He looked pleased with himself, so I asked him, “How’d they surprise you?”
“Was mesmerized by your mystifying talk; then saw guns—dangerous fight would risk lives.”
“You’re getting too civilized, Sergeant.”
Sister Rachel eased the hammer on her derringer and said, “And you, Marshal, are getting a little too fresh.”
I did not reply, because just then Victoria clasped my arm—as a drowning woman might seize a life preserver. And I suppose in some ways I was just that, as I have often been to women in need.
On that arm to which she clung, hidden beneath my sleeve, was your tattooed image and my Cavalryman’s motto “Born to Ride.” Perhaps her female intuition sensed its existence, for the pools of her coffee-colored eyes swirled with passion, and she exclaimed (something Latins are prone to do), “You are the hero you said you were!”
“Yes, señorita,” I conceded. “I am.”
CHAPTER THREE In Which I Acquire a Rival
The incident with Hervé Manuel Gonzalez-Gonzalez was, of course, the highlight of my journey. The remainder was spent providing comfort to Victoria, who was greatly shaken by the event. But our consoling small talk, chaperoned as it was by Billy Jack and Sister Rachel, need not detain my narrative. You already know, dearest one, how stalwart and sympathetic a gentleman I can be.
Still, by the time we reached San Francisco, I had achieved a new level of understanding with the comely young señorita. Perhaps it goes without saying that she came from a noble Spanish family, devout in religion and politically influential. She and her family were loyalists to El Caudillo, whose name, I learned, was Don Juan Naranja de la Cortez. His interests were supposedly both literary and military, and in the waspish Ambrose Bierce—or “that devil Bierce,” as both friends and enemies called him—he thought he had alighted on a congenial soldier of fortune. The two had corresponded, Victoria said, and Bierce had apparently agreed to train and command an elite company of Infantry for the Caudillo. I felt obliged to make the obvious point that in the late American war I had been a Major-General and that even in the realm of journalism, in which I had merely dabbled, I was far more famous than Bierce. Victoria was suitably impressed and suggested that I return with Major Bierce and herself to Neustraguano to volunteer for a Cavalry command. Knowing her cause to be just, I could not deny her request.
We disembarked in San Francisco (to which our train had been ferried from a wharf across the bay), loaded one coach with Victoria’s rather extensive luggage and another with Sister Rachel and Billy Jack, tethered their horses to the rear of the baggage coach, and bid the drivers proceed to Victoria’s hotel—the Hotel Neptune, which Bierce had recommended in his correspondence with El Caudillo. Then I saddled Marshal Ney for myself and Edward for Victoria and we rode into the city of Saint Francis, Bad Boy trotting behind.
I considered this a reconnaissance mission, and I will say that San Francisco was not, at first glance, what I expected of a saint’s city, but it was bustling and handsome all the same, with wide thoroughfares (save for Chinatown, where they were narrow and menacing), sloping hills, and towering buildings—some of them mansions of the wealthy that would do New York proud. There was a nautical air about the place, with sleek and slippery black seals barking their greeting from across the harbor, longshoremen laboring on the docks, and seamen berthing themselves in saloons along the wharf. Once into the city, we saw fashionable gentlemen strolling along one street, rowdies on another, and, yes, a church spire or two. I confess, I liked it.
We drew admiring glances. It is not often done these days, of course, to ride horses into the city—where people travel in cable cars or by carriage or on foot—and we appeared, no doubt, as romantic throwbacks, a vision of chivalry, a Spanish lady accompanied by her gallant knight and faithful dog. Street urchins doffed their caps like junior peasantry; jolly sailors cheered us; men who looked like mining scamps grinned, stroked their beards, and spat appreciative squirts of tobacco juice; and gentlemen of business, top hats and oiled moustaches, cast apprising eyes on us. All in all, we were—as it seems I have always been—a center of attention.
I was enjoying myself, but Victoria recalled me to my duty.
“Señor Generalissimo, we should join the others at the hotel. We should be cautious of being seen. There may be spies.”
