Mercenary Page 23

  The following day, Cabrera’s murderous shelling of the city continued. Shaumberger and Lee debated whether further artillery units had defected, or whether he had simply got his hands on more ammunition. But one thing was clear: the continued bombardment of Guatemala City was putting American lives and property at risk.

  Shaumberger pulled Lee to one side. “You asked if there was anything you could do.”

  “Name it,” said Lee.

  “It’s dangerous.”

  Lee smiled. “More dangerous than twiddling my thumbs and waiting for a stray shell to land on my head?”

  Shaumberger spread his hands. “Honestly … yes.” He explained that the American Legation desperately needed to inform Washington of the situation on the ground, but Cabrera had already knocked out the wireless tower.

  Lee didn’t even blink. “What do you need from me?”

  “Get our wireless operator up to the next tower in the chain.”

  “No combat experience, I’m guessing.”

  Shaumberger shook his head.

  “Where’s the tower?”

  “That’s the tricky part,” he said, smiling.

  An hour later, Lee met the wireless operator in the ambassador’s office.

  Poor guy looks like he’s gonna piss himself, Lee thought.

  Shaumberger handed Lee the messages. “Keep them safe until you get to that tower. He’ll do the rest.”

  “Why not give them to him?”

  “If he gets shot, you must abandon the mission and get back here.”

  Lee raised an eyebrow. “And what if I get shot?”

  “Well, then he’s screwed anyway.” Shaumberger smiled.

  Lee nodded and clapped the wireless operator on the back. “Don’t worry, son. I don’t plan on dying today.”

  Darting through the city, the messages in his pocket and the wireless operator cowering behind him, Lee and his companion dodged bullets fired at them from the heights above. But he got his man to the wireless tower safely, and soon the USS Niagara arrived to put an end to proceedings.

  The heroic dash through town reinvigorated Lee, who set about trying to rebuild contacts with the new administration. Shaumberger seemed close to many of the new players, so Lee hired him as his attorney, and they lobbied Congress together for the necessary changes in legislation. He was making headway, such that Richmond Levering put him on a retainer of five hundred dollars a month, plus commission on production when it started. Despite several setbacks, toward the end of 1922 the petroleum laws were adopted. For his New York bosses, Lee had won the exploration rights for almost a million hectares.

  He was back.

  87

  All the sacrifice had been worthwhile. All the time away from Ida and Dominicio was about to pay off. Lee wasn’t exactly sure how big a million hectares was, but he knew it was big enough that they should find something. Ida might not crave the finer things in life, but he wanted to make sure she was provided for. He was still conscious of their difference in years, especially now he suffered nagging health complaints he just couldn’t shake.

  Giving him the most bother was an intestinal problem, which put him in great discomfort and severely restricted the carousing of old. Just as Ida had been ordered to the coast when she was pregnant seven years beforehand, the doctors warned him that the altitude was exacerbating his condition. Lee knew they were right, but he also knew that incalculable riches were within his grasp. As a compromise with his medical team, he agreed to spend weekends down at Puerto Barrios.

  On the last weekend in December, disaster struck. A revolution overthrew the new government that Lee had worked so hard to ingratiate himself with. Within a month, the new administration ruled the concessions granted to Richmond Levering invalid. Lee had just turned sixty, was away from his wife and children, and his prospects seemed dim. But he had some friends in the new government, so he began his campaign anew. Richmond Levering viewed it as a setback, nothing more, and the company kept him on the payroll. What he didn’t tell them was that his health had declined further. He spent days confined to his hotel room, plagued with what he suspected was dysentery. Lee sent Molony a photograph of himself sitting in a chair, wearing a nightgown, with his face pale and drawn and his muscles wasted away. Underneath, he inscribed: Once A Merry Christmas!

  By March, after a severe attack that hospitalized him for a fortnight, Lee resolved to return to America, both to confer with his employers and to seek more skilled medical attention. He got the latter sooner than expected. His condition deteriorated so badly on the steamer to New York that he had to be stretchered off the boat in Manhattan and carried up to St. Vincent’s Hospital on Twelfth Street. To make matters worse, while trapped in his hospital bed, he was told Richmond Levering had decided to mothball the Guatemalan oil concern. They promised to retain him if they ever decided to explore the idea again, but, for now, Lee’s dream of billions was dead.

