He leapt the trench, and I took him high-stepping to the edge of the bridge. I shouted out to the city walls. “I return to ask for your surrender.”
The rebel leader yelled, “You want we should kill that beautiful horse.”
“Both he and I approach you unarmed—except with news that spells your imminent defeat. Marching up this road, not more than ten minutes behind me, is the largest army you ever saw, with batteries of artillery to smash your bones to pieces, Cavalry to scatter the remnants, and Infantry to hunt down any survivors. I told you, I am Generalissimo Armstrong Armstrong. I have given the king a new strategy—one we used with tremendous success in the great war in America. We will take the war into your sanctuaries. We will give you no rest. We will leave you no sustenance. We will crush all resistance.”
“You have not crushed us.”
“Not yet—but Matteo Rodríguez, your traitorous ally, is in irons by now, or soon will be, and the full force of the Neustraguano army is directed right at this point. Now, I can ride across this bridge and you can surrender to me, or you can wait and join your rebel dead in hell. Look around you—you’re halfway there already.”
“You bluff.”
“The remainder of my force is coming up with Generalissimo Bierce. He is not as merciful as I am. I think you know that. Still, he’d rather use his artillery on Lucretia Borreros than on you—he bears her a bigger grudge. Now, I’m coming across that bridge. If you open fire, Bierce’s army will be upon you faster than a tornado.”
“And you will be dead.”
“I doubt it. I’ll just duck under this smoke; the earth will shake with the pounding of hooves; our Cavalrymen’s sabres will glisten with your blood. Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal’s Cavalry is about to ride down upon you.”
I heard, in the distance, Major Gillette shout the inspiring order: “Cavalry, prepare to charge!”
A handful of rebels nervously discharged their muskets, and Sergeant Esteban shouted: “Fire!” Our rifles fired one volley, then another, and another, and another.
I turned and shouted, “Get ready boys! Bring ’em on up,” and Captain Obregón’s Infantry fell in behind me. Just behind them the creaking wheels of El Cid’s wagon announced his approach; his pennoned lance pieced through the smoke.
I gazed at the city. The white line of peasant smocks looked like a wheel block of Swiss cheese infested by rodents—it was suddenly full of holes. The rebels were in flight.
“After them, men!”
Captain Obregón’s men charged across the bridge and up the hill, and Marshal Ney and I were soon at their head. A desultory discharge of opposing muskets sent a harmless, unaimed sprinkling of minié balls down the slope.
“Come on men! Bring up those cannons!” We had none, of course, but the threat accelerated the white smocks’ departure. The golden bell sounded, and I hoped in their confusion they might mistake it for the sound of cannon: a Quaker gun, to be sure, but one with a big boom.
The rebels were now in full flight—few daring to look back—and then there was an enormous explosion behind the city walls, a refueling of the flames, and a towering new cloud of black smoke. They had fired the powder stores and armory; la Montaña que Eructa grunted its own knell of doom; and it seemed as though the ground shook.
I sat Marshal Ney at the northern crest of the hill. Billy Jack rode fast towards me from the western horizon.
He pulled up, saluted, and said, “Cavalry of one.”
“Good enough for now, Sergeant.”
“These men were only skirmish line. Main force still other side of the river.”
“I think they’re on the defensive now—they’ll want to hold that dock until Wakesmith arrives with his boat.”
“He is there now. I saw it. I had perfect view. In French vue parfaite. In Italian vista perfetta. In Latin visum perfectum.”
“No need to go through all that. Let’s find Captain Obregón.”
That wasn’t hard. He and his men came running towards us. “Generalissimo, do we take the city?”
“There’s nothing to take,” I said. “No need to pursue the enemy either. We know where they’re going—across the river. Captain, your job is to keep them there. Deploy your men behind the city. There’s a rocky ledge overlooking the river. Billy Jack will show you. Hold that position at all costs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m detaching Sergeant Esteban’s platoon and the muleskinners. They’ll watch over El Cid and the Golden Bell—just in case.”
“Yes, Generalissimo. And the prisoners?”
