Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

  I greeted him after the nautical fashion: “Ahoy there.”

  “Good day. You’re new here, aren’t you? Looking for a boat?”

  “Why, yes, we are. My wife and I have just arrived here.”

  “That’s not your wife, is it?”

  I was flummoxed for a moment: “Oh—ha, ha—no, she’s at the hotel. This is our adopted son, William Jack Crow Autie.”

  He nodded and said, “My name’s Cameron Wakesmith.”

  He extended his hand and I shook it. “George Autie. We were hoping to book passage to an island down south, Neustraguano. Have you heard of it?”

  “Sure have—sail by it all the time—do a little trade in its ports. It’s off the coast of Mexico. Good fishing down there—but, you know, they’ve got a war going on.”

  “Could you take us?”

  “It’s dangerous—I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “I’m prepared to pay.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  “Danger, Captain, doesn’t frighten me.”

  “Why Neustraguano?”

  “A newspaper assigned me to write about it.”

  “Oh, I see. Newspaperman, huh—you want to tell the American people about the war?”

  “Yes, it’s my trade—war correspondent. Fought for the Union, during the great war.”

  “For the Union—to set men free?”

  “To defend the Union—when I give an oath, I mean it. Was a Cavalryman in that war. Been writing about wars ever since.”

  “Well, I was planning on a fishing expedition down there. Don’t mind moving it forward a couple of days. Just you alone?”

  “No, three of us: my son—and my wife has begged to come along.”

  “Well, at least he’s an Indian; he can take care of himself, I imagine. But you want my advice: keep the wife at home. That island’s dangerous. There’s a lot of gunrunning in those waters. The rebels have Recruiting Sergeants on the Mexican coast. They smuggle guns and men—and they don’t like people who get in the way. I sail those waters because it’s my business. But I would never take a woman down there—might get caught in the crossfire.”

  “You don’t know my wife. She’s a true woman of the West. She’s fazed by neither Indian war parties nor Mexican banditos—nor anything else, from wildcats to blizzards. There’s no leaving her behind.”

  “Well,” he looked thoughtful for a moment, lifted his cap, and brushed back his hair: “I suppose that’s your decision—and hers. I’m only saying, if she comes, it’s on your conscience, not mine. I’d keep her well out of sight. You won’t reconsider?”

  “No, Captain, my mind is set, my will is resolved—and I can tell you, so is hers.”

  “All right then, so be it.”

  “And the fare?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll make my profit fishing, and I’ll appreciate the company. My crew are new hands; hired them just a week ago. They take orders well enough—but they don’t speak much English.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you, Captain. Can we leave tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? I guess I can manage that. How much luggage do you have?”

  “Hardly a thing; just what’s on our horses. They need to come too—four of them—and a dog. Do you have stalls aboard?”

  “No, but we’ll rig something below decks—and add a few stores. It won’t take long. You’ll need a place to stay the night—you can stay aboard the ship if you like.”

  “Thank you, Captain, but we have rooms in town. Shall we meet you here at dawn?”

  He lifted his cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and said, “You’re sure about your wife?”

  “Yes, Captain, she is a courageous woman.”

  “Well, then, at dawn.”

  * * *

  The first part of our seaborne passage was like something from a dream: a limitless horizon, obscured by gauzy mist in the morning, but bright and cerulean by day, and glowing orange and red at night; whales, behemoths of the sea, leaping from and crashing into the foaming waves; sea gulls and pelicans floating in the sky, then suddenly diving to snatch fish from the roaring ocean; the salty sea air, brisk and invigorating. At least I found it so. For Billy Jack it was a floating, rolling nightmare. He spent most of his time at the ship’s rail, looking wistfully and mournfully at the distant Mexican coast.

  At the Captain’s request, and out of concern for her safety, Rachel spent most of her time in our nicely appointed cabin, to which Bad Boy had been assigned as well. (You can rest easy knowing that Bad Boy slept between our bunks to ensure that all Christian proprieties were observed.) In San Diego, Rachel had purchased a copy of that wonderful book My Life on the Plains and was understandably captivated by it. She kept a candle burning in the cabin, not only for added light, but to freshen the air, for the ship had a quite extraordinary and inextinguishable aroma. I can only call it “surf and turf” or “fishmongery and horse manure.” On the deck and in the hold were barrels that, though empty, still stank of fish. Below decks, our steeds provided a challenge for crewmen obviously less experienced with transporting horses than tuna. I deputized Billy Jack to assist them. They took his assistance grudgingly. Their presence, too, encouraged Rachel to stay locked in her cabin; the crew made her uncomfortable. I was unsure of the crewmen’s provenance, but I assumed they were Mexican. At first, I thought she was disquieted by their Indian-looking features, evoking unhappy memories of the Boyanama Sioux who had once held her captive. But I soon realized there was more to it than that. The crewmen were openly suspicious—if not contemptuous—of us. They seemed especially distrustful of Billy Jack—perhaps because he spoke their language. When he stumbled to the rail and gazed woefully at the green-blue swells of the ocean—or took to his berth, which was among the crew—the sailors were ominously silent or surly.

  They also seemed lazy. I never once saw them fish. Most times they could be found sitting on improvised benches: stacked rectangular boxes about the size of coffins, holding, the Captain said, miscellaneous cargo he hoped to sell. The boxes were covered with canvas (like our sails) and tied down by stout ropes. There the crewmen whiled away their time whittling wooden harpoons.

  Still, the Captain was a cordial host and kept us entertained in high form in his cabin, where we dined in the evening. On our first night at sea, he good-humoredly interrogated us on our backgrounds. Rachel can be a deft conversationalist, and I followed her lead, sticking closely to our lives as actually led, making only slight deviations so that our paths eventually and naturally intersected in matrimony.

  She told him, truthfully, that her father had been an itinerant judge, traveling between towns, and a widower. “Unfortunately, he was murdered by Indians when I was young; and they held me captive. I know that might sound horrible, and it was, but I feel my father’s legal training—and the savagery I witnessed among the Indians—has made me an excellent judge of men. In Mr. Autie, I do have the most lawless little savage, don’t I?”

  The Captain laughed rather too charmingly and said, “Another glass for you, Mrs. Autie?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  Wakesmith motioned to his steward. “The lady’s glass, please.”

  The steward looked as Mexican as his colleagues—dark and bearded, with slick black hair falling over his brow—but there was something monkeylike about him. Short and slight, his skinny arms too long for his body, he moved jerkily, as if uncertain of his footing—not a sailor, I reckoned, and not a natural steward either. He lifted her glass, put the bottle to its lip, and tremblingly filled it, returning the glass to the table as if it were a priceless Parisian vase.

  Wakesmith turned to me: “And you, sir, tell me your story.”

  I spun a tale about how, after the war, I had migrated West, seeking new challenges, reporting on Indian wars, and how those adventures had led “to my greatest conquest of all, Mrs. Autie.”

  He smiled obligingly, and I asked him about his own background.

  “Oh—no
thing so exciting: Harvard; decided against the ministry; felt called to the sea.”

  “Oh, how romantic,” said Rachel.

  “Not really,” he smiled and brushed back his hair. “Not unless you like the smell of fish.”

  “Oh, but I find the sea very romantic.”

  “I’m a New Englander; we’re not romantics, but we do like salt spray. Quite a few of us in San Francisco. Not so many down here. There’s the businessman Alonzo Horton and his friends. He’s a Connecticut Yankee, a Republican, and a Unitarian. But otherwise, San Diego’s practically the Confederacy. Could be a dangerous place for you, sir, as a former Union officer, what with all these Southerners about.”

  “No, Captain, we’d get along fine. I was quick friends with the Southerners at West Point—even best man to one during the war!”

  “You were at West Point?”

  “Er, yes, but just for a short while, you know—and then the war broke out.” I thought it wise to change the subject. “More wine for Mrs. Autie?”

  “Ah, excuse me for not noticing.” Wakesmith gestured to the steward. “Are you sure you won’t indulge, sir?”

  “Quite sure,” I said, eyeing the steward as he trod awkwardly to Rachel.

