The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  Harrier was silent. The Emperor’s proclamation did not require an answer. But the Emperor appeared to see the hint of a question in his eyes.

  “Do you have an observation, Commandant?” the Emperor asked. “Feel free to speak your mind.”

  “Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty, your devotion is not in question. Nor is the bravery of the Imperial Mexican Army. But without the French forces, your men will be hopelessly outnumbered by the Republican forces of Juárez. You have only about eight thousand men.”

  The Emperor smiled grimly and shook his head. “You are not wrong, Commandant. But Santiago de Querétaro will not be easy to take, no matter how many men Juárez has. We can hold out until reinforcements come.”

  Harrier frowned in incomprehension. “Reinforcements, Your Imperial Majesty?”

  “As much as I would like to think that all men fight for honor or loyalty, the reality is that there will always be men who are willing to fight for monetary gain. As long as I can buy their loyalty, this war can still be won. But my resources here in Mexico are finite. I need someone to travel to Europe and raise capital to use for funds. That is why you are here, Commandant.”

  If possible, Harrier’s frown deepened further. “Sire?”

  “General Miramon here has asked questions, Commandant. He has sought a vast numbers of opinions as to who is the most honest man in the French forces. Imagine his surprise, Commandant, when he discovered that the most honest Frenchman was actually an American! The men were unanimous in choosing you, Commandant.”

  Harrier shook his head vigorously. “I am not worthy of such an appraisal, Sire.”

  “It is not a matter of debate, Commandant. Your superior officer, Colonel Moreau has agreed that you and a section of your choosing will be temporarily seconded to the Mexican Army. But you will not fight in the siege of Santiago de Querétaro. Nor will you withdraw with the main French forces, which are likely to be harried by Juárez all of the way to Veracruz, and who will therefore move slowly. Instead, your squadron will move like the wind towards the sea. You will take this coffer to Paris and place it into the hands of Napoleon III himself. He owes me as much, since he failed to aid my dear Carlota.”

  “They are all cowards!” General Mejía spoke with disdain. General Miramon raised a hand to try to stay Mejía’s outburst, but the rash General would not be stopped. “No! Forgive me, my Emperor, but I will speak my mind! Napoleon! Bah, that fat fool isn’t fit to carry the name of his illustrious uncle.” Lieutenant-Colonel Moreau stiffened at these words, but General Mejía plowed on. “Your brother is equally useless, quivering in Vienna after being slapped about by Bismarck. Even Pius IX proved to be nothing but a greedy little Italian coward. None of them deserve to call themselves gentlemen after turning away the supplications of the Empress Carlota herself!”

  Harrier thought the Emperor would be upset at these vicious insults of the great leaders of Europe, as well as the Pope himself. Not that Harrier disagreed with General Mejía’s opinions, but he would never dare to voice them aloud. The Emperor only laughed, as if he had heard this a hundred times before. “Come, come, General. Let us not upset these fine officers of the French Legion by besmirching the name of their Emperor. Napoleon’s concerns are valid. Between the United States Army encamped upon our northern borders, and Bismarck’s Prussians amassing upon his eastern frontier, Napoleon III’s forces are spread too thin. There is no shame in his withdrawal. As for my brother and the Pope, however, you may have a point.”

  Harrier licked his lips with an atypical nervousness. “Your Imperial Majesty, may I ask what is inside the coffer?”

  The Emperor nodded. “Of course. A man should understand the reason why he is risking his life. You may know, Commandant, that before I was called to lead this great nation, I made some inquiries into the natural sciences. As part of that pursuit, in 1860 I undertook a voyage to the rain forests of Brazil. There I was given the opportunity to purchase a few gemstones of a remarkable size and clarity from all about the South American continent. These are what I wish Napoleon to sell for me.” He took a key from a silken cord about his neck and turned it in the coffer’s lock. As Maximilian threw open the lid, the lights of the candles reflected upon a collection of gems that Harrier had never thought to lay eyes upon outside of a drawing from the Arabian Nights.

