“Your Majesty, if I may…” said a bearded councilor.
El Claudio ignored him and asked me, “You’ve heard of this theory of evolution? Father Gonçalves disproved it by a simple experiment. Darwin—and I have studied him closely—believes that through a miracle, which he calls ‘time,’ you can turn a fish into a frog, a frog into a lizard, a lizard into an eagle, an eagle into a monkey, and a monkey into a man. I might have the sequence slightly wrong, but it’s something like that; it’s about adaptation over time. But it doesn’t work. I am a farmer, Father Gonçalves is a farmer, and every farmer knows you can take breeding only so far. Breed a horse and a donkey and you get a mule, not a tiger or a rat—and I don’t care how long you do it. But Father Gonçalves, being a scientist, gave Darwin’s theory a try. He put pigs in trees around his farm to see if they would adapt to their environment and grow wings—and did they? No, they merely fell splat on the ground and died. We turned them into ham for the Navy. Did I get that right, Father Gonçalves?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, it was something like that.”
“Yes, I thought so—you see? And as for progress—progress to what, I’d like to know. And they invited that horrible woman, Lucretia Borreros—who has a government job, by the way—to be the ringleader! She’s the one who is supposed to convince the Indians that head-hunting, cannibalism, and child sacrifice are wrong. And you know what she does instead? She tells the Indians to avoid our bad, corrupt, civilizing ideas and pursue their own barbarism.”
A Minister said, “Please, Your Majesty…”
But the king held up a hand for silence and asked me, “Do you like beef?”
“Why, yes, Your Majesty. I hope it’s what’s for supper.”
“Bierce, make a note of that—make sure he gets a beef ration tonight.” To me the king said, “We have a few cattle ranches here. Now, I want you to imagine a cattle ranch. If you’re a rancher, you take good care of your stock. You protect them from predators, right? Now imagine yourself as a cow. You roam, you graze, you’re content because your rancher provides you with lovely green fields and cool clean water. He builds rail fences so you don’t accidentally trespass on the neighboring farmer. And so, you lead your life, untroubled, as happy cows do; and the happy rancher thinks about something I once read.”
A counselor smirked. “Read, Your Majesty?”
El Claudio stared at him, “The rancher never mistakes a dozen noisy grasshoppers—even those that sit in his council—as outnumbering his hundreds of contented, quiet cows.” He looked at me. “You get my point?”
“Actually, no, Your Majesty.”
“Then let me explain it to you. Being king of Neustraguano is like being a rancher. I ensure that our people are free to work and support their ranches. I protect them from predators; I guard our borders; otherwise, I try to leave them alone, just as ranchers leave their cattle pretty much alone, to graze and enjoy the sun; and I ignore the grasshoppers, no matter how loud they get.”
A large, well-fed Minister forced himself to his feet and said, “Your Majesty, I object to your comparing the people of Neustraguano to cattle.”
The king held up his index finger and said, “I like cattle. I like them better than many of my councilors. But Lucretia Borreros—that crazy woman—is opposed to cattlemen and their cattle. She berates them at every opportunity. Her Indians steal cattle and put them in pens. You will find this hard to believe—I find it hard to believe—but it is true: she and her Indians shout at them, curse at them, their Indian medicine men shake shrunken heads at them; they chastise the cattle—the poor, dumb, uncomprehending cattle—for the error of their ways, and the cattle stand there and take it. They don’t get it, of course: they rotate their ears, and swing their tails, and expect they’ll be led to water and grasslands. But after Borreros thinks she’s made her point, she and the Indians lead them up la Montaña que Eructa and push the cattle over the edge—the poor, lowing, mooing cattle; the poor big-eyed calves—as yet another sacrifice. She thinks we shouldn’t have cattle because the Indians didn’t have cattle. They were introduced by settlers. But I like beef, you like beef, what’s the matter with beef? I like milk too—very much in fact. So, why not leave the cows alone with their ranchers and leave our country rich in milk and beef? The cows are happy, the people are happy, everyone but Lucretia Borreros is happy.”
