by Lou Cameron
“It won’t work. It would have to be a rebel city, not a camp, to justify this expensive undersea communication with Cuba. I repeat expensive, too! Merde alors, where would Cuban guerrillas get the money, or the skill, to string a cable from Mexico to Cuba?”
“From their American backers, of course. Half the U.S. Congress is after President Cleveland to kick the Spanish out of Cuba. The Cuba Libre movement is being run from New York by Cuban exiles, and every time they pass the hat, their Yankee pals fill it up. This figures to be one of the best-financed revolutions in history. I wouldn’t be surprised if the States just took off the gloves and waded into Spain personally!”
“Sacre bleu, whatever for?”
“Beats me. Something to do with the Spanish Armada, I guess. Spain doesn’t get a favorable report in American history books. Maybe it just makes them nervous to have constant revolutions going on eighty miles south of Florida. It’s been a while since I worked for the U.S. government. Let’s not worry about why or what’s going on. Our job’s about finished here, whatever the hell it is.”
“Eh bien, that’s about the nicest thing you’ve said all day! How long do we have to hover over this species of mysterious cable, Dick?”
“I’m not sure. I’m still only in charge of security. I’ll ask Flora tonight how much gossip Greystoke wants us to record before we can cut out. Obviously he doesn’t expect us to stay here long. I get the impression the Brits are after some particular message.”
Gaston glanced up at the sun. It was getting low, but not low enough. He said, “If they got it before sundown, we could spare ourselves the risk and fatigue of attacking those so-called turtle hunters, non?”
“No. They killed one of our people, remember?”
“Merde alors, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that, my old and evil-tempered friend!”
*
Leaving Gaston in command aboard Nombre Nada again, Captain Gringo and a picked crew pushed off in the longboat. He knew there were about a dozen men on the key, and the women could be tough, too. So he took away eight, dividing his forces about evenly with Gaston. He doubted that Miguelito and his lads would be surprised by their visit. But they had the darkness and hopefully superior discipline going for them. His men had been trained by the Royal Navy. God alone knew where the mealy-mouthed Miguelito and his guys had gone to school.
The machine gun he took along offered to even the odds pretty good, too.
Gaston had suggested that since he knew the lay of the land and none of it was high enough to get behind in any case, it would be most ‘pratique’ simply to sweep the whole key with machine-gun fire from a safe distance and not risk a landing until everything and everybody on the key was flat.
Gaston was doubtless right. On the other hand, it seemed sort of shitty to machine gun women, and four of the gang were. He wanted a few words with someone alive in any case. So, he told his boat crew to row around the key so he could hit them from the south shore, where they’d least expect it.
By now it was black as a bitch under the trees. As the bow grated on the coral, Captain Gringo snapped, “Spread out and cover down!” as he leaped ashore with the Maxim cradled in his arms.
Nothing happened. He braced the heavy weapon on his hip with the belt trailing and started moving inland. He spotted firelight through the brush ahead and grinned wolfishly. Could old Miguelito really be dumb enough not to have guessed his game was up? Probably not. So, the tall American moved in slowly.
As he approached the camp he saw the four women and one man squatting around a small fire, talking softly among themselves. There was nobody else in view. What the hell was going on?
He took cover behind a palmetto to study his options. One of the others joined him to whisper, “What’s up, mate?”
“Shut up and move back. I’m trying to figure it out”
The one man had been with the gang during his earlier visit but hadn’t said anything. Young Veronica had been sullen as hell, before. Now she looked more relaxed, and she’d combed her hair and washed her face. It was a hell of an improvement. He called out “Hey, Veronica?” and the girl leaped a foot in the air to land facing him, eyes wary as she peered into the darkness and demanded, “¿Quien es?”
He said, “Come here. I want to talk to you. You, hombre, by the fire, stay put and don’t do anything silly with your hands. Shake a leg, Veronica. I’m holding a gun on you.”
