Chapter 29

ON THE SLUGGISH green-brown river, farther down where the ravine widened into a jungle-thickened valley, a gunboat lay against a set of rickety pilings covered with moss and tangled with waterweeds. Banana leaves and long vines drooped toward the water. Bats swooped among the hanging creepers, grasping gnats.

In the moonlight the gunboat bristled with dark searchlights and a protruding artillery cannon in the bow. On deck, off-duty sailors tossed poisoned breadcrumbs down to a flock of ducks swimming around the pilings.

Captain Morales stood inside the gunboat’s bridge house, yawning as he picked up his radio handset. “Hola, Morales speaking. Sí, glad to hear from you, Señor O’Halloran. A fine night for swimming, is it not? The moon is out, and the piranha are not biting.” He covered his other ear to hear better as the ducks set up a loud quacking. “Help save my country? Half a million dollars! Por Dios! It’ll be my pleasure. Anything for Colodor.”

Morales burst out the door of the bridge house, shouting, “General quarters! General quarters!”

The sailors at the deck rail threw the rest of the poisoned breadcrumbs overboard then rushed to their cabins to grab uniforms. Others boiled out of the gunboat’s hatches, throwing off lines from the pilings. It had been a long time since they’d been underway on a real mission.

“The vile bandit Pedrito Miraflores is headed for the indio village,” Morales said. “Our boat alone is in a position to stop him! Get going! Our careers rest on our success tonight.”

In a cloud of oily blue smoke, the gunboat roared into motion, lumbering away into the wide and languid river.

* * *

Yaquita and Smith trotted their horses through a dripping tropical forest, far down the ravine from where they had eluded the cavalry. The misty air was spicy with the smell of jungle foliage, perfume-sweet orchids and rare night-blooming plants. The two fugitives were very bedraggled, their horses lathered.

Smith looked behind them, pleased with himself at how he had eluded the cavalry. He sniffed the air. “I think we’re close to the river. A good sailor always knows when there’s navigable water nearby.”

Yaquita gestured ahead in sudden alarm. “I see a light ahead, bonfires.”

On the other side of a cleared space in the jungle stood the grass and bamboo huts of an Indian village. A huge smoky bonfire blazed in the center of the village, reflected on the rippling river behind the huts. The orange glow silhouetted a mass of male Indians who stood in a unified threatening posture, spears and blowguns ready for action. One warrior juggled his spear from hand to hand, eager to throw.

Yaquita kicked her horse to flee, wheeling it about. Smith’s stallion, though, bolted straight ahead. He yanked madly at the reins, desperate to stop before he trampled the native warriors. “Whoa! Whoa!” The horse ignored his every effort. Smith winced, his mind filled with visions of Amazon shamans and shrunken heads, curare-tipped darts for instant paralysis, and other unpleasant forms of death.

The stallion charged into the cleared space by the bonfire as the painted warriors dived from his path. Smith sawed at the reins, but the horse fell over, collapsing with a crash. The natives charged as Smith rolled away from the saddle. He scrambled to his feet, ready to run into whatever shelter the thick jungle could offer.

But the natives grabbed him and boosted him up. They raised their spears in salute. “Ai! Pedrito!” they shouted with unbounded enthusiasm.

Smith nearly fainted with relief. “Sure, I’m Pedrito.”

* * *

In the grass hut’s formal suite, Smith, Yaquita and the village chief sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. His hair was painted red with a rust-colored mud and pigment, and he seemed envious of Smith’s natural red hair.

Taking a moment to freshen up, Yaquita had changed into a khaki jumpsuit. Smith now wore a white shirt and pants and tennis shoes, feeling much more comfortable. He and Yaquita were both well washed and combed. They ate so hungrily out of gourd bowls that they were in danger of splashing food all over their clean clothes.

The chief’s main wife brought Smith a gourd filled with a foamy drink, and handed it to him with great ceremony. Smith took a drink, tasted alcohol, and drank again, afraid he might offend his host. “Tastes like a light beer,” he said. “Is that a house specialty?”