  He wired Guy Molony, who forwarded money so Lee could return home. On the train back to New Orleans, he realized he hadn’t seen his family in over a year. They met him at the station, but he was so weak he had to suffer the indignity of his wife helping him from the carriage. For once, he was glad there were no reporters … until he realized Lee Christmas just didn’t matter anymore.

  Finally, under the care of attentive professionals, his condition was properly diagnosed. Lee was sitting up in bed when the doctor entered the room.

  “Good,” the physician said. “You’re awake.”

  “Hey, doc. Get anything from those blood samples?”

  “Yes, actually.” The doctor pushed his glasses back on his nose. “We don’t see cases like this too often, but we’re pretty sure it’s a tropical sprue.” He looked at Lee as if that explained everything.

  “You’re gonna have to help me out here, doc.”

  “Sorry. It’s a disease borne by a yeast parasite. It’s serious.” The doctor removed his glasses and smiled. “But treatable.” He stepped forward to Lee’s side. “And certainly explains your yellowing pallor. That had us worried.”

  “So I’m not going to die?”

  “It’s not terminal. But you’re not out of the woods yet.” The doctor continued, but Lee didn’t register most of it. He was just relieved someone had finally figured out what was wrong with him, and that he could lick it. He was anxious to get back to working on his business ideas. All these medical bills had to be paid, and he wanted Ida on a secure financial footing in case anything happened.

  Guy Molony visited regularly and helped out with the bills. One day, he brought Lee the latest edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, which featured what Guy thought was an amusing error. In their entry on Honduras, they had an account of the Battle of Maraita in which they claimed that “Lee Christmas was killed,” citing no less of an authority than the New York Times. Lee flew into a rage, remembering their attempt to break out, the mad charge across the field, taking on an entire army. He remembered watching General Barahona and his tiente, Reyes, get hit, as well as hearing what had happened to poor old Fred Mills, only along for the adventure and shot like a dog.

  “I’m going to sue them, Guy. I’m going to clean them out.”

  “Really?”

  He pointed to the offending entry. “This is slander.”

  Molony was taken aback. He closed the book and went to put it away.

  “Leave it,” said Lee. “I’ll need to copy this and send it to my lawyer.”

  Guy opened his mouth to say something for a moment, but stopped himself. After a moment’s thought, he spoke. “You know what? You should write your own story. Then they couldn’t print these lies. Some of that stuff in the papers was just crazy.”

  Lee nodded. “Although,” he said, chuckling, “some of that was my fault. Reporters will pretty much print whatever you tell ’em.”

  “I’m serious. You should write your own story. There could be money in it.”

  His face brightened. “How much?”


  “No idea.” Molony shook his head. “But some, for sure.”

  88

  Over several afternoons, Lee attempted to get down the main facts of his life, but his powers of recollection were poor, and the effort put a huge strain on him. The doctors became concerned as his condition worsened, and they eventually recommended a blood transfusion. Guy Molony stepped forward as the donor. Soon, a pint and a half of the police chief’s vigorous blood circulated around Lee’s body.

  The transfusion put him back on his feet, and he recovered something of his old self. Reporters swarmed around him once more, camped outside his little house on Chestnut Street. An old soldier of fortune being saved by the chief of police was too juicy a headline for the press to resist. The media attention put him back in the public eye, and he was approached by Doubleday, Page to write his memoirs. When one of the reporters returned to finish an interview, Lee told him about the publisher’s interest. “I’m not much of a writer,” he explained, “but I like talking, and you can write some. I have boxes of old letters. I can give you the whole story.”

  The reporter was interested, until Lee demanded a few thousand dollars payment upfront. “These publishers are crooks,” he said. “They talk about an advance, but they’ll only give me half when the book is turned in and the other half when it hits the shelves.”

  The reporter sympathized but refused, adding a friendly warning that none of his colleagues would have that kind of money. Lee decided to have another stab at it himself.

