Renegade 22 Read online

  It is a wicked myth to accuse the Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada, of needless cruelty. His fellow Dominicans record that Torquemada often wept after ordering criminal heretics to the stake, and it is known he considered gentler forms of execution. But the laws of Torquemada’s time specified Death by Fire for relapsed heretics, and the Grand Inquisitor was above all a man of dedication to the Law. His enemies forget that he in fact pardoned far more people than he ever burned, and ordered pregnant women strangled before the flames reached them. The end result of the Grand Inquisitor’s evenhanded policy was, as we know, a country again peacefully united under one faith. Consider, if you will, the years of religious strife in France, Germany, and other lands rent by the dire results of allowing any misguided malcontent to spawn his or her own religion, and you will see how, in the end, the handful of heretics executed in Spain saved a million lives or more. Thanks to Torquemada, the Iberian Peninsula never suffered anything like the Thirty Years War, in which at least a third of the population of Germany perished!

  Captain Gringo shrugged and read on. That wasn’t the way the Spanish Inquisition was described in Connecticut schoolbooks. But, in fairness, American schoolbooks were mostly written by New England Protestants.

  He found it harder to buy, Justice must not only be sure. It must be dealt out in a manner that the common man, who is all too often an impulsive child, can understand. Punishment must fit the crime, not as punishment as much as an example. Once you allow the illiterate mind to even hope for acquittal on appeal on some technicality beyond his or her grasp, all respect for the law vanishes. A killer must be killed no matter who is killed or why. Other criminals must be punished and severely, with no discussion of extenuating circumstances. That is all the uneducated mind understands. The English myth, Robin Hood, is one of the most subversive books ever written and has no doubt been the inspiration for countless savage criminals like the late Americano bandit Jesse James. The poor shall always be with us and the poor shall always need money. They must be constantly warned that it is simply wrong to steal and that they shall be punished if they do so!

  Captain Gringo skipped a few chapters to see if the old guy had anything to say about running his utopia for anyone who escaped the gallows. Zagal had said he was working on a constitution for Panama. That was probably why it wasn’t in this vanity publication. He got tired of reading about how dumb everybody else was. So he put the book aside to catch some sleep. Between the views of El Criado Publico and his daughter, next door, his dreams that night were pissers.

  In the morning Gaston woke him up with some half-assed plan about the up-to-now-useless four-pound shells they had on hand. The morning sky was greenish and the air smelled like brass polish, so Gaston was probably right that Esperanza wouldn’t make another run before the hurricane somewhere off shore either hit or went somewhere else.

  They went down the hill to the village. Gaston was looking for a machine shop. They didn’t find one when they asked around, although everyone was anxious as hell to help them find one. They had drinks at a cantina, and when they tried to pay, the waiter refused their dinero.

  He said there was indeed a blacksmith down the quay who sometimes did heavy work for the local boat builders. When they left, Captain Gringo left a tip on the table. The waiter caught up with them and begged them to take it back, explaining, “Gratuities are forbidden under the new law of Panama, señores.”

  The tall American took his money back with a puzzled smile and they continued on. Gaston said, “Trés unusual, non? These blue uniforms seem to open every door around here. I wonder where the nearest whorehouse is.”

  “I thought you were looking for someone to build you a cannon.”

  “Oui, but even dirty old men need more than their own fist to calm their nerves. If all services here are gratis to the armed forces, one could call it romance, non?”

  They reached the blacksmith shop first. The smith was almost as tall as Captain Gringo and built like a gorilla. He looked mean enough to whip them both fair and square, but he acted meek as a lamb facing a pair of timber wolves as they showed him Gaston’s rough sketch of what they wanted and asked the smith if he could make it.

  The burly smith spread the drawing on his anvil and studied it as if it were his own death sentence before he licked his lips and said weakly, “Forgive me, señores, I have a wife and children.”

  Gaston said, “Eh bien, congratulations. Do you think you can forge this crude weapon for me as well?”

