Rachel said, “Well, I fault her if she misled my dearest husband. If she lured him here under false pretenses—if she told him a villain was a saint—perhaps we should get right back on that boat and set sail for San Francisco. I think this has all been a terrible mistake.”
“To leave now could be a worse mistake. El Caudillo expects you. Messengers have gone ahead, announcing your arrival. And he is not a man to be disappointed.” The Minister’s eyes rested on mine. “You are a friend of Generalissimo Bierce?”
“I know Bierce.”
“Do you come for the same reason?”
“Well, maybe not exactly the same reason, but,” I glanced at Rachel, “I reckon you could say we were allies.”
“Bierce is a good man—a man of deep understanding.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Our two countries are in many ways alike, you know. We have a constitution, laws, elected representatives, a supreme court, cabinet officials—of which I am one. All tools to restrain El Caudillo. On my advice, he made Bierce de facto Minister of War.”
“Bierce?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I thought he was managing some household guards. El Claudio hardly knows him.”
“So much the better—for them both. El Caudillo does not keep Ministers long. He loathes government ministries; he delights in abolishing them; he eagerly agreed when I suggested eliminating the Army and Navy departments. Bierce, one man, has taken their place.”
“If Bierce is his military adviser, who’s his naval adviser, Captain Kidd?”
“No, it is far worse; it is another embarrassment. El Caudillo’s Navy adviser is—a priest. He has two qualifications: he is El Caudillo’s confidant, and he tinkers with boats. So naturally, he should advise our Navy. Absurd, is it not?”
“Not absurd,” said Billy Jack; “a man who knows biggest truth, theology, can master smaller truths of science and mechanics. Disce quasi semper victurus vive quasi cras moriturus.”
The Minister looked curiously at Billy Jack, and then went on: “It is absurd that we have a Navy at all. We are a small island. Navy patrols are an impediment to free trade and free immigration. I have tried to abolish the Navy many times—as a waste of money.”
“And the Army?”
“The Army too—but fear not, Generalissimo, you will have your soldiers. The king enjoys military parades too much; they feed his insatiable vanity; they make him feel strong.”
“After that massacre, I’d say you need an Army.”
“If Neustraguano had no Army, would we have such massacres? Do not armed forces bring on the very violence they are meant to prevent? I am no anarchist. I recognize that we need men to enforce the law—especially on El Caudillo. But we are an island. Our Army is only used against our own people. If we had no king, we would have no Army—and there would be no war.”
After that, we rode a while in silence. To say that I was disconcerted would be an understatement. I was baffled that a Minister of State would condemn his own king before Luis Antonio, a serving Captain of the royal Cavalry, and me, a putative Generalissimo.
The Minister slowed his horse, which fell into pace with Billy Jack’s behind mine, and he engaged my scout in conversation, but I didn’t eavesdrop. I assumed it was the typical palaver of a politician. Then he slowed again so that he could converse with Captain Wakesmith.
Capitán Luis Antonio looked warily at the skies. He told me that sudden torrents of rain could cascade through the trees, turning the roads to mud. He was not worried about the mud’s impeding our way, but he fretted about the men’s uniforms becoming soggy, spattered messes: the king was a stickler for appearances. An officer whose men were not impeccably turned out could be reduced to the ranks. The Neustraguano Army, I noted, would be no place for Sam Grant.
Rachel’s mind, of course, was elsewhere. “The Minister is a handsome man, isn’t he?”
“I’ll let you judge that.”
“Well, he is then.”
“I wonder, though, about his sense of duty.”
“I knew you would; I wonder if he’s married.”
“We’re married,” I reminded her.
But that was only to keep her in line. When it comes to wives, my dearest Libbie, you are the only genuine article.
CHAPTER SIX In Which I Meet El Caudillo
Luck was with Capitán Luis Antonio. The rains held off.
