at a good clip over a gentle swell!

  A soft feminine voice asked, “How are you feeling?” and he saw that the pretty Jamaican quadroon was seated in a nearby chair, as if to keep an eye on him. She said her name was Virginia. He doubted it described her accurately. He yelled, “Gaston, you little rat, where are you?” and the Frenchman came aft from the pilothouse with a grin. He said, “I’ve been teaching Prudence to man the wheel. We’re a bit shorthanded but—” Then Gaston saw the look in Captain Gringo’s eye and quickly added, “Look, Dick, before you start smashing things I want you to shut up and listen to me. Our rebel friends no longer need us. The fact they can’t pay us is neither here nor there. They will win their revolution, or someone else will. Panama will fall from Colombia like an overripe fruit whether we help or not, true?”

  “Screw the revolution! Why did you hit me on the head?”

  “I did no such thing. I kicked you under the ear when I decided to repay you for nursing me over the mountains.”

  “You call knocking a guy out a favor?”

  “In this case, yes. Consider what we have, here, in exchange for having helped your friends ashore beyond anything you ever owed them. We have a vessel able to outrun any gunboat off this coast. We have a cargo of arms. We have, by my last count, nearly five thousand Yankee dollars in the ship’s safe, which was not as hard to open as the girls thought. We have food, water, a well stocked bar, and, of course, the girls. Prudence is the English one at the helm. You have met Virginia, here. As my guest, I offer you first choice. They’re both quite nice.”

  Virginia said, “Those other Americans told us we were coming aboard for a harbor party, back in Kingston Town. We are, as you’ve no doubt guessed, a pair of honest working girls. But the way they shanghaied us was hardly nice. I think we’ll like you two much better.”

  Gaston went to the bar and began to mix drinks, saying, “We even have ice. I wish you’d say something, Dick. It makes me nervous when anything your size just sits there, like a volcano trying to make up its mind.”