by Lou Cameron
He turned to Captain Gringo and added, “You may as well install your guns in position, provided you do no damage to Flamenco Lass.”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Not unless you have someone else in mind to man either gun. Waving guns about in plain sight of a lee shore has a funny effect on other guys with guns of their own. I want both Maxims firing from cover, if they fire at all. If we can’t have cover, what the fuck’s the point?”
“He’s right,” said Carmichael, adding, “While we’re on the subject, Walker, how do you mean to man both guns at once? I mean, if one’s in the bow and one’s in the stem—”
“I commute,” said Captain Gringo. “Hopefully, anyone after us will attack from astern, abeam, or ahead. In a pinch, Gaston, here, can handle one gun pretty good while I do the honors with whichever one seems to be in the best position.”
“I thought it took two men to man a machine gun.”
“One guy feeding and changing belts as the other fires is the best way, but not the only way, Carmichael, We’re more likely to have a running fight than a standoff from fixed positions. Bobbing around out here, we’ll most likely only manage occasional short bursts. A solo gunner can handle the likely targets.”
Carmichael frowned and asked, “Oh? What sort of targets are you used to along the Mosquito Coast, chaps?” Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Unreconstructed Indians in seagoing canoes. Maybe leftover coastal pirates in another sailboat. They tend to get discouraged after they take one good burst of machine-gun fire.”
Boggs asked, “What about gunboats, Walker?” Captain Gringo laughed and said, “Shit, we’re not about to stand off a gunboat or even a serious revenue cutter with two lousy Maxims and a wooden hull!”
“In that case, what are we to do if we run into one?”
“Surrender, or run like hell for shoal water and hope they miss with their first few shells. This schooner’s not a man-o-war, Boggs. So, about that oil-smoke plume you’re shitting up the horizon line with …”
Boggs swore under his breath and moved the brass telegraph handle near the wheel to signal the engine room. But then Gaston sighed and said, “Perhaps we are being hasty, my children. Regard the horizon to our south!” All but the helmsman turned to follow Gaston’s gaze aft. Captain Gringo muttered, “Oh, shit,” as he made out die dark lateen sails of a long black vessel, gaining on them fast.
Gaston was already making for the hatchway forward of the cockpit. So Captain Gringo called after him, “Be sure and bring at least three belts of ammo, too!”
As Gaston dropped out of sight, Boggs said, “I say I don’t like the look of that xebec, either. But aren’t we acting a bit dramatic at this stage of the game? I don’t see any overt signs of hostility yet.”
Captain Gringo, said, “Waiting for hostile signs can take fifty years off a guy’s life. That’s not a xebec. It’s a Carib sailing canoe. That doesn’t mean it’s manned by Indians, of course. Lots of guys in a hurry scoot up and down the Mosquito Coast in a lateen-rigged Carib. But friendly merchant vessels are supposed to show their colors as they sail, and I don’t see a flag back there. Do you?”
Boggs shrugged and answered, “Twaddle. Half these perishing Hispanic types don’t have proper papers. The bum boats back in Belize were poled or sailed about the harbor by bloody women and children.”
“Yeah, but that’s not a bum boat gaining on us, Boggs. It’s a seagoing vessel, sailing close-hauled by a skipper who seems to know his craft. And, like I said, you’re supposed to fly your colors in these waters.”
Boggs glanced aloft at the British merchant flag flapping in the trades. Then Carmichael said, “I say, they are running up a flag.”
The mystery vessel was. It was the same red signal as Flamenco Lass was sporting. Boggs said, “Rubbish. That can’t be a British vessel!”
Gaston came back with the Maxim cradled across his chest, tripod and looped ammo belts hanging down. Captain Gringo moved to help him with it, and, without exchanging more than a few grunts, the two soldiers of fortune manhandled the heavy weapon into place in the windward corner of the cockpit.
By this time some of the others, including the two English girls, had started to come out on deck. Captain Gringo yelled, “Everyone below, and for chrissake stay there! I do mean everybody. Gaston, get on the safe side of the binnacle and man the helm. Boggs, you and these other two guys better get below or hit the deck.”
