Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

  “If you pledge me as an officer and a gentleman—with these slumbering sailors and Briggs’s children as witnesses—well, then, Marshal, even I have no choice. I do have one request of you, though.”

  “Name it.”

  “Tarry as long as you can.”

  “I am a man of action—I never tarry.”

  “And I, Marshal, despite my reputation, am indeed an officer and a gentleman—at least as much as you are. You will find that our friend Briggs has a shack about a hundred yards or so down the wharf. It is there that he conducts his shipping business. Take your time.”

  I met Bierce’s basilisk glare with my own, bowed to Señorita Victoria, and left the saloon. I was surprised to see a matronly Mexican woman seated where Captain Briggs had been. The boys on either side of her ignored me; they were reading books—catechisms, by the look of them. “Mis hijos te sirvieron bien?”

  I could guess her meaning. “Yes, you serve wonderful tortillas, thank you.”

  It was with relief that I stepped outside to breathe in the clean, salty sea air—and to be reunited with Bad Boy, who looked at me keenly for instructions.

  “Come along,” I said, and with Bad Boy trotting alongside, I led Edward and Marshal Ney by their reins down the wharf where, as Bierce had foretold, I saw a small wooden shed with an American flag flying from a lanyard and an engraved shingle announcing BRIGGS AND COMPANY, SHIPPING AGENTS.

  “You again? What do you want?”

  “I’m looking to book a ship. Bierce sent me.”

  “The hell he did. That man’s too wicked to employ someone like you. You look vaguely respectable: no eye patch, no scars, Marshal’s badge. Aye, but wait, those eyes—those are killer’s eyes right enough.”

  “I am not in his employ. We are merely traveling together.”

  “Traveling together—and where the hell would you and Mr. Bierce be traveling if not to hell itself?”

  “Really, Mr. Briggs, I must again ask you to mind your language. I myself know how to swear like a soldier, but what if a lady were to pass by?”

  “If any lady passes by here, she’ll have heard worse. And I am a Captain, Mister High and Mighty, and can do as I like. I have been in my own employ for lo these past twenty years—and do you know why? Because no one will have me—and I won’t have them; I am an independent Captain, with me own ship and beholden to no man. I have a seafarer’s saloon, a respectable hotel, a telegraph office, and a newspaper, the Captain’s Gazette, for the employ of my family. I am completely self-sufficient. And you, mister, have still not answered my question. Let me state it plainly: Where the hell are you and that devil Bierce going?”

  “We embark for Neustraguano.”

  “For what? Say that again.”

  “Neustraguano—in South America, I believe.”

  “Neustraguano, you say.”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of it. I’m an educated man, Bowdoin College, Maine. You’ve heard of it, of course.”

  “About our destination…”

  “Yes, yes, in my youth I sailed there weekly—just for their bananas, occasionally for their rum, sometimes to discuss theology with learned Jesuits. Somewhere down south, you say. I need to get me a map so I can pinpoint just the place. But yes, somewhere south, near Mexico, I’m sure of that. An island, isn’t it—in the Pacific, across the Spanish Main?”

  “Indeed, Captain. Now about the ship…”

  “You shall have mine—I have no other at the moment—The Columbian Cutter. It’s just you and Bierce, then?”

  “And the lady—as well as my horses and my dog.”

  “What is this—a zoological expedition?”

  “The Indian might come as well—and maybe the nun; I hadn’t thought about that; and they have horses too—back at the hotel, your hotel.”

  “You hadn’t thought about the nun and her horse?’

  “No.”

  “But you know the nun?”

  “Of course I know her. We traveled on the train together. And, truth be told, she saved me from the Indians—twice, in fact.”

  “I see—truth be told; and now she’s traveling with an Indian herself, as I saw with me own eyes.”

  “Yes, a friend of mine; served in the Cavalry. He and the nun will both want to come along, won’t they?”

  “It sounds to me, Marshal, as if everyone wants to come along.”

  “Can your ship accommodate us all?”

  “Aye, as cutters go, she’s big enough. I’ll have to crimp me a crew—but that’s not hard; plenty of sailors hereabouts; shanghai some from the saloon if needs be. We have us a concoction—whiskey dashed with opium. That softens ’em up; then I cosh ’em over the head.”