The Mexican girl lowered her head sullenly but moved toward him. When she was close enough so that anybody shooting from behind her would hit her, he said, “It is I, the Americano called Ricardo. What’s going on here? Where are the others?”
Veronica looked relieved and said, “Oh, we were wondering how to signal you without getting shot. Tio Pepe is afraid you and your friends think we are evil, like those others.”
“Let’s talk about those others, Veronica. Who are they and, more important, where are they?”
She said, “They left, in their sloop. We have no boat now. They chopped Tio Pepe’s dugout for firewood. I don’t know who they were, except that they were evil. They found us here, hunting turtles, and we have been so frightened. Tia Maria said they might not ravage me if I made myself ugly, but even so, I was afraid they would.”
He called out, “Gilmore, take four men and sweep to my left. Jensen, you and the others to the right I don’t think you’ll meet anybody. But if you do, shoot to kill!”
As his men moved to obey him, he grounded the heavy Maxim but remained in the shadows, .38 in hand, as he asked Veronica to fill him in some more. She told him that the man over there was her uncle and the other three women were his wives, Tia Maria, Tia Lolita, and Tia Juana. He didn’t comment. He knew how many nominal Cristianos in the lowland jungles followed older Indian customs. Old Pepe wasn’t a sex maniac. It made economic sense to have more than one wife down here. There were few labor-saving devices, and in any case a woman without a man to protect her was in big trouble. So, good-hearted peons tended to marry their brother’s widow if nobody else would have her. Veronica’s Tio Pepe had to be good-hearted indeed, when one looked at his harem. The three tias between them didn’t add up to one attractive lay. Since incest was regarded with distaste in these parts, he could assume young Veronica got to sleep alone. Most Indians would rather eat a relative than sleep with one. They went further than the Catholic Church on that sin. A good Spanish Catholic was allowed to marry a distant cousin. These Maya-Mestizos wouldn’t have sex with anyone who even had the same clan totem.
He questioned Veronica further, about Miguelito and his gang, not her sex life. She could tell him only that the gang had invaded them a few days back, helped themselves to their pathetic supplies, and told them to behave if they wanted to go on living. Apparently none of the women had been molested. So, the gang either shared Captain Gringo’s taste in women or they’d been on serious business. Veronica verified his suspicions that the late Alejandro had been a diver, and the one he’d fed to the sharks. She said that Alejandro had dived here and there in the channel to verify the location of something. They hadn’t told their unwilling hosts what. It didn’t matter. Captain Gringo knew. They’d been sent here to check out the same cable. But they hadn’t tried to tap it. Perhaps they’d been guarding it? That explained their desire to kill people in diving suits. But who in hell could they have been? Mexico wouldn’t fool around like that They had uniformed rurales to guard stuff. Cuban rebels? Possible. But if Cubans were securing their own lines of communications, why had Alejandro had to check to see that they were in place? Wouldn’t he have yelled: “Cuba Libre!” and cut the cable if the Spaniards were using it?
He decided that the only way to figure it out would be to give his decoders more time. Meanwhile, nothing interesting was going on right here. As his scouts reported in to say the whole key was deserted, Captain Gringo joined the marooned turtle hunter and his harem by the fire, with Veronica, and said, “All right, Señor Pepe, mi casa es su casa. I can’t spare you a boat
, but you’re welcome to come aboard our schooner until we have time to put you ashore somewhere.”
Pepe got to his feet, hat in hand, and said, “El señor is most kind, but we have no dinero. Those bad men took all we had.”
“Veronica told me. Please don’t think I mean to insult you by offering you food and shelter. We are all Cristianos here, no?”
“Well, my father said he was, when the rurales were about. My mother never got around to it.”
“No matter. I won’t make you pray to my gods. Naturally, you can stay here if you like, but..
“We shall accept your kind offer, “Pepe cut in, adding sadly, “In God’s truth, we are tired of dried turtle meat and there is nothing else to eat on this thrice accursed island!”