  “In vino veritas, as we say at Harvard.”

  “Yes, I suppose you do,” I replied.

  “To the romance of the sea,” proposed Rachel.

  “To my wife’s draining the bottle dry,” I seconded.

  It was a long night.

  CHAPTER FIVE In Which We Find Neustraguano

  Our second night at sea proved less bibulous but more eventful.

  Our host was charming as ever, but I wanted information about the war in Neustraguano, and he seemed reluctant to talk about it, especially in front of the steward.

  “Ah, the rebellion, you mean.” The Captain’s brow furrowed. He cast a quick glance at the steward and then back at me. “It’s a fraught subject.”

  I took that as a warning but plunged on. “You’re familiar with the situation?”

  “Familiar enough: Neustraguano was something like a pearl down here—not like the other Latin republics. Fair number of English speakers for one thing—descendants of pirates, they say. The ones with treasure bought land; those without joined the army. Some German settlers, too: tradesmen, brewers, a few farmers. The royal family is minor Dutch nobility from the old Spanish Netherlands. At least half the plantation owners, most of the government, and the Church are Spanish.”

  “Picturesque.”

  “The king is the problem. His family were reformers. They talked about abdicating, joining the Latin republics. But they didn’t. When the heir apparent was killed in a hunting accident—or murdered, as some say—the king and queen died of grief—or poison. That brought their younger son, El Caudillo, to the throne. He’s a thoroughgoing reactionary: distrusted, disliked, and disdained—even by his own government, let alone the rebels.”

  “Who supports him?”

  “Plantation owners—he’s one of them—yeoman farmers, cattlemen, the Spanish Church, French refugees from the Mexican revolution: anyone who fears losing land, wealth, or position. I assume your newspaper backs the republicans?”

  “Republicans? No, Captain, my paper supports the Democrats.”

  “Democrats?”

  “Indeed: free trade, lower taxes, limited government, a return to the gold standard, and honest administration. Sam Tilden is our man.”

  Captain Wakesmith brushed his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit of his. “But, sir, in Neustraguano, I assume your paper favors the republicans—the rebels—over the monarchists, the king, El Caudillo.”

  “On the contrary, Captain. My newspaper supports the king. I had the honor of receiving the king’s emissary; she was most convincing. And you, Captain—on which side are you?”

  “I don’t take sides; I avoid politics. I came out here for a reason: Emerson, Thoreau—independence, self-reliance, a peaceful, reflective life, that’s me. The sea is my Walden Pond.”

  “I understand, Captain—well, not really, but I can pretend to. For my part, I am a slave to duty, and, having pledged my sword to his emissary, I am obliged to serve El Claudio.”

  “Your sword—as a war correspondent?”

  Rachel glanced at me and then at Wakesmith. “My, all this talk of kings and rebels, war and peace, seas and ponds, swords and pens, it certainly raises a thirst, doesn’t it?”

  “Forgive me, I’m forgetting my manners.” The Captain snapped his fingers and said to the steward, “Otra botella de vino, por favor.” To Rachel, he said, “I’m afraid I’ve been deprived of proper company for too long. I practically made a speech.”

  “Oh, I found it fascinating.”

  So had I. But now something else caught my interest: I noticed that the longer the steward was gone—and he was gone an exceedingly long time—the more fidgety our Captain became. He combed his fingers through his hair and offered excuses for the newness of his crew. Finally, he said, “Forgive my steward. Our wine stores are low—the Frenchmen in Neustraguano buy all I can carry.”

  Suddenly, the Captain’s door flew open—and in leapt the steward, like a crazed, knife-wielding monkey. He smashed a huge machete into the dining table; his eyes, locked on mine, glittered with insanity. Pretty impertinent for a little man, I thought—but then behind him stormed the crew, their fists gripped around machetes of their own, their eyes, like his, reddened with hate.

  The steward yelled, “Do not move—or you die!”

  The Captain said, “Now hold on, Manolo. What do you think you’re doing?”

  The steward wrenched the machete blade from the table and, with his freakishly long arms, swung it dangerously close to my nose. “He cannot remain aboard ship.”