“They can fend for themselves. They won’t get far in those chains—and the enemy is welcome to them.”
“And you, Generalissimo, where will I find you? With the detachment guarding El Cid?”
“No, Captain, I have an appointment with Generalissimo Bierce.”
Billy Jack led Captain Obregón and the Infantry away, and Major Gillette appeared, trotting Edward to my side. “Well, Yankee General, sir—you sure smoked ’em. Last time I saw troops run that fast was at First Manassas.”
“Major, you’ll kindly keep your Confederate comments to yourself. Let’s ride down to El Cid.”
We ambled our horses down the slope. Sergeant Esteban and his men were cheering, hoping to join their comrades on the chase.
“No Sergeant, I need you here—guarding El Cid.”
“A statue, sir? But the enemy—he runs.”
“And why do they run, Sergeant? Because they fear El Cid and what he represents.”
“But, sir, my men want to be in on the kill.”
The men were all eager smiles, shaking their rifles. I raised my hand in acknowledgement of the cheers and rode my horse among them. “Troopers of Neustraguano, today we had a great victory—but it is only the first of our many victories. Let us remember, though, that our victories will be as nothing unless we remember what we are fighting for. Why do you fight, men of Neustraguano? I will tell you why. You fight in defense of your family. You fight in defense of your Church—or you should if you are church-going men. You fight for your land, especially if you are small farmers. You fight for your history—for all those heroes of your past, the men who live in your collective memory, who tell you what it means to be a brave Neustraguanian. And who better to represent that than a medieval Spanish knight who fought against the Moors, and then fought for them, and then fought against them again. That, my lads, is the essence of Neustraguano, a kaleidoscope of loyalties that always comes back to victory. Preserve that knight, preserve that statue, and our Reconquista of Neustraguano, our recovery of your undivided homeland, is certain. But should the enemy steal a step on you; should the enemy raid your position and abscond with El Cid and the golden bell; then, my lads, all will be at hazard. The rebels hate El Cid because he is bronze, and they are not; because he has strength and nobility and a wonderfully large horse, and they do not. The rebels know that a people without pride in their nation’s past, without a reverence for their nation’s heroes, without a passion for their nation’s Church, will be a people deprived of any spirit of resistance to the tyranny that the rebels hope to impose upon you. For into that void of pride in your past, for into that void of loyalty, they will come, like the thieves they are, who have robbed you of these things, and they will fill that void with the belief that you should be slaves—slaves to that crazy woman Lucretia Borreros, slaves to her perverted version of science, slaves to the opium that she stuffs into the Indians, slaves to her hatred of religion. That is why we fight; that is why we support El Claudio—so that the people may have their king and so that the barbarism of Lucretia Borreros might meet its doom. Cry God for El Claudio, Neustraguano, and El Cid!”
If I say so myself, even John Wilkes Booth—in his acting days—never delivered a better soliloquy. The men let up a succession of huzzahs. Sergeant Esteban stood at rigid attention and saluted so hard that it would have bifurcated any passing butterfly. If you had been there, Libbie, I’m sure you w
ould have thrown an enthusiastic garter onto El Cid’s lance as a symbol of the great Spaniard’s chivalry.
Major Gillette paid me a compliment: “Well, Yankee General, sir, that was a humdinger. Never heard a speech like that from ole Jeff Davis.”
“No, I expect you didn’t. But in this case, the man and hour are met.”
Major Gillette, Bad Boy, and I made our way down to the noble knight and lowered our heads in prayerful respect.
Bad Boy ended our prayer with a bark. A Cavalryman raced up El Camino Real. His horse was flecked with sweat, and I recognized him instantly—the officer, that is, not the horse.
I raised an eyebrow and said, “Captain Royce, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir; apologies, sir.”
“Apologies, Captain?”
“Yes, sir, for placing you under arrest—I had orders.”
“And what orders bring you back?”
“From Generalissimo Bierce—he wants a report on events at Santiago.”
“I will make that report to Generalissimo Bierce myself, Captain. But for your benefit: ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Do you know who said that?”