*
Nombre Nada had not been designed as a cruise ship, so after they’d fed the Mexicans, Captain Gringo had to find room for them. He couldn’t put four women in the forecastle, however much the crew might have wanted him to. The late Carmichael had rated his own private quarters, of course. So he gave Carmichael’s small but private quarters to Tio Pepe and his three tias. As junior officers, the two mariposas, Clarke and Chadwick, had been quartered in private cubbyholes, too. They seemed more than willing to share one bunk. So, Captain Gringo put Veronica in Chadwick’s. It was already neat and feminine. The Mexicans seemed awed by their luxurious accommodations, and the grateful Tio Pepe ordered his women to make themselves useful in all ways to the simpatico gringos who’d taken them in. One tia proceeded to sweep and dust everything in sight, and another joined the galley crew to scrub pots and pans, but would soon be showing them how to make tortillas. Little Veronica said she could sew. So, she went right to work mending and darning socks for anyone who needed it. As tropic Mexicans, they were of course night people and hence saw no need to go right to sleep in their new quarters.
The English aboard were getting used to working late in the cool of the tropic nights, too. So, it was after midnight when bubbly Phoebe removed her earphones in the salon and announced that no messages had come over the cable for some time. Flora said to leave the gramophone on just in case and continued to decode, or try to decode, what they’d picked up so far.
The two pansies adjusted all their dials and announced that they were ever so tired and wanted to turn in. As they left Captain Gringo and the two girls in the salon, Phoebe giggled and said, “I’ll bet I know what they’ll be doing for the next few hours.”
Flora said, “Don’t be beastly, dear. Hello, that’s queer.” Phoebe said, “That’s what I just said.”
Flora said, “I’m not talking about the dear boys. I’m talking about the messages we intercepted before the line went dead. This is the fourth time they sent the same message about John Brown and Wedgwood. It still makes no sense to me, but it seems to be important to someone.”
Captain Gringo asked, “Did anyone reply to the bit about John Brown being more reasonable than Wedgwood china?”
“I can’t tell. None of the messages going the other way seem to mention either John Brown or Wedgwood. But I see two possible answers to that. The reply could have been in code, or the message could have been repeated because someone in Cuba is still waiting for an answer.”
“How are you coming with your decoding, then?”
“Beastly. None of the messages seem to be in ciphers. If any contain hidden messages, they’re in code.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Of course. A cipher is a cryptic message using different letters or numbers to be unscrambled at the other end. A cipher usually reads like nonsense. A code is the use of whole words or phrases that mean something else. For instance, the people at both ends could agree in advance that ‘Aunt Martha just died’ means an arms shipment is on the way or the police are on to us.”
“Gotcha. You say only that one message has been repeated more than one time? I’d concentrate on that if I were you.”
Flora said, “I am,” and then said, “I say!” as the schooner rose under them sickeningly.
Captain Gringo frowned and said he’d have a look. The Nombre Nada rocked again, hard, as he made his way topside. He joined Gaston and Rice near the binnacle and said, “We seem to be catching some ground swells tonight.”
Gaston said, “Mais oui. Regard the stars to our east, Dick.”
Captain Gringo followed Gaston’s gaze and said, “I don’t see any stars over that way.”
“Neither do I. I told you my bones were sending me messages.”
Rice said, “This channel will be a death trap if we’re hit by storm winds here, look you!”
Captain Gringo wet a finger to test the breeze. There wasn’t any. He said, “Oh boy! But look on the bright side. The eye of the hurricane must be miles from here. If it’s due east, we have nothing to worry about. Most hurricanes track north.”
Gaston snorted in disgust and said, “Except the ones who choose to track west. M’sieur Rice is right. We should consider getting some sea room, Dick.”
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Not yet. We’re hooked to the cable under us, and the girls seem to be on to something big going over the wire.”
“Merde alors, the damned cable will still be there when the storm passes over. Now that you have eliminated the sea monster who killed Carmichael, how long would it take you to tap the line a second time?”
“No, thanks. The sharks in this channel have tasted human flesh and know they can find it close to this hull! It won’t be safe to dive for at least a few days. I don’t know how long a shark remembers a good meal, but I don’t want to find out the hard way!”
