Renegade 36 Read online

  Captain Gringo brought him up to date on what the pimp had told him earlier. Gaston sighed and said, ‘‘Eh bien, in that case my first idea shall not march. I was coming to get you and suggest a late night train ride up to San José. Mais if an important Costa Rican clan is after us, the capital of Costa Rica could be a très dismal place to avoid them, hein?”

  Captain Gringo led him deeper into the alley as he nodded and replied, “We’d better let the old goat cool off a bit. It’s a good thing we heard about the horns he thinks he’s wearing in a seaport.”

  Gaston grinned and asked, “What do you mean, he thinks, my seducer of hidalgo femmes? I know for a fact I got the seconds of sloppy avec his daughter. Were you simply boasting when you intimated her stepmother had leaped upon your bones in a jealous rage?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “It was more complicated than that. I thought we had an understanding about what mice do when the cat’s away. But let’s not worry about how their family found out about it. Suffice it to say the fat’s in the fire and we have to get our asses out of here, poco tiempo. Know any good wars lately? We’re running low on cash from that last job anyway, and it’s just dumb for a soldier of fortune to fight over women for free.”

  Gaston said, “Let me see … the ongoing civil war in Nicaragua is out. Neither side we’ve ever fought for seems to want to pay us what they promised, and by now both sides are très annoyed with us in any case. How do you feel about Cuba? It is whispered by the vine of the grape that things are heating up in Cuba again.”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Nix on Cuba. Butcher Weyler’s a meaner bastard than Presidente Diaz of Mexico, and the Cuba Libre junta doesn’t know its ass from its elbow. Don’t you remember how we almost wound up dead messing with that show awhile back?”

  “Oui, I still have bad dreams about it. Mais they say this time Garcia will be in command. I know old Calixto from the Ten Years War. He knows his elbow from his derriere indeed and, more important, he is a man of honor as well as an old pro. Better yet, he is said to be funded by serious Yankee businessmen who no doubt expect a good price on sugar and cigars once Cuba is a satellite of Los Estados Unidos instead of a Spanish colony. Garcia can be trusted to keep his word, and if he has money as well—”

  “Too big a boo,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “You’re forgetting Cuba is an island. If we wind up on the losing side, there’s no way to run for the border. If we wind up on the winning side, we could still find ourselves in a pickle. Have you forgotten I’m wanted in the States for everything but the common cold?”

  Gaston started to ask what he meant, but sighed instead and said, “I admire a man who thinks ahead. It does seem dubious a new Cuban government beholden to Washington would offer political sanctuary to a man wanted by the U.S. Army for murder and desertion, non?”

  Captain Gringo started to protest that it had been a bum rap. But he didn’t. By now he’d been on the run so long it hardly mattered, even to him, whether he was innocent or not. The frame-up was ancient history. The erstwhile Lieutenant Richard Walker of the Tenth Cav had been the notorious Captain Gringo too long now to ever go back. For even if there was a way to clear himself on those old trumped-up court-martial charges, he had in fact bent lots of laws and shot lots of people since the night he’d busted out of an army guardhouse to escape a hanging in the cold, gray dawn.

  By this time they’d reached the far end of the alley. The calle beyond was more dimly lit than the main drag leading to the posada. But they weren’t safe anywhere in Limón now, no matter how dark it was or which way they ran. Sooner or later it had to get light again, and since both soldiers of fortune were well-known in their previously safe home base, they’d be sitting ducks for any number of total strangers who’d gotten the word and needed money.

  Captain Gringo stopped Gaston in the alley mouth and scanned the illuminated space ahead as he said, “Okay, this calle takes us to the waterfront, if we get lucky. You’re the one who knows all the tramp-steamer mates a knockaround guy can trust, if his luck holds out. So what’s in the harbor and where is it going?”

  Gaston shrugged and replied, “Merde alors, do you think I work for Costa Rican customs, Dick? I only scout the waterfront when I am planning on shipping out in the near future.”

  “You were planning on staying here in Costa Rica long?”

