Mexican Marauder (A Captain Gringo Adventure #16)

by Lou Cameron

  Nombre Nada’s bluffer bows began to rise and fall under him as she headed out to sea, sails still furled and older but powerful steam screw churning. As ever on warm, dry nights along the Mosquito Coast, the waves were phosphorescent, and the blacked-out Nombre Nada seemed to be ghosting in a sea of cold green embers. The sky looked like purple velvet spangled with big tropic stars that looked close enough to shoot down. He grinned crookedly and muttered, “Smart move, Walker. You chased a dame away on a night few dames would stand a chance against!”

  He tried to drop it. What was done was done, and it wouldn’t kill him to behave himself for a while. But the damned luminous waves kept reminding him of that beautiful girl he’d met that time at a steamship rail, and heard her sweet, sad little poem about moonlit waves of fire. What had ever happened to her? Oh, yeah, she’d gotten killed. People did that a lot down here. He snapped the action closed on the Maxim and covered it with a tarp. His job wasn’t laying dames. He had at least two on his hands he meant to bring back alive. This was no time to be mooning about less important pleasures.

  But as he got to his feet and stared out across the water, looking for Esperanza’s new vessel but unable to spot it against the ink-black lace of the mangroves, He muttered, “Dammit, Esperanza. If we’d torn off at least another one, I might not be in this fix right now!”

  *

  Captain Gringo’s ruse was put to the test the next morning, when they encountered a Mexican gunboat steaming closer to the shore. The mate on the gunboat’s bridge called his commander topside when the lookout spotted the British merchant ensign flying from Nombre Nada’s spinnaker.

  The older and more relaxed Mexican skipper scanned the passing Nombre Nada through his binoculars for a moment before he lowered them and said, “I’ve seen that schooner before. She makes regular runs up and down this coast. She’s not the one we’ve been told to watch for.” The mate said softly, “She flies the red ensign of los Anglos, my captain.”

  “What of it? We are in international waters and the British have a large merchant marine. Compose yourself, muchacho. Mexico has enough problems without picking fights with los Anglos. We only have orders to intercept that one British vessel. Let us not get ourselves excited every time we see the red ensign, eh?”

  The mate glanced at a ship’s silhouette thumbtacked to the rear bulkhead of the bridge as he said, “That schooner passing us at .the moment does not seem to be wanted, I see now. Forgive me for being overzealous, my captain.”

  “Hey, muchacho, I told you to keep the eye peeled for British schooners. That particular one is not the one we were told about. But if it were, we’d both be in for decorations about now. El Presidente in the flesh has taken a personal interest in that British spy mission!”

  The mate saw that the old man was in a good mood, so he asked, “May I ask why, my captain? That report says nothing about the British wishing to spy on Mexico.”

  The skipper shrugged and replied, “In God’s truth, nobody knows who they mean to spy on. Our man in Belize was unable to find out. But he did find out that the notorious Captain Gringo and his comrade, Gaston Verrier, are both aboard Flamenco Lass. Whatever los Anglos are up to, those two madmen are wanted in Mexico for crimes too numerous to mention!”

  “Yes, I have heard of this Captain Gringo. Our Mexican rebels seem to regard him as some sort of hero.”

  “El Presidente Diaz does not. The last time they passed through Mexico they almost wrecked the place. They are dangerous maniacs. They make our government very nervous, and Mexico City wants them out of business.”

  “I heard about the trains they wrecked in Mexico, my captain. Has anyone ever figured out why they behave so unpleasantly? Neither one can call himself a Mexican, rebel or not.”

  The skipper grimaced and said, “I understand they got into some sort of harmless brawl with los rurales. You know how some rurales are.”

  “Yes, they can act like maniacs, too.”

  “Agreed. But just because there was some little misunderstanding with our sometimes uncouth rural police, those two soldiers of fortune had no right to declare war on all Mexico!”

  “What were los rurales doing to them when they went mad, my captain?”

