The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

His guard held up his hand, indicating they should wait here. Cal’s leg continued to ache and he looked longingly at the many upholstered chairs scattered throughout the great room.

  Following his abduction, he rode with the Mexican soldiers for two days, his hands bound tightly together and tethered to the saddle pommel. His knee had been grotesquely swollen from where Veras had walloped him with his gun stock. The pain was excruciating at first, particularly when he was kicked to the ground at meal times and day’s end. He had not been permitted to relieve himself, and his breeches were stained from his own waste. They had treated him like an animal, as if hoping to purge any remaining resistance or dignity.

  On the third day, they entered a village, a town really, larger than what Cal would have expected, and he was led to a stable where he was chained to a post and left unguarded. For three more days, he sat in solitude on hard dirt, his lone daily meal consisting of some sort of corn paste and a cup of murky, tepid water. He had demanded to see Veras, but his guards indicated their capitán was no longer there.

  At least the swelling in his knee had lessened, though the skin remained a dark purple.

  The next day everything changed. His guards took him from his cell to a livery stable, where a basin of warm water, a razor and two bars of thick lye soap awaited him. Scrubbed of the filth from his body, it was the best Cal had felt in a week and it gave him new energy. When he returned to his cell, he was provided clean clothes and a tray of real food. He had devoured the rice and beans within seconds, sharpening rather than relieving the dull ache in his belly. Nonetheless, he felt his strength slowly returning.

  A doctor had even visited, stitching the gash on his forehead and examining his leg. He spoke no English, but Cal understood enough to know that he had suffered no broken bones and his knee would heal with proper rest. He was also provided a sturdy walking cane. He was later moved to a small home occupied by a peasant farmer and his family. The family was ushered from their home despite Cal’s protestations and he was directed to sleep in their only bed. He saw no point in arguing, and when his guards departed it had taken him mere seconds to fall fast asleep.

  That was yesterday. Early this morning, Cal was awakened and escorted from his cell by several men; new men, not soldiers, and fairly well dressed. They escorted him past the other guards, irked to say the least, and ferried him by carriage to the large hacienda that he now stood in. The man with the scar was waiting for him on the veranda and had wordlessly led him into this room.

  Cal turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was clear the dapper man who strode into the room with such purpose and exuberance was his host. He was wearing a fine suit, his short hair neatly combed, and Cal guessed him to be in his mid-thirties or so. There was a large pockmark on the side of his throat but he was otherwise handsome, his amiable, bright smile standing out against his dark brown face. A hand was held out to Cal, who took it guardedly.

  “Buenos dias, Lieutenant Garrity. My name is Esteban Nieves and I am the governor of this province. May I please offer you a drink?”

  “A drink?” asked Cal, his voice flat. “Your men have kidnapped me, Governor. Held me here for several days. My country would consider that an act of war. So, no, I don’t feel much like a drink.”

  “In time, I may offer you something more. But my father taught me that every friendship begins with a drink.”

  Nieves moved to a sideboard and poured a dark liquid into a glass. “Kentucky bourbon,” he said, hoping to tempt Cal.

  “I can only imagine where your men appropriated that,” Cal said dryly. “I will decline. My father taught me to be wary of strangers offering friendship. Especially those that hold a gun to our head.”

  “Very well. But Aurelio is holding no such weapon right now, and neither am I. Please, let us sit.”

  Cal wasn’t about to refuse that invitation and he eased himself onto the leather couch, grimacing as his bended leg protested. Nieves noticed. He sat in a large overstuffed chair facing the couch and sipped from his glass. Cal’s minder positioned himself directly behind where his prisoner sat on the couch, his thick arms folded across his chest.

  “I have been informed of your injury. Let me begin by offering you my most profound apologies. Capitán Veras was wrong to bring you to our coun…here…and I regret very much the incident and your current circumstances.”

  “So you acknowledge I was brought here against my will. One of my men was murdered, Governor. Were you informed of that? On American soil. My government will be very displeased to hear that.”

  “Your government. An interesting choice of words.” Nieves set his glass on the table in front of him, and clasped his hands together. “You are from Virginia, no? I have many friends north of the border, and we both know that your government is somewhat preoccupied with other matters at the moment. And they will not hear of this incident. Veras assures me there were no witnesses.”

  “Are you telling me you will do nothing about this?”