  The smith fell to his knees on the cinders at their feet and sobbed, “I would if I could, I swear to God, señores! But I have never attempted to hammer that much iron together, and even if I could improvise the barrel, I do not have the machine tools it would require to form your ever so wondrous breechblock.”

  Captain Gringo held out a hand and said, “For God’s sake, get up and stop whimpering, hombre. You don’t have to be afraid of us. We don’t bite.”

  The smith looked unconvinced as he allowed Captain Gringo to help him back to his feet. The American was aware of the man’s sheer strength as their hands gripped. But he was sure that if he asked the poor guy to drop his pants, bend over, and spread his cheeks, he’d get no argument. Gaston said, “Eh bien. Forget the breech and let us discuss the tube. Could you not hammer strap stock around a hardwood mandrel the diameter of the shells and then simply burn the wood out with your forge? The charred-out wood would carbonize the inner layers of wrought iron to mild steel as well, non?”

  The smith began to look interested, despite his obvious fear of them. He said, “Si, but what about the rifle lands, señor?”

  Gaston shrugged and answered, “Smooth bore will have to do, sans a respectable machine shop in this très fatigue little village. How far can one fire into a jungle in any case, hein? Wait, let me rephrase the breech block with my ingenious pencil stub. Do you think you could at least manage something like the barrel bolt for a door, on a larger scale of course?”

  The smith said he was sure willing to try. Captain Gringo looked at Gaston’s new design and said, “This looks pretty risky, Gaston. Without threads, you’d be taking all the recoil on one skinny bar of mild steel.”

  “True. But that is how they fashioned the first breech loaders, back in the 1600s, non?”

  “Yeah, and then they went back to muzzle loading for a couple of hundred years. They must have gotten tired of having big guns blowing up in their faces. Leave us not forget that those old treacherous breech loaders fired black powder, too! Those four-pounder rounds use cordite, maybe six or eight times as powerful!”

  Gaston said to let him and the smith worry about it. Said smith had dropped everything and was already heating up strap stock as they left. He’d said the mandrel was no problem. There was a shipwright down the quay who’d be glad to lathe-turn the wood for them, at no cost and poco tiempo. He had a wife and children too.

  As they moved up the walk, Captain Gringo asked, “Do you get the impression folks are scared of us in this neck of the woods, Gaston?”

  The Frenchman nodded and replied, “Us or these uniforms. I told you when we arrived that those dock workers moved like someone was holding a gun to their heads.” Captain Gringo took out a smoke and lit up before he said, “I think you might have had a point. It’s funny, I don’t see anyone else in these pretty duds policing the village. But the villagers act like there’s a drunken Rurale on every corner. A mean one. Old Zagal and his kid jurados don’t act very tough though.”

  “Neither did the Borgias, when people behaved as they’d been told, Dick. I sense a trés iron fist inside a velvet glove. Speaking of velvet, when are you going to do something about what’s inside that black velvet dress young Inocencia wears all the time? She was flirting with you at breakfast again this morning, you know.”

  “I wasn’t looking. She’s not my cup of tea.”

  “Merde alors, who are you holding out for, Ellen Terry or the Jersey Lilly? The girl’s tits belle, and she has no lover. I
asked.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t tell him how wrong he was. He didn’t want a dirty old man jerking off in his room while he was trying not to.

  A kid was coming down the walk toward them. He slowed warily when he spotted their uniforms. But Gaston called him over and said, “Tell me, chico, how does a man get laid in this town?”

  The kid gulped and replied, “I am sure my sister is willing, Señor Jurado. But in truth she is ugly, and still a virgin.”

  Gaston laughed and said, “Perhaps a more experienced woman of the town would be more practique. I meant I was looking for a house of ill repute.”

  The kid looked relieved and gave them an address down the quay. Then he ran like hell. Not asking for the usual tip.

  Gaston shrugged and said, “They certainly make one feel welcome here. Are you coming, my choosy spoiled child?”

  “No, thanks. It’s no fun with a dame scared out of her wits.”