  As soon as he began, the details flooded back. Moving to the sawmill town when he was just twelve. Slipping notes under Mamie’s kitchen door. Kissing in the woods. Even the names of the little schooners from Lake Pontchartrain: the Cileste, the Surprise, and the Lillie Simms. He set down his time working the railroads, his first journey to Honduras, and how he fell into the new game of revolution.

  But he was only on his feet for a month. The transfusion had bought him little time, and he cursed himself for not using it better. With his health deteriorating, his temper became shorter and he tired of his memoirs. He summarized the last twenty years of his life—his salad days—in just a few short sentences. Then, after recounting the army’s refusal to commission him, he wrote the final lines. When a man becomes my age, he’s only good for fertilizer. So, goodbye.

  That put him in a foul mood, and after a heated argument with Ida, Lee told her he was leaving. She watched him hobble out of the house, sure he would turn back after no more than a block. But he didn’t. He had to rest every block or so, and mop his damp brow, but he struggled on, all the way up to the station.

  By the time he got to Memphis and to the home of his son Ed, he was at the point of collapse and was hospitalized once more. The doctors again recommended a blood transfusion, a kindly medical student donating her blood this time. While the transfusion was a success, it didn’t give Lee quite the same boost as the first, and the hospital wouldn’t discharge him. He was feeling low, until a visitor came calling—a woman whose face he hadn’t seen for twenty-five years. She approached his bed with some trepidation, her face drawn with worry. “Anything I can do you for you, Lee?”

  “How about a mint toddie?” He grinned. “Like you used to do, Mamie.”

  She clucked. “And you in a hospital bed.”

  “Aw, you sound just like your mama.”

  Their reunion was pleasant, but it made him all the more eager to get back to Ida. A third transfusion was required just to give him enough strength to make the journey. By the time he got to New Orleans, he had to be carried from the train. The shame made him break down and cry. When he inquired as to Ida’s absence and was told she had been forced to work in a radio store to pay the bills, he cried once more.

  89

  Only a week had passed in his house on Chestnut Street before the doctors insisted on hospitalizing him once more. Attempting to stem his protests, Ida promised to visit on her way to work each morning and again in the evenings, but still he complained. “How am I supposed to recover with that crap they feed me?”

  Ida smiled sweetly. “Well, then I’ll just cook all your meals. Even bring them to you.” And so she did, every morning, carrying a steaming plate all the way up to the Touro infirmary. When her shift ended, she would stop at a restaurant across the road from the hospital and fetch his dinner. Each day she saw him, he seemed weaker, more fragile. The doctors warned that his condition was irreversible. Lee was too weak for any further transfusions. It was only a matter of time.

  He wouldn’t permit any of the nurses to feed him, refusing any food that wasn’t brought by his wife. But he never gave up, either. He would ramble on to anyone who would listen—usually Ida or Guy Molony—about how he was going to lick this thing, go back down to Guatemala, and make millions in the oil game.

  On January 23, Leon Winfield Christmas was administered last rites, drifting in and out of consciousness during the ceremony. He perked up a little more when two nuns came to his side, offering to console him in his final hours. Lee summoned enough strength to hurl a string of creative curses at them until they scurried from the room.

  But when Guy Molony came calling shortly after, he found Lee unable to speak whatsoever. Lee pointed to some oranges on his bedside table, and then toward his mouth. Molony nodded, fighting back tears, and cut one of the oranges into pieces. Lee was unable to open his mouth more than a crack, so Guy squeezed the slices and let the juice trickle over his friend’s dry, cracked lips.

  A moan came from the next bed, and Lee rolled his eyes, making Guy chuckle.

  “That … son of a … bitch,” Lee said, wheezing. “Nothing … wrong … with him.” Guy made to speak but Lee shook his head. “Tell … him.” He paused, gathering his strength. “To shut … the hell … up. I want … to die … in peace.”

  Guy frowned. “You ain’t dying.”

  “Like … hell.” The effort to speak was enough to put Lee to sleep, and after checking that his friend was still breathing, Molony crept from the room.

