Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

We organized the men into rifle squads and positioned them behind the wall.

  We heard the rebels before we saw them. Billy Jack said, “Skirmish line, southeast of the bridge.”

  I saw them. Another line came from the northeast, their white shirts and pants easily visible in the night. They came incautiously—apparently confident that Capitán Aurelio López’s men were still behind the barricades of Santiago. The rebels established a slack firing line by the bridge. Chasing a phantom enemy is frustrating. It’s worse in the dark and pouring rain. Now they had to sit and wait.

  The main force, however, was not far behind. They were not organized into platoons or any regular formations. It was a mass of grumbling stragglers who crammed themselves onto the bridge until they formed a giant grub worm pressing onto the span and inching itself across. The head of the worm had just pressed onto the grass when I stood and shouted: “Fire!”

  Midway down the line, Bierce popped up, took aim with his revolver, and said, “Fire! And get those skirmishers first!”

  At the other end of our line, the Colonel and the Captain leapt up and shouted, “Fuego! Fuego! Fuego!”

  The rattling of our rifles was like a tonic to my soul. I roamed our line, encouraging the men—who didn’t need much encouragement. For the soldiers of Santiago, it was vengeance. For our men, it was vindication of them as mounted Infantry. “Pick your targets and fire! Make every bullet count! Don’t stop until I give the order!”

  The rebel skirmish line fell under a torrent of lead. The rebels on the bridge tried to surge forward and then tried to fall back, but they were trapped. Some leapt into the river, with our bullets pattering after them. Rebel officers, identifiable by colored sashes, scrambled to lead a retreat to the southwest on the far shore. We peppered them, but we couldn’t stop them. The bridge was clogged with dead—and that was the best we could do. I passed the word to cease fire, and silence replaced the crash and thunder of battle. We strained to see enemy movement across the river, but there was none: no furious shaking of tree branches, no jungle fronds jarred by wild-eyed flight; the rebels were gone. I looked down the line at our men and raised my revolver skyward.

  “Soldiers of Neustraguano—you have won!”

  They leapt to their feet, waved their rifles, and shouted their joy.

  Bierce sat on the wall, revolver in his hand.

  I said, “I’d call that victory.”

  “Yes. I forgot what victory looks like—up close.”

  “No regrets?”

  “None—not even if El Caudillo gives you a medal.”

  “I’ll put in a good word for you. Now let’s get a look at that statue.”

  The main square of Santiago was larger than I expected. It was dominated by a church, of course, much smaller than the cathedral in the capital, but still quite ornate and attractive in its own right. It, however, did not command my attention. Right dab in the center of the square was the statue of El Cid, or as they called it, El Cid Campeador. The statue must have been at least twenty feet high. Imagine, if you can, a formidable bearded, bareheaded knight aboard a prancing horse; on one arm a shield; the other arm raised overhead, its mailed fist holding a pennoned lance. I can only hope that someday my own devotion to duty might inspire an artist somewhere in our United States to capture me in such a manner on horseback and in bronze. Perhaps, my dear, you could start a collection to that end. Possibly Bad Boy could be part of the sculpture as well.

  I spent a great deal of time communing with the statue. Indeed, long after Bierce and the Colonel and the Captain had retired to a cantina to meet the mayor and celebrate our victory, Bad Boy and I remained in the plaza admiring it, pacing around it, captivated by its detail and struck by the way the rising dawn illuminated it. Hours passed before Billy Jack appeared and interrupted our reverie.

  “Have been scouting perimeter; was worried that garrison was distracted by celebration—but no sign of enemy.”

  “Well done, Sergeant. My own sense of duty has kept me here pondering this statue—what an extraordinary tribute it is to duty, duty such as we pursue here: For was not El Cid both a patriot and a soldier of fortune, as we are?”

  “The inscription says he was a caballero católico.”

  “Ah, and a cat lover, too.”

  “It is a fine statue.”