“I fear no spies, señorita; I can deal with them.”
“Assuredly, señor—but we must find the hotel and send Señor Bierce a message. We must tell him we have arrived. He works at the mint.”
“At the mint—I thought he was a literary man?”
She shrugged her graceful shoulders, and my thoughts were immediately redirected by my sense of duty. Yes, I thought, we must find the hotel—and quickly. There the graceful señorita could put herself at ease, rest her dainty feet upon the cushions, restore her strength with chocolates and champagne, as I plotted strategy with Bierce.
I turned Marshal Ney towards the docks and asked a young scamp to direct me to the Hotel Neptune. I found it down a narrow alley paralleling the wharf. It was not at all what I expected. Rather than opulent, it was piratical—indeed, drowsing alcohol-soaked pirates were draped over a rail outside like so much dirty laundry; but this was surely the place, for tied at the rail were the horses belonging to Rachel and Billy Jack. I slid a couple of comatose drunks aside to make room for Marshal Ney and Edward, set Bad Boy as a guard, and escorted Victoria inside.
To our left was an enormous saloon, littered, like the rail outside, with boozy buccaneers, sprawled unconscious across tables and chairs. Only the sporadic flaring of nostrils, the occasional snore, and the twitching of extremities betrayed that they lived. To our front was the hotel clerk’s counter. Behind the counter and flanking it on either side were desks, at which sat two boys wearing green visors. One had in front of him a stack of newspapers, the other a telegraph key, and both had books perched open in their hands—schoolbooks, I noticed as they put them down: Latin primers. The boys regarded me with frank curiosity. Sitting between them was a bearded man wearing a dark blue sea captain’s jacket and matching peaked cap. He had a book in one hand—something by Plato—and a hunk of bread in the other. He seemed to be lost in his reading. Ever the diplomat, I coughed to indicate our presence—and he lunged at the counter like a man possessed. “State your business! What the hell do you want?”
“I remind you there is a lady present.”
“And I remind you that this is my establishment, and I will speak as I like. Now what the hell do you want?”
“I believe the lady has a room booked in your hotel.”
He looked past me, took in Victoria, and tried to moderate his tone. “Oh, señorita, eres la amiga de Bierce?”
I looked at him askance. “You speak Spanish?”
“I’m married to a Mexican, aren’t I? Have to talk to her sometimes; can’t always be at sea. And these two sons of mine—can’t have them conspiring in a foreign lingo behind my back.”
I regarded him blankly, but Victoria said, “Si, señor, I believe he arranged a room for me.”
“Aye, so he was. A room for one, I might add.”
“How dare you!” I said, and balled a fist, but Victoria’s graceful hands circled my bicep and restrained me.
“I run a tight ship here, Mister High and Mighty.”
“The name is Marshal Armstrong.” I angled my chest to highlight the badge.
“Marshal? Well, then, Mister High and Mighty, you’ll call me Captain, Captain Briggs.” He ran his fingers along the brim of his cap. “You’ll mind your manners around me.” With that he belched, and a cloud of garlic arose between us.
“Do you have a room suitable for this lady?”
“Suitable, you say? Aye, it’s more than suitable. I had to give her baggage a room of its own. Bierce didn’t tell me about the luggage—or about you.”
“Does he know we’re here?”
“He knows she’s arrived—and he’s waiting fo
r her upstairs. He’s a bit surprised she didn’t come with the luggage. I gave him a pint of ale to calm his disappointment.”
“Room number?”
“Up the stairs, three rooms down, number 206, baggage is next door, number 208. And mind your manners: there’s a nun staying here. And if you don’t mind your manners: there’s an Indian staying here—and I’ll have him scalp you. Bierce is in 206. You should knock first; he’s generally armed.”
There was a stairway to the right. I led the way and knocked on the door of 206. I was greeted by a command—unmistakably that of an officer: “Come in!”