The road descended from the jungle plateau down a rocky slope to the plains, the sun reemerged, and cultivated fields rolled out before us. A man sat astride an elegant trotting horse next to a road-bordering stream. He was dressed in a ruffled white shirt, black tie, and brown vest and coat. He lifted his sombrero in salute. The Minister acknowledged him with a nod and called out: “You fare well, Don Gilberto?”
“Very well, indeed, Matteo Rodríguez! San José has been avenged, and once more I sleep soundly. Viva El Caudillo!”
The Minister smiled wanly.
“He seems to value the Army,” I said.
“It is because of men like him that we have El Caudillo.”
The fields eventually gave way to a narrow strip of forest, beyond which came a town. Its dirt roads were full of people going about their business—wagons loaded with produce, vendors and tradesmen hawking their wares, women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads. It was dusty and reminded me of Texas during Reconstruction, because there was a profusion of soldiers (albeit these soldiers wore grey rather than blue). The most notable buildings—amid a town of shacks—were the stout adobe guard posts.
Looming behind the town were the high adobe walls of the capital: La Ciudad de Serpientes. Soldiers paced on the walkways behind parapets. Flanking the arched wooden gates into the capital were sentry boxes, each with a squad of soldiers keeping watch behind sandbag breastworks.
The Minister remarked: “Would a popular president—rather than an unpopular king—need such protection?”
Past the saluting sentries and through the gates was something far more remarkable—a vision from the Spanish Middle Ages, or at least how I imagine them to have been: a tremendous Spanish plaza paved with black and white tiles that made it appear like a checkerboard. At one end was an astonishing cathedral, its cross casting a giant shadow over the plaza, its spires rising heavenwards like stone hands in prayer, its enormous bell tower festooned with a great golden bell, its gargoyles looking like busts of Sam Grant in one of his fiercer moods. Opposite the cathedral was a squat white-washed stone castle that appeared to be crouching, intimidated by the cathedral. On its roof were soldiers, rifles at port arms, officers gazing down at our entry.
Matteo Rodríguez pointed at the castle: “El Palacio Blanco, the official residence of El Caudillo—hence the guards. These other buildings are mostly government offices. You’ll notice that they—unlike the cathedral and the palace—are in the neo-classical, republican style; and no guards.”
Actually, after the awe-inspiring cathedral, what I noticed most was the milling crowd on the cathedral square. It was full of people dressed in imitation, it seemed, of Black Bart, with flour bags over their heads. A strange, spiky, herky-jerky figure—a woman who looked like a stage witch, perhaps touched with fever—was haranguing them, but I could not make out what she was saying.
Matteo Rodríguez said, “Ah, you wonder at the protest? It is a protest for science—and against ignorance as represented by El Caudillo and that cathedral. Our nation’s square should not be dominated by a Church or represented by a monarchy—both relics of the dark, unenlightened past. We need to join your nation as a republic, don’t you agree?”
“Why the bags over their heads?”
“The speaker is Lucretia Borreros. She works with the Indians on the borderlands. They suffer from a plague. The people wear bags as protection from it.”
A phalanx of Infantry marched from the Palacio Blanco. We stepped down from our horses, and the guards stepped forward to take them.
Looking back
at the Black Bart crowd, I said to the trooper leading Marshal Ney to the stable, “Does the plague affect horses?”
“I do not know.”
“Well, if you think it necessary, cover the horses’ heads.”
“With a feed bag?”
“If that’s sufficient protection, yes.”
Matteo Rodríguez bowed to Rachel. To me he said: “I leave you here—for your audience with El Caudillo. I must attend to other matters. But I will be apprised of your interview. We shall talk again soon, Generalissimo.”
The phalanx halted before the iron gates that separated the castle from the plaza. An officer and four household guardsmen—wearing breastplates and steel helmets, like conquistadors—became our new escort and directed us into the palace. The entry hall, like a miniature edition of the plaza, was floored with checkerboard tiles. The hall was long with high stone walls; its decorations were shields, crossed weapons, and medieval suits of armor, neatly separated by alcoves with conquistador guards. We were ushered into a large sitting room full of overstuffed chairs and sofas. The walls were painted red and festooned with pastoral paintings of the island landscape. Against one wall was a line of doors that admitted to small rooms, closets really, with water basins and mirrors so that we could freshen and tidy ourselves: a reminder that appearances were important.