  “Your crew is your concern, Captain. Mine is merely to book passage. When can we leave?”

  “Well, let me check my schedule book. If you can afford the price of passage—that’s one hundred dollars each for you and Bierce and the woman and the nun and the Indian and the horses and the dog—let me see… it appears I have an opening at midnight or at four in the morning depending on how long it takes me to find experienced crewmen.”

  “A hundred dollars is a great deal of money, Captain. For that price, I expect you will also provide us with suitable fare to eat and drink—both for my companions and for my dog and horses.”

  “Suitable fare to eat and drink? For your dogs and horses, you say? You’re lucky I take you at all—let alone at my most reasonable and inexpensive rate. It’ll ruin me reputation, so it will, to carry Bierce and you and a woman and an Indian and the beasts. Ah, but there’s the nun, and I’m a fair man and a kind man, though few recognize it—and a convert to the Holy Mother Church, which saved such a sinner as me. So, aye, you can have what I have. I’ll increase my stocks nine-fold, and your beasts can dine with the crew—does that sound suitable?”

  “That sounds most satisfactory. Can you stable my animals until tonight? Bierce said you could arrange that.”

  “Very presumptuous man, that Ambrose Bierce—but, aye, I can arrange that; I’ve got a shed next door for holding cargo. They can stay there until we embark.”

  “And they’ll be watered and fed?”

  “Of course they’ll be watered and fed. What do you take me for—a villain like Bierce? That’ll be an extra five dollars.”

  I ferried a coin from my pocket. “Will this gold coin do?”

  He examined it closely. “Where the devil did you get this?”

  “It’s from the Delingpile treasure. You’ve heard of it?”

  “This is San Francisco. I’ve heard of everything to do with gold claims, gold rushes, and even a crazy Englishman up north—Montana, I believe—who passes off gold coins with his own blasted image on them. But Delingpile—no, that wasn’t it. Delingpole, wasn’t it?”

  “As you say—but that’ll do?”

  “Aye, it’ll do. But you’ll come back tonight and claim your animals. I’m no Noah; my craft is no ark; and I take no long-term responsibility for your beasts.”

  I nodded.

  “And who shall I write down as booking the passage? I know Bierce. I know you’re supposed to be a Marshal, but what the devil’s your name?”

  “I am Marshal Armstrong Armstrong.”

  “Marshal Armstrong Armstrong? And now that I think of it: Why should a Marshal go to Neuvoguerrero… or whatever it is? Tracking a villain? Exporting American law? Or is Bierce taking a vendetta to the edge of the earth?”

  “My business in Neustraguano is my own concern. Yours is merely to get me there.”

  “Watch your tongue, Marshal. I know my duty as well as any man.”

  “In that case, Captain, I suggest you see to it.”

  “I’ll see to it as I see fit. I am an independent merchantman, with an emphasis on the word independent, do ye hear? I’ve had no complaints, because I brook none, and I’ll have none from you. And as for your fare, Marshal, am I to reserve your booking now with a
cash deposit—I can’t imagine you have that many coins—or do you ask me, do you entreat me, do you beg me to grant you credit? Do you mean to be in my debt?”

  “I will bring the money when I bring my companions. Your payment will not be a problem. El Claudio himself of Neustraguano has requested our presence. That most delightful woman who accompanied me is his emissary and our guide.”

  “Oh, I see. El Claudio himself, you say; and that woman is his emissary. It’s a wonder I take you at all. But I will. I have a wife and a crew of children to feed, a dozen of them, if you must know. Luckily—being Mexican—they subsist happily on beans. But I require beef and rum, and therefore must needs earn a living renting a ship to the likes of you. And you look honest enough—for a friend of Bierce, at least. Truth be told, that wicked man is a soul of honor, be it peculiar and his own. Come back here after midnight, bring your money, and I’ll have a ship and crew waiting, or my name ain’t Briggs—it’ll be Claudio or something. Now, let’s stow these animals; I don’t want them befouling me quarters.”