The chief laughed. “You act as if you never drank my chicha before, Pedrito! Chewed manioc root fermented with saliva. My wife makes the best in the whole village.” The chief’s wife grinned, showing off her manioc-chewing teeth. “The prettier the woman, the better the chicha.”

Smith’s stomach twisted. “Oh . . . that’s interesting.”

Yaquita took the gourd from him and swigged a drink herself.

One of the chief’s sons sat against the curved wall of the hut, stuck one end of a long, thin bow in his mouth, and began humming against the taut string to make an eerie, whining music.

“Pedrito,” the chief said, patting him on the knee. “I know you since you so high.” He raised a calloused hand two feet off the floor. “You like son to me. You safe here in our village. We chase off bad men if they come again.”

Meanwhile, outside the hut, Bolo stood minimally disguised as an Indian, his skin painted, his clothes made from beaten bark fiber. He crouched next to the bamboo wall of the chief’s hut, listening intently.

“We can’t stay here,” Yaquita said to the chief. “We’re on an important mission. This isn’t a vacation.”

“It was supposed to be a vacation,” Smith said miserably. “Now I’ve been AWOL for a week.”

“Relax, dearest,” she said. “I’m sure no one’s even noticed you were gone. You have much more important work to do here. We must go upriver and over the Andes.”

Eavesdropping, Bolo smiled secretly, nodding as Yaquita followed her orders. Then he tiptoed away from the hut to vanish into the jungle shadows before he could be discovered.

“Good stew, Chief.” Smith slurped up another mouthful, then scraped the last drops from the bottom of the gourd bowl. “What’s in it? Chicken?”

“Our very best snake,” the chief said. “Bushmaster. Most poison removed, only a little left for flavor. Nothing too good for you, Pedrito.”

Smith swallowed hard, looked at the empty bowl and decided not to ask for a second helping. He had only more chicha to wash it down.

* * *

Along the bank of the tropical river, three narrow gray dugouts poked into the water. Lush foliage drooped down, green vines, dangling branches and slender leaves hiding the canoes from casual observers.

One dugout was full of baggage, including the two saddles Smith and Yaquita had removed from their exhausted horses. Indian paddlers pushed the laden canoe into the river current, then jumped into it, swaying to keep the craft from capsizing. Other paddlers launched the middle dugout, in which sat Yaquita, her back upright, her dark eyes flashing.

Bolo, still disguised as an Indian, clutched a paddle in the stern of the nearest boat. He kept his face averted from Smith.

Two other paddlers prepared to launch the last dugout just after Smith climbed unsteadily aboard, still queasy from his meal, but the chief held them back. He gave final instructions and spoke his farewells to the redheaded lieutenant, who sat delicately balanced as if sitting on a tightrope. The canoe swayed and rocked with the slightest motion he made.

The chief swept his arm up the river, knocking low-hanging branches out of his way. “My people take you upriver, Pedrito,” the chief said. He looked at Smith very meaningfully. “It is not piranha season, but watch out for crocodiles! Much danger.”

“Maybe the crocodiles better watch out for Pedrito instead!” said the paddler at the bow of the nearest boat. Shrieks of laughter came from the other rowers.

The chief patted Smith on the arm. “Come back soon, Pedrito. My wife will make more chicha for you.”

Smith turned around to keep watching the shore, but his attention fixed on the aft paddler. Behind his makeup, Bolo wore a bland expression, dressed in ill-fitting Indian clothes.

“Say, haven’t I seen you someplace before?” Smith asked.

The boat pushed off from the shore, drifting out into the sluggish current. Bolo shook his head, and the canoe swayed from side to side, but somehow the Indians kept it from capsizing. He dug in his paddle, huddling into the shadows. “All Indian look-alike to outsiders,” he answered softly.

“Are you sure?” Smith narrowed his eyes.

“I got plenty brother,” Bolo said in a guttural accent.

Satisfied, Smith turned around and sat on the damp seat. He waved goodbye to the chief. Despite the wobbly, unstable nature of the canoe, he felt much safer out on the water, being a Navy man.