Carmichael produced a pistol from under his linen jacket and dropped to one knee. The enlisted helmsman looked at Boggs. Boggs said, “Steady as she goes. I’m in command of this vessel, Walker.”
Captain Gringo said, “You’re an asshole, too. Gaston, you know the form.” Then the tall American dropped to his knees behind the machine gun and began to load and prime it. Gaston sat down with his back to the cockpit coaming, watching the helmsman as he lit a smoke.
The sinister, low-slung vessel was moving faster than a sailing craft was supposed to, taking water over her low needle bow as her skipper drove her recklessly close-hauled through the light chop, which they hardly felt on the bigger, more sensibly sailed schooner. Boggs murmured, “I say, that’s a wonky way to sail. They must be half awash at the rate their taking it green over the bows.”
“They have plenty of guys to bail,” said Captain Gringo, adding, “Those aren’t coconuts peeking over the freeboard at us. Have you ever seen a native bum boat or fisherman with a crew that size?”
“Hmm, they do seem to have a reason for being so low in the water. Whoever they may be, they have no right to fly the British merchant ensign. If that skipper has a master’s rating issued by our merchant marine, he’s certainly forgotten a lot of his rules and regs. Why, dash it all, that xebec doesn’t even have proper Plimsoll marks to show his proper waterline! Do you think he’s flying false colors?”
Captain Gringo smiled thinly and replied, “What can I tell you? They gave up flying the skull and crossbones years ago.”
The other vessel was within hailing distance now. So Captain Gringo yelled in Spanish, “That’s close enough!” and a hoarse voice called back, “Aw, is that any way to talk, señor? We wish for to inspect your papers. We are British customs, understand?”
Captain Gringo didn’t bother to yell back that he understood, indeed. He trained his sights on the center of the triangular foresail and fired a short burst through the dark canvas to, A, let them know they’d picked the wrong prey, and, B, keep the noise down in case anyone was within earshot on the not-too-distant shore.
They must have been unusually stupid or unusually anxious. They kept coming. A rifle squibbed in the bow of the low-slung whatever, and something hummed like an angry hornet past Captain Gringo’s right shoulder. So he growled a curse, lowered the muzzle of his Maxim, and raked, the hull with a long, savage burst of automatic fire.
The Carib craft broached suddenly broadside to his fire as someone let go of the helm, and the wind-filled lateen sails weather-vaned in the trades. Anyone he hadn’t hit had ducked below the low sides, of course, so he gave them a traverse of hot lead along the waterline from stem to stem, then swept the other way for luck, and as white water spouted along the black hull, a white cloth started waving above the bulwarks back there.
Captain Gringo ceased fire as the space between the two vessels began to open rapidly. He looked over his shoulder to ask, “Everybody okay?”
That’s when he saw that Gaston was manning the helm. Boggs had taken cover next to Carmichael. The poor slob whom Boggs had ordered to remain at the helm was down, too. But he wasn’t taking cover. He didn’t need it. He lay face down with a big blob of raspberry jam where one of his shoulder blades used to be. Captain Gringo raised an eyebrow at Gaston. The Frenchman said, “Oui. As anyone but a species of fool should have known, one always aims at the helmsman with the first round, non?”
Boggs looked like a man who was having a bad dream and wondering why he couldn’t wake up as he muttered, “They killed him! The bast
ards killed him! They’ll hang for this!”
Captain Gringo looked aft before he muttered, “No, they won’t. Damn, I was going to suggest going back to question any survivors, but you were right. They must have already had a lot of water inboard.”
As the others followed his gaze, they saw that the trades had flattened the lateen sails against the water and the hull was already below the surface. A couple of dots were still bobbing around back there. But as Carmichael said, “We could still pick up one of those swimmers,” one head went under. Carmichael spotted a shark fin moving toward another and gasped, “Oh, I say!”
Gaston said dryly, “Oui, blood in the water has that effect on our cowardly local sharks. Who do you think they were, Dick?”
Captain Gringo began to clean the action of his Maxim as he shrugged and answered, “We’ll never know for sure, now. I hope they were just pirates. It’s a little early for anybody else to be trying to intercept us.”