  “¿Quien sabe? Probably stealing their shoes or threatening to shoot them. Some of our rurales could use a bit more training. What los rurales did to them is not important. Los rurales have the right to do anything they like to almost anyone. The point is that this Captain Gringo took it out on all of Mexico. He joined up with Mexican rebels and machine-gunned innocent federate troops who were only trying to do their job. The man is a monster!”

  “He sounds like one, my captain. May I ask what job los federates were trying to do when he murdered them?”

  “Oh, they were trying to kill or capture Captain Gringo and his rebel friends. Perfectly legal. Captain Gringo simply does not understand or respect the laws of Mexico.”

  The skipper consulted the clock on the bulkhead and added, “Carry on, muchacho. I am going back to my quarters for now. I am engrossed in a good book, and I do not wish to be disturbed unless you really spot that Clyde-built schooner with the raked funnel and masts, eh?”

  Aboard Nombre Nada, Captain Gringo was starting to breathe again as he crouched behind the tarp-covered, rear-mounted Maxim. Carmichael manned the helm as Gaston crouched beside Captain Gringo. Everyone else, of course, had been ordered to take cover. As the Mexican gunboat drew out of range, Captain Gringo chuckled and said, “If worked. I hope old Esperanza has the same luck with Colombian gunboats to the south!”

  Gaston said, “We shall all need luck, if my old bones are not fibbing to me, mon ami. My bones are telling me to expect a visit from our old friend, the Carib god Hurikan.”

  Captain Gringo got up from behind the machine gun and sniffed the trade winds before lighting a cigar. The air smelled of sun and brine, and the winds blew dry for sea winds. There was no taste of brass in the air, and the overhead sky was a cloudless bowl of cobalt blue, not tinged with the puss green of heavy weather in the tropics. He lit his smoke and said, “Your bones are just hurting because you fuck too much for a man your age, Gaston. It’s a beautiful day for sailing.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “The hurricane season is always the best time of the year for sailing in these waters, between hurricanes.”

  Carmichael, at the wheel, cast a worried look at the horizon as he asked Captain Gringo, “Does he know something I don’t, Walker? We do seem to be enjoying steady air in our canvas, and the ground swells are jolly smooth for this far off a lee coast.”

  Captain Gringo laughed and said, “You’ll get used to Gaston’s bitching after you’ve known him awhile. He looks under the bed and checks the closet every night before he says his prayers.”

  Gaston looked hurt and said, “I never say prayers. I discovered long ago that if anyone is running this cruel world, he does not listen to complaints from his customers. As to my cautious habits, merde alors, how do you think I ever reached such an advanced age in such a surprising universe? I have found strangers under my bed and in many a closet in my time. And I still say I feel a heavy blow in my bones!”

  Carmichael said, “I hope you’re wrong. What’s the form if we run into a full gale, chaps? I’m not familiar with these waters. Do we try for sea room or look for a sheltered cove?”

  Captain Gringo said, “We head out to sea and then some. An unknown lee coast is dangerous even when it’s friendly, and the Mosquito Coast ain’t. Aside from zillions of uncharted reefs, shelter is widely spaced. You’re ten times more likely to be blown into a mangrove swamp or a limestone cliff than you are a harbor.”

  Carmichael nodded and said, “Right. From the way her timbers groan, this old tub has weathered many a storm at sea. What’s the form if we have to run the gale?”

  “There isn’t much form in a hurricane. The wind and waves just come at you any old way. Old Caribbean hands just batten down the hatches, take in every scrap of
canvas, and hope they have enough ballast.”

  “What about sea anchors?”

  “The Spanish galleys tried that in the old, days and found it didn’t work so hot. The wind may blow one way and the waves may be coming another. A powerless sailing craft just has to make like a cork and let the storm decide where it’s going. If you’re too close to shore or a reef, tough shit. If the storm lays you on your side, pray your ballast doesn’t shift. Hurricanes are not nice people. But we do have the advantage of auxiliary power. So we can at least maintain enough headway with bare poles to steer into the worst waves. You know, of course, that nobody takes a real wave directly over the bow?”

  “Coo, give me some credit for being a sailor, Walker. I get the picture, now. I don’t like it much, tut, as I said, she feels like a stout old tub, and I doubt she’ll roll over if we can take most of the big ones on our port or starboard quarter.”