  “Indeed it is, Sergeant. I wonder: If a statue were ever done of me, should it be erected here, do you think, or at Gettysburg where I beat Jeb Stuart, or perhaps in Monroe, Michigan, where I met my wife?”

  “Which wife?”

  “What do you mean, which wife?”

  “I mean which wife?”

  “Sergeant, I am a Christian gentleman. I have but one wife.”

  “You told me in Bloody Gulch you had a wife. It was not Sister Rachel. Now it is.”

  “You know quite well that Sister Rachel, as you call her, is no more a religious sister than she is my wife.”

  “You tell people she is.”

  “Rachel and I are acting incognito. I don’t need to tell you, of all people, what that means.”

  “I am not acting incognito.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “And you do?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my actual identity is a matter of the utmost secrecy—and right now I am obliged to play the role of Generalissimo Armstrong Armstrong.”

  “Not so different from Marshal Armstrong—only a different wife.”

  “Sergeant, perhaps you should return to scouting.”

  “Have scouted all night; the sun is rising. Other eyes can watch now.”

  “Where’s Father Gonçalves?”

  “At the church—there is a hospital attached. He is there treating Indians—local tribe, old people who live in land just west of here, look skeletal. They suffer from some disease.”

  “He’s not a doctor too, is he?”

  “I do not know, but it is Christian duty.”

  “To every man his duty, but I’m surprised his includes doctoring.”

  “With your permission, I rest from scouting: go to church, pray, morning Mass, then sleep in pew.”

  “You go to church, Sergeant. You’ve done your duty. I’ll know where to find you.”

  I knew where to find Bierce, too. He had spent half the night at the cantina with the mayor and the Captain of the garrison. I wanted information on the government forces across the river. I pushed open the cantina doors and found Bierce in his element, his chair leaning against the wall, a cigar in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, attentive señoritas and an audience of junior officers, the Colonel, the Captain, and a man I presumed to be the mayor because of his wide girth and voter-catcher’s grin.

  Bierce guffawed at my entrance. “Ah, here he is: the conquering hero; the architect of the hecatomb at the bridge; the ditch-diggers’ friend. Have a drink, Marshal. You’re a bit late to the party. I’ve used up my best stories, but I’ve got plenty of others.”

  I said to the fat man, “You, sir—you are the mayorissimo?”

  “I am the mayor, yes.”

  “I am Generalissimo Armstrong, commander of the Cavalry who have broken the siege of Santiago. Generalissimo Bierce has been temporarily assigned to my command. He normally commands parade ground troops at the capital.”

  Bierce waved his cigar and said, “I remind you that I have El Caudillo’s ear.”

  “That may be—but I have his prize.”

  “I told you men: Generalissimo Armstrong is quite the soldier—and quite the devotee of duty.”

  To the Captain I said, “Where are the government troops across the river?”

  “Not far—five miles perhaps down El Camino Real. The rebels kept them frightened and away—but you have delivered us; a toast to you, sir.”

  “We need to get them here. We need to fortify this position. My men can’t stay indefinitely. We have other work to do.”

  The Captain stood slowly, his head
bowed and full of wine. “They were recently reinforced; they should have plenty of men.”

  “Excellent. Get them word that Generalissimos Bierce and Armstrong demand their advance—and our horses; in fact, make the latter a priority. Have your messenger return with my horses Marshal Ney and Edward.”

  “Yes, Generalissimo.”

  “I was told that Santiago was a salient into enemy territory. That you are bounded by a river, almost like an island.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Well, your eastern front has been relieved; we’ve reestablished your supply line to El Camino Real; it is time to advance. I want your reinforcements to form a new front line west of the city gates, overlooking the river.”

  “Oh, Generalissimo, you should not do that,” said the mayor. “You should not leave Santiago. It is not safe in the countryside beyond.”

  “Nonsense. I will find that new front line myself, with the help of my Sergeant—and you Bierce. We will scout it together.”

  Bierce was gazing at his glass; his eyes shifted to me. “As you say, Marshal; you know your business. It’s still a butcher’s business, but I don’t mind if the enemy gets butchered.”

