“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, it’s all great, really great, we win—but now we have to go. The island’s going to explode—biggest explosion you’ve ever seen; bigger than the volcano that sank Atlantis, bigger than the volcano that covered Pompeii; bigger than anything. But that’s okay, we’ll find a new home; a great, big, beautiful home for my family—who are all on board, by the way. We’ll make a new life, a great new life; I work hard, you know, and I have plenty of cash to get us started again. We will make do. Anyway, Generalissimo, I just came out to congratulate you on your really great job and my great job of appointing you. Vaya con Dios.”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Father Gonçalves said, “but the Generalissimo is going to join us.”
“Ah, that’s even better! No fiery death under molten lava! That’s really good news. And your wife? That’s great. And Bierce, you’re coming aboard, aren’t you? Consuela, good to see you; and your escort—that man with the eye patch—how are you? And Indian man, good to see you too. And—what is he doing here? Matteo Rodríguez? He should be locked up—the man’s a traitor! He tried to overthrow our country! It was corruption like you’ve never seen; asked me for favors, appointments, then undermined me, worked with the rebels, organized my own government against me. He even fired up that volcano. Can you imagine? He’s not coming aboard this boat.”
Matteo Rodríguez stepped forward. “Your Majesty, that cleric fills your head with lies. These Americans—they’re mercenaries and should be executed; they’re the ones working against you.”
“Didn’t you hire Bierce?”
“Yes, but…”
“That’s the one good decision you made. And now I’ve made one: I’m leaving you here.” He turned to Father Gonçalves and said, “Let’s get these other people aboard and push off.”
“As you say, Your Majesty.”
“But, Your Majesty, what about me?” said Matteo Rodríguez.
“You stole the cathedral’s golden bell, didn’t you?” said El Claudio.
“To keep it safe.”
“Well, then you can stay here with it.” El Claudio turned to us and said, “I will see you aboard, Generalissimo, Mrs. Generalissimo, Bierce, Consuela, Escort Man, Indian Man.” He strode to the turret, ignoring Rodríguez’s frantic pleas of “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”
Bierce took the initiative, leaned from his horse, grabbed the rope that bound Matteo Rodríguez, and led him away. I dismounted and helped load the ladies and horses aboard the ship. There were two hatches at the turret. Father Gonçalves had me take the animals through one that led down below decks and aft to a stable in the hold, complete with stalls and straw, provisioned with water barrels and stacks of hay, and with curry combs fastened to the wall.
At the fore end of the hold there was another hatch. I opened this and stepped into the engine room. Before me was a vast array of levers and bellows and pipes and cogs and glistening steel that rotated and hummed and left me wide-eyed with astonishment, but no more so than the sight of the engineers who kept this machine working: two young priests holding breviaries and looking at engine dials. They nodded shyly at me, and I marveled at the sort of men produced by Neustraguano’s seminaries. They pointed to another door, at the opposite end, and I passed into the gun room, which had steel stairs rising to the turret. I went through yet another door and there were my companions gathered in a room resembling an English gentleman’s study: bookshelves, chairs, a couch, tables. The women were rejoicing over their accommodations (apparently there were cabins ahead), and Major Gillette was sipping tea and holding a couple of biscuits. I asked him to toss one to Bad Boy. Then I said, “Let’s get above deck and wait for Bierce.”
Billy Jack and Father Gonçalves were there keeping watch. The sky was black and red and flashed with yellow explosions from the volcano; all around us was a thick muffler of smoke; and then, like a horseman from the apocalypse, Bierce burst through the noxious fog. He jumped his horse onto the deck and said, “All right, Father, say your benedictions and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“But where is Matteo Rodríguez?”
“Look up there.” Through the roiling black and red clouds, we saw the towering statue of El Cid. Dangling from his lance was a rope—and at the end of it was Matteo Rodríguez, hanging by his wrists. “One way or another,” Bierce said, “he won’t last long.”
“Sic semper tyrannis, if you’ll excuse the expression,” said Major Gillette.
I gave Bierce a hard look; he gave me an equally hard look in reply: “That man tried to kill us. He conspired to assassinate the king.”