  “At the bottom of the stones, Commandant, there is a detailed list of what the coffer contains, sealed by my hand, so that no stone can disappear or be substituted with a lesser one. There are two hundred and twelve diamonds of the first water from the Gran Sabana region of Venezuela, including the magnificent thirty-three carat greenish-yellow Carlota Diamond, now named after my consort. There are three hundred and four yellow topazes from the Ouro Preto mine in Brazil, two hundred and forty-two aquamarine beryls from Aracuaí, Brazil, ninety red garnets from Lavra Navegadora, Brazil, a hundred and twenty three opals from the Sierra Gorda, seventy agates, half from Brazil and half the fabled Cyclops agate of Mexico, and eighty-eight turquoises from Chuquicamata in northern Chile. But the pride of the collection is the unparalleled émeraudes from the Muzo and Cosquez mines of Columbia. There are two hundred and fifty-seven common emeralds, including an emerald and diamond necklace that is of inestimable value. There are two emeralds of particular note. The first has become known as the Maximilian Emerald. It is twenty-one carats in size and a deep grass-green color. It was cut and set for me into a golden ring, and it alone is worth a small duchy. Finally, there is another stone, known as the Empress Emerald, which at two-hundred and thirty carats is the second largest emerald in existence, even larger than the Moghul Emerald. The largest, of course, was the Queen Isabella Emerald, however, in 1757 the ship carrying it to Spain mysteriously caught fire and burnt somewhere in the strange waters between Florida and Bermuda. The Queen Isabella will never be seen again and so the Empress Emerald, named after my wife, has now claimed the premier spot on that exclusive list.” Maximilian plucked the Empress Emerald from its berth in the coffer and held it up to the light. It was cut into a multitude of facets, which made it appear to be almost a perfect dark green sphere the size of a child’s fist. “But this emerald was not purchased on my trip to the Amazon,” the Emperor continued. “The Empress Emerald was given to me by the grateful inhabitants of my new home. For this emerald once belonged to Cuauhtémoc, the last king of the Aztecs. In 1521, Cuauhtémoc was captured by the Conquistadors trying to cross Lake Texcoco in disguise while fleeing from the eighty-day siege of Tenochtitlan. Hernán Cortés tortured him for four years trying to get the king to divulge the whereabouts of his hidden treasures.

  “Cortés was a monster, of course, his greed insatiable. Upon his arrival he had been handed the Stone of Judgment, later called the Isabella Emerald, by Montezuma himself. It was thought to be the most powerful instrument of the Aztec culture, destined to be reclaimed by Quetzalcoatl upon his return, as prophesied in the Aztec Codex. There was a legend that the when the Stone of Judgment is reunited with twelve crystal skulls, the secrets of the universe will be revealed to its bearer. But it now lies in the waters of the Atlantic. Cortés was not satisfied with owning this great stone. He wanted more, and he was aware of another legend that spoke of an emerald called the Stone of Life, able to impart eternal youth to its bearer. It was said that Cortés desired this mystical stone more than anything in the world, but Cuauhtémoc valiantly refused to lead him to it. Finally, in a fury Cortés had the king executed, ensuring that the Conquistadors would never learn the stone’s hidden whereabouts. But over three hundred years later my grateful people presented it to me when they realized that I came here to lead this nation to greatness, not despoil its riches like so many before me. Its value is inestimable and it pains me deeply to send it from this land, where it belongs. But someday, when there is peace in the land, we will reclaim it. Though,” he paused, finally smiling sadly, the lines of care worn deep into his brow, “I am afraid that it has not shed any years from this face.”

&nbs
p; “Your Imperial Majesty,” protested Harrier. “Surely you must keep something back. You cannot send away all of your wealth.”

  The Emperor smiled again. “You are a wise soldier, Commandant. I see how you have risen so far. Do not fear. I will keep one stone in reserve.” He patted a small satchel that hung from his neck. “Now, your Colonel Moreau has devised a route for you. At the end you will find a ship waiting for you that is manned by my adherents.” Moreau moved forward and handed Harrier a sealed letter. “Once you reach Paris, you must insist that Napoleon III acts with great haste in disposing of the jewels. He should not accept less than half-a-million sterling for them. We can hold out here for several months, but we must be reinforced before the summer.” The rest of the conversation with the Emperor and his advisors was spent in strategizing how Harrier was to help supervise the recruitment of mercenaries for the Emperor’s cause.

  §

  Harrier’s focus came back to the present. He turned to the huge man that served as his Sergent Chef. The twenty-seven year-old Australian was one of the men that he trusted with his life, and he was a natural leader of the more junior soldiers. “I am wondering the same thing myself, Sergent Sims. But our orders are clear. I’ve read the letter a dozen times and there is no question.” He turned to one of the junior soldiers. “Speaking of letters, Hector, I have one that I would like you to deliver for me.”

  The Legionnaire de Deuxieme Classe saluted Harrier. “It would be my honor, sir.”

  Harrier smiled. Hector Dubois was a good kid, the youngest in the section at just a few months past his eighteenth birthday. With his fine intellect and passion for debate, Dubois could have easily studied law. He was knife-sharp, and Harrier suspected that he might go far if he ever returned to his home country of Belgium. Harrier often wondered what had drove Dubois from his homeland, as he did for the other members of the section. But it was an unspoken rule in the Legion never to pry into a man’s reason for joining.

  The other Legionnaires de Deuxieme Classe were also fine young men, and only a few years Dubois’ senior. Aristides Delopolous was clearly born and bred on a boat, back on one of the Greek Isles. But he followed orders precisely and was one of the best riflemen in the entire battalion. Mehmet Nazim Bey was his opposite in almost every way, intellectual rather than athletic, Turkish rather than Greek. But in some odd fashion, the two men had become the closest of friends, each covering for the other’s deficiencies, and bringing out the best in the other man. Legionnaire Bey had a natural skill for all things mechanical and Harrier suspected that he might train as an engineer someday.

  The Legionnaires de Premiere Classe were also some of the best soldiers that Harrier had ever served with. Both the Portuguese Antonio Cordeiro and the Englishman George Warburton were young men, but impressively skilled in tracking and shooting. The Bohemian Leos Nemcek was the least natural soldier under his command, but he had distinguished himself by becoming an unofficial assistant to the regimental army officer. Harrier hoped that the bright young man might someday attend medical school once he was discharged from the Legion. The Italian Dario Aicardi served as the section’s Corporal, and with his artist’s precision he rivaled Delopolous for accuracy with a rifle.

  The officers were as strong as the men that they led. Lieutenant Ralph Foster hailed from a tiny island in the midst of the Atlantic, and though he dreamed of acting, some unexplained impulse had led him to join the Legion. But his natural good-humor and relaxed leadership style made him immensely popular amongst the men. He spoke often of returning to his home isle and opening an inn with his beautiful bride Elizabeth, whose photograph he was often fond of showing to the other men as proof of how fortunate he had been. Capitaine Diego Garcia Ramirez was his opposite, formal and stiff whenever Foster was relaxed and jovial. But the Spaniard was deeply respected, for every man knew that his word was stronger than steel, and that he was a man of both boundless loyalty to his friends and implacable hatred to his enemies. Although Capitaine Garcia Ramirez was not known for his humor, Harrier thought that the man must be joking when he said that his wife back in Spain was twice as hard as himself.

  In sum, it was an elite section and Harrier was proud to command it. It was little wonder why they were chosen for this delicate mission, but Harrier was still puzzled by the orders found in the letter of Lieutenant-Colonel Moreau. He had no more time to ponder the oddities, however, for as soon as he had handed his letter to Mr. Dubois, a branch cracked in the neighboring woods. The men turned as one, all reaching for their rifles which were never far from hand. But before they could raise their arms into position, a band of disheveled men stepped from the woods, all with rifles trained upon Harrier and his men. Although the men wore peasant dress and had unshaven cheeks, the rifles in their hands appeared new and free of any rust or wear that might impede their accuracy.

  Harrier was stunned. “What?” he stammered. “How did you get past the picquets?”