  “That reminds me—we need a burial detail.”

  The Captain said, “I can arrange that.”

  “Excellent. I’ve been contemplating El Cid’s statue. Let his devotion to duty be our own.”

  Bierce harrumphed. “Didn’t I tell you boys? Duty, always duty—even in a statue.”

  The mayor stood and looked at me eagerly. “You like the statue?”

  “Yes, of course. It is a masterpiece of martial art.”

  “You want it?”

  “What?”

  “To take away.”

  “To take away—you mean, as a spoil of war?”

  “Yes, take it to la Ciudad de Serpientes, present it to El Caudillo. I think you should take it.”

  “But why—it belongs to your town.”

  “I want to replace it.”

  “With what?”

  “Anything—maybe we have a contest: maybe a piñata; maybe a statue from the church; maybe a statue of me, I have often thought of it. But Generalissimo, that statue is yours—a gift from the people of Santiago.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “I do not care for it so much—it attracts rebels. So, please, take the statue, Generalissimo; you are a man worthy to defend it.”

  Well, there was enormous truth in that. Still, I was surprised. Perhaps, though, I shouldn’t have been. People express their gratitude in different ways—and why, after all, should the mayor not express his gratitude by presenting me with a giant bronze statue that had been in his town’s square for decades. “The plinth too?”

  “Everything—take whatever you need. We can even supply reinforced carts and mule teams. You take it—and all in Santiago will remember you as the man who rid us of the rebels.”

  “Very well then—El Cid is mine!”

  CHAPTER NINE In Which I Journey with El Cid

  While waiting for the reinforcements to arrive, Bierce, Billy Jack, Father Gonçalves, Capitán Aurelio López, and I scouted forward positions for the new troops. We found a perfect line of high ground—a stone outcropping that afforded some cover, with scraggly trees and scattered boulders, and that had enough dirt to dig shallow trenches. It overlooked the jungle where the river, coming from the west, divided north and south to encircle Santiago. Rising dramatically from the tangled forest behind the river was the volcano, smoke curling from its apex.

  We crept to the cliff’s edge, hid behind some naturally formed cairns, and looked down on the river. It was wider and obviously deeper than where we had crossed because it was dammed on the rebel side; the northern and southern branches that encircled Santiago were merely overflow streams. Adjacent to the dam was a dock, perfect for bringing up men and supplies. If the rebels were to rally, it would be here.

  “Captain,” I said, “this is ideal ground. Why didn’t you entrench it before?”

  “We had orders not to—this is Indian land.”

  There was thunder again. The ground shook and black smoke shot from the volcano.

  Billy Jack pointed at the dam. “Look—the enemy.”

  His Indian eyes were sharper than mine, but then I saw them—white-shirted figures barely visible behind bushes near the river. He directed my vision to something else: a line of rebels ascending the lower slope of the volcano. Trees obscured our vision, but it appeared their destination was a crevice in the volcano’s side.

  I said, “That’s a camp—or an ammunition dump. I wonder if we could raid it.”

  Captain López shook his head. “Even with reinforcements, it would be very difficult—the terrain is hard; their men… we do not know how many.”

  “What do you think, Sergeant?”

  “Better to watch from here—provide warning for town, if necessary.”

  “Odd to build a camp beneath a rumbling crater.” I shifted to get a better look at the volcano but had an eerie sense we were being watched.

  My foreboding was confirmed when Father Gonçalves grabbed my shoulder. “I fear the enemy has found us.”

  I turned, instinctively pulled my revolver, and was confronted by a line of hostile-looking Indians: bowmen on the flanks, their arrows drawn, spearmen in the center, spears aloft. They stood on a ridgeline about thirty yards above and behind us. Their war paint—red, yellow, and black—was in the pattern of a poisonous snake; their hair was greased and their bodies bore serpentine tattoos; their noses and earlobes were threaded with bones—from their victims perhaps, for they looked as gaunt, savage, and primitive as the hungry cannibals they undoubtedly were. They regarded us silently, malevolently. And then a tall haggard woman, with wild eyes and tangled long curly brown hair stepped amongst them, mumbling to herself. Her skin, even if badly wrinkled and sunburned and smeared with dirt, was unmistakably white. Unshined boots extended from splotched pants and petticoats. Her blouse was mottled and mud-caked. She was slovenly in appearance; her manner was pure disdain—and her language far more profane than I care to record.