* * *

Captain Morales stood on the gunboat just beside his bow cannon. Pressing the field glasses against his eyes, he swept the river ahead, patiently searching for their prey. Other Colodoran sailors stood along the deck rails, holding their rifles ready, keeping their eyes peeled and their attention turned toward the jungle-thick river banks, though they could see nothing in the night.

“Wait for it,” Morales said. “Sooner or later we’ll bump into them.”

* * *

The three dugouts glided leisurely under the silvery moonlight like long blades in the river water. Smith’s and Yaquita’s canoes traveled side by side. Smith supposed the situation might have appeared quite romantic; Yaquita certainly seemed to think so.

Perfectly balanced, she leaned back on her narrow seat and strummed her guitar, playing a gentle melody that whispered like honey across the water. She hummed for a few bars, and then began to sing.

He bravely looked at the firing squad.
And when the rifles spoke,
It was a call to all the proletariat
To throw off the tyrant’s yoke!

“Hey, that’s too sad for a night like this.” Smith reached across the water to pull her dugout closer. They nearly capsized, but the Indians struggled with their paddles to keep them upright. “Give me that guitar. Let me try it.”

Yaquita smiled broadly and handed the guitar across to him. “Oh, Pedrito — you have never serenaded me before.”

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

She batted her eyelashes and leaned forward to listen. “Is it a song about me? About undying love?”

But as Smith fiddled with the strings, twisting the pegs to tune it, the guitar crackled alive with a radio voice that came from an internal speaker. “Roger-Echo-Dog Eighteen,” the Cuban colonel Enrique’s voice said. “Warning, warning! Patrol boat coming upriver. Revolutionary force, you must elude it. Out.”

Smith stared at the instrument, hesitantly plucked a string, then stopped the vibration with his fingers. He handed the guitar back across the water to Yaquita. “I’ve heard of crystal balls, but never a clairvoyant guitar.”

Hearing the message, Yaquita became tense, gazing astern as a shadowy shape headed upriver at high speed. “Damn!” she said. “A gunboat.”

“Just like the guitar said. Oh, don’t worry,” Smith said, cocky. Being Pedrito was starting to go to his head. “Patrol boats are navy — and that’s where I shine.”

Yaquita took the radio-guitar from him and stowed it on the curved bottom of the dugout. She grabbed a paddle. “Maybe if we paddle fast enough, they won’t overtake us.”

Bolo and the natives dug in their paddles and surged upstream, quietly singing a rowing song to keep them in time.

Thinking of his hero, Admiral Nelson, Smith wished he could have at least been standing in the bow of the canoe, but he wasn’t sure his balance was sufficient to the task.

* * *

On the patrol boat, Captain Morales continued to scan the river with his binoculars. Sweat beaded on his brow. They should have seen something by now. O’Halloran’s warning couldn’t be wrong.

“The moon is going down and we’re losing whatever light we had, sir,” the chief officer said, standing nervously at the captain’s side. “Shouldn’t we tie up to the bank and continue the search at dawn?”

Morales whirled on him. “And miss half a million dollars? You must be crazy. Where’s your patriotism?”

* * *

The last shreds of moonlight spilled across the riverbank, but the dugouts and passengers hid in the overhanging foliage. Accompanied by the chug of a gunboat engine, a searchlight swept the water, dragging a pool of illumination from one side of the brownish river to the other.

Yaquita crouched beside her canoe and peered anxiously through the leaves. The searchlight swept by again, intent and relentless. “The patrol is going to spot us!” she said in a hoarse whisper.

The disguised Bolo huddled next to Smith, whispering insidiously to the wide-eyed Navy lieutenant. “If you just stand up so they can see who it is, they’ll go away.” His voice sounded eminently reasonable.

“You’re joking!” Smith said, incredulous.

“No, everyone knows Pedrito Miraflores. He’s a famous hero in these parts. You’ve seen that yourself.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely! They’ve got to be looking for someone else. Once they know it’s Pedrito, they’ll just go home.”

With a shrug, Smith stood up, still dressed in his fresh white clothes. The gunboat’s searchlight swung and hit him.

In the bridge house, Morales held the binoculars to his eyes. “That’s him!” he cried, grabbing the loud hailer around his neck. He put the bullhorn to his lips. “Pedrito Miraflores, make one move and you’re a dead man.”