A Minister began, “You will forgive His Majesty…”
But I quickly interjected, “There is nothing to forgive. I appreciate His Majesty’s wisdom. I too want a country where the women are smaller than the men, where beauty is perpetuated, where beef is freely available, where milk can be drunk happily, and where children are not thrown into volcanoes or eaten for dinner.”
“I like this man,” said El Claudio. “You’re a Cavalryman, right? I could use an officer of household Cavalry, couldn’t I, Bierce? Wouldn’t that work well with your men?”
“So it would, Your Majesty. Generalissimo Armstrong is a man of high moral character—practically a lawman in his own right—and an extremely clever Cavalryman, capable of eluding the best set traps of his opponents.”
“You’re hired,” said El Claudio. “Bierce will work out the details. And these other men?”
I gestured towards Billy Jack. “I assume, Your Highness, that I might keep my Sergeant and chief scout?”
“Certainly, we need more Indians on our side; and I like the fact that he doesn’t have a bone through his nose. And what about the naval officer?”
Cameron Wakesmith stood and bowed and addressed the king: “I, sir, am not in the Navy; I am a merchant seaman; I ply the waters as a fisherman and as an importer and exporter of goods. I have no interests here—I only rescued Mr. and Mrs. Autie; I mean, the Generalissimo and his wife, after they were cast adrift.”
“I like you, Captain; you are a man of enterprise, humanity, and good sense. I want to offer you a job.”
“I am content to return to my boat, Your Majesty.”
“I can make you a better offer. You may have your boat—and a crew. Bierce will arrange your pay—and it will be generous. I commission you a Captain in the Royal Navy of Neustraguano for a period of five years or until the end of the rebellion. We need more boats, and yours happens to be here. You will join our coastal patrol. Anyone you need transported to our shores—wife, sweetheart, children—tell Bierce and he will arrange it. I know this might not be what you want, but we will make the transition as happy as possible, and it is far better than the alternative: which would be seizing your boat for violating our sovereign waters and throwing you into prison until the United States government ransoms you, if it ever did. We had another man, another ship, a Captain Briggs, but he had too many children—we had to let him go.”
“Sir, Your Majesty, I have no interest…”
“I know you don’t, but that is all, Captain—hard times mean hard measures, and even if you did so with the best of intentions, you illegally crossed into our territorial waters. Our naval intelligence officers tell me you have done so many times before—on the pretext of fishing. You have also traded extensively with Mexico—and we are forced to regard Mexico as a hostile power, though I believe that will change under el Presidente Porfirio Díaz; he seems a good man. So, you see, I either make you a prisoner or a naval officer. That’s a great choice, isn’t it? So easy to choose. But if you refuse my offer, I have the best lawyers in Neustraguano. They will convict you of violating our sovereignty. On the other hand, if you accept your commission, you will have the authority of a naval officer and the freedom of Neustraguano. All I require is your loyalty, your service, and, of course, your boat.”
“He accepts,” I said, “with thanks, Your Majesty.” I sensed Wakesmith was about to protest, so I thrust him forcibly into his chair. “There, Captain Wakesmith, you may rest your case. And I, Your Majesty, rest mine. I look forward very much to renewing my partnership with my old comrade Ambrose Bierce. I am at your service, Your Highness—eager to lead any t
roops I am given.”
“I really do like this man,” said El Claudio. “In fact, I might have a mission for you now. Would you like that?”
“I would like nothing more, Your Highness.”
“You came through San José, didn’t you? Well, the rebels are trying to take another town from us. It’s on the western side of la Montaña que Eructa, which means enemy territory. It is surrounded. It is a small town named Santiago. My councilors say we should abandon it—but why abandon ground when you don’t have to? A road, El Camino Real, directly links Santiago to the capital, which means you can put your Cavalry on that road, Generalissimo. The rebels want Santiago badly, because it has a great, big, beautiful statue of our Spanish hero El Cid. You should see it. You will see it. He is mounted on a horse and holding a lance above his head—it’s a symbol of victory. And they want that statue. They want to topple it and destroy it. But you are going to save that statue. If you must evacuate the town, I will accept that, provided you return with the statue intact. We will erect El Cid in the plaza, where he will be a rallying point for our martial spirit. As he drove the Moors from Valencia, so we will drive those rebels and protestors for science from Neustraguano. Do you accept this mission?”