  The Captain groaned, “It is Lucretia Borreros, the government agent to the Indians, a very difficult woman.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she shouted. Her eyes rolled like an insane minstrel’s. “You have no right to be here. You bring contagion, disease, and death. We kill all trespassers.”

  “Listen, you damned bureaucrat, I am Generalissimo Ambrose Bierce. I ended your little party in the capital the other day—and I’ll end this one too. Get out of our way.”

  “Try to intimidate me because I’m a woman, would you?” She waved her skirts and petticoats. A dress that had been worn in a coalmine and then left out in a sandstorm wouldn’t have shed more dirt. “You see my Indians? They are cannibals. They work for me. They’re my muscle. And they’ll castrate you—castrate you, I say! And then they will eat you—if I give the word. I am Lucretia Borreros, Appointed Administrator to the Indians. I am in direct correspondence with the Minister of State. Only he can supervise my work.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” I said, trying to act the peacemaker, “we’re doing government work too.”

  “No you’re not; not here; not with him.” She pointed at Father Gonçalves. “He has no authority over these people.”

  “He’s here as a Commodore of the Royal Navy.”

  “He’s a priest, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “The government has specifically said the Church has no authority over the Indians. They are not to be converted to his lies. Damn him! Do you hear me? Damn him! And damn his Church!”

  Father Gonçalves said, “Miss Borreros, we are not here to discuss my religion.”

  “Don’t talk to me! I want no instruction from you! My Indians worship nature—and that’s their right. It is how they explain birth and death.”

  “With cannibalism and child sacrifice?”


  Bierce said, “We’re wasting time. Clear off, woman, and take your diseased Indians with you.”

  “You violated our quarantine! You trespassed our property! You are now subject to Indian law—and the punishment is death.”

  Bierce cocked his revolver. “We’ll see about that.”

  Father Gonçalves said, “Wait a moment. Lucretia Borreros, all we ask is our safe return to Santiago.”

  “Santiago is a pig sty—with a pig for a mayor. Its pestilence infected my Indians.”

  “I cannot help that, but the Church does run a hospital.”

  Lucretia Borreros convulsed, as if possessed by demons: her legs stamped the ground, her arms whirled, her grotesque mad eyes rotated in their sockets, her fingers made bizarre gesticulations, she grunted like an animal and then suddenly blurted, “We do not need you, your Church, or your hospital! We do not need your oppression or your superstition.”

  “Not superstition, Miss Borreros. That hospital is no superstition. And my Church is no superstition; it rests on the historical fact that Jesus Christ stands in history just like Plato or Julius Caesar—but with a much greater message.”

  “Shut up, priest. I don’t need your false morality.”

  “Try this morality,” Bierce said, stepping forward. “Have that Indian throw his spear at me. Have him kill me—if he can.”

  Lucretia Borreros screeched at the Indian nearest her. He hurled his spear, and it clattered harmlessly a foot in front of Bierce. Bierce then raised his revolver and as casually as you would swat a fly shot the Indian dead; his red corpse came tumbling down the rocks like a log, his skinny limbs cracking like dry tree branches against the stones. The other Indians glowered, but remained silent and still.

  I said to the Captain, “They’re like the living dead.”

  “They are. They smoke a narcotic plant; the government reserves it for Lucretia Borreros and the Indians; they use it as medicine.”

  “Or stupefaction,” I said.

  “The next bullet is yours,” shouted Bierce.

  “You wouldn’t dare! I am a woman protected by the Minister of State.”

  “I don’t care if you’re protected by the Grenadier Guards. If you get in our way, I’ll kill you—you and all your cannibals.”