Smith stood with the dazzling searchlight in his face, blinking furiously. He heard the big bow cannon swivel into position, taking aim at him and all the hidden canoes. Yaquita and the native paddlers groaned in dismay.

“But I’m not Pedrito,” he said to himself, then sighed. He wondered what Nelson would have done now.

The gunboat approached, ablaze with flashing lights. Other sailors crowded the decks, carrying their weapons at the ready.

Smith decided that in a desperate situation such as this, Nelson would have led a boarding party. The gunboat crew would never expect him to run out to them. It would take them completely by surprise. He pulled off his tennis shoes, hopping on one foot in the rocking canoe as he struggled to get off the other shoe.

“No, no, no!” Yaquita said in terror, grabbing for Smith. “Remember the crocodiles!”

The lieutenant didn’t hear her as he dived into the black water. Yaquita’s hand clutched empty air, and the canoe paddlers grabbed branches to keep from tumbling face-first into the river themselves.

In the front canoe, the natives shoved their dugouts back into the current, attempting to catch the young redhead as he swam toward the patrol boat.

Hearing the splash as Smith jumped into the water, a line of crocodiles leaped off the muddy bank in a hungry avalanche up and down the river. They fought with each other to be the first to reach the fresh meat.

Bolo smiled, watching the events unfold, confident that Smith could get out of the fix. Yaquita stood in the dugout, leaning forward with a boathook, madly trying to snag Smith as he swam toward the gunboat. The other vessel was still two hundred yards away, its lights blazing into the night.

On deck, Captain Morales bellowed through his loudspeaker. “What is he doing? Men, we are under attack! Turn! Turn, hard to port! Get out of here!”

The river boiled with crocodiles gliding toward the dugouts, snapping their jaws. Yaquita looked over the side of the canoe, snarled, threw down the boathook and used an oar to bash one of the crocodiles in the snout.

Bolo grabbed the boathook and snagged Smith’s belt, then pulled him to the gunwale, though Smith continued to splash and stroke. One of the paddlers yelled, gesturing toward the water. A crocodile’s jaws gaped for Smith’s legs, but Yaquita helped yank the lieutenant into the boat. The tooth-filled jaws snapped shut, empty. . . .

On the gunboat the chief officer shone his searchlight back at the dugouts as the gunboat veered sharply. The river was full of black and writhing reptiles. Rows of white fangs flashed.

Suddenly, he looked down and saw an enormous log thrusting up from the muddy river. With the new course, he was heading straight for it.

“Aagh!” he shouted in dismay.

With a mighty jolt, the patrol boat ran aground on the log, twisting the boat upward.

The bow flew up, pointing the huge cannon at the stars. The cannon discharged, knocking an unlucky bat from the air.

“I think we struck a mine,” the pilot shouted.

Morales gripped the lurching deck rail with white-knuckled hands. “We’re sinking!” he shouted. “Head for shore! All hands, abandon ship.”

Morales jumped overboard along with the rest of his crew — right into the waiting jaws of the massed crocodiles.

One of his crewmen, struggling to keep the teeth of a crocodile from closing on him, cried out, “Sir, what do we do about these crocodiles?”

“Swim!” Morales shouted as he turned in an attempt to regain the gunboat. He grabbed the gunwale and was pulling himself from the water when a croc grabbed his shirttail.

“Wait, get this crocodile off of me!” Morales ordered the crewman.

The crocodile rolled, tearing Morales from the side of the boat, and dragged him beneath the boiling waves.

With all of the screaming and thrashing and the scent of blood in the water, the crocodiles around the dugouts quickly turned aside, looking for easier meals.

The native dugouts headed upstream. Smith, sopping wet now and taking his turn at paddling the canoe, said to Bolo behind him, “What did they go aground on? A reef? Must be treacherous waters hereabouts.”

Bolo stopped paddling and raised his eyes to heaven and let out an incredulous sigh. Still, Smith had survived, and his brash and unexpected action had been successful . . . somehow.

Behind them, the crocodiles made loud splashing sounds in the water as they set to an enormous feast.