  * * *

  Ida sat facing Lee’s hospital bed and anxiously watched him sleep. The dinner she’d brought lay untouched on his bedside table. One of the nurses said he had been asleep for hours, and that it was best to let him rest comfortably when he could. The hospital staff had been accommodating, letting her stay long after regular visiting times, knowing their patient was in his final hours. But the nurse on duty that night was unfamiliar with the situation. “I’m sorry, visiting hours are over,” she said.

  “But I haven’t fed him yet,” said Ida, pointing to Lee’s dinner.

  The nurse put a hand on Ida’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll feed him.”

  Their conversation stirred Lee. “Like hell,” he said, his voice clearer than it had been for days. He looked at his wife. “Ida, give me something to eat.”

  The nurse glanced at the wall clock. “It’s well after nine.”

  “I’m dying,” growled Lee. “You want to starve me too?”

  She pursed her lips. “We have rules…”

  He raised himself in the bed. “Damn the rules!” he shouted, his voice carrying all the way down the hospital corridor.

  The effort of this final act of defiance was too much for him, and he collapsed into a coma. The nurse called for the doctor, who did everything to try to revive him. But in a few short hours, Lee stopped breathing altogether. As the nurse went to pull the sheet over his face, Ida elbowed her out of the way and threw herself on her husband’s lifeless body, smothering his face with kisses, feeling his dead weight. After all the scrapes he’d been in, she had held out the faintest of hopes that he would find some way out of this one. But there was nothing he could do; there was nothing anyone could do.

  Lee Christmas, his skin as yellow as the bananas he once hauled along the Honduran coast, was dead.

  About the Author

  David Gaughran is Irish but lives in Prague these days. He is just putting the finishing touches to his next his
torical adventure and if you would like an email reminder when Liberty Boy is released, sign up here.

  He is also the author of the historical novel A Storm Hits Valparaiso, some short stories, and two books for writers. All of these books are available on Amazon and you can get more information at DavidGaughran.com.

  Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed Mercenary, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Even if it's only a line or two it would be a huge help.

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  David writes about Latin American history at SouthAmericana.com and shares tips for authors at Let's Get Digital. You can also follow him on Twitter, connect on Facebook, or send him an email.

  Acknowledgements

  The writer is but one of a whole team of people who help usher a new book into the world. My editor, Karin Cox, stopped me from running off in completely the wrong direction and convinced me to start again. And she was right. When I eventually returned with a somewhat functioning story, she was instrumental in smoothing the edges and nudging my flabby prose back into line. Kate Gaughran designed another stunning cover. And fellow writers Sarah Woodbury, Melissa Furrer Miller, Tony James Slater, and Deanna Chase provided crucial advice and support at various stages.

  A number of books helped me get a handle on the subject and the period: The Archaeologist Was a Spy: Sylvanus G. Morley and the Office of Naval Intelligence by Charles H. Harris; The Banana Men: American Mercenaries & Entrepreneurs in Central America, 1880–1930 by Lester D. Langley and Thomas D. Schoonover; The Incredible Yanqui: The Career of Lee Christmas by Hermann B. Deutsch; Storyville, New Orleans, Being an Authentic, Illustrated Account of the Notorious Red-Light District by Al Rose; Victorian America: Transformations of Everyday Life, 1876–1915 by Thomas J. Schlereth; Gumbo Ya-ya: Folk Tales of Louisiana ed. by Lyle Saxon, Robert Tallant, and Edward Dreyer; Beautiful Crescent: A History of New Orleans by Joan B. Garvey and Mary Lou Widmer; The French Quarter: An Informal History of the New Orleans Underworld by Herbert Asbury. Also, two magazine features were of tremendous assistance: a revealing portrait of Sam Zemurray in Life by John Kobler from 1951 and an excellent piece in The Nation written by Lucius Shepard a few years back (who sadly passed away as I was completing this book) entitled Lee Christmas and Machine-gun Molony. My sincere thanks also go to the staff at the University of Tennessee library (Elizabeth Dunham in particular) who were kind enough to scan and email a hoard of documents relating to Lee Christmas: letters, photographs, and newspaper clippings that really helped to round out the picture of the man, as well as the myth that grew around him.