  “I was until less than an hour ago. Eh bien, let us hie to the quay and regard the current world trade. I wish it was not holiday season. Nobody ships bananas when all the workers are awaiting the nativity of El Nino.”

  “That’s all right. I didn’t want to go to New Orleans in the first damned place. Look, all we need is a goddamn coastal trader going either way, just so it’s going soon.”

  They moved out of the alley and headed east, hugging the walls and moving faster when they, passed under widely spaced street lamps. It was late. But Latin Americans tended to be night people, and this close to Christmas there’d be a lot of partying going on. It hardly seemed likely Santa Claus packed a gun, even down here, but anyone who spotted them, anyone at all, was likely to have heard about the open season on them and, worse yet, have a relative or two who did pack a gun!

  A block down the calle Captain Gringo went for his own shoulder-holstered .38 as a band of yelling whatevers popped out of another alley. Then he saw it was a mess of little kids on a posada romp. Latin American Christmas customs were different from the ones back home in Connecticut. Instead of trick-or-treating on Halloween, which wasn’t so important down here, the kids got all gussied up in dumb costumes to go from house to house, pleading for posada, or shelter at the inn. At each house they got turned down, albeit serenaded and sometimes given presents, until they got to the right house and were invited in for a Christmas party that reminded Captain Gringo more of the Fourth of July.

  As the kids scampered on up the calle, Captain Gringo sighed and said, “Jesus, I’m more on edge than I thought I was. I almost blew away a ten-year-old Virgin Mary. We’ve no-shit got to get out of here.”

  Gaston said, “Oui, if what my long-lost love told me about the reward on us is at all true, I would not trust a ten-year-old anything if it had the drop on me!”

  They passed an open doorway spilling candlelight and music out on the sidewalk. Captain Gringo glanced in and felt a pang of homesickness, despite the different tune and lack of holly. He muttered, “Jesus, I didn’t realize how long I’ve been down here until just now. It’s so hard to keep track of the time when it’s always summer and a guy can’t even get shot until manana.”

  Gaston said, “Don’t bet on it. Let us cut north a few blocks via more discreet alleyways, Dick. This calle spills us onto the quay too close to a très tough waterfront cantina for comfort. It would be wiser to hit the dark end, where the fishing boats haul out, and work our way south, non?”

  Captain Gringo followed him into the next alley, saying, “If you say so. But won’t any serious steamers be moored closer to the banana docks or, worse yet, moored out in the roads?”

  Gaston said, “Oui, mais we shall make poorer targets approaching from the gloom of the fishermen’s barrio.”

  They did. Gaston led the way to the dark end of the long quay. They could hear the water lapping against the hulls of the larger trawlers still in the water at this time of night. But all they could see of them was their masts and rigging against the starry tropic sky to the northeast. Captain Gringo inhaled the cooler brine-scented air expansively and observed, “The trades are picking up a bit. About time. It’s been hot as hell for jingle bells up to now.”

  Gaston said, “This is no time for religious arguments. Let us move toward the light down that way. Some species of religious fanatic has hung paper lanterns all along his warehouse, spilling more light than usual, curse his pious soul, mais I do not see anything that looks like a coastal tramp, or even a schooner, do you?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and stared out across the inky water of the harbor as h
e suggested, “Maybe moored out there where those pinpoints of light are?”

  Gaston said, “Mais non, those are channel markers, Dick. I was right. If this is not the Eve of Noel, it is too close to it for anyone but us to be interested in more serious business. Even if we find a vessel, they will not be shoving off until after everyone opens his presents and sobers up, hein?”

  Captain Gringo thought before he said, “I think it’s three or four days to Christmas. You’re right about the way they party down here. Do you have any suggestions about where we hang up our stockings until things get back to normal?’’

  Gaston sighed and said, “Mais non. I don’t think even the lady who warned me would take us back in at this late date. The local population can be divided into those who wish us ill and those who at best do not wish to be called in as witnesses. We have more friends up in San José. On the other hand, so does the other side. I was not looking forward to spending Christmas in a mangrove swamp, even with you. Mais at least it is the dry season.’’

