Father Gonçalves interjected, “Assassins came after Generalissimo Bierce last night as well.”
“Bierce, is that true? Is that why you’re here? Are you hiding in my command?”
“I don’t have to hide anywhere in this country. They never got close to me—my quarters are guarded. The invaders were Indians, like your assassins—pawns in a bigger game. It was a warning, not a serious attempt.”
“Serious enough for them, I reckon.”
“If you’re quite ready, Marshal…”
“A moment,” I said, and returned to the basin, unbuttoned my tunic, removed my foldable toothbrush from the Indian medicine pouch I wear around my neck, tipped a dab of salt onto the brush, and cleaned my teeth. “All right, come on, Bierce; let’s inspect my command.”
Four horses stood outside, saddled and ready. One of them was Marshal Ney, a gun belt draped behind the pommel. I stepped up into the saddle, tied on the gun belt (which had a sheathed knife on its left side), adjusted the revolver in its holster (it was an American Navy Colt), and gazed at the long column of twos arrayed on the path connecting the hacienda to the main road.
“Well,” said Bierce, mounting his own horse, “there they are. You give the orders to the Colonel; he’ll do the rest. My recommendation—which you can take as an order—is that we follow the northern road, the mountain road, that loops around the capital. Our enemies won’t expect that. It’s rocky and indirect. It’ll mean pushing these men hard.”
“That’s what we’re here to do, Bierce—push these men hard: to victory.”
Father Gonçalves sat a horse beside me. “I shall bless the men, Generalissimos; then I shall be at your disposal and follow your orders.”
“Surely you’re not riding with us, Father.”
“As I said, you are a visitor in Neustraguano. There are more dangers than you know. You might need my help.”
“Chaplain to the troop?”
“If nothing else—my naval studies have taught me something about war. I am less a novice than your wife was.”
“Father Gonçalves,” said Bierce sternly, “was that a pun?”
He turned his horse, galloped beside the column, and raised his right hand in benediction. The men bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross.
“Good discipline and good order,” I said.
“Appeasing fate,” replied Bierce. “Let’s go.”
We spurred our way to the head of the column. I had no blessing to offer the men, only the inspiration of my presence. But I was sure it was enough—it certainly was for me.
It felt wonderful to be back in command. I looked down and saw Bad Boy loping along, keeping pace, his sense of duty equal to mine.
Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal saluted us. “Generalissimos, your orders, sirs.”
“The northern road,” I said, “and we will move with all due dispatch. I want us at least halfway to Santiago before the day is done. Press the men as hard as necessary, Colonel.”
He saluted and rode to his officers. Billy Jack galloped up and saluted. “Ready for orders, sir.”
“Do any scouting last night? Checked out the northern road?”
“Have not slept—expecting action. Northern road looks good: rocks, hills, slopes, trees, but no near-jungle for ambush. I ride ahead, take dog?”
“On your way, Sergeant; you too, Bad Boy.” I turned in the saddle and surveyed the long grey line behind me. “Well, Bierce, this is what we came for—a chance to lead men into battle.”
“It’s your command, Marshal; just do as I say.”
I lowered my arm and pointed to the road’s horizon. “All right, boys, forward ho!”
The mountain road was indeed a rugged climb for our horses, but we managed it—if not as rapidly as Stonewall Jackson’s foot Cavalry might have done, still well enough. At an eastern turn along the path, I looked back and could see the ocean. Father Gonçalves came alongside and pointed in that direction.
“My farm is just over that hill. And at the beach: you see that brown shack, near the dock with two small boats? I experiment with naval engineering there. I knew Matthew Fontaine Maury of your Confederate States of America. I met him when he served the Emperor Maximilian, and we corresponded when he taught at the Virginia Military Institute. He was a very brilliant man. I consider myself one of his naval students.”
“Let’s hope you have better luck than he did.”
Billy Jack’s scouting was accurate. The road was steep but clear, and bordered by open rocky terrain that only gradually gave way to jungle. The weather was pleasant. The sun shone brightly, and my spirits rose the closer we advanced to the enemy. In that first day’s ride, we never left the northeastern hills. Occasionally, on the plateaus, we passed well-tilled plantations, but the area seemed sparsely populated—much like our own Western frontier. We made camp on a forested bluff, from which, Billy Jack told me, we would make a long descent in the morning. With luck we would be scouting approaches to Santiago the following night.
* * *
“No sign of the enemy, Sergeant?”
“None, sir.”
Bierce, Billy Jack, Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal, Father Gonçalves, and I were crouched around a campfire having an impromptu council of war.
Bierce said, “Last we heard, the eastern approach to Santiago was lightly held. Santiago projects like a salient from government-held territory. At the base of the salient is a river spanned by a bridge. The rebels have undoubtedly blown that bridge by now. The river’s fordable, but if they reinforce the opposite bank, we’re sitting ducks.”
I said, “What if we surprise them? Father Gonçalves is a naval engineer. How hard can it be to build rafts big enough for ten men? Suppose tomorrow we make our descent as planned, move down El Camino Real, and pitch camp on our side of the river, close enough to entice the enemy, but not close enough to engage him. Under cover of night, we leave a small holding force in the camp, while the rest of us sneak into the jungle with rafts—we can build those now; there’s plenty of suitable wood in that forest over yonder—and instead of a head-on Cavalry assault from the road, we’ll hit them from the north as dismounted Infantry.”
“We haven’t scouted the area,” said Bierce. “If we flank them—that’s enemy territory; we could be badly outnumbered.”
“I’ll take surprise over numbers.” I turned to Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal. “How are the rebels in a standup fight?”
“We can beat them, but my men are Cavalry men. They are not trained as mounted Infantry. They have carbines now, yes, but they are trained on lances and swords. They are not trained to creep through the jungle, to ford rivers, to attack on foot.”
“More firepower means better morale. Officers lead the way.”
Father Gonçalves said, “Give me men and I’ll make rafts. How many do you want?”
“Nine, I reckon, if you can make them big enough for a squad. We’ll leave ten men for the holding force.” I looked at Bierce. “You think that’s enough?”
“To fool rebel spies—it’ll do.”
I looked at Father Gonçalves. “You’ll stay with the holding force, Father. You’re the perfect decoy.”
“I can be of more use in Santiago.”
“No, my mind is set on that. We’ll assign you good men—nine men and a Sergeant. If we gain El Cid but lose you, it’s a bad trade—so keep your head down.”
I had already marked Father Gonçalves as an officer of promise—and I was swiftly proven right. He gathered the men around him for a quick lesson in raft-building. It reminded me of God instructing Noah on the ark, down to the cubits. In short order he had the men gathering timber; whittling it into shape with knives or bayonets; lashing the timbers with vines; fashioning oars; and ensuring that the resulting rafts were long enough and stout enough to support ten men.
By dawn, Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal had the assault-force troops divided into units of ten, each assigned a raft, each raft to be carried by a four-man team.
The assault force was eager, though we still had a hard march ahead. Father Gonçalves had not slept all night, but he exhibited no fatigue at all—indeed, he seemed even more energetic now that he had a small command of his own.
We descended the plateau to the main road, El Camino Real. The rocky terrain receded, and the jungle crept closer until the road was level and narrow and the jungle swarmed its sides. Bierce assured me that Infantry patrols regularly swept the area, though we saw no troops—ours or the enemy’s. We pressed the men hard and did not make camp until dark. When our fires were up, I had the officers around me and reminded them that stealth was now more important than speed.
We were lucky, in a way, in the weather. Clouds obscured the moon; droplets of rain hinted at an impending storm. Our men moved into the jungle, squads of ten, at five-minute intervals, using the picketed horses as a screen. The spattering rain intensified, cutting through the jungle canopy, noisily splashing on leaves and mud, and finally turning into a downpour, the cloudbursts covering the grumbling of troopers and the hissing of Sergeants as they trudged through the mire and around soggy vines.
