Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

  Come dawn, I expected to see a vast, vacant horizon—and in the west, that is exactly what I saw. But from the east came salvation: a fishing boat. Waving down to us was Captain Wakesmith himself. “Ahoy, there—still in one piece?”

  “Yes, and frozen solid,” I replied. “What happened to your mutineers?”

  “They took the longboat all right, but not very foresighted, were they, if they really wanted you to drown? I can handle this ship myself if needs must. Stand by—I’ll toss you a rope. I’ve got a basket that might do for your dog.”

  And thus, my dear, we were rescued—fished from the Pacific, the Captain’s catch of the day. We were reunited with our baggage, our sodden clothes set out to dry (though after being thoroughly drenched in saltwater they would never be the same), and the Captain brought us coffee.

  “I knew they weren’t the most efficient crew or the brightest, but I didn’t reckon them for mutineers. Still, this Neustraguano business has made everyone down here crazy—you’ll find that out soon enough.”

  “If they care about Neustraguano, why didn’t they go there instead of Mexico?”

  “Patrol boats. El Caudillo guards the approaches to the island. That might be why they didn’t kill you—afraid a patrol boat would track them down and try them for murder.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that.”

  “We’ll see Neustraguano—or one of El Caudillo’s patrol boats—within a day’s sailing; and then, Mr. and Mrs. Autie, it’s good luck to you; and keep your heads down.”

  The Captain was as good as his word: the next day the island of Neustraguano rose before us. Through a grey haze a bustling seaport appeared—a long shoreline slowly filling the horizon—and green hills beyond. A small warship, cannons protruding from its gun ports, slid through the waves. Her Captain and ours shouted nautical pleasantries. The warship turned, came alongside, grappled itself to us, a rope ladder descended, and sailors came thumping aboard, along with a half dozen Marines and a naval officer who, speaking Spanish-accented English, and hardly pausing to draw a breath, issued a rapid patter of orders to the sailors to secure our boat and guide us into port while he interrogated Captain Wakesmith under the watchful eyes of the Marines.

  Leaving things nautical to those who knew something about them, I borrowed Captain Wakesmith’s glass and stepped to the bow and examined the looming port. Signs of the rebellion were immediately obvious. Soldiers lined the wharf, and I could see that entrenchments had been erected on the high ground above the town and along its perimeter. There were even squads of Cavalrymen, riding between posts. Looking deep in the distance, I could just make out, shrouded in clouds, what looked like a massive earthen tower with curling, wispy smoke rising above it.

  Captain Wakesmith freed himself from the naval officer and said, “They’ve agreed to let us dock, but the Captain’s a bit on edge. Apparently, the rebels struck at a town just north of here.”

  “Well, that could be my first big story.” I handed him the spyglass. “What’s that mountain way out there?”

  “It’s a volcano; rumbles occasionally, kicks out some smoke—that’s part of this haze—but it’s otherwise inert. They call it la Montaña que Eructa. For the Indians here it’s sacred.”

  “And this town?”

  “El Pueblo del Pelícano Sagrado, the chief port city of Neustraguano. If the rebels ever crack its defenses, El Caudillo could be finished. This is his lifeline to the outside world.”

  “Is that all he’s got, this port?”

  “No, he’s got the eastern half of the island—and the Navy: they collect tariffs and keep a percentage, so they’ll stay loyal. But be careful how you talk in the towns. You might be surprised who supports the rebels. It’s not just Indians, poor mestizos, and Mexicans. A lot of Neustraguanians think El Caudillo is an embarrassment; they think monarchies are an anachronism. So, you’ve got revolutionaries who want to overthrow him; monarchist planters who support him; and reform-minded businessmen who just wish he’d go away. I guess you’ll figure it out, all right. If you write for the San Diego Union, I’ll read your stories.”

  Laborers along the dock swung ropes over the bow of the boat and helped guide her in. A Lieutenant led a detachment of soldiers trotting up portside, and the young naval officer and Captain Wakesmith took to the pier to meet him As the Marines stood guard, Billy Jack and I busied ourselves, getting our horses saddled and above decks. We had just completed that task when Captain Wakesmith returned to the boat.

  “Well,” said Wakesmith, “it looks like we’ll be together a while longer. They’re impounding my boat—temporarily, they tell me—until they know more about us. They’ll be taking us to La Ciudad de Serpientes—that’s the capital. No use standing here. We might as well go ashore.”

  Our horses’ hooves clattered onto the wharf and soldiers surrounded us. Their eager young Lieutenant nodded at Captain Wakesmith, and then addressed me: “You too are an American, yes? Then tell me, señor, your name and your business. He tells me you come to write about the war.”

  “Well, brace yourself, gentlemen. That was a disguise. I am actually Generalissimo Armstrong Armstrong, come to serve El Claudio as a Cavalry commander. These are my companions: my Sergeant, Billy Jack; my dog, Bad Boy; my horses, Marshal Ney and Edward; two additional horses—and, oh yes, this is my wife, Mrs. Generalissimo.”

  “His Majesty expects you?”

  “Perhaps—I was recruited by a woman, an agent of El Claudio. She also recruited a man named Ambrose Bierce. I am very eager to see them both again.”

  “Of Generalissimo Bierce I have heard. He forms a special regiment at the palace. But this Capitán said nothing about you and Generalissimo Bierce; he said you write for newspapers.”

  “Yes, well, one does not advertise one’s Generalissimo status, does one? My deception was a military necessity, but I am, otherwise, a man of my word.”

  “You were a General in the United States?”

  “Yes—and I believe that translates to Generalissimo status here in Neustraguano. From you, Lieutenant, I require a Cavalry escort to the palace of El Claudio.”

  “We have Cavalry at hand. They will escort you. But if you have lied to me, General, they will form your firing squad.”

  “Oh, how delightful,” said Rachel. “My husband has taken me from a mutiny to an execution.”

  “Mutiny, señora?”

  “Oh nothing, really—it happened to someone else, a Mr. and Mrs. Autie. Apparently, I’m now the wife of a Generalissimo. That sounds quite exciting, doesn’t it?”

  “It has been a long voyage, Lieutenant, and my wife is fatigued, having been forced to subsist on whiskey and wine. Now, about that Cavalry escort…”

  It proved quite impressive—twenty riders to the front, twenty to the rear, and riding alongside me was Capitán Luis Antonio. He and his men wore kepis and were dressed in uniforms of Confederate grey with yellow and black piping and blue epaulets. The Captain was voluble, and we kept up a lively conversation, for I was most eager to be prepared for my meeting with El Claudio.

  “El Caudillo is un hombre de la tierra. He is a king, yes, but also a plantation owner of incredible wealth and vast estates—a private kingdom. But now his realm is the entirety of Neustraguano. That has made some people very jealous. Oh yes, the government, the fashionable people, they all hate him, because he talks and governs like un hombre de la tierra. He is a man of our native traditions. He went to military school and respects the army. He is not diplomatic. He is not subtle. He is rude to his opponents, but also bold against our enemies. Many plot against him, but he survives; he is a hard man, and clever. You know Generalissimo Bierce? He is charged with El Caudillo’s protection; he forms a praetorian guard around the palace. Generalissimo Bierce was given a position of much trust—and yet he is a foreigner; like you, an American; but El Caudillo can read a man’s character.”

  “Maybe he should read a bit more carefully.”

  “Señor, what do you mean
?”

  Rachel interceded, “Oh, it’s just my husband’s jealousy. You know how Generalissimos are—always trying to prove that they’re more issimo than the other. You should just see them, Capitán, arguing like two jealous schoolgirls smitten with the same beau.”

  “Smitten, señora?”

  “Really, Rachel, remember your station.”

  “My fondest Generalissimo, you had better remember yours—and remember that you and Bierce are allies; you might need each other.”

  “The señora is right. Good men must stand together. Our country is horribly divided—and it is very dangerous. El Caudillo stands for Neustraguano, for our country as it has always been: the monarchy, the Church, our traditional ways. That should unify us, yes? But it does not, because the rebels want to change everything; they conspire with thieves, cutthroats, savage Indians.”

  Billy Jack interjected, “There is virtue in mos maiorum.”

  Capitán Luis Antonio asked me, “What did he say?”

  “He’s not savage enough—he speaks Latin, among other things. I believe he said, ‘there is virtue in more marmalade’—an old Latin adage.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “The way of our ancestors is best,” said Billy Jack. “For civilized Indian, Catholic way is best for truth and morality; Indian way is best to ride horse and hunt buffalo.”

  “Generalissimo, where did you find this Indian?”

  “We have quite a few like him in the United States—well, not exactly like him—but good company.”

  Captain Wakesmith regarded Billy Jack as if he were a talking horse. He responded in kind: “Mos maiorum non semper optimus. Res publica semper optima.”

  Capitán Luis Antonio leaned across his saddle. “And what did he say?”

  “Another old Latin adage: Marmalade is not always optimistic, but with pumpkins you can always be optimistic.”

  “Ah, I see—that is true, I suppose.”

  I looked about me. Bordering us on either side were well-organized fields: plantations of coffee, bananas, and other tropical crops. Field hands, some of them with machetes tucked in their belts, glanced up at us with mild curiosity. The road was obviously well-traveled; they had seen Cavalry many times before. Though it was late fall, the sun was bright, the temperatures mild. But I could see that looming before us was an ascent into low hills—and the jungle.

  “Enjoy the sun, señor, because when we enter that jungle—the road passes through it like a tunnel. The jungle canopy blots out the sun; a mist will envelop us; it will seem like you traverse a haunted land.”

  “With a rebel ambush?”

  “No, señor, I doubt it. Our Infantry has swept the area. Any rebels have been dealt with—but they have done their damage. I regret, we must pass through the town of San José. I wish we could avoid it, but there we meet the Minister of State. It is a scene of much horror. The rebels attacked the town—and they are without morality.”

  “They have a cause,” said Wakesmith.

  “Yes, señor, we hear often of the cause—you will see its results.”

  We rode on from the rich, dark, fertile soil of the plantations to a borderland of rocky soil and boulders. The land rose slowly and the rocks became gravel and were enveloped by the roots of large, scraggly trees leaning grey-green against the hills, and then came a cascade of deeper green—verdant, wilder hills covered with bushes and proud trees that reached to the sky and blossomed there. And then came the jungle, rising ever darker over us until it formed an archway of tangled green vines, filtering the sun.

  The road cut east, and a chilly coastal fog rolled through the jungle, further dimming our vision, landing damp on our clothes, and loosening goose bumps on our flesh—or at least on Rachel’s, I noticed. La Montaña que Eructa rumbled its earthen thunder in the distance, and our horses paused as if waiting for the ground to settle. Jungle birds squawked and trilled; ghostly seagulls (you couldn’t see them) cawed far above the trees; monkeys chattered like women at a church social. Billy Jack made whippoorwill calls of his own, and was satisfied, I reckoned, that no hostile Indians responded. Brave and daring as she is, Rachel kept her horse close to mine.

  Our legs bumped and she said, “Armstrong, I don’t like this.”

  Neither did I: a roadblock in front and another behind and we would be trapped. We were no longer ascending; the road was straight and level: we had reached a plateau. Ahead of us, the grey fog became denser, sootier, until it seemed like a passage into the blackest night.

  “Señora, many apologies, but we approach San José. Avert your gaze if you can. Generalissimo, mark well the enemy you will face.”

  The black fog was smoke. Cutting through it, like fireflies, were sparks from faltering flames. And then a scene of barbarity that I can barely describe. Lining the road, dangling from vines, swaying slightly under the fog-borne wind, were severed, blood-spattered arms and legs. They leapt suddenly to sight from the mist, then were shrouded again. Worse was to come. Pickets of soldiers waved torches, revealing adobe dwellings and horribly mutilated corpses: women and children, disemboweled, limbs severed. Sweating, grunting details of soldiers dug hasty graves; a priest wandered past, his hands moving in the sign of the cross. As we drew closer, waving torches revealed a dual purpose—not just lighting up the darkness but chasing away swarms of flies.

  “Oh, Armstrong!” Rachel clutched my arm and buried her face in my shoulder.

  It was a scene of gore, depravity, and evil.

  Riding out of this satanic fog, illuminated only by flickering fire, came a Spanish hidalgo: dark-haired, grey-templed, proud and dignified, his eyes welling with sorrow.

  He addressed Luis Antonio: “Capitán, these are the Americans?”

  “Yes, your excellency.”

  The hidalgo nodded briefly at Captain Wakesmith, and then looked at me and Rachel and said, “I am sorry you must see this—this outrage of El Caudillo; this butchery for which he alone is responsible. But forgive me, I am Senator and Minister of State Matteo Rodríguez. I take it you are Generalissimo and Mrs. Armstrong?”

  I nodded. “El Claudio did this?”

  “Yes, he and he alone—though he will blame others. The man has no honor, no shame. He is a liar, a hypocrite, a brute.”

  “But why?”

  “Vanity—he is consumed with vanity. This is the price we pay. These people had no quarrel with the rebels. They welcomed them. They hoped to work and trade together, to live side by side. But El Caudillo vowed the rebels should not have this town. And now we have it. They, the rebels, warned us. They said, ‘You may take San José, but you will recover nothing.’ It is worse than nothing.”

  Captain Wakesmith muttered under his breath, “Damn him; damn that dictator El Caudillo.”

  I said, “So the rebels committed these atrocities?”

  “Yes, you could say so—but only under El Caudillo’s provocation. That’s what El Caudillo does—he provokes, he divides, he instills hate. And this is the result.”

  Capitán Luis Antonio caught my eye.

  Billy Jack interjected, “Responsibility lies with murderers.”

  The Minister of State replied, “Yes—and it was El Caudillo who gave them leave to do this. You are an Indian—are you not? Your people have been provoked beyond endurance—isn’t that why you fight?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Injustice always provokes.”

  “I fight Sioux, Cheyenne; I fight beside the white man when we share common cause.”

  “There is no common cause here. El Caudillo has divided us. He has made Neustraguano a land of despotism and war. Were it not for his vanity, we would have peace, free trade, a republic. Instead we have his dull, deadening fist. And this is the man you intend to serve, is that correct?”

  “Well, yes,” I said, “but I was told a different story.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I was persuaded to come here by a young woman.”

  “Apparently you were misinfo
rmed.”

  Capitán Luis Antonio crossed himself and whispered: “Viva Cristo Rey.” He was looking at a religious statue smashed on the ground—it was a male figure, perhaps Jesus or Joseph, decapitated.

  The Minister of State noticed and said, “Capitán, true religion does not lie in statues. It is here, in our mind, in our highest, most transcendental thoughts. Statues are but plaster; they are nothing of value.”

  Capitán Luis Antonio shot me a glance, but he was too good a soldier to speak.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s not very respectful, is it—knocking down a statue, smashing it?”

  “You speak of respect. That is all the rebels want: the respect of living in a progressive republic rather than a backward monarchy. But let us ride away from here. I can stand the stench of death no longer.”

  The Captain shouted orders, and we weaved eastward, cutting away from the town and onto a road that plunged back through the jungle and the mist.

  Matteo Rodríguez rode beside me and said, “You say you were persuaded by a young woman?”

  “Yes—and most convincing she was.”

  “That would have been Consuela Victoria Margarita Monteverde Cristóbal. I said she misinformed you. That is not entirely true. She was sent as an emissary to your country. She is indeed a lovely young woman. I am certain she was quite persuasive. She and her family share a simple, honest patriotism, but it is misguided. They fear the future; they reverence the past; they do not see El Caudillo as a blot upon Neustraguano, because they see our country as a Church and a king. They do not understand that these things, like that smashed statue, are mere appurtenances. Neustraguano, if I may speak my mind to you, should be an idea—a social compact available to all; not tied to a crown or an altar or a tradition or even a specific people. So, you see, Consuela did not mean to misinform you; she was simply mistaken. Still, her patriotism has its uses, and she is a well-meaning young lady, and I do not fault her.”