  “Speak for yourself. Many women enjoy being dominated. I’ll meet you up at the ogre’s castle after la siesta, hein?”

  He was wrong. A couple of the uniformed jurado bodyguards tore around the corner, rifles at port arms, and ran up to them. They popped to attention and presented arms as one said, “You are wanted up at the fortress, señores! They sent us for to search for you!”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “You found us. What’s up?”

  “Some scouts just came in from the jungle, Captain Gringo. They report a column of Colombian soldados coming this way, muy pronto!”

  *

  Actually, the government column was about a day’s march away, if the situation map in El Criado Publico’s office meant anything. The scouts and some of the other officers were there with the rebel leader himself, of course, so it was kind of noisy until Captain Gringo shouted, “At ease, damm it! We’re not going to get a handle on the situation if we all talk at once!”

  Everyone shut up. So he turned to the leader of the patrol that had spotted the Colombians and said, “Bueno. Let’s talk about numbers and weapons, first. Did you guys take a head count and did you see any heavy weapons?”

  The head scout said, “They were strung out along a chicle gatherers’ trail for at least a few hundred meters, Captain Gringo. We could not count them all because we did not see them all. I was watching from up in a tree. I slid down it before any of their own scouts could spot me. I can tell you a full company of infantry is in the lead. Behind them came a train of mules with most unusual packs. Each mule had what looked like a wagon wheel hanging on either side. I could not see what was covered with canvas between the wheels. There were about a dozen such mules. Then others, packing what seemed to be simply big boxes. When I saw more infantry coming along behind the mule train, I thought it wise to get out of there.”

  One of the young jurados said, “Coward! You should have waited until you’d seen everything!”

  Captain Gringo said, “At ease. Scouts aren’t supposed to be brave. They’re supposed to get back alive after they make contact with the enemy. Dead scouts tell no tales. So these guys did right.”

  He turned to Gaston with a raised eyebrow. The little Frenchman nodded and said, “Oui, small jungle artillery pieces. Probably howitzers like we are supposed to have and don’t. Short range. Big bang. If they have as many as a dozen, these old Spanish walls won’t last too long.”

  El Criado Publico said, “We must do the best we can with what we have. If only we can hold the fort until la Nombre Nada returns with our own cannon …”

  “We can’t,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “No offense, El Criado, but you’re a lawyer and I’m the professional soldier you hired. I don’t have time for a lecture. So just take my word for it that the guys at the Alamo made a basic blunder that Houston corrected in the open field a few weeks later. The reason we don’t build castles anymore is that they went out when cannon were invented.”

  “But surely this fort was designed to take some cannon fire, no?”

  “The operative word is some, El Criado. There’s supposed to be at least one big one mounted on each of your six points, and we don’t have shit.”

  “But with all our rifles and your machine guns, surely we can stop any charge up the steep slopes all around, no?”

  “Now why in the hell would anyone order that? They don’t have to assault us that way. So they won’t. Santa Anna was a jerk-off at the Alamo. He should have dug his infantry in all around, outside Davy Crockett’s rifle range, and simply pounded the ’dobe walls flat with his Napoleons. Instead, he made a legend out of a bunch of untrained civilians. The officers leading that Colombian column figure to be a bit smarter than a self-taught Mexican general. They’ll be lobbing H.E. shells too, and we don’t have anything to lob back.”

  He turned again to Gaston and asked, “How long do you figure your smith will take, and what sort of range are we talking about?”

  Gaston said, “Assuming he’s a genius working through the night, he could have a crude but respectable gun for me by about this time mañana. As to range, don’t be silly. Three miles is too much to hope for, with a smooth bore and a loose fit.”

  Captain Gringo said, “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. Okay, you stay here and do the best you can, Gaston. I’ll lead a big combat patrol out and we shall see what we shall see.”

  One of the jurados asked what good Gaston would be here at the fort if his cannon wasn’t much good. Captain Gringo said, “You’re going” to need somebody to lead you through the jungle to the Costa Rican border if I don’t make it back.”