We made it to the river without serious incident. Bierce, the Colonel, Billy Jack, and I crept to the water’s edge, the men staying about ten yards behind. The current did not look overly swift. On the opposite bank, we saw a large tent illuminated by an interior fire that highlighted the shadows of four men. Two disgruntled rebels huddled outside, neglectful sentries, griping, one could guess, about the rain that dripped off their sombreros onto their dark ponchos and soaked their white shirts and pants. We saw no entrenchments and no sign of supporting troops.
“Billy Jack and I will go across,” I said. “I’ll enter the water about thirty yards to the left. Billy Jack, you go as far right as necessary to avoid detection. Move cautiously, but with all due haste—if we can coordinate our movements, so much the better. We’ll take the sentries—alive if we can—and the ones in the tent too. Have the men ready to support us. Once the Sergeant and I have the enemy subdued, bring the men across on the rafts.”
We inched our way back into jungle cover. The jungle was thick enough, the rain heavy enough, the underbrush high enough, and the rebel sentries lethargic enough, that I felt confident I could move without being seen. Still, I was careful, hiding behind tree trunks and swift-walking rather than running—I didn’t want to trip—into position.
I found a muddy rivulet and used it as a path to slither down to the river. The water was cold, but as I ducked beneath the surface, I was invigorated and swam with strong strokes. Reaching the opposite shore, I scrambled into the undergrowth.
I stayed reasonably close to the shoreline to remain in view of our men and keep a line of sight on Billy Jack. I crept forward. The rebel sentries had their heads bent against the rain. I stepped lightly. I could hear them talking in Spanish. The nearest one was now only two jumps away. I saw Billy Jack crouched behind a fern on the opposite side. I unsheathed my knife. Billy Jack took that as a signal, and together we sprang. We clasped hands over the mouths of the sentries—and prodded cooperation with blades pressed against spines.
In a hoarse whisper I said, “No sound; no moveoremos. Savvy?”
We bore our captives away from the tent, tied their hands, and gagged them with vines. We directed their attention to our men across the river. They got the point. With these two secure and effectively guarded, we moved on to the tent. My revolver was wet, of course, but I drew it from its holster, shook out the barrel, and reckoned it would do well enough. With knife in one hand and revolver in the other, I stepped through the unsecured tent flap. The unsuspecting rebels were stunned, their eyes darted nervously at the entry of Billy Jack, and their hands shot up in surrender. They were a sorry-looking lot. For men besieging a town, they seemed remarkably bedraggled and demoralized. We marched them down to the river in triumph, and our rafts started across. First one, then another—the men initially tentative, afraid of tipping over, but then using their oars with confidence and bounding from the rafts onto the shoreline with undisguised glee. It was a glorious if soggy moment.
Bierce was in the lead raft. He ambled over to me, examined our captives, and said, “If I didn’t know better, Marshal—I’d say you were a Marshal. Best job of rounding up rebels I’ve ever seen. Not too spirited, are they?”
“No, they’re wet—and alone.”
In the distance, to the southeast, there was an unmistakable eruption of gunfire.
Bierce said, “That sounds like our holding force.”
Another raft had landed, and I heard a voice say: “We have achieved tactical surprise. But we must hurry.” It was Father Gonçalves.
“Damnation, Father, can’t you take an order?” said Bierce.
“Damnation is not your business, Generalissimo—and I have followed orders: I created a diversion. I am aiding and abetting your advance. The rebels have attacked an abandoned position. We withdrew the horses to the main body of government troops—down El Camino Real about five miles. We left behind our tents and a dummy Father Gonçalves who is probably hacked to pieces by now.” He turned his attention to me and said, “You see, Generalissimo, there is something you should know about me.” He removed the plain dark blue overcoat he was wearing and there was a glitter of brass buttons and gold braid reflecting the moonlight. “It is the uniform of a Commodore in the Royal Navy. And I too have read about strategy. The rebels took the bait. They have attacked a phantom position—and they have done so in force. That means the way to Santiago is clear. Let us make haste.”