  After seeing to the needs of Edward and Marshal Ney—straw, feed, and water—I set Bad Boy to guard their improvised stables. His deep brown eyes radiated with a devotion to duty that I have seen nowhere else, save in the mirror—or perhaps from you, dearest Libbie. I gave his paw a shake, bid the irascible Captain good day (he damned me to hell in reply), and returned, swift as the wind, to the Hotel Neptune. The mamasita at the front desk looked up and smiled at my return. “Hola, señor, le gustaria cenar temprano?”

  I took that to mean, “Hello, sir, you look handsomely suntanned,” and nodded my acknowledgment. I peered into the saloon and espied only sleepy pirates, a few small Mexican children lounging about for lack of conscious customers, and a couple of cats daintily making their way around the tables to pick up scraps.

  I turned to the woman I presumed to be Mrs. Briggs. The two boys flanking her did not look up from their schoolbooks until I said: “Mamasita, can los boyos, take dos horses, those two caballos,” I said pointing out the door to Rachel’s and Billy Jack’s horses, “to el Capitàn Briggs?”

  She looked at me askance but nodded; the boys nodded too.

  “Gracias,” I said. “And dondé est la señorita and el hombre Bierce?”

  “El hombre Bierce?” she shook her head. “El Hombre Diablo,” and pointed upstairs, which was surely the wrong way for the devil. Her sons looked at me wide-eyed and crossed themselves with vigor.

  I casually did the same to appease their papist superstitions. I ascended the stairs, knocked at room 206, and opened the door. Bierce greeted me in his customary fashion: “Go away.”

  He and Victoria were seated, separated by a small oval table, she with her back to me. As I approached, I saw that her derringer was pointed at Bierce. I looked at him questioningly.

  “We were discussing editorial matters,” he said.

  Victoria returned the derringer to her purse. “Ah, Señor Generalissimo, perhaps you can tell Señor Bierce to save his ardor for the battlefield.”

  “Indeed, I have booked our passage: we are bound for Neustraguano at midnight!”

  CHAPTER FOUR In Which Destiny Sets Sail

  I had assumed we would have little to do until boarding our ship, but I was wrong. Bierce marched us down to the saloon, pulled four dozing sailors from a curtained padded booth, dropped them decorously on the floor, and made the booth his office, barking out the most extraordinary orders, the point of which became clear to me only later.

  For the nonce, I was kept busy ferrying Bierce’s scribbled notes to a gang of street urchins gathered outside. They went running off with them, returning with even more indecipherable notes of reply. Bierce guffawed and chortled as he read them and dashed off responses to be delivered by his street urchin express.

  “Might I ask the purpose of all these notes?”

  “The purpose, Marshal, is my entertainment, our security, and the transport of the señorita’s luggage.”

  And sure enough, like an army of ants carrying granules of sugar, a steady stream of ragamuffin boys went up and down the stairs ferrying hatboxes, trunks, and her other impedimenta.

  As I watched this caravan, I was distracted by yet another presumed son of Briggs, hawking a newspaper. “Captain’s Gazette?” he inquired.

  “Go on, Marshal,” Bierce chided me, “support the literary life of San Francisco. Captain Briggs edits the Captain’s Gazette. He’s an educated man, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I thought it was time I paid Rachel a visit, so I bought two of the boy’s newspapers, and said to Bierce, “If you’ll excuse me, I have other business.”

  “I’ll gladly excuse you, Marshal—but what other business could you have in San Francisco?”

  “It is business of a religious nature—this being the city of Saint Francis. Señorita Victoria, would you care to accompany me?”

  Bierce put up his hand and interjected, “Marshal, you can pray in a pew before you sally forth, but the señorita will stay right here. You have your business and I have mine. Don’t worry. She’ll be safe.”

  “It is all right, Señor Generalissimo. I have my gun.”

  I bowed to her, scowled meaningfully at Bierce, and then strode to the front desk of the hotel, where I inquired of Mrs. Briggs, “Donde esta la nunna y el indio?”

  “Qué?”

  “Me amigos—a nun” (I held my hands in prayer) “and an Indian” (I made a scalping motion).

  She pointed upstairs, her eyes wide as saucers (I don’t know why), and the two boys smiled their approval and crossed themselves (I don’t know whether with relief that I was no longer in search of that Diablo Bierce or in the hope that I might be scalped). I crossed myself again in the Mexican fashion and then bounded heavenwards up the stairs.

  I knocked on a door, opened it, and was gratified to see Billy Jack—though he was flush against a wall and peering cautiously out a window.

  “Careful,” he said and beckoned me to take a position on the opposite side of the sill. “Hotel watched. Three men. All day.”

  I glanced through the window. Below were three swarthy men in derby hats. They appeared to be operating a fruit stand. “Those are spies?”

  “Yes—more interested in movement of woman’s baggage than customers.”

  “That’s no proof, Sergeant. Victoria’s luggage is like a caravan from Kandahar. It would attract anyone’s attention.”

  “I do not trust them.”

  “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Sister Rachel? She’s in town; makes collection for the poor.”

  “What?”

  “So she said—and I assume she speaks truth.”

  “That’s quite an assumption. No one followed her?”

  “No, those men below stay at fruit stand—not interested in nun Rachel.”

  “Or me, apparently. You’re quite sure they’re spies?”

  “Yes, they watch all who enter and exit hotel; they look for something.”

  “Well, then, Billy Jack, no use cowering. Spies hate to be discovered—so let’s discover them.” And with that I stood before the window and threw open the sash.

  Given that we were near the sea, I opted for a nautical greeting. “Ahoy there, fruit sellers. Are you spying on us?”

  “Qué?”

  “Are you spies?”

  “Espias?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “For ourselves, señor—you want to buy la fruta?”

  “You’ve been watching the hotel.”

  “Oh, sí, we watch el hotel. We sell to los huéspedes. Also we sometimes give tours of San Francisco; very fine city. You want tour?”

  “Not today, thank you.”

  “You new to San Francisco?”

  “Yes, just in today.”

  “You ride in on horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “We see you. Welcome to San Francisco.” He threw me two green apples, one after another. “For you and your Ind
ian friend beside you: free, gratis. You want more—or carrot for your horse—just come see us. Plenty to sell—enjoy apple now; we offer tour later. Adiós.”

  I closed the window, bit into the juicy green apple, and said to Billy Jack. “You see, Sergeant, never take the counsel of your fears. Confront them boldly, frontally—and you might come out with a delicious apple to your credit.”

  We retreated from the window, sat in facing armchairs, and set about munching our apples and reading our copies of the Captain’s Gazette, which was a peculiar grab-bag of news (particularly crime stories), poetry, and short essays. Though they were credited to various classical pseudonyms—“Papias” and so forth—the authorship of the essays, which were composed in an emphatic style and full of nautical exclamations, was in little doubt. My eyes had just drifted to an essay titled Orestes Brownson, His Idiosyncratic Odyssey from Damned Idiot Flibbertigibbet to Catholic Man of Letters by “Marcus Lurius,” when I fell fast asleep.

  It was hours later when I awoke. Billy Jack was asleep in the chair across from me, the remnant core of an apple still in his hand, the Captain’s Gazette sprawled across his lap. I stumbled to the window. I was not so bold this time, but like Billy Jack pressed myself to the wall and peeked down. The three swarthy derby-hatted men were still there at the fruit stall. I went to the washbasin, splashed reviving water on my face, and brushed my teeth.

  I shook Billy Jack by the shoulder. He blinked his eyes repeatedly, finally got his bearings, and then leapt to his feet. “Those apples—pommes de Blanche-Neige! apples of Snow White!—they were drugged!”

  “No, my friend, you were drugged; I was merely put to sleep by the Captain’s Gazette. You stay here and recover. Bierce is downstairs with Victoria in the saloon; that’s where I’ll be.”

  “You tell them about spies?”

  “No, I reckon I’ll keep that knowledge to myself—for now anyway. For all I know, they’re his.”

  I inspected myself in the mirror, deemed myself suitably immaculate, and left Billy Jack alone with the admonition not to eat any more poisoned apples.

  I trotted down the stairs and saw through the parlor windows that it was turning to dusk. In the saloon, the sleepy sailors were awakening, yawning, slapping their faces, and pounding their tables demanding grog and vittles. Mexican children came scurrying forth with both—though the pirates were obliged to pay before receipt.