“You did, sir.”
“Quite right. I await the return of my scout, Sergeant William Jack Crow—also arrested by you, I believe. We will ride together and join Generalissimo Bierce. I intend to keep his guns pointed in the right direction.”
In due course, Billy Jack arrived, and it will not surprise you, dearest one, that such fine horsemen as my scout, Major Gillette, and I sped down El Camino Real like a train on a railroad. Bad Boy’s perdurable stamina was much in evidence, and Captain Royce did his best to keep up. Still, it was dusk by the time we found Bierce’s column. They were digging entrenchments perpendicular to the bordering ditches of El Camino Real. Bierce sat outside the flaps of his command tent, a tin cup of coffee in one hand and a flask in the other. He said, “Care for a nip, Generalissimo?”
“Bierce, there’s work to be done.”
“It’s being done, Marshal—and what about you? Back so soon: Have you already won the Battle of Second Santiago?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Captain Royce can confirm that.”
Bierce chuckled. “I thought you’d be eager to see him again.”
“I’m astonished, Bierce, that you’re not advancing on the enemy.”
“The enemy, Marshal, is advancing here. We’ll be ready for him. He should arrive around dawn, if not sooner. Scouts are keeping watch. I’ll ambush him as you intended to ambush me.”
“What about the women?”
“What about them? He’ll keep them as safe as the treasury money—it’s all booty to him.”
“Where’s Father Gonçalves?”
“Full of questions, aren’t we, Marshal? I sent him on the northern road. No need to risk him—or delay him—in combat. He’ll bring the Navy on our side, launch his underwater ship—and who knows, maybe even bring us some Marines.”
“Well, then,” said Major Gillette, “with that all taken care of, I reckon we can bed down for a spell, have a bite to eat…”
I interrupted, “Did your scouts tell you whether Rodríguez comes in force?”
“Yes—he’s got the entire garrison of la Ciudad de Serpientes, save for the palace guards. He’s leaving the dirty work of regicide to the rebels—though, of course, he’s helping as much as he can.”
“Bierce, I hate waiting.”
“We’ve got scouts.”
“The only scouts I trust are Indians.”
“And during the war?”
“I was a scout myself—even as a General. I trust no one’s eyes fully but my own—or Billy Jack’s. We’ll join your scouts.”
“Very well, Marshal. But you’d better take Captain Royce. He’ll keep you from getting lost—or mistaken for the enemy.”
And so, we were off again. We cut a meandering trail through the jungle. We had a path just wide enough for horses, but too narrow and tangled for swift progress. They had to step carefully, and I wondered if my thirst for action had got the worst of me, because here I was in the midst of a forbidding jungle—who knew how far from the enemy—when I could have developed a plan with Bierce in a council of war.
But we rode on, my eyes sharpened, my ears whetted for sound. The eerie jungle canopy added its own dark shadows to the dusk, and our horses followed each other, nose to tail, Captain Royce to the front, I next, with Major Gillette behind me, and Billy Jack covering our rear. The clicking, croaking, and squawking of jungle insects, frogs, and birds was a mere murmur compared to the incessant rumbling of the volcano, throwing up spews of fire that even at our far remove, and beneath the bower of trees, periodically lit the sky like red lightning.
The path took a turning north and ascended—so steeply that I found myself leaning forward in the saddle about forty-five degrees. I wondered where the devil we were, but voices carry in the dark, and my trail discipline, on a scouting mission like this, was too strong to let me speak. Suddenly there was a hiss from above: “Quién es?”
Our horses stopped. “It is Captain Royce. I come from the column with Generalissimo Armstrong and his aides.”
There was a quick intake of breath, and a hurried thumping of boots coming to attention, rifles snapped into place.
We nudged our horses forward and emerged onto a small tree-fringed plateau. There were three soldiers before us: a Lieutenant, a Sergeant, and a Private. The Sergeant and Private took our horses to the rear, while the Lieutenant led us to a bluff overlooking the road. In the distance to the east, we saw a glimmer of campfires. Rodríguez’s men were halted.