Bierce stood upon our entry. He made a most immediate impression. He is a man of unwavering icy blue eyes overhung by a prominent forehead and intimidating eyebrows. His posture is erect and martial; his manner sharp and formal; his clothing as immaculate as if ready for inspection; his moustache slightly dandified. The overall effect was of a formidable character.
He eyed me for a moment before stepping toward Victoria. “Ah, señorita,” he said kissing her hand after the French manner. “You are a most welcome arrival. And you, sir,” he added, “are not.” His glance fell on my marshal’s badge. “I do not require a lawman.”
Victoria eyed me an apology and said to Bierce, “This kind gentleman saved my life.”
“Really, señorita, I’m not that dangerous,” he replied.
“No, I mean he threw an anarchist from the train—whoosh, por la ventana.”
Bierce cocked an eyebrow, “You did, did you?”
“And he, too, wants to fight for Neustraguano.”
“A United States Marshal? Do you have business there?”
“I am on leave, Mr. Bierce.”
“And that entitles you to act as a soldier of fortune?”
“I could ask the same of you—are you offering El Claudio your services as a government clerk, or as a correspondent, or as a soldier?”
“In San Francisco, Marshal, the printed word is only as strong as the man behind it.” With a slight movement of his hand, he exposed that beneath his coat he wore an Army Colt revolver on his hip. “My job at the mint is temporary, and could be done by anyone—and, in fact, I have anyone to take my place while I am gone. Most government departments are run by the living dead. They’ll never notice my departure. So depart I will. I am recently returned from England; I can find that country on a map. Of Neustraguano I had been ignorant. I thought I should improve my education. War is God’s way of teaching Americans geography—and, as anyone will tell you: I am the Lord’s tool. I was reasonably well trained in killing my fellow Americans for the greater glory of God and the Union. I see no reason why I should not entrust my sword to this young lady’s cause; it seems as worthy as any other.”
Victoria said, “El Caudillo himself has summoned you, Señor Bierce. It is a great honor.”
“Yes, nice of him, isn’t it? I rather like monarchies—the fewer people involved in government, the better, don’t you think?”
“We face a revolution, Señor Bierce.”
“Yes, I know. I dislike revolutionaries. They wreak havoc for that great mass of stupidity, the people. They overturn injustices—and inflict viler ones of their own. I am, Marshal, lest you wonder, a conservative. I am enamored of the present evils—in fact, they are my business; I delight in exposing them. And man being what he is, I expect nothing better. From revolutionaries I expect only worse.”
“The Marshal was also a General—a commander of Cavalry.”
Bierce’s eyes drew a bead on me. “Is that so? A General? Some political appointment?”
“Earned on the battlefield, I assure you—a Major-General to be precise, brevet rank. I am, it would seem, your superior officer.”
“I’d like to see you prove it.”
“Surely that won’t be necessary.”
“It is if you mean to go to Neustraguano.”
“I only state the rank I earned in the Union army.”
“That was a different army, a different war. El Caudillo admires my pen; he desires to employ my sword. He has sympathy for the predicament of my current employment. But no man, not even he, will command me. I oppose all men with missions; I serve no cause fully but my own. I go to Neustraguano as a paid assassin—to serve a king with literary taste and to observe man’s normal inhumanity to man.”
“An interesting sentiment.”
“It is mine, Marshal.”
“And my sentiment is that a man should do his duty.”
“A very Marshal-like sentiment. But you know, Marshal, for most men, duty is an excuse for profit and desire.”
“My duty, Mr. Bierce, is to Señorita Victoria. My only desire is to serve her as an officer and a gentleman. The only profit I seek is duty done. On her behalf, I will offer El Claudio my sword, and he can assign me as he wishes.”
“Yes, we’ll see about that. In the meantime, señorita,” Bierce took Victoria’s hand, “let us partake of dinner in the saloon downstairs. And you, Marshal, can stay here and guard the lady’s luggage.”
“I have seen her safely to San Francisco. I will not abandon her now.”