We were not kept waiting long. A uniformed footman entered and asked us to follow him. He led us down a corridor that ended abruptly before two massive wooden doors. He pounded on these, opened them, and announced our arrival: “The captured foreigners, Your Excellencies of the Council and Your Majesty.” We entered, and he closed the doors behind us. We were left in a circular stone room with vaulted ceilings. Halfway up the wall was a platform where guards stood by barred windows. The room’s perimeter was devoted to statuary, busts, and paintings—each an artistic representation of El Claudio in some sort of heroic pose: dressed for battle, on a rearing horse, like Napoleon crossing the Alps; toga-clad, scroll in hand, like Solon, the Athenian-lawgiver; the man of the soil, a soldier-farmer like Cincinnatus behind his plow, belted with sword and scabbard. And there was the man himself, seated on his throne, elevated on a raised platform. He was an arresting sight. I had expected to see a Spanish nobleman like Matteo Rodríguez. Instead, I saw a man of almost Germanic features, clean-shaven, bronze-skinned, and blond-haired (it shined, almost like a halo around him). He was a formidable, determined-looking man, and radiated authority. Before him, on parallel lines, were two very long stout wooden tables. Seated at the table on the far side, and facing us, were the members of the king’s council. Footmen directed us to the unoccupied near table. My eyes riveted onto an officer seated in a chair just in front and to the right of the throne platform. It was Ambrose Bierce—grey tunic set off by blue epaulets and a maze of gold braid. Opposite him, in another chair, just to the left and slightly in front of the throne platform, was a man in a cassock and dog collar, a Catholic priest—and, I presumed, from what Matteo Rodríguez had told me, the king’s naval adviser. His hair had flecks of grey, but he looked remarkably vigorous, a bit like Colonel Nelson Miles. He seemed to be stifling a smile.
El Claudio said, “Go ahead, americanos, sit down. Welcome to Neustraguano. I am told you wanted to see me.”
The others sat, but I stood and bowed, “Your Majesty, I am Generalissimo Armstrong Armstrong, an associate and superior officer of Generalissimo Ambrose Bierce. I wish to offer you my sword as a commander of Cavalry.”
“And who are these other people?”
“Your Majesty, might I introduce my wife, Rachel…” She stood and curtsied. “My Indian Sergeant and scout, Billy Jack…” He stood and bowed. “And Captain Cameron Wakesmith, merchant seaman.” He stayed seated.
“Do you have children?”
“Your Majesty?”
“Do you have niños, children?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Well, you should you know; you are a handsome couple. I understand if you can’t—that’s very sad—but I’ve noticed in our cities—have you?—that increasingly it seems husbands and wives go into business together and get very busy and never have any children; and if the most attractive people in Neustraguano never have children, won’t our people, over time, become uglier and uglier?”
That sounded like pure science to me, and hard to gainsay, but I noticed that—aside from Bierce who sat stone-faced and the priest who was still stifling a smile—the cabinet officers were rolling their eyes or burying their faces behind their hands.
“Of course,” His Majesty continued, “it’s not half as bad as the rebels—they’re utterly barbaric. Their Indians—not your Indian, I see—actually stick bones through their noses. Can you imagine? Bones through their noses—how do they even do that? And they do weird things with their earlobes, sort of distending them. And they scarify themselves with tattoos. Of course, they’re not Christians. They do not know that the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. They are ignorant in that regard. But they are clever in their own way. They have a tradition of cutting off heads and shrinking them. How do they do that? It’s their ancient secret. I thought we should stamp it out as barbaric, but my councilors tell me that instead we should apologize to the Indians, because if our plantations hadn’t crowded them out, they wouldn’t be raiding, decapitating people, and shrinking their heads; they’d just be shrinking each other’s heads, and that would be all right, because that’s their business—or that’s what they tell me. Personally, I want a country where we don’t apologize for replacing head-hunting with farming.”