The schooner bobbed sickeningly again and Rice complained, “You’re going to feed us all to the sharks, look you! We’re over shallow ground. The troughs between hurricane swells can bump our keel on the coral below, you see!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Rice, these swells are widely spaced and not more than six feet from trough to crest. I’m not about to stay here in this channel if there’s a real blow. But let’s not wet our pants until we know one’s beading our way, huh? The eye could pass us miles from here. It’s more likely to hit Cuba than us.”
Gaston sniffed, smelled nothing but brine and kelp, and said, “Eh bien, in that case wake me when it’s over. Since I see the stubborn set to your jaw, I shall ride the waves more comfortably in my snug, petite bunk. Ah, did the girls say what time they would be quitting for the night, Dick?”
“Why don’t you just start without her if she’s late in joining you, you old goat. I’ll stand watch until the next one’s due.”
Rice said that in that case, he’d turn in too. So, they left him alone in the cockpit, sniffing for brass and hoping not to see any green stars in the near future. As he lit a Claro he noticed there was a slight breeze now. It was headed the wrong way, out to sea. But it wasn’t strong, and, what the hell, the hurricane eye had a right to suck air out of Mexico, as long as it didn’t overdo it.
He was getting used to the ground swell now. It was no worse than if they’d been out on the open sea on a fair day. But something sure was going on over to the east. Could that account for the cable down there going dead? Cubans were night people, too. Undersea cables were supposed to be immune from storm waves. On the other hand, they had to come out of the water somewhere, and a real storm pounding the Cuban coast could have broken the line. The only way they’d know for sure would be to wait and see if any more messages came over the line in the next twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but sweat it all opt.
He’d finished his smoke and tossed the butt overboard when the seaman assigned the next watch came on deck to relieve Rice and naturally took over from Captain Gringo. The tall American went below to rejoin the girls. He found Flora alone at her card table. Flora said that Phoebe had gone to bed, or someone’s bed. Captain Gringo looked down at the untidy pile of shorthand notes the blonde had left and said, “She must have been very sleepy.”
Flora chuckled a
nd replied, “She sounded very sleepy. Poor Gaston. What do you suppose Clarke and Chadwick do when they’re alone, Dick?”
“I’ve wondered about that. Never had the nerve to ask a guy like that to let me watch.”
“Phoebe says she’s sure they suck each other. From the way poor little Chadwick walks, I’d say it goes deeper than that.”
“Who cares? I’ve been thinking about that repeated message. There’s more than one John Brown, isn’t there? What if we forgot Queen Vickie’s notorious butler and thought about other John Browns? I know it can’t be the John Brown who lies a-moldering in his grave. So who’s left? I seem to recall a British company called John Brown Limited.”
Flora gasped and said, “My God, of course! John Brown Limited, is one of the biggest armor-plate producers in the U.K.! They roll steel for battleships! But that still leaves us with Wedgwood. You don’t armor a cruiser with Wedgwood plates. They must mean someone else.”
He nodded and said, “How about Woodbine Arms? That’s pretty close, and the owner, Sir Basil Hakim, does overcharge for the arms he supplies damned near anybody with cash.”
Flora nodded and said, “It fits. I’ve heard of Hakim. He’s a bad one, even if he does drink with the Prince of Wales. But why do they keep sending the same message, Dick?”
“Ask them. If you want an educated guess, it could be the only real message they’ve been sending. All the other stock quotations could be just a smoke screen. We know it’s a private line. Someone in Cuba is trying to contact someone on the mainland to our west. The cable under us might not hook in to the regular Mexican communications at all. From what Gaston tells me about the jungle country between here and more civilized parts, the cable may only run a few miles inland to some base nobody’s supposed to know about. The messages at one end may be being recorded on a gramophone and picked-up only when no rurales or Cuban-Spanish cops are in the neighborhood. Can you kids tell if that repeated message is being sent to or from Cuba, Flora?”