“You don’t give the orders here,” said Bierce.
“No time to argue,” I said. “Let’s get these men moving inland, in columns of five, advancing in echelon—and noisily. We don’t want Santiago’s garrison firing on us; we want them to know we’re coming. Father, tell the men to sing your national anthem, as loud as they can—and in English; the rebels wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“They most certainly would not!”
I ordered Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal and Bierce to get the men into formation. The lines formed, we advanced into the jungle, and the men belted out this tune:
Glory to Neustraguano,
Fair island of our king,
Glory to Neustraguano,
Of its noble men I sing,
Strong to win their battles,
Swift to sheathe their swords,
Our men, they are not cattle,
Our men, they love the Lord!
Glory to Neustraguano,
Fair island of our king,
Glory to Neustraguano,
Of its fair maids I sing,
Their love is our salvation,
Their beauty transforms all,
Their love, it is redemption,
When we answer duty’s call!
Glory to Neustraguano,
For Holy Mary’s prayers,
Glory to Neustraguano,
The Holy Family’s heirs.
Their voices competed with the pounding rain, and the low rumbling of la Montaña que Eructa provided an eerie accompaniment. Our boots squished through the undergrowth, and our eyes were wary in the dark. I hastened to join the lead echelon. Bierce was there too. The jungle thinned, our boots accelerated as they met less resistance, and I trotted ahead until I was first out of the jungle and into a moonlit clearing and in sight of Santiago, its sandbagged walls shining white in the near distance.
I expected a sentry to have a bead on me, so I shouted, “Don’t fire! I am Generalissimo Armstrong of the Neustraguano Cavalry. We have come to rescue Santiago!”
A voice shouted back, “Generalissimo Armstrong? We have heard of no such Generalissimo.”
Bierce came up beside me. “This is Generalissimo Bierce. I expect you’ve heard of me. Open your damn gates!”
Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal reiterated our bona fides in Spanish—and a cheer came from the garrison.
“Come, sirs, come—we are saved!”
We st
rode in like the conquering heroes we were, with the garrison soldiers swarming around us, cheering, and waving their rifles. An officer snapped to attention. “I am Capitán Aurelio López, commander of the garrison of Santiago. Thank goodness you have come, sir. There seems to be fighting on the other side of the river.”
“Yes—and with any luck, we’ve drawn the rebels into a trap. Did they blow the bridge?”
“No. They used it tonight.”
“Did you hear that, Bierce?”
“I did—another example of man’s innate stupidity.”
“Good fortune for us—they’ll be coming back, and we can make them pay. Bierce, get our men arrayed to cover the bridge. Captain, I want half your men assigned to our support. If the enemy tries to cross that bridge, we will destroy him—and if we do, the siege is lifted, at least for a while. Have the remainder of your men reinforce the town’s perimeter, in case the enemy brings up more troops.”
Bierce, Colonel Cristóbal, Captain López, and I surveyed the ground behind the bridge. You could not have asked for a better defensive position. From the base of the bridge the enemy would have to ascend a slope of about fifty yards. At the crest of the hill was a wonderful stone wall. We would use that wall as the Confederates had used the stone wall at Marye’s Heights at Fredericksburg. Another fifty yards behind the stone wall was the city of Santiago, its entryways blocked by sandbags. The rebels would never get that far. By my reckoning, they’d never get past the stone wall.
The enemy had the advantage of numbers, but we had the high ground and good cover. Granted, the rebels might not cross the bridge. They might ford the river as we had done. But if we still had the element of surprise, they’d start with the bridge.
Capitán López patted the stone wall and said, “The rebels have maintained their siege from this wall. They withdrew tonight; then came gunfire; we feared a trap.”
“It’s a trap all right—for them. Keep the men behind the wall. No one is to fire until I give the order. If the rebel commanders have any brains, they’ll send scouts or a skirmish line. We cannot let them see us.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 13