“That’s not how it happened.”
“You call her a liar?”
“No.”
“You call Generalissimo Bierce a liar?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“Generalissimo Bierce came at my request. His actions justify my trust in him.”
“His actions are self-serving lies. I can prove it.”
“We have our own methods for deciphering truth. Normally I disapprove of torture, but in this case it would be unconscionable not to use it. There is too much at stake. We must know your plans. We must know the depth of your treachery. And then, we must execute you. It would be unjust to put my own feelings of mercy against the punishment you deserve for your crimes against the state.”
“What crimes?”
“We will torture you for the details, but the general picture is plain enough: You came here as Napoleon came to France from Corsica. You intended to depose the government and become military dictator, acting in the interest of Mexico. This I have pieced together—and so informed El Caudillo.”
“Those are lies—and you know it.”
“Your perfidy has been exposed. You brought this upon yourself.”
“You have no evidence.”
“We have the best evidence: a co-conspirator. Your fellow mercenary, Señor Gillette, has been captured. His appearance confirms everything I have just said.”
“Major Gillette said nothing of the kind—he couldn’t have.”
“Who cares what he said? His being here is enough. He will share your torture—and your execution. You will not die alone. Take comfort in that.”
Bierce said, “Will you conduct the interrogation yourself, Senator?”
“No—these things are messy; the prison guards know what to do.”
“With your permission, sir, I think I should attend. The prisoner’s testimony might need interpretation.”
“Yes, I suppose that makes sense. Well, then, Bierce, see to it. I will take my leave.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, “what happens to my wife?” (By which, of course, dearest Libbie, I meant the woman impersonating my wife; you, I was comforted to know, were safe at home.)
“Your wife? She should fear nothing. You alone are guilty, Mr. Armstrong; you led her astray. In fact, Bierce, that’s another charge against him—enlisting that innocent angel into his conspiracy. The more I think about you, Mr. Armstrong, the more anger I feel. I am a righteous man, and you fill me with a righteous anger. Generalissimo Bierce: inform me when justice is done; I will convey the news to El Caudillo.”
“Excuse me, Senator,” said Bierce, “will you witness the execution?”
“No, Bierce, I will leave those gruesome details to you. It is a military matter: a firing squad will suffice. I have important business, so you will excuse me. I hope your execution, Mr. Armstrong, will serve as an example to dissuade others from a life of treason.”
“So I’m guilty of treason and the rebels aren’t?”
Matteo Rodríguez had opened the door. He paused, looked me up and down, as if measuring me for a coffin, and said, “That is all, Mr. Armstrong. You are guilty. Every word you utter confirms your guilt. But I warn you: others could share your fate. In my mercy, I would rather spare them. You should say nothing more. Good day.” He closed the door, and Bierce and I were alone again.
Bierce said, “Any last words?”
“I thought torture came first.”
“We can do it that way. Guards!” The door flung open. “You will take Mr. Armstrong to the prison. You will place him in the same cell as Mr. Beauregard Gillette. You can knock him about as necessary, but he is not to be seriously harmed—or tortured—until I arrive to supervise the interrogation. Is that clear? Now bind him and take him away.”
The guards pinioned my arms behind me and threw me to the floor. My wrists were locked together with rope and I was heaved to my feet.
Bierce smiled. “Hogtied and delivered for the slaughter,” he said.
The guards frog-marched me out of his office, through the military headquarters where I caught glimpses of officers studying maps and jotting notes on papers, and then down a narrow stone hall. At its end, a wooden door was thrown open. Waiting there was an enclosed wagon, like the prison wagons I had seen on the road. Its rear door hung on rusty hinges. I was lifted and hurled bodily onto its straw-strewn floorboards. Three guards were seated on plank benches on either side of me. There were small barred windows for ventilation, but they were high on the door and walls; and the guards took no chances; their boots pressed me into the straw. We rattled along for ten or fifteen minutes, it seemed, and then I was dragged out again and led down a stone corridor of empty prison cells. At the end of the passage stood a guard by an open metal door. They thrust me before the cell, and there sitting on the edge of a cot was Beauregard Gillette. He stood at my appearance. I imagine he looked exactly as when you saw him: tall, well-built, dark of hair, courteous in manner, and wearing an eyepatch embroidered with the rebel battle flag. Did they know, I wondered, that he was also a federal agent for President Grant?
The guards hurled me inside, slammed the metal door shut, and locked it. Beauregard worked to untie the rope that bound my hands.
“Well, Yankee General, sir, I do declare, I did not imagine we would meet under these circumstances—in jail, in a foreign country. Mighty fancy uniform you got there; they don’t seem to respect it, though.”
I rubbed my freed wrists and said, “All right, let’s start from the beginning, Major. How the heck did you get here?”
“Well, sir, I delivered your letter, as ordered. Your wife is a delightful woman—and quite solicitous about your health. She sent me to find you. I’ve been tracking you ever since. I must say, sir, you do lead an interesting life.”
“You make it more so, Major. They’ve imprisoned me because they think I’m recruiting American filibusters like you to take over Neustraguano—that’s this country, by the way.”