  Nieves leaned back on the couch. “Veras is a stupid, vain man. If he were under my authority, I would strip him of his rank and see to it that he is never put in command of so much as a field kitchen. He is a disgrace to professional soldiers and gentlemen alike. But his family has considerable influence here, and, I regret to say, I am powerless to control him.”

  Cal rubbed his jaw. He was unsure of where this was leading and uncertain of what to make of Nieves.

  “Your English is excellent, Governor.”

  Nieves smiled appreciatively and bowed his head. “Gracias. In my line of work, it is essential.”

  Cal’s eyes wandered to the gleaming sword decorating the wall. “You were once a soldier?”

  “Si. My most proud experience. I was a young teniente, much like yourself, when your army fought on this land. My men fought bravely but we had a very small chance.”

  “You risk fighting that war again, allowing your men to cross the border and murder American soldiers?”

  Nieves’ man who had been so quiet gave Cal a hard cuff to the back of his head, nearly knocking him to the floor. The governor snapped off a few words in Spanish and the man quickly lowered his eyes in contrition.

  Nieves looked at Cal again. “I apologize for Sergeant Zapata. That will not happen again.” Nieves paused. “Veras’ mother and father were killed by American artillery at Puebla. That is why he hates American soldiers.”

  “Our countries are no longer at war—”

  The Mexican held up his hand. “I am not excusing the capitán’s actions. I am explaining them to you.”

  There was a commotion outside and a knot of soldiers suddenly burst loudly into the room. There were four of them, led by a seething Veras. Each brandished a gun, though none were pointing at Cal at the moment. They were followed by the men who had escorted Cal to the hacienda. Veras barked a rapid string of Spanish at Nieves, who stood and replied in an equally fierce manner.

  At the direction of Veras, two of his men seized Cal by the arms and pulled him harshly to his feet. Nieves stepped forward and rebuked the men, his authoritative tone compelling them to release Cal. Veras’ face twisted in rage as he spat out more words while jabbing a finger in Nieves’ face.

  Zapata remained motionless, but Cal could see the cold fury in his eyes, directed at Veras. Zapata wanted to tear the man apart.

  Cal, for his part, stood by helplessly. He had no choice. The tension and contempt between Veras and Nieves was palpable, and it was clear what, or more accurately, who, their disagreement was about. Veras gestured again in his direction, and in his eyes Cal saw a flash of the madness he had seen days ago, when Veras had leveled his shotgun at Bruer.

  That look sparked something within Cal. Without thinking, he took a few steps and launched himself at Veras, somewhat clumsily with only one strong leg. Even as he felt the sharp pain in his injured knee, he still managed to lower his shoulder into Veras’ midsection with some force. Veras was shorter but more compact than Cal and t
he Mexican gasped as the collision punched the air from his lungs, both men falling to the floor.

  Cal scrambled to his feet first and reached for his cane, grasping it with both hands. He swung it down like a club, feeling a renewed vigor surging through his body. Veras covered his head with his arms, howling as Cal brought the heavy oak stick down again and again on the man’s back and legs. It had all taken just seconds, and Cal managed one final blow to Veras’ head before his guards wrestled control of him and forced him to his knees.

  Veras slowly climbed to his feet, wobbly and enraged, trying to regain his senses. There was blood dripping from a cut above his eye. He pulled a large knife from his belt, showing Cal the jagged blade.

  “Before I kill you,” he hissed, “I’m going to skin you with this.”

  He took a step toward Cal, ignoring the shouting from Nieves. But Veras froze as they all heard the telltale click of a hammer being pulled back.

  It was Nieves’ man, Zapata, a revolver in his hand. He held the gun at his side, barrel down. But his message to Veras was unmistakable.

  Nieves collected himself, straightening his coat as he headed for the door. He gestured for Veras and his men to follow him. They didn’t move as the fuming Veras fought to restrain himself, squeezing the handle of the knife until his knuckles were white.

  “Ahora, Capitán!” barked Nieves.

  Veras finally sheathed his knife and stormed off. The room emptied as most of the men paraded after their respective leaders, leaving Cal alone again with his escort. Zapata returned the weapon to the back of his belt, concealing it again under his suit coat. He pointed at a framed decoration resting on the mantle.

  “Do you see that, Norteamericano? Señor Nieves was awarded that medal for his valor at Veracruz. Fighting your army. Your army, too many men, too many cannon. He led us in retreat. He was forced to leave many wounded behind, though he could see the Americans bayonet each man. One of them was my brother, Guillermo. Señor Nieves led men with stretchers back onto the battlefield, to bring the remaining wounded to our lines. Some of your soldiers continued to fire at Señor Nieves and the orderlies, but he returned again, and again, and again. Until each of the remaining wounded had been brought back.