  El Criado Publico gasped and said, “Never! I do not intend to give up without a fight, Captain Gringo!”

  The tall American shrugged and said, “Okay. Gaston can lead the smart guys out, then. We haven’t got time to talk about it.”

  *

  With Gaston’s help, Captain Gringo had thrown together a hundred picked riflemen and four good machine gun crews. So for a change he didn’t have to pack his own Maxim as he led them through the jungle. He’d taken along noncoms whom Gaston had said were better than average and left behind the natty jurado officers who’d volunteered. This was hardly the time for on-the-job training.

  Captain Gringo had the same scouts who’d spotted the approaching column out on point. Like the other guerrillas, they were not local natives, but they’d screwed around in the local jungle enough to know the lay of the land by now. So when one ran back to report they’d reached the river crossing he’d pointed out on the map, he told his followers to take cover as he moved forward to see for himself.

  On the map the sluggish little river was a blue line. In real life it was an open slow expanse of tea-colored water about a pistol shot across. He sent a runner for Hernando, the senior noncom he’d picked as segundo, hoping he knew what he was doing. When the mestizo joined him, Captain Gringo said, “We form one firing line here on this side with two-thirds of the men. Each rifleman prone and firing from cover at two-meter intervals. Put Garcia’s machine gun crew upstream. Have Morales and his crew for the other crossbar of the X down on your left flank. Any questions?”

  “Si, Captain Gringo. Who shall give the order to fire?”

  “You will, Hernando. Let them make it two-thirds of the way over and then fire at will and make sure Will goes down. Your riflemen will drop most of the guys on your side of the machine gun crossfire. Anyone retreating back through it will be in lots of trouble. As soon as you drive them back to the cover on the other side, get yourself and your men the hell out of here. Lead them all back to the fort and report to Lieutenant Verrier for further orders.”

  The burly Hernando frowned and said, “Forgive me, I do not understand those orders, Captain Gringo. I feel certain we can stop them more than one time, no?”

  “No. Trained troops don’t walk into an ambush twice. Once you’ve bloodied them, they’ll dig in on the far side and start smoking up this position from cover, as they call artillery down on it. But if nobody’s home, nobody can ge
t hurt, and meanwhile you’ll have delayed their advance at least an hour or so. They won’t try another crossing until they’ve made sure you’ve retreated. Since they won’t know how far you’ve retreated, they’ll move a lot slower from here on, see?”

  Hernando brightened and replied, “By the balls of Cristo, I do! Hey, I like the way you make war, Captain Gringo. In Mexico our officers kept trying for to get us to die for our cause.”

  “Don’t tell anybody, but that’s not professional. The idea is to make the other son of a bitch die for his cause. Get moving, muchacho. I have to take my own people over the river and through the woods before grandmother gets here.”

  He whistled up another guerrilla named Pablo and said, “Your guys and the two other machine guns are moving on. What are you waiting for?”

  Then he nodded to a nearby scout and started wading across the shallow and hopefully gator-free river without looking back. He followed the trail a mile and then looked back, and when he saw that Pablo, a rifle platoon, and two machine gun crews were still with him, told one of the scouts to move down a couple of miles and keep him posted. Then he started to set up his own ambush.

  He put most of his men in line flanking the trail from cover, again with a machine gun nest secured by sharpshooters at each end. He made sure each man had the same orders regarding targets. Then he moved across the trail with the handful of good shots he’d picked as tree snipers. As he sent each one up a tree he told them the same thing: “Remember to stay the hell up there until I personally order you down or, if this doesn’t work, until after dark. You’ve got smokeless powder. But don’t fire at anyone looking your way, anyway. The idea is to make them think they’re in a cross fire, so they don’t complicate our lives by running this way from the main fire line. I want ’em squeezed back down the trail like a tube of toothpaste. If anybody shoots a mule, guess who gets to carry its load?”

  They all said they understood as he sent them up in the trees to play monkey where they wouldn’t be hit by friendly fire coming across the trail to their side.