The Lieutenant said, “It is a formidable force. I have never seen so many men on the march.”
“Lieutenant,” I said, “it’s because they’re coming for me. They can’t afford risks. But we can.”
“Yankee, General, sir,” said Major Gillette, “I get a mite anxious when you talk like that.”
“Major, I see the enemy’s vulnerability.”
“And that vulnerability, sir—would it be the massive size of his army?”
“Precisely.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Have no fear, Major.”
“Of course not, sir. By my count, we have seven men—not counting your dog.”
“Bad Boy will stay behind; he’ll guard my clothes.”
“Your clothes, sir?”
“Yes—and these scouts, they’ll stay behind too.”
“I see. Well then, we have four men—if we keep Captain Royce.”
“Yes, I think that is advisable. Four men is exactly the right number.”
“I don’t mean to be obtuse, sir, but to do what?”
“To rescue Rachel and Victoria. It is a mere matter of maneuver, after that.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We will go in disguise, Major—as Indians.”
“Not again, sir. Your last Indian adventure still haunts me.”
“Nonsense. Granted, we had costume-makers last time, but that is a mere bagatelle. You’re wearing long underwear?”
“Well, yes, Yankee General, sir, but…”
“Snip off the legs with a bayonet and you have a loin cloth.”
“That’s our disguise?”
“Only part of it, Major. The Indians often wear bags over their heads.”
“Ugly, are they—or is there another reason?”
“You’d have to ask Lucretia Borreros about that—it has something to do with science. We’ll just cut eye-slits in our undershirts and wear them over our heads. That’ll get us into the camp.”
“Very clever, sir.”
“Captain Royce will impersonate a Captain because he is one. We will be his Indian scouts—you, me, and Billy Jack; and Billy Jack won’t need a disguise because, you know, he’s an Indian.”
“And you think we’ll fool them with undershirts over our heads and underdrawers with the legs cut off.”
“I am certain of it, Major. Ju
st leave it to me. Or did you forget that I am a blood-brother of the Boyanama Sioux?”
“Nothing would surprise me, sir.”
“Then let’s get to work.”
Our disguises were quickly fabricated, and Captain Royce led us trudging through the jungle. Our plan was to move diagonally, cutting a path to El Camino Real and into Matteo Rodríguez’s camp. But between the pitch dark, the entangling vines, and having undershirts over our faces, Major Gillette and I struggled to keep pace with young Captain Royce and the intrepid Billy Jack. Where they were sure-footed, we slipped; while they trotted around boulders, we felt our way like blind men. When we finally fell into El Camino Real’s roadside ditch, the Major and I were dripping sweat, slimed with mud, and breathing hard. But none of that worried me; it added to our disguise.
There were pickets on the road. Infantrymen stepped forward to block us, but when they saw Captain Royce, they stood down. He said we were Indian scouts under his command; they did not challenge him.
We walked amongst the enemy, but with little trepidation. Just days before, these troops had been ours; and I still had my command presence, even as a pretend Indian scout with an undershirt over my head. Yes, we could have been unmasked. Yes, we could have been executed as spies. But what mattered those odds, Libbie, when I had a señorita and a wife to save? Granted, that wife was not you, but just imagine my ardor if it had been!
With the shirt over my head, my vision was narrowed, but I caught no hint of suspicion among the soldiers who surrounded us. It was night, they had duties to perform, and they took no interest in Indian scouts.
I nudged Captain Royce. “Rodríguez will be in that big tent—the hostages must be nearby.”
As sure as whiskey is stronger than water, they were. Adjacent to the large, well-guarded tent of Matteo Rodríguez was a smaller tent. It too was posted with guards, but standing at its flap, gazing wistfully in my direction, was my impostor wife Rachel. I saw her put her hand to her mouth. Even with a shirt over my head, she recognized me—and then I realized why: not only did she know your tattoo on my arm; she had seen me as an Indian before. She knew salvation must be at hand. I took the foldable toothbrush and a pinch of salt from my Indian medicine pouch and cleaned my teeth.
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 19