“That sounds reasonable, Your Majesty.”
“I’m glad you think so. The rebels we face are horrible. They make war on our churches—and on our women. And our women are much better than theirs. For one thing—ours are actually women. Theirs are some horrid third sex—like human pack animals. They load them with supplies and march them through the jungle. I ask you: Would you do that to a woman? Would you do that to your wife? Is that what a woman is supposed to be—a pack animal? I don’t think so. Our men are trained in Christian chivalry. So, they don’t want to shoot women. But luckily their women are so big and hairy—like overgrown pigs; they grunt under their own weight, not to mention their packs. They’re really too ugly to be women—as you and I understand the term. And chivalry is harder to come by when you see a snarling hog with a pack on its back. People will tell you it’s a woman, but you will find it hard to believe. ‘Really, is that a woman?’ you might ask. And I hate that. We have to kill the snarling hogs—so I don’t mind that—but I hate what the rebels are doing to our country. I want a country where the women are smaller than the men, don’t you? I want a country where beauty is celebrated and passed on to the next generation; we shouldn’t hold it to ourselves, selfishly, and let it expire. I want a country full of children; I prefer them quiet and well-behaved, but I like children. I have five, you know.”
“Yes,” sighed one bearded old cabinet officer in a stage whisper, “by a wife and two mistresses.”
“You see the respect I get—and I’m the king. But my wife loves me, and as the Minister well knows, those mistresses were matters of state, trying to seal some pointless European alliances. We have this custom in Neustraguano: if a woman is a mistress to a prince or a king, no matter for how short a time, she is entitled to a plantation and her offspring gain a title. The custom was meant to discourage affairs, but my Ministers wanted to curry favor with European aristocrats who needed money, and they convinced me it was a matter of patriotic necessity. Isn’t that true?”
The old cabinet officer nodded unhappily.
“I’m surrounded by councilors whose counsel I can’t trust. Do you know what these Ministers of mine tell me? They tell me we should get the Church out of educating our young people, because the rebels don’t like it. I have a Minister who wants education to be his responsibility, a government responsibility. He and his allies want to remove crucifixes from our government buildings. ‘T
he Church is bigger than that,’ they say. ‘It is a small gesture to pacify the rebels.’ But I say, and my special councilor Father Ricardo Gonçalves says, ‘Why should we give ground to the rebels?’ If we remove the Holy Catholic Church from our schools, from our government buildings, something else will take its place. We will replace one set of beliefs with another, with a worse one. It will be the rebels’ monstrous beliefs—beliefs that lead to ugliness, tattoos, shrunken heads, bones through noses, distended earlobes, and women who are bigger than men—and worse horrors that we can’t even imagine. My councilors want to elevate barbarous paganism to an equal level with our Holy Mother Church. You’ve seen la Montaña que Eructa? It is a smoking, belching volcano that they warn me will someday explode and kill us all. To prevent that day, the Indians offer it sacrifice—they throw infants, babies ripped from wombs, into its steaming volcanic pit. And my Ministers tell me we should tolerate that! They don’t want me to even talk about it. And the Indians—they sometimes even eat their own children. Can you believe that? We’re supposed to ignore it, but we all know it’s true, and it’s wrong, but we’re not supposed to say a word. And even our newspapers—we have three newspapers; all run by the government—and none of them will talk about this. Why we support these newspapers is beyond me. One is nothing more than an outlet for the rebels. Okay, fine, they can have their say, but why do none of the newspapers support me? I can tell you why: because these councilors, my councilors, use those newspapers to pursue their own political ends against the country—and me! After I was crowned, do you know what they did, some of these councilors of mine? They organized a protest in the cathedral square—the one happening right now; you saw it, no doubt—declaring their support for science and progress. Let me say that again: science and progress. A protest for science? What does that even mean? Are they performing experiments out there? Are they studying plants or naval architecture as Father Gonçalves does? I don’t think so.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 9