“Yes, with pleasure, Your Highness.”
“Bierce, give Generalissimo Armstrong as many men as you and he deem necessary. I want them to be Cavalrymen with carbines. I leave the other details to you.” He looked at me. “Generalissimo Armstrong, if you require political information, talk to these men.” He waved at the cabinet officers. “Just don’t believe anything they say. And don’t believe our newspapers either—they get all their information from them. Now, if you will excuse me; I have a troop inspection to make at the barracks at Santa Maria.”
He rose from his throne, the cabinet officers stood and bowed, and the king made his exit, escorted by two guards. I saw now that El Claudio was tall and powerfully built. Capitán Luis Antonio had called him a man of the soil, which made me think of a stout yeoman farmer. But given his prosperity and station and martial bearing, I thought El Claudio better resembled a Prussian Junker or a paladin of the South—a Bismarck or a Wade Hampton, only clean-shaven and with luxuriant golden hair.
Captain Wakesmith grabbed my forearm: “I did not need your intercession. I have no interest in serving this king or any other. I am a merchantman and a citizen of the United States.”
“For now, Captain, you are a free man because I spoke on your behalf. Gratitude would, I believe, be the appropriate response. I too am a citizen of the United States. I too intend to return there. But for now, we are bound up in this thing, and our only choice is to make the most of it. Surely, it cannot be such an imposition—for you, a Harvard man—to take up the duties and obligations of an officer and a gentleman. El Claudio has called you to be not just a fisherman, but a fisher of men, casting aside those who don’t belong here.”
As he had grabbed my forearm, Rachel grabbed his, “Captain Wakesmith, my husband is right, and I don’t say that lightly. Usually, he has an unerring nose for trouble, but in this instance, I think we have no choice but to serve El Caudillo—and serve him well. When he’s victorious, we can all leave. And if I’m any judge of men, he will be victorious.”
“I need hardly add,” I said, “that my wife is an excellent judge of men.”
And with that, I broke free from Wakesmith, left any further persuading to Rachel, and strode boldly to meet Bierce. His icy blue eyes twinkled above a smirk. “So, my fellow Generalissimo, you made it here after all.”
“Yes, no thanks to you.”
“You’ll soon wish I stopped you.”
“We’ll see about that. Now about my troops…”
“We should discuss that in my office. There’s a lot you don’t know.” He snapped his fingers and an aide stepped towards him. “Lieutenant, get the other Americans billeted. Generalissimo Armstrong and I will be in conference in my office; we are not to be disturbed.” Then, to me, he said quietly, “You, Marshal, have entered a pit of vipers.”
CHAPTER SEVEN In Which I Encounter a Conspiracy
Bierce sat behind a desk, with pens and papers aligned like battalions, and a skull, a memento mori, staring at him. He was twiddling a miniature sword letter-opener. Behind him maps were tacked to the wall.
“So, Marshal Armstrong—or Generalissimo, is it?”
“That seems to be the style.”
“Well, Generalissimo, you can have no conception of the mess you’re in.”
“I can make some guesses. I saw how heavily fortified your port city was—and this one. I saw the atrocities at San José. I rode here alongside Matteo Rodríguez.”
“This city—this government—is full of people who want El Caudillo dead. They want you dead, too.”
“Should I suspect anyone in particular—beyond you?”
“You should know we have no friends at court.”
“I got that from Matteo Rodríguez.”
“He’s hardly the worst of it.”
“He supports the rebels, doesn’t he?”
“No one in the cabinet does, officially—but they’re all copperheads. So, for the most part, is their congress. It’s called the Casa de Aire Caliente. Unlike our rebels back home, who had the courtesy to secede, the rebels here still get to vote, if you can believe that—and the lower house has a rebel majority. But the upper house, their Senate, is appointed by the District governors, and most of them are plantation owners or ranchers, so it generally supports the king. The Casa de Aire Caliente appoints the king’s cabinet—and they settle on compromise candidates, prosperous businessmen from the towns for the most part, men like Matteo Rodríguez, de facto copperheads who think they can buy the rebels off.”
“Can they?”
“You saw San José—that’s your answer.”
“So, El Claudio, surrounded by enemies, needs a man he can trust—and he made the terrible mistake of hiring you.”
“He didn’t hire me; he’d never even heard of me. It was that charming, earnest gentleman, Matteo Rodríguez.”
“Rodríguez? He’s an ally?”
“He’s nothing of the sort. He hired me to assassinate the king.”
“What?”
“Yes, he figured I’d have every opportunity, as commander of El Caudillo’s household troops.”
“But why choose you?”
“Because, apparently, my fame has reached even unto the shores of Neustraguano—or at least unto him—and he assumed, from my writing, that I’d be the perfect assassin: a former soldier, interested in the macabre, who hates politicians. And anyway, I’m a foreigner—somehow that makes it better, more moral, more politically acceptable; I represent no Neustraguano faction, tribe, or party—except his.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The idiot thinks we’re co-religionists.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What religion?”
He lifted the skull from his desk and stared into its eye sockets. “I despise religion: its ignorant hypocrisy; its manipulation of hope when there is no hope…”
“Then why does he think you’re co-religionists?”
“Because when I married…”
“You’re married?”
“Yes, damn it,” he said, replacing the skull on the desk, his blue eyes boring into me. “I’m married—and have three young children, if it’s any of your business.”
“But…”
“And I was married by the Reverend Horatio Stebbins of the First Unitarian Church—and Matteo Rodríguez somehow knew this. He’s a Unitarian, of all things, in an island full of Catholics. He read my animadversions against religion and assumed it was Unitarian proselytizing. Don’t ask me why—you’d have to ask a Unitarian.”
“So, he hired you because he thinks you’re a Unitarian assassin?”
“Rodríguez wants to be president of the new republic. He didn’t tell me that, but it’s obvious. I
nstead, he blathered a lot of pious twaddle about El Caudillo being unworthy of the throne, a disgrace to his country, a pompous, bumptious buffoon, a congenital liar and hypocrite, a man who revels in humiliating his enemies, a man deaf and blind to necessary reform, a man whose sole gift—if he has one—is energy, and whose sole purpose is the glorification of himself. When I said he was merely describing a politician, he said, no, no, no, El Caudillo was ‘corrosive to the political life of Neustraguano.’ ”
“And assassination isn’t?”
“Precisely.”
“But you’ve not assassinated him.”
“No, not yet.”
“And you don’t intend to—you’re still loyal to El Claudio?”
“I told you before, Marshal, I serve no cause fully but my own. But I’m not in the habit of smiling on treachery. I came here to command troops, not to kill a king. Right now, I’m stalling for time. I’m gathering intelligence on El Caudillo’s enemies and making my own assessment of him.”
“Which is?”
“He’s arrogant, like McClellan; bullheaded, like Grant; and vicious, like Sherman, thank goodness. He’s a bloviator—a politician, even if a king—but at least he understands what the cabinet doesn’t: the rebels will never be appeased. Kill him, abolish the monarchy—they will still come with fire and sword and revolution. The rebels aren’t Confederates; they aren’t people who just want to go their own way and be left alone; they’re not mannerly Southern aristocrats; they’re Jacobins. El Caudillo knows that—and he knows he can defeat them on the battlefield.”
“What about San José?”
“The rebels needed a demonstration—to show they weren’t beaten, weren’t intimidated; and San José was easy pickings. The town wasn’t garrisoned; the town burghers didn’t want a garrison—they thought it would be a target. The rebels came anyway; the burghers extended the happy hand of friendship; and you saw what happened: those burghers’ heads were pitched down the street like bowling balls; their families lay butchered in the gutter. That’s the future—they didn’t see it coming, and neither does the cabinet. They’re too focused on El Caudillo’s vulgarity; they think that—not the rebels—is the real problem.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 10