  The cabin hatch opened and Phoebe Chester stuck her blond head out to ask if she and the others could come out now. Captain Gringo glanced aft at the distant smoke plume of the Mexican gunboat and said, “Yeah, We seem to be in the clear at the moment.”

  The two girls came out, followed by some of the crewmen. The men sensed they might not belong around the binnacle with the big shots and drifted forward to enjoy the cooling wind across the deck as they waited for further orders. The two girls joined the three men around the wheel, of course. They hadn’t been invited. But nobody minded. They added to the decor and were probably less likely to cause trouble there.

  Flora Manson peered at the dark, fuzzy, distant shoreline to the west and asked where they were. Captain Gringo said, “Off Quintana Roo, Mexico. It’s a territory, not a state. Not too many people live there.”

  Gaston snorted-and chimed in, “The last time we were there, we ran into people enough. Merde alors, some of them were trying to kill us!”

  Flora frowned and asked, “I thought Yucatan started just north of our British Honduras, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo explained, “Yes and no. According to Mexico, British Honduras is part of the Yucatan Peninsula, if we’re talking about gross geography. The estado of Yucatan occupies only the north tip of the Yucatan Peninsula, see?”

  “Oh. Are the natives civilized in Yucatan State?”

  “Depends on what you call civilized, and whether they’re for or against Mexico City. Don’t worry about it. We’re not going that far. The charts say the cable to Cuba parts company with the Mexican mainland near Cape Catoche, in uninhabited or officially uninhabited territory.”

  The diver, Carmichael, said, “I’ve been examining those charts. If we have it located right, the cable actually runs out to sea well south of the cape and threads through some islands called the Mujeres. What can you tell us about them?”

  Captain Gringo asked, “Gaston?” and Gaston said, “Las Mujeres are trés fatigue. Yucatan seems to be a continuation of the same limestone formation that sits under Yankee Florida. So, everything is made out of chalky, trés ancient coral and sea shells, dry as the bone where the land is high and disgusting mud where it is not. The islands are little more than coral reefs thrust up from the sea bottom, for some odd reason. They are of little use to mankind. A few Indian and Mestizo squatters camp on the main Mujer, a disgusting place two or three miles across. There are two other Mujeres large enough to call islands. Nobody was living on them the last time I passed this way. The remaining Mujeres are just dots of limestone and coral sand scattered about to impede navigation.”

  Carmichael nodded and said, “The charts make sense, then. Obviously the continental shelf is shallower among those coral keys. How long do you expect us to take to get there, chaps?”

  Captain Gringo, said, “Twenty-four hours at the rate we’re going.”

  “Coo, that means we’ll be coming over a perishing strange horizon in the target area at sunrise! I’ve checked the bunker fuel Esperanza left aboard, and I must say she left her bunkers nearly full. We could get there before dawn if we asked the engine to add a few knots to our progress, what?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Steady as she goes. I had this same discussion with the late Boggs. The reason Esperanza left us with plenty of fuel is because she wasn’t wasting any when the trades were fresh. This old tub wasn’t built for speed, Carmichael. She’s a native-built coastal trader. Her lines were designed by Caribbeans who knew their winds and water as well as their craft. Her hull was built to make her best headway heeled gently under sail. Esperanza had that boiler and engine added amidships as an afterthought, with emergencies in mind. At full throttle, Nombre Nada’s screw could only add about four knots to her speed under sail, and meanwhile, I checked those bunkers, too, and Esperanza loaded them with the cheapest crude she could get to bum at all. So, we’d be sending up enough smoke for a Mississippi steamboat long before we coaxed enough extra headway out of Nombre Nada to matter.”

  Gaston said, “I do not understand this sneaky business in any case, M’sieur Carmichael. Surely you intend to dive for the cable in broad day, non?”

  Carmichael shook his head and said, “Not if I can bloody help it! Coo, we’d be taking bloody chances indeed if we were to dive by daylight. My plan was to drop over the side in the inky hours and splice into the ruddy cable under cover of darkness.”