  “He himself received musket balls here, here, and here,” Zapata said, pointing to his forearm, bicep, and the side of his neck. “Since he is the only man here who wants to see you live—the only man, señor—I suggest you listen carefully to what he is telling you.”

  “Ah, Aurelio, sharing old war stories with our guest?”

  Nieves had returned, alone. Whatever calm the man was attempting to project, Cal could see Nieves was still agitated, his breathing labored. He returned to his chair and gestured for Cal to do the same.

  “Sergeant Zapata has been with me since Chapultepec,” Nieves said, swallowing the remainder of his drink. “Fourteen years now.”

  Cal slowly sat back on the couch, wincing as he suddenly realized how much his leg was throbbing with pain. Nieves rubbed his palms together and took several deep breaths.

  “My apologies for that, Señor Garrity. Veras,” he said, glancing at Zapata, “is a difficult man.”

  Cal leaned forward. “Governor, you brought me to your home for a reason.”

  Nieves opened a humidor to Cal, who shook his head. The Mexican pulled out a cigar and struck a match.

  “You are indeed from Virginia, no?” asked Nieves, blowing smoke into the air. “Fine tobacco. I have visited your state many times, a source of great commerce for my holdings. Tell me, we both know that war is on the horizon. Will you fight for your Federal Army?”

  Cal looked at him blankly.

  “No señor, I don’t believe you will. No more so than I could point a rifle at the people of this town. Capitán Veras, he is a different sort. A man without honor. He would simply follow the gold, or whoever offered him a higher military rank. But you would leave your Federal Army?”

  Cal considered the question. “You have a new president, yes? Elected by the people?”

  “Si. Presidente Juarez. Elected just last month.”

  “Suppose this new president ordered his army to march on your land, against your people, what would you do?”

  Nieves smiled. “Unlikely, but I will—how do you say—play along? Of course my loyalty is to my presidente. I would, however, do everything to persuade him to act in the interests of my people.”

  “And if he insisted on acting against the interests of your people?”

  Nieves hesitated, raising an eyebrow and smiling ruefully. “Of course, in such a circumstance, I would bow to the wishes of my presidente.”

  For the first time in days, Cal smiled. Impossibly, he liked this man. He thought about what Zapata had told him of Veracruz. Nieves was not the sort to bow to anyone.

  “You and I, señor, may have less in common than we would like,” cautioned Nieves, reading his thoughts. “My people, well, they are very unlike you Americans. It is a simple life here. The people of this land are strong and resilient. But they do not have the same revolutionary spirit as the people of Virginia. Or America, for that matter. Independence is a stranger here in Mexico. Which brings us back to you, Lieutenant. Why are you still in the West, with your Federal Army?”

  “Virginia has not yet seceded.”

  “Seceded?”

  “Left the United States.”

  “Ah. And when it does?”

  Nieves read Cal’s face.

  “I see. So it is just a matter of time.”

  Nieves stood, pacing in front of the mantle, turning his cigar slowly in his fingers. He approached Zapata and the two conferred in whispered Spanish. Cal couldn’t help but notice the dubious look Zapata was giving his master. Finally, Nieves returned to the couch and crossed his legs.

  “Allow me to offer you a proposal. I will release you once your leg is properly healed. I will ensure your safe passage to Virginia. Until then, you will be my guest here. A guest, not a prisoner. In return, I ask for a simple request. The incident with Capitán Veras must never be reported to your superiors. It never happened, and you were never here. It would be best, therefore, if you did not return to the United States Army. You will return to Virginia. On this I must have your word.”

  “My word alone?”

  “Your word is all I require.”

  “What about Sergeant Bruer? What is his family to be told? He had a mother and a father, you know.”

  “A tragedy, señor. But one that cannot be undone. I cannot fix all of this.”

  Cal stood, and with the aid of the cane, walked gingerly to the large bay window and looked out at the expanse of Nieves’ estate. He could see the endless rows of grape vines in the distance, reminding him of the vineyard at the Peyton summer home.

  He turned back to Nieves. “I have just one request. My wife, obviously. You must allow me to write her immediately and instruct her to meet me in Virginia. The Army will see to her transport.”

  “Por supuesto. You may write her today, presuming you reveal nothing as we discussed. Only that you are alive and will soon be in Virