Mercenary Read online

  The somber drinking that followed the service took on a more festive air as night fell, but Lee and his officers retired to the cuartel to share a bottle in private. Bonilla now controlled the Bay Islands, two lucrative customs houses, and the coastline from Iriona to La Ceiba. Lee’s forces had won a genuine battle, showing tenacity and ingenuity in the face of greater numbers. Desertions from the government side would increase, and yet more new recruits would flock to the rebels’ banner. And he had a whole barracks full of guns and ammunition to arm them.

  The pick of the bunch were the five new machine guns and two old Gatling guns that Molony began disassembling as soon as the bottle of aguardiente was passed around. McLaurie winced as he took a swig. “How you boys ever got used to this rotgut is beyond me.”

  Lee guffawed and grabbed the bottle, making a big show of swallowing a huge gulp without so much as blinking. “Never show fear in the face of the enemy.” He mopped his brow and passed the bottle down to Molony. “Even if you’re crying inside.”

  “I knew it,” said McLaurie, slapping his thigh. “Tell you what, though. Questionable local hooch aside, I’m of half a mind to settle down here when we’re done knocking off this Davíla.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Molony hadn’t even noticed the bottle beside him.

  “Sure,” said McLaurie. “Why? What you planning to do after the war?”

  “This ain’t done yet,” growled Lee. “And it’s bad luck to talk like it is.”

  Molony stopped tinkering and glanced up at Lee. “Sure, but with all these new weapons … I can’t wait to set them up in the field.”

  “And the income from this customs house here will go a long way,” said McLaurie.

  Molony nodded. “We pretty much own the Caribbean coast now, once we take Puerto Cortés.”

  “Quit jabbering.” Lee kicked Molony. “And drink up.”

  Once Guy was done, Lee grabbed the aguardiente from him. “Like I told you already: you’ll jinx us.” Lee fumbled in his pocket for a puro, and took a swig from the bottle before lighting the cigar. “Anyway, who knows what the Americans will do next.”

  McLaurie got a faraway look in his eyes. “I think I’d like to be a coconut farmer.” Lee and Molony erupted in peals of laughter.

  After a full minute, Lee wiped his eye. “Shit, Ed, that was a good one.”

  “I’m serious.” He grabbed the bottle from Lee. “I could do it, too.”

  Guy and Lee burst into laughter once more.

  “What?” demanded McLaurie, pouting.

  Molony calmed himself. “Sorry, Ed. I shouldn’t laugh. It just sounds funny—a coconut farm.”

  “Okay,” said McLaurie. “A plantation then.”

  “That sounds better,” Molony conceded. “But do they do that? I just assumed they grew wild everywhere.”

  “Sure they do,” he said. “There’s big money in it.”

  Lee raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Before McLaurie could respond, Pedro Gonzales burst through the door, red-faced and sweating.

  Lee threw his hands in the air. “We surrender! Don’t shoot us!” This time they all roared with laughter.

  “Hijos de putas.” Gonzales grabbed Lee’s arm. “Listen, an urgent letter just arrived on the Guatemala steamer.” He handed it to Lee.

  The group fell silent as Lee tore it open. While he scanned the contents, the three men edged closer.

  “What is it, Lee?” asked Molony.

  A grin spread across his face. “Where’s that damn bottle?”

  “What is it?” repeated Molony.

  “A girl.” He beamed and grabbed the aguardiente from McLaurie. “A baby girl. Born this morning.”

  Guy and Pedro congratulated him while McLaurie shook his hand. “Does she have a name?” he asked.

  Lee took a swig. “I’m gonna call her Ceiba.”

  64

  When Bonilla arrived to survey the famous victory, he saw it had come at a heavy price. General Leiva’s losses during the conquest of La Ceiba left barely half of his six hundred men fit for duty. Within a day, however, spurred on by Bonilla’s arrival and the air of unstoppable momentum, some seven hundred new recruits joined the revolution.

  The surge in volunteers was welcome. Capturing Puerto Cortés would be a much trickier proposition. While Molony, Gonzales, and McLaurie ensured the new recruits were equipped and given at least some basic training, Christmas and Bonilla discussed tactics in the cuartel. “Remind me why we can’t just march on Puerto Cortés?” asked Bonilla, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know how long it was since you were last there, but any time you visited it was probably by train.” Lee leaned in to the map. “And it’s not well marked here but this laguna which wraps all the way around the back is actually saltwater.” He pointed at the edge of town. “This is a bridge, a long trestle bridge, not a strip of land. We would be cut to pieces trying to attack down there.”

  “Even with numbers?”

  Lee puffed up his chest. “Me and a handful of others held off the whole San Pedro garrison there a few years back.”

  “I think I heard something about that.” Bonilla smiled. “But that’s not the only access point.”

  “That trestle bridge over the laguna is just for the banana train. There’s a road bridge on the other side of town, but you’d have to march by the rest of Puerto Cortés just to reach it. And those who weren’t picked off on the approach would face the same problem trying to get across that bridge.”

  Bonilla stifled a yawn, holding up his hand by way of apology. “And we can’t attack by sea.”

  “Nope,” Lee said. “Pretty much suicidal now, with the Hornet gone and the Americans and British guarding the harbor.”

  Bonilla stared at the map, rubbing one eye and then the other. “What are the options?”

  “Only one, far as I can see.” Lee leaned over the map. “The harbor of Puerto Cortés is protected by this headland.” He traced his finger away from the town. “On the other side is this beach. It’s more exposed, so the seas are much wilder, but we should be able to land there.”

  “Could be dangerous if they expect it.”

  Lee nodded. “They will expect it,” he said. “And it will be dangerous. We’ll have to hit the beach pretty hard, gain control as quickly as possible. Then we’ll hold it while the rest of the troops disembark, and then move on the town itself.”

  Bonilla stretched. “I’m sorry Lee, I need to get some sleep. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

  “Can I start planning the beach landing?”

  “Talk to your officers. Draw up a detailed plan for taking that beach. I’ll look at it, but I haven’t made any decisions.”

  Lee stayed in the cuartel as Bonilla left, staring at the map of the Caribbean coast of Honduras that was stretched over the table. He tapped his finger on Puerto Cortés and remembered stepping off that banana boat, unknown, without a penny to his name. Hell, he corrected himself, I remember stepping on that damn steamer, drunk, not even knowing where it was headed.

  And now he would arrive as liberator.

  * * *

  The next morning found him poring over the map once more, discussing with Molony and McLaurie how many men they should commit to the first wave. He relished the task, excited to have another chance to test himself in battle. But he was surprised when Bonilla arrived two hours early.

  “We’re not quite done yet,” said Lee.

  Bonilla waved a hand. “Never mind that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Davíla’s men have abandoned Puerto Cortés,” said Bonilla, his eyes dancing.

  McLaurie and Molony congratulated Bonilla, but Lee ignored them. “What do you mean by ‘abandoned’?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Bonilla.

  “Did they retreat? Are they waiting for us in the bush? Did they all defect?”

  Bonilla furrowed his brow. “We have reports they retreated up the railway track to San Pedro.” McLaurie
whooped, but Lee shot him a fierce look as Bonilla continued. “But I haven’t confirmed anything yet.”

  Lee slammed a fist on the table.

  “General,” said Bonilla. “I know you wanted your battle, but there’s a town there for the taking. Maybe we could…” He spread his hands.

  “Shit,” said Lee. “Of course.” He turned to Molony. “Find Joe Reed. Gonzales and Leiva too.” He punched Ed in the arm. “You get down to the pier and round up the skippers.” Lee smiled. “Tell ’em we move out in two hours. No excuses!”

  Lee may have been denied his battle, but he wasn’t denied a hero’s welcome as the population of Puerto Cortés thronged the streets to welcome the rebel army and its gringo commander. In the crowd, Molony spotted his old friend, fresh off the Guatemala boat—the guy who’d tipped him off about the Honduran gig in the first place, Sam Dreben.

  After the rebels had marched through the town and back again, Lee headed to the cuartel to see if the garrison had left anything useful. Gonzales intercepted him with a message from Bonilla. He wanted to talk. Alone.

  Lee made his way down to the banana wharf—the same spot where he’d winded the brother of his second wife, and the place he had eloped from with his third—and waited while Bonilla dealt with the entreaties of a pair of local businessmen. On seeing Lee, Bonilla made his apologies to them and summoned Christmas forward.

  “New friends?” Lee asked, with a wry grin.

  “My least favorite part of the job.” Bonilla picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “But forget that.” He looked up. “I have big news.”

  Lee swept his arm back toward Puerto Cortés. “Bigger than this?”

  “No.” Bonilla laughed. “Well, maybe. You wanted to know why Davíla beat such a hasty retreat?” He tapped his nose. “I think I have the answer.”

  “Go on.”

  “I still have eyes and ears in Congress. Presidential Palace too. It seems Davíla got desperate after the fall of La Ceiba and telegrammed Washington.”

  Lee raised an eyebrow.

  “He promised to sign the treaty and push it through Congress if they intervened.”

  “I’m still waiting for the part with the good news,” said Lee.

  “President Taft told him to get the treaty passed first, and he’d have all the backing he wanted.”

  Lee rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

  “Quite,” said Bonilla. “But he must have been desperate, because he called the entire chamber into his private office, one by one, and begged them to vote for the treaty.”

  “Did they hold the vote?”

  “They did, all right. And they voted no!”

  “The treaty is dead?”

  Bonilla grinned. “The treaty is dead, amigo.”

  65

  That night, Puerto Cortés threw the wildest fiesta it had seen in living memory, helped on by Bonilla forking over a significant portion of the revolutionary budget to keep the rum flowing. The party spilled over into a second day, and a third, with only a rudimentary watch posted at both bridges—and they were just as drunk as everyone else. Festivities finally calmed on the fourth day, when Bonilla received further news. The United States was inviting both sides to attend formal peace talks aboard the USS Tacoma.

  “Peace talks!” Lee yelled when he heard, livid at the news. “You should damn well tell ’em to shove it.”

  “Tranquilo,” said Bonilla.

  Lee continued pacing. “This war is over, goddamn it. It’s only a matter of time.” He shook his head. “Davíla has no chance.”

  “I know, and so do the Americans.”

  “Why are they pushing so hard now anyways? The treaty is dead.”

  “Lee, listen to me.” Bonilla stood in his path, forcing him to stop pacing. “This isn’t a negotiation. Davíla needs to save face. And probably wants safe passage out of the country.”

  Lee snorted. “So we’d be discussing his surrender?”

  Bonilla smiled slightly and waggled his hand. “More or less.”

  The peace talks began three days later on the deck of the USS Tacoma. Lee recognized a couple of faces, nodding at Commander Cooper who looked less at ease on the deck of someone else’s vessel. A diplomatic fuss erupted when Davíla arrived and refused to sit at the same table as a mercenary. Lee was sorely tempted to knock his teeth out, but Bonilla squeezed his arm. “Give us a moment,” he whispered.

  Lee lit a puro, gazing out at Puerto Cortés over the rail of the Tacoma.

  “Isn’t this a crock of shit?” Commander Cooper joined him.

  Lee turned and smiled, surprised. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Got another one of those?”

  “Sure.”

  Cooper took his time lighting it. “I’ll tell you exactly how this is gonna go,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Davíla’s guys will say some shit, then Bonilla will refuse. Then Davíla’s guys will ask for the same concession in different words, and Bonilla will refuse again.”

  Lee nodded, wondering where he was headed.

  “Which is his right,” Cooper said. “Davíla’s in a position of weakness.”

  “The war is won.” Lee sighed. “Didn’t see the point in coming here in the first place.”

  “Right,” said Cooper. “I’d be saying the same thing, in your shoes. But Davíla needs to save face. If the newspapers report that he signed away his presidency after ten minutes, he’ll look like a coward. So he’ll drag this out as long as he can.” The commander took another puff. “Davíla’s only got one card to play. He can go now, or he can prolong the war. Either way, he’s gonna lose.”

  “That’s not worth much.” Lee cracked his knuckles on the rail. “We ain’t near tired yet.”

  “Right,” said Cooper. “He’s already got safe passage. Davíla knows we’ve pretty much guaranteed that already.”

  “What’s he going to push for, then?”

  “Oh, he’ll try for whatever he can get. I’m guessing a compromise candidate as interim president, followed by an election.”

  “Bonilla would win in a landslide.”

  “Exactly,” said Cooper. “Davíla’s job here is to push the date for that election out as far as possible, giving him a chance to regroup.”

  Lee sighed again and Cooper clapped him on the back. “Politics, my friend.” He stubbed his puro on the rail and flicked the butt into the ocean. “I must say, though, didn’t think you’d get this far.”

  Lee smiled. “Was never in doubt, Commander.”

  “I see that now,” said Cooper. “Come on, let’s rejoin them. We can make faces at each other from either side of the table.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not welcome, remember?”

  “Don’t mind him.” Cooper waved a hand. “You take your seat at that table. I watched your performance at La Ceiba. Those interlocking fields of machine-gun fire.” He shook his head. “Brilliant.” He clapped Lee on the back once more. “And if Davíla has a problem with it, I’ll throw the bastard overboard myself.”

  The talks didn’t conclude until sundown, Bonilla showing far more patience than Lee. The agreement was simple. Davíla would resign, and the revolutionary forces would stand down with immediate effect. A compromise candidate, Dr. Manuel Bertrand, would be installed as president until an election could be held later in the year.

  In the end, Davíla didn’t even contest the October election, and Bonilla defeated his opponent in a landslide. He was inaugurated four months later, on February 1, 1912, and finally reinstalled in the Presidential Palace that had been wrested away from him by force. To ease the transition, Bonilla named Bertrand his vice president.

  Stability, however, would remain out of reach.

  66

  Two days after President Bonilla was sworn in, a revolt broke out along the Salvadoran border. Bonilla stayed Lee’s hand when he wanted to quash the rebellion personally, making excuses Lee couldn’t understand. In the end, local commanders snuffed out the threat before an
y troops could be dispatched from Tegucigalpa.

  Despite how briefly the insurrection flared, it was enough to spark another. One of Bonilla’s old adversaries, Valladares, sailed from Costa Rica to El Salvador and began gathering recruits. Since the peace talks aboard the USS Tacoma, Valladares had been sending forth vicious screeds, pamphlets decrying both Dávila and Bonilla as yanqui stooges. It was only a matter of time before Valladares crossed the border, and Lee was itching to have a crack at him.

  Two weeks later, Lee sat outside Bonilla’s office, fidgeting with his epaulettes. His foot began tapping again and the sound echoed down the hallway. He placed his hands on his thighs and bit his lip. He had been waiting for almost an hour. If Bonilla was trying to cool him down, it wasn’t going to work.

  Eventually, the door to Bonilla’s office cracked open; Lee barged in straight away. “What’s all this about?” he bellowed as he pushed open the door. “Guy told me you’ve appointed Durón in my place.”

  Bonilla waited until his aide had left. “Lee,” he said, indicating to a chair opposite. “Por favor, sit.”

  “Like hell, I will.”

  “I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be.”

  Lee bit his tongue and let Bonilla continue.

  “But I can explain. Please,” Bonilla said. “Sit.”

  Lee reluctantly slumped in the chair. “This better be good,” he growled.

  Bonilla picked up a pen from his desk, eyeing it for a moment, before setting it down. His voice was almost cracking as he spoke. “You know I have the utmost respect for everything—”

  “Aw, cut the crap, Manolo.” Lee waved a hand. “Give it to me straight. You owe me that much.”

  Bonilla nodded.

  Lee felt a lump form in his throat. “You want me gone?” He half rose from his chair. “Because if you do—”

  “No!” Bonilla jumped to his feet and rounded the table. “You are my commander-in-chief, and there’s nobody I would have in your place.”