Carmichael said, “They didn’t follow us out of Belize. I told you I used to work in the Med between Malta and Gib. I’d have noticed a lateen rig if there’d been any in the harbor.”
“Yeah, they came out of a mangrove cove. They were waiting for us. I hope it wasn’t us in particular. But you never know. This goddamn schooner’s easy enough to describe, despite her half-ass disguise.”
Gaston said, “Oui. We must do something to change her outline. Perhaps if the masts had less rake?”
Bogg shook his head like a bull with a fly between his horns and snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous. In the first place, we couldn’t without shipyard facilities. In the second, it would throw her out of trim!”
“Merde alors, do we want to go fast or do we want to get there without a series of trés fatigue running sea fights?”
Captain Gringo said, “Knock it off, guys. You’re both right. It would take days in a shipyard to really disguise this tub. There has to be a better way.”
The vessel he’d smoked up had sunk completely now. He glanced down at the dead helmsman and added, “We’d better think about wrapping this poor guy in his oilskins and sliding him over the side, too.”
Boggs snapped, “We’ll do no such thing! I’m getting tired of having to remind you who’s in command of this vessel, Walker!”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Command it, then. I don’t care if you give him a regular sea burial or shove him up your ass. But you’re going to have to do something. It’s too hot and humid to just let him lie there!”
The others aboard had been kept below by the gunfire, of course. But now that it had stopped, they started popping back on deck, Boggs ordered another man to relieve Gaston at the helm and told two others to get a tarp and wrap their dead crewmate in it.
So far, so good. Then the blonde, Phoebe Chester, spotted the corpse from where she stood in the hatchway and let out a banshee scream. Captain Gringo muttered, “See what I mean?”
Flora Manson wasn’t as noisy, but she didn’t really show much more sense as she pushed past Phoebe and ran over to the fallen helmsman. Captain Gringo called out: “Don’t kneel!” But Flora did anyway, and put the knee of her skirt smack in the thick crimson goo oozing out from under the dead man as she tried to help him.
She looked up, stricken, to sob, “Oh, my God, I think he’s dead!”
Gaston was closer to her, so he helped her to her feet as the others rolled the limp corpse onto the tarp. Gaston said, “M’mselle really must learn to pay attention, hein? When one is told not to do something, it is usually for a good reason. But cold water will take that blood out of your linen if you see to it before it dries.”
Flora looked down, saw the stain on her white skirt, and gagged. As she pulled away and dashed below, Phoebe stamped her foot at Gaston and said, “You upset her, you brute!”
Gaston protested, “Me? I did nothing to anyone, m’selle!” But then Phoebe dashed below, too. So Gaston shrugged at Captain Gringo and said, “I was only trying to be practique. Did I say something wrong?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Don’t worry about it.” Then he turned to Boggs and said, “For a guy with such a short fuse, you seem to be doing just what I suggested.”
Boggs snapped, “I’ll be damned if I am. You suggested dropping him over the side to those sharks. We’ll put in at the next port of call to give him a proper Christian burial!”
“Are you loco en la cabeza, Boggs? The next port of call is Corozal!”
“I’m well aware of that, Walker. Corozal is still British Honduras. We can see that our lad is given proper Anglican rites and a burial in hallowed Protestant ground.”
Captain Gringo shook his head wearily and growled, “Forgive my asking, I can see you are loco en la cabeza! I can see you haven’t been in the spy trade long.”
“I don’t consider myself a spy. I’m sailing master of this vessel.”
“Yeah, there I go asking dumb questions again. Okay, I’ll use small words and you can stop me if I’m going too fast for you, Boggs. This mission wasn’t my idea. We’re working for British Intelligence. You got that? British Intelligence, not British Stupidity. The reason Greystoke put this mission together in Belize instead of Corozal wasn’t to make us sail a few miles farther. The mission was supposed to be a secret, see?”
“I’m well aware of the reason for the rest of you lot going on this perishing mission, damn it!”
“You weren’t planning on coming along? Look, Boggs, Corozal is a border town. You savvy what is a border town? Mexican customs men, spies, God knows who, watching the border. If we put into Corozal, people are going to notice ns. Bad people. Guys on the other side. Am I talking too fast for you?”