“But Bierce,” I said and glanced up at Rodríguez, “that’s torture.”
“It was a matter of convenience. He didn’t merit a bullet, Marshal. And anyway, your statue got the last laugh. He’s the victor. That’s his laurel.”
The volcano erupted again, the ground shook, the river foamed and splashed aboard the deck. And then there was a scream. El Cid rolled back and forth like a rocking horse and then broke free from the cart and went plunging down the rockface, horse and rider diving violently into the river. A giant wave smashed into us and sent us skittering across the deck with Bierce’s horse.
“Come on, Father,” growled Bierce, regaining his footing. “Say a prayer for his damned soul and let’s get out of here.”
I grabbed the reins to Bierce’s horse and led him down to the stables. I secured him, checked on Marshal Ney and Edward, and paused a moment to catch my breath in their company. “Well, noble steeds, our work here is done.”
I passed through the engine room, acknowledged the shy seminarian engineers, went through the gun room, and stepped into the study and a celebration. Father Gonçalves circled with a bottle, pouring out doses of sangria. Somewhat to my surprise, Billy Jack accepted a glass, raised it in toast, and said, “El Cid Campeador: Sic transit gloria mundi.”
Rachel sidled up to me, slid her arm over mine, and asked, “What did he say?”
“A prayer to Saint Gloria Mundi, for the peaceful repose of El Cid’s statue.”
Victoria raised her glass and said, “To Generalissimo Armstrong!”
I declined a proffered glass and said, “Thank you, Victoria. It was my great honor to serve your country. For there is no greater honor than this: to lay down one’s statue for another. My only regret is that I have but one statue to give for your country.”
Rachel sat me on the sofa, and said, “Enough speeches for you, Armstrong.”
I don’t believe I had closed my eyes for several days, and with my back sinking into the luxuriously padded settee, I found my eyelids unstoppably sliding down. The last thing I remember was Bierce saying, “And the moral of the story is, there are no morals beyond general expediency.” I was too tired to refute him and entrusted that task to Father Gonçalves.
And so, my dear, ended our adventure in Neustraguano, an island now sunk beneath the sea. Most of the king’s loyal subjects were evacuated to Mexico, but the king and his family are residents of San Francisco. They live under a pseudonym, which I cannot reveal, and El Claudio intends to establish himself as a hotelier, building the most luxurious hotel in the city. Father Gonçalves has drafted the design and is supervising the construction. Billy Jack is working as a tutor for Captain Briggs’s children; and Rachel and Victoria are with me here, along with Bierce who sends his love—and so do I, by the way.
So, let me end, dearest one, by asking: Did you ever find my staghounds Bleuch and Tuck? If so, can you return them with Major Gillette after he delivers you this letter? I do so miss them—and you, of course, my darling.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
H. W. CROCKER III is the bestselling author of the prize-winning comic novel The Old Limey and several works of history, including Don’t Tread on Me, Robert E. Lee on Leadership, Triumph, The Yanks Are Coming, The Politically Incorrect Guide to the Civil War, and The Politically Incorrect Guide to the British Empire. His journalism has appeared in National
Review, the American Spectator, the Washington Times, and many other outlets. Born and raised in San Diego, California, Crocker currently lives on the site of a former Confederate encampment in Virginia.
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Also by H. W. Crocker III
Novels
The Old Limey
Armstrong
Armstrong Rides Again!
Armstrong and the Mexican Mystery (coming 2022)
History
Robert E. Lee on Leadership: Executive Lessons in Character, Courage, and Vision
Triumph: The Power and the Glory of the Catholic Church, a 2,000-Year History
Don’t Tread on Me: A 400-Year History of America at War, from Indian Fighting to Terrorist Hunting
The Politically Incorrect Guide to the Civil War
The Politically Incorrect Guide to the British Empire
Yanks: The Heroes Who Won the First World War and Made the American Century
Contributor
The Maxims of Robert E. Lee for Young Gentlemen (foreword)
Bigly: Donald Trump in Verse (foreword and afterword)
Copyright © 2021 by H. W. Crocker III
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ISBN: 978-1-68451-169-3
eISBN: 978-1-68451-216-4
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