  “He is my guest, Manolo.”

  “He is a friend of El Caudillo.”

  “That is no concern of ours.”

  “Maybe not for you, Capitán, but for us.”

  “Be careful, Manolo. If this is a mutiny…”

  “You would be dead, Capitán. You,” he waved his machete, setting my whiskers aquiver, “outside with your woman!”

  I had no choice. Two machete blades, wielded by mutineers, rested menacingly on my chest; another prodded my back. One of the blackguards grasped Rachel’s shoulders.

  “No touchay la señorita! Dontay daraymos!” I bellowed in my fiercest Spanish, and the hands withdrew. As imperious as the Indian royalty she had once been (daughter-in-law to a chief, after all), Rachel pushed back her chair, stood, and stepped bravely from the Captain’s cabin and onto the deck. I followed with machetes tickling my ribs and spine. There we saw Billy Jack, trussed like a turkey and looking sicker than ever.

  Behind me I heard Captain Wakesmith mutter, “If I had my pistols,” which made me think of Rachel’s derringer. I harrumphed to get her attention, but she kept her eyes on the rolling sea.

  The steward said, “We are no mutineers, Capitán. We are only friends of Neustraguano. You keep the ship; we do not want it; we are not thieves—but we no longer sail with you. We will take the longboat, and the boxed cargo—not as thieves, but as our payment—and row to Mexico. As for you,” and the machete came back to my nose, “Neustraguano is that way,” he said pointing west. “We throw you overboard—no boat. You will never make it.”

  Rachel said, “So you’re not a thief; you’re a murderer.”

  “We no murderers. We leave you to fate—or to the sharks. These waters are full of man-eaters; we will whet their appetite, and then your fate will decide.” He said something to his compadres, and the blades on my chest and back made swift thin cuts; my shirt seeped red. “Sharks like blood—I think your fate is death, like all who serve El Caudillo.”

  They shoved me to the ship’s rail, Rachel beside me. The mutineers grabbed Billy Jack, his binding ropes were cut (why, I don’t know; it could hardly have been a matter of mercy; perhaps they merely wanted to show off their machetes), and he was th
rown over the side. Then they grabbed Rachel and me and heaved us over almost simultaneously. The water was dreadfully cold—but it revived my spirits and concentrated my mind. I had no clue how far away Neustraguano was, or how far we could swim in sodden clothes, freezing and shivering, and with the prospect of sharks tearing at our flesh. But I knew we had to try. To stay here, rolling on the waves like corks floating in a bathtub, was slow death. Life—if we were to keep it—lay to the west; and we must swim for it.

  “Courage, Rachel! Fortune favors the brave!”

  “Armstrong! Armstrong! I’m drowning!” Rachel gasped. Unfortunately, she had never learned the aquatic arts. With plunging strokes, I swam to her side. Suddenly, there was a dark splash in the water, and there was Bad Boy, paddling furiously so Rachel could cling to his back.

  The swells rose, crested, and fell in a powerful pattern that I reckoned was aiding our westward drift. I looked back at the fishing boat. Our horses were still aboard; I was determined to retrieve them—even if I had to lead an armada and a landward invasion of Mexico to do so. For now, though, we were captives of the Pacific Ocean. An ominous darkness surrounded us, we shook and shivered and were borne upon the waves, and our skin shriveled in the frigid waters. Beneath us, unseen, could be sharks ready to feast upon the warmth of our limbs. I thought it best if we held onto each other, with Bad Boy as our center point. Alone we were vulnerable; together we could mount a defense.

  Even with the cold and danger, with the wind and waves battering our faces, with the salty water seeping through our lips, flooding our ears, and swarming our nostrils, Rachel fell asleep—or perhaps she fainted from shock or exhaustion. I grasped her waist to keep her afloat. As we were married—or at least acting the part—I felt there was nothing untoward in my doing so. I have always believed in embracing every role I have been handed, and given the extremity of our circumstances, I’m sure you would agree, my dear, that it was the right thing to do. There was also the matter of sharing body heat in our vigil through the night. Billy Jack and Bad Boy acted as chaperones and swam round us as scouts.