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “It’s a long hike to the border either way, and once we get there, so what? We don’t have any more friends in Panama or Nicaragua than we do here. The last time we were either place, our side was losing.’’

  “Eh bien, in that case may I suggest straight up? I do not think we are wanted on the moon, and we certainly cannot stay here much longer, Dick. Even as we speak, men avec guns are hunting us all over Limón, and the treacherous sun will be up in a few short hours!’’

  Captain Gringo turned and led the way back toward the fishing barrio. Beyond a line of low rooftops, they could see the glow of bonfires and hear the distant laughter of a street party. Gaston said, “No doubt they will be serving free food and drink. No doubt at least some of the jolly fishwives will be pretty. Mais do you think we shall be welcomed with open arms, Dick? Fisher folk are clannish, even when Hispanic strangers crash their parties.”

  Captain Gringo said, “I know. On the other hand, everyone who can walk will be over there, getting drunk and trying to get laid. See if you can spot a ketch rig around here. Two men can’t man a lugger or lateen rig, and a single master’s too slow and small for serious sailing.”

  “Mon Dieu, are we planning an act of piracy, my ingenious child? Far be it from me to attempt your reformation. Mais you know, of course, we shall hang if we get caught at sea with no papers and a no-doubt slow and leaky vessel.”

  “You want to stay here and get shot for sure?” replied Captain Gringo. Then he spotted what he was looking for and added, “Come on. That ketch beyond that lugger looks like just what the doctor ordered.”

  They had to climb over the deserted lugger to reach the ketch, and as they leaped aboard, guns drawn and eyes peeled, Gaston sniffed and said, “I can see why nobody seems to be aboard. Sacré goddamn, what a stench! It reminds me of an Arab girl I met in Algiers one time. My sergeant warned us to stay out of the Casbah, but at twenty, who listens?”

  Captain Gringo told him to shut up and cast off as he moved to the hatch of the little cabin, opened it, and struck a match. It was unoccupied and smelled even worse. But what the hell, they’d have to stay out on deck to work the stinky tub in any case.

  He slid the hatch to and moved to join Gaston in the bow. The Frenchman had already untied the painter attaching them to the lugger fastened to the quay. So the two of them grasped the lugger’s low rail and walked the ketch out to deeper water. As their momentum kept them drifting backward against the trades, Gaston hoisted the jib and Captain Gringo ran the spanker up above the cockpit. The two small sails fore and aft were enough to beat across the trades until they were clear of the other fishing boats. As Gaston joined him in the cockpit, Captain Gringo was already tacking for the open sea. The Frenchman asked when he wanted the main up. He said, “Leave it for now. She handles better under short sail, and getting out of the harbor without cutting in front of those marker lights may be tricky.”

  “Don’t you mean impossible, Dick? If you do not pass between the markers to either side of the bar, you shall surely hang our keel over a coral head, non?”

  “Non. The main channel’s meant for serious shipping. This tub can’t draw more than a few feet, and I’ve seen the local fishermen take shortcuts before.”

  “Oui, mais that was in the broadness of day, Dick. I would not want to be stuck out here on the open water, in sight of town, by the dawn’s early light, hein?”

  “Aw, quit your bitching. Would you be any better off onshore when the sun comes up?”

  Actually, they were well over the horizon under full sail when the tropic sun popped up with a green flash and proceeded to glare at them like an open furnace door from a cloudless cobalt sky. With the sails set and Captain Gringo at the helm, Gaston had nothing to do, so he ducked below to explore, jerk off, or whatever. He was back on deck sooner than Captain Gringo had expected, holding his nose.

  He sat on the coaming wearily and said, “Eh bien, now you have us in a pickle indeed, my hasty purloiner of small craft! Do you know how much food we have on hand? We have no food at all on hand. Do you know how much fresh water I measured in the water butts? I did not find any water butts. The suspicious sons of the bitch who tied this ketch up last night even took their matches ashore with them! All they left on board was the stench of rotting fish. They did not even leave us a rotting fish to eat.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “So use your own matches and smoke your own cigars. It takes about a month to starve to death, and I wasn’t planning on a month at sea anyway.”