Boggs snapped, “Don’t patronize me, you Yankee ruffian! I bloody well know what my duties are to this vessel, passengers, and crew. One of my crew has just died for England, and, by God, England is going to bury him right!”
Captain Gringo muttered, “Hang some crepe on your nose. Your brain just died.”
Then Gaston took him by the elbow and steered him back toward the machine gun as the others finished lashing the corpse in the tarp. The older Frenchman murmured, “Give it up, Dick. We had an officer like that at the siege of Camerone.”
“The asshole’s trying to get us all killed!”
“That is what I just said. There is no use arguing with the species. Men like Boggs are immune to logique.”
“I noticed. So what do you suggest? What did you do about the officer who tried to get you Legion guys killed in Mexico that time?”
“We paid no attention to him, of course. After a time the Juristas were kind enough to shoot the idiot, and those of us still alive were able to surrender in peace. The Mexicans were much more reasonable about things at the siege of Camerone.”
Captain Gringo fished out a smoke and lit it before he said, “You were dealing with Mexicans under Juarez. The guys working for Diaz make me nervous. I didn’t sign up for this voyage to surrender to anybody. But if that asshole keeps on this way—”
“Oui, he will, as you say, get us all killed. But look at the bright side, Dick. The man just said he wanted to put in at Corozal.”
Captain Gringo blew smoke out both nostrils as he stared down at the smaller man to ask, “Are you nuts, too? Corozal’s the spy crosssroads of this coast! Once we sail in their with a stiff on board to explain to British customs anybody who hasn’t got us spotted by now—”
“Ferme la bouche!” Gaston cut in, adding, “Sacre God damn, I am trying to talk sense, and you keep cursing a species of insect we agree on! This mission, as I said in the beginning, is doomed as well as foolish! We were forced to come along, but only because that trés fatigue Greystoke had us by the hairs where they are short.”
Captain Gringo suddenly grinned and said, “Gotcha. Greystoke and the muscle he has to twist our arms-with are back in Belize. Is it our fault his own skipper wants to put us ashore in Corozal?”
“Mais non! I heard you beg him, just now,
not to put in there at all!”
Captain Gringo took a drag on his cigar as he stared aft, thinking of loose ends. There were a lot of them. Greystoke was going to be mad as hell. Greystoke had agents all over Latin America. On the other hand, a running head start before Greystoke could guess they were gone would beat any chance this half-ass mission had. He nodded and said, “Okay. We hang innocent and see what’s going on in Corozal these days before we make a break for it.”
*
Captain Gringo had the stem Maxim cleaned and covered with a tarp when a big wet toad plopped down on his head, turned into a big wet eel, and slithered down his spine. Another golf-ball-sized raindrop sizzled his cigar out. So he muttered, “Shit,” and headed below. Boggs and his new helmsman were welcome to stay on deck as they steered for Corozal. He felt sorry for the enlisted man, but he hoped Boggs would drown in the coming rain squall.
By the time he reached the small stateroom he shared with Gaston, the rain was tap dancing merrily on the low overhead. Gaston wasn’t there. Captain Gringo couldn’t blame him. Despite or perhaps because of the tropic rain, the stateroom was as warm and muggy as a bathroom after someone had taken a hot shower. He couldn’t open the port because the stateroom was on the lee side and Boggs was sailing close-hauled with the lee rail almost under. It was damp enough in here without risking gouts of green water through an open port.
He wasn’t particularly tired. On the other hand, there was nothing better to do, and a knock-around guy never knew when he was going to have to stay up all night. So he hung his gun rig over the bunk, peeled off his damp duds, and flopped atop the covers to mayhap catch some shut-eye.
He closed his eyes, but nothing happened. He had too much on his mind for a daylight nap. He lit another smoke but remained supine on the bunk, as he ran plan after plan through his bemused mind. None of them worked.
Captain Gringo didn’t like the idea of desertion. He had his professional reputation to consider. On the other hand, he didn’t fancy the idea of getting killed, and, with Boggs in command, this mission was an exercise in textbook wrong moves. Greystoke couldn’t have picked a worse sailing master if he’d asked the Spanish government for one.