  “Your men are dead, Commandant,” said a large man harshly. He had skin bronzed by the tropical sun, and greasy dark hair tied in a loose knot behind his head. In age he appeared a little over thirty, but his hard eyes spoke to a life lived roughly. “The same will happen to you if you fail to obey me. Throw down your guns and put your hands behind your heads.”

  Harrier tried to place the man’s accent. It was not Mexican or even Spanish. Nor was it French, not entirely. But it was maddingly familiar. None of his men had moved. Harrier’s eyes flickered around the camp, attempting to count how many men were arrayed against him. There were at least six in his immediate field of view, which meant at least another six behind him, and likely a few more concealed in the trees in reserve. If the man was telling the truth, which seemed likely since they had made their way into the camp itself, then Harrier was down to just eight men in addition to himself and the other two officers. The odds were stacked against them. “Do as he says,” said Harrier finally. “Throw down your guns.”

  “Sir?” said Ralph Foster questioningly.

  In a flash, the man that appeared to be the leader of the ruffians turned his gun on Foster and shot him in the shoulder. Foster collapsed to the ground and the rest of Harrier’s section seemed about to jump into action. “Stop!” Harrier cried out before the rest of his men were gunned down, for he knew that there was no way they could bring their arms to bear before the bandits fired.

  The bandit leader growled, “That is what happens to anyone who disobeys me!”

  “You heard the man!” Harrier ordered. “Drop your weapons, and hands behind your head. You too, Mr. Sims!” With a clatter of metal upon the hard ground, his men quickly obeyed his order.

  “Excellent,” growled the bandit. “Now, Commandant, give me the key.”

  Harrier frowned. “Key?”

  “Do not play games with me, Harrier! I can take it from your dead body just as easily as from your live hands.”

  Harrier’s mind was moving as fast as a race horse. It was possible that the man had deduced his rank by the number of bars on his shoulder insignia next to the green and red epaulettes. But how could the man have known his name? And how could he have known about the key that Harrier carried? And then the man’s accent clicked. He had known men with the same tone on their tongue during McClellan’s push towards Richmond.

  “You are far from home, Creole,” Harrier finally replied.

  The man’s response was to backhand Harrier across the mouth. “Shut up! You have one more chance to hand over that key before I send you to hell.”

  “Of course,” replied Harrier evenly. But his mind continued to race. He decided that after these men found the Emperor’s gems, there was little chance that they would let he and his men live. If Harrier made a move it was likely that many of his men would die, but some might live. As Harrier slipped the silken cord from about his neck, he glanced over at Sims and gave the Sergent a minuscule nod.

  The Creole roughly took the key from Harrier and immediately strode over to the Comman
dant’s tent. Kneeling down, he pulled out the Emperor’s coffer and fitted the key into the lock. In seconds, he was rising and turning about with the Empress Emerald held aloft in his hand. The attention of the other bandits was distracted for a moment, which was all the time that Sims needed. In a flash, an enormous bowie knife emerged from a sheath nestled along his spine, and erupted from the chest of the bandit across from him. He and the other Legionnaires dove for their guns and some form of cover, while the stunned bandits began a ragged fire.

  Despite the element of surprise, Harrier was still not confident about their odds. He cared more about the lives of his men than he did the Emperor’s gems. “To the woods!” he cried. His men reacted like the disciplined soldiers that they were. He was proud to see Legionnaire Nemcek dragging the fallen Foster after him into the deeper forest. The section took up shelter behind tree trunks and began to return fire towards the bandits in the clearing. For a moment, Harrier thought that the tide was turning and that they might prevail despite their wounded man and numerical inferiority.

  Then, to his immediate right, he saw Capitaine Garcia Ramirez take a bullet directly through his eye. The man fell with barely a sound and Harrier felt a pang at the loss of such a good friend. As he continued to return fire, his mind still tried to puzzle out how the Creole had found them, and how he knew about the treasure that they were carrying. Surely, the soldiers of the Mexican Army were loyal to the Emperor and would have wanted to see this mission succeed. Only one other man knew about the mission, and that was the man that gave them the orders for their route through the Sierra Gorda. Moreau, that damned traitor, thought Harrier.