  “True. No doubt we can catch some rainwater with spare canvas, assuming I can find spare canvas and it rains sometime this side of next July.”

  “Aw, come on, the dry season only lasts until May, most years.”

  “Oui, and with luck, and more shade than I observe around here at the moment, a man can last three or four days without water. You species of idiot, at the rate we are going we shall be mad with thirst before New Year’s Day!”

  Captain Gringo said, “No we won’t. Once we put some distance between ourselves and the guys who used to own this boat, we’ll put in to shore and get some fucking water.”

  Gaston reached in his jacket for the smoke Captain Gringo had suggested, but said, “The mangrove swamps along the Mosquito Coast are saline or, at best, brackish, non?”

  “So what? You never heard of freshwater creeks running into a swamp? The last time we had to run through one, the hard way, you kept bitching about the streams we had to wade across every few miles.”

  “True, mais I was more concerned about Indians and alligators than wet socks, Dick. Anywhere we are likely to find good water, we are likely to encounter Indians and other savage creatures and, between us, we have two pistols and perhaps thirty rounds of short-range ammo, non?”

  “So use your dagger if you can’t be nice. We’ve always gotten along okay with Mosquito Indians, haven’t we?”

  “Perhaps, but the way you are steering makes it more likely we shall encounter Puna, another breed entire. Why are we going south, by the way? There is nothing too civilized south of Costa Rica this side of Rio, perhaps.”

  Captain Gringo said, “That was the general idea. Remember that big shot we met in Venezuela that time? The guy who said we could visit his plantation for free the next time we were up the Orinoco?”

  “Merde alors, that was almost a year ago, and even if he remembers us, it’s too damned far, Dick!’’

  “Not if we get this tub provisioned right,” Captain Gringo insisted, adding, “There’s fruit, nuts, and game ashore. This ocean is full of fish. We’ve got our knives if we can’t find any other tools somewhere aboard this tub. If we hollow out some gourds to hold water, rig some fishing tackle, and maybe run into some friendly Indian who can sell us more substantial supplies—”

  “You had better start searching for them tout de suite!” Gaston cut in, pointing aft as he continued, “Regard what is following us at formidable
speed!”

  Captain Gringo looked over his shoulder and said, “Ouch!” as he spied the plume of greasy black smoke above the horizon to the north. He’d already swung the helm hard over when he said, “Shin up the shrouds and con me into anything that looks like a channel.”

  Gaston only talked too much when nothing important was going on. He climbed the rigging with amazing grace for a man who had to be at least sixty or was a bullshit artist about his past. As Captain Gringo steered blindly for the low-lying mangrove-haunted shoreline, the little Frenchman called down, “I can make her out now, Dick. She appears to be a species of gunboat, moving at full speed as if she had something très grim in mind!”

  Captain Gringo called up, “Never mind who’s chasing us! Tell me where to go, goddamn it!”

  Gaston stared shoreward as he clung to the masthead. Then he called down, “To starboard, Dick.”

  “Are you nuts? That takes us back up the coast toward that gunboat, and if you can see them, they can see us!”

  “Merde alors, do you think I missed that point? Nevertheless, the only place I see any gap at all in the mangroves is at least a mile north of the way you have our bow pointed at the moment!”

  Captain Gringo cursed and swung the helm over as he called out, “How far out of range are they now?” and Gaston called back, “Surely you jest. They already have us ranged with their adorable four-pounders. Why they have not already fired eludes me. Perhaps they do not think we can elude them in any case, and would like a word with us before they blow us out of the water, hein?”

  Captain Gringo had been afraid he’d say a thing like that. If there was one thing Gaston knew, it was big guns. Given one of his own to work with, the old artilleryman could lob a shell into a bucket at impossible range. But since the ketch they’d stolen hadn’t come with its own deck guns, all Gaston could do was cling to the mast and curse as they worked out a very serious problem in trigonometry.