He paused. His eyes had the icy stare of a duelist. Finally, he said, “Very well. I suppose every Spanish lady needs her duenna. Try not to get in the way.”
He led us down the stairs, and as we entered the saloon, I saw that Captain Briggs had cleared a table for two and was polishing it with a rag. He glared at me. “Three is it then, eh? You, Mister High and Mighty, turn up like an unwanted cormorant.” He turned and called to a small boy to bring another table setting.
“It is perfectly safe for us to talk here,” said Bierce. “These gentlemen,” he indicated the panorama of snoring sailors, “don’t awaken until four in the afternoon. A bottle of wine, perhaps, Briggs?”
The wine bottle, glasses, and a corkscrew were delivered by a girl no more than twelve. Indeed, the saloon appeared to be operated entirely by an army of Mexican children who swept the floors, dusted around the sleeping pirates, cooked in the kitchen, waited at our table, and apparently had command of the wine cellar. I had not expected wine in an establishment like this, or for it to be delivered by pint-sized peons, but San Francisco was a city full of surprises, and I will say that Bierce became much more convivial with each glass of wine that passed his lips, though he mocked my own abstemiousness. “Really, Marshal, only a weak man accepts the temptation of denying himself a pleasure.”
“I have no idea what that means, Mr. Bierce, but I deny myself no pleasure.” I motioned to our snoring companions. “I take pride, on the contrary, in not dulling my senses. I stay loyal to my vow and take pleasure in preserving my wits.”
“Wit? Since when have Marshals had wit? I have a friend who’s a Marshal—but I value his marksmanship, not his wit.”
“My wit is the wit that guides strategy and tactics.”
“Ah yes, the wit of the butcher, the widow-maker—I’ve seen plenty of that.”
“The victor.”
“Pyrrhic, no doubt.”
“My record speaks for itself.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It was a record of singular accomplishment and unparalleled success, save for one grievous massacre.”
“Yours or the enemy’s?”
“Señor Armstrong tells me he and his men—all dead, wiped out. I do not understand how that could be…”
“Really? Dead, are you? Lucky man. I assume, then, Marshal Armstrong, that your brevet rank has officially expired.”
“Yes, I suppose it has.”
“And your rank when you died?”
“Lieutenant-Colonel.”
“Interesting.”
“Tragic, I’d say.”
“In my experience, living officers outrank dead ones.”
“Perhaps in action, if not in the annals of history.”
“Ah, history—an account mostly false, of events mostly unimportant, featuring rulers who are mostly knaves, and soldiers who are mostly f
ools. I take it, then, Marshal, that you are a fool—or a late fool.”
“I’m not entirely dead.”
“So I see. You interest me: I knew dead men voted for Democrats; I didn’t know they served as U.S. Marshals.”
“I am serving in a semi-secret capacity.”
“No doubt—or semi-fraudulent as the case may be.”
“I take that as an insult.”
“You can take it with salt and pepper, for all I care. I’ve shot men before, Marshal, and I wouldn’t mind shooting you—just to keep in practice.”
“Señors, por favor, please, there is no need to fight—you can both be of service to El Caudillo.”
I said, “As you wish, señorita. Only a blackguard would issue threats in the presence of a lady.”
“Only a fool would think it’s a threat and not a promise.”
“Please, señors, enough. We have much to do. We must book a ship.”
“That can be arranged,” said Bierce. “Marshal, you can attend to that. A dead man will attract less attention. The proprietor of this establishment also happens to be the managing director of Briggs and Company, Shipping Agents. He can provide a disreputable ship and a crew of impressed cutthroats at an affordable fare. Give him my regards. And have him stable your beasts; they’ll be safer that way. Some of these gentlemen might be French—and they eat horses, don’t they?”
“What about Señorita Victoria?”
“Surely, Marshal, you would not confine her to a stable. She will stay with me—for her own protection.”
“It is all right, Marshal Armstrong. I trust Señor Bierce.”
“Bierce, I want your word as a former officer that this lady will come to no harm.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 4