“Oh, I confess, sir, I knew nothing of this country before, but I made a quick study on my way here—and I can say with confidence that our government has no interest in this country and President Grant no knowledge of it.”
“Of that, I’m certain, Major.”
“But that could change, sir. I reckon we have the makings of a diplomatic incident. The United States government might overlook the disappearance of Miss Rachel, who I gather is with us, somewhere on this island; it might overlook the disappearance of your Indian scout; it might even overlook the disappearance of a man named Ambrose Bierce. But my disappearance, as a federal agent, could raise some eyebrows, especially if your wife were to make enquiries. And you, sir—you are in a very delicate situation, given your own desire for anonymity.”
“Yes, Major, that’s true.”
There was thunder and the ground shook.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but what was that? The ground has been shaking since I arrived.”
“It’s a volcano; they say it’s harmless.”
“Well, sir, I’m no expert on volcanoes—but that one sounds like a drunken artillery officer; mighty dangerous, I reckon. We should expedite our departure.”
“Yes, Major, but we need a plan.”
“I’ve an inkling of one, sir. Our cell, you might have noticed, is last in this row. The door, as you can see, is made of steel; it is set into a rock wall. The corridor is made of rock. But have you noticed, sir, that the walls are adobe? I reckon we could dig right through this wall. Don’t know what’s on the other side—could be guards or could be freedom.”
“By George, Major, you’re right.” I went to the wall and pressed my fingers against it. It felt stout, but there was no doubting we could chip away at it—and if we dug low, the hole could be hidden by one of the two bunks. If the guards didn’t inspect the room, and we burrowed swiftly enough, it just might work.
I asked, “Have you a knife?”
“Never without one, sir. As a gambling
man, it pays to keep one handy—and where your opponents won’t find it.” He pulled a six-inch blade from his boot and pointed at the grill in the metal door. “If you keep watch, Yankee General, sir, I’ll whittle that wall something fierce.”
I needed no further invitation but took my place; Major Gillette took his; and operation breakout was underway. His facility with the knife was remarkable, and his progress astonishing—so much so that I found myself worrying less about guards in the corridor than about the possibility of guards outside watching the rapid-fire deterioration of the prison wall.
The volcano continued rumbling—more constant and pronounced than before—and perhaps that gave us some cover, perhaps it distracted attention. Before you could recite Grant’s first inaugural speech, Major Gillette had driven his fist through the wall.
“Well, I do declare, sir; their previous prisoners weren’t very enterprising, were they? If we’re not spotted in the next twenty minutes, we’ll have a hole big enough to run through.”
I abandoned my post at the door and joined Major Gillette at the wall. While he filleted with his knife, I used fingers to expand the existing hole. I still had my Cavalry gauntlets, so I allowed myself the occasional punch to loosen the crumbling adobe. And sure enough, we started knocking out handfuls of the stuff at a time. The hole got big enough that we actually took turns sticking our heads through, looking for trouble. If anyone had seen us, they might have thought we were being pilloried, so tight was the hole initially. But all we could see was jungle. The prison was apparently on the perimeter of the city. Once we were through the wall—and if no patrol came by—we’d be away to the forest.
The hole grew, and we attacked it with ever greater enthusiasm, kicking out its final contours with our boots. Then we crouched down and stepped through it. Freedom’s grass was beneath our boots. We saw no guards—and heard nothing, save for the low rumbling of the volcano and the jungle birds beckoning us into the welcoming forest. We plunged into the maze of vines and trees until we were surrounded by wilderness, and then paused just a moment to try to catch our bearings. We did not stop again until we had put a goodly distance—easily more than a mile—between us and the prison. We were dripping sweat by the time we sat on a log to catch our breath and have a council of war. I picked up a twig and drew a circle in the dirt.
“That’s the capital, Major. We cannot take it by ourselves—and our hopes for gaining an audience with the king are slight. Our first duty then, as I see it, is to go here.” I drew a second circle. “That is Santiago—about two days’ march to the west.”
“What’s there, sir?”
“Allies—albeit in the hands of the enemy.”
“That rather complicates things, doesn’t it?”
I drew a line connecting the two circles, and said, “That is El Camino Real, the main road connecting Santiago to the capital. On that road is an army—and among that army’s prisoners are our allies, including Sergeant Billy Jack Crow—you remember him; my Indian scout.”
“Yes, good man.”
“And a naval Commodore named Father Gonçalves.”
“Father?”
“He’s a priest as well.”
“Ah, to be sure—Chaplain and Commodore; quite efficient, sir.”
“And El Cid’s statue.”
“El Cid, sir?”
“Spanish hero.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“With that statue—we can rally the island’s patriots.”
“Those would be our people, sir?”
“Yes, of course they’re our people. And that column also has the cathedral’s golden bell.”
“I see.”
“The statue of El Cid will rally every patriot; the golden bell will rally every Christian.”
“So, our chief allies, sir, are a church bell and a statue?”
“Yes, Major—but the bell is golden, and the statue is a hero on horseback. You will be impressed.”
“I am already, sir.”
“Of course, we have to rescue them first.”
“Rescue the statue?”