  The two soldiers of fortune exchanged glances. Gaston said, “Sacre bleu, what is the point of all this skulking about in the dark? Do you enjoy being eaten by sharks?”

  Captain Gringo said, “For once he’s right. The best time to dive in shark-infested waters is high noon, when you can see them. They know you can see them, and what the hell, a man is bigger than most of the fish they eat. Most shark attacks in the Caribbean take place at dawn, dusk, or at night, in murky water. Sharks find their way in the dark like bats. So that’s when they like to hunt.”

  Carmichael stuck out his chest for the girls and said, “I told you I’ve encountered shark in the Med. I’m not looking forward to meeting the bloody things. But if we were spotted diving in broad daylight by more dangerous enemies—’

  Captain Gringo held up a hand to cut him off and said, “Hold it. You’re not thinking. We’re going to be in trouble if we’re noticed by anyone near that cable crossing, day or night. How long do you reckon it will take you to go over the side, locate the cable, and tap it?”

  “I’m not sure. It can’t take me more than an hour.

  I can’t stay down any longer unless I want to get the perishing bends. If the water is clear and shallow enough, my lads and I can probably locate the cable from the surface with our glass box. Once we have it spotted, it should take me, oh, half an hour to suit up, go down, and attach our tap.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Okay. We can see for miles in every direction, and anything important should be sending a smoke plume over the horizon. So, if a patrol craft comes along, we can haul you in long before it can get close enough to see what we’re doing, right?”

  “Coo, I never thought of that.”

  “He’s ever so clever,” said Phoebe Chester, tossing Captain Gringo a Mona Lisa smile. Jesus, had she worn Gaston out already?

  Carmichael laughed ruefully and said, “You’re right, now that I think about it. There seems to be more to this espionage business than one reads about in books.”

  “Real spies don’t write many books. The first thing a knock-around guy learns is to never act sneaky when he doesn’t have to. That’s why Greystoke ordered us to fly the British merchant colors and why I’ve left them up there. A tyro would try to pass an English-speaking crew off as some local bunch with false colors. If anyone asks what we’re doing off the Mujeres with diving gear, we’re diving for sponge. How the hell were we to know there was a cable anywhere in the neighborhood, right?”

  Flora Manson asked, “Are there any sponges where we’re going, Dick?”

  He looked blank. Gaston said, “Mais non, the current whipping around the corner of Yucatan discourages sedate se
a growth. But, as Dick says, how are we crazy gringos to know this, hein?”

  Captain Gringo was becoming bored by all the idle chatter, and he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. So he looked at his pocket watch and called out, “Okay, gang. It’s about time to change the watch. You’ve played with the helm long enough, Carmichael. Take a couple of hours off.”

  He glanced forward, saw that the Welshman, Rice, was the closest crewman who knew how to man a helm, and called out: “Rice, relieve Lieutenant Carmichael at the helm.”

  Rice got to his feet and came aft, but he couldn’t meet Captain Gringo’s eyes as he grumbled, “I haven’t had. breakfast yet, look you.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t feel like hitting him again, so he said, “I’ll have them send you a sandwich from the galley. Take the wheel and hold her steady as she goes till somebody tells you different.”

  Rice didn’t want to get hit again, either, so he did as he was told, and Carmichael moved toward the hatch, followed by Gaston, growling that he was “trés affamé”. Captain Gringo was hungry, too: But he moved forward along the deck to see what the night sea air had done to the other machine gun in the bows.

  The Maxim was okay. As he replaced the tarp over the heavily oiled metal, he heard feminine footsteps behind him and turned on his knee to smile up at Flora Manson and say, “We really have to stop meeting like this. My wife is becoming suspicious.”

  She didn’t get it. She frowned and said, “Oh? I didn’t know you were married.”

  He sighed and said, “Forget it. My mother told me never to play cards with strangers on a train or try to tell a Brit a joke. What can I do for you, Flora?”

  “I’d like to change my quarters. I don’t care where I’m quartered as long as it’s not with that beastly little Phoebe Chester!”

  He frowned and said, “Gee, we’re running sort of low on rooms with a view. But what’s the problem? I thought you and old Phoebe were on friendly terms, Flora?”