“Yes—but also Billy Jack and Father Gonçalves.”
“I reckoned there’d be a complication—from whom, sir?”
“If that column reaches Santiago, Father Gonçalves will be held at the rectory, under house arrest. I’m not sure what that means—but if he is guarded by elderly bishops, priests, and nuns, surely we can spring him. Nuns can’t stop us.”
“I would think not, sir.”
“Billy Jack is in a worse situation. If the column reaches Santiago, he’ll be given over to a crazy woman with an army of cannibalistic Indians who practice human sacrifice.”
“Yes, I thought it might be something like that.”
“She has one desperate fear—that her Indians might be converted to Christianity. So Father Gonçalves is essential to freeing Billy Jack.”
“So, we rescue him first.”
“No, Major: second. First we rescue Bad Boy.”
“Bad Boy.”
“Yes, my dog—remember?”
“Oh, yes, sir, your dog.”
“He is a fine Lieutenant—a valorous, dog-faced pony soldier. I imagine he is already working diligently behind enemy lines. He was with the statue, you see. And he has teeth.”
“Yes, I assume he does, sir.”
“Large ones—and right now, Major, we have only a knife between us.”
“Not much in the way of armament.”
“But that is no excuse for inaction. We must move quickly and rescue Billy Jack.”
“The two of us, sir?”
“Four of us, once we have Bad Boy and Father Gonçalves.”
“Do we have an estimate of enemy strength, sir?”
“Not precise numbers, but between the hostile Indians, the rebels, and the recalcitrant government troops, it will be hundreds at first, then thousands, and then possibly tens of thousands.”
“And there will be four of us, sir?”
“Five, once we have Billy Jack, six if you count El Cid, seven with the golden bell, and once I recover my horse…”
“I see, sir, a simple matter of addition.”
“Exactly—each victory makes us stronger.”
“Shouldn’t be much of a problem then, should it?”
“My thoughts precisely, Major.”
“I reckoned they were.”
“But, Major, all this assumes the enemy column beats us to Santiago. What if we get there first?”
“Yes, sir, what then?”
“I left Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal and his Cavalry at Santiago.”
“He’s an ally?”
“Yes—but I don’t know if he’s still in Santiago.”
“Could be riding around like Jeb Stuart.”
“Yes—or perhaps even aligned with the enemy. Bierce or Matteo Rodríguez might have sent him orders. We need to operate, Major, as if every hand is against it.”
“That seems a fair reckoning.”
“Just so. In which case,” I made an X over the circle representing Santiago, “our best stratagem is to reach Santiago before the enemy column does.”
“That’ll take some swift marching, I reckon.”
“Swifter than you know. We must beat not only the column, but the enemy’s communications. If a dispatch rider reaches Santiago before we do—well, that’s a complication. But if we get there first, perhaps we’ll confuse the enemy about who is on which side.”
“That would be a good start, sir.”
“Well, then, Major. I believe due west is that way. Let’s get marching.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon there’s nothing else to do.”
CHAPTER TEN In Which I Fight Innumerable Foes
The way west—without road, path, or trail—was fraught with difficulty. It meant pushing through tangled vines and undergrowth. High thickets of green blotted out the sun, and thus our ability to get our bearings, and even small detours around a densely packed copse, a bar
ricade of boulders, or a trickling stream could throw us off course.
But I have always been blessed with a good sense of due north, and I was determined to beat the government column to Santiago. Major Gillette was a worthy companion, a man inured to soldierly deprivation, uncomplaining, and eager to execute his duty. Hour after hour we slogged on—and in the end, we had our victory.
It astounds me still—even as I write this—and fills me with pride that we reached the river encircling Santiago before the government column did. Granted, that column was encumbered by the golden bell, the glorious statue, and the recalcitrant prisoners. But they also had Cavalry and a clear road in front of them. Our success, if I say so myself, was a tribute to our stamina, natural speed, and native woodcraft.
We paused at the river. It was an hour, I reckoned, before dawn. We strained our eyes to discern pickets, guards, or scouts from Santiago. There was a faint aroma of smoke in the air—perhaps from hearth fires in the town, I thought—but we saw nothing, heard nothing: no fire silhouetting a camp, no squelching of boots in the mud, no cough from a sentry. We were happy with that result, but curious just the same. Why did Santiago’s defenders think it unnecessary to post guards at the bridge or pickets along the river? We assumed there were guards at the city gates, but we saw none; and, strangely, we heard no noise, not even the barking of a dog or a murmur of voices from the cantina.
“Fortune favors the bold,” I said. “Shall we cross at the bridge?”
Major Gillette’s eyes scanned the darkness. “Yankee General, sir, if the entire garrison is asleep, if they have no sentries posted—why, it beggars my military imagination.”
“Major, I left Santiago a hero. If dispatch riders have not arrived from the column, they may still regard me as one. Even if they see us cross the bridge—we might be welcomed.”
“Or lynched. But I reckon it’s worth the risk. No sense soaking in a river when you can saunter over a bridge.”
And that’s what we did—without subterfuge or fear, neither creeping nor sneaking, but with shoulders back, chests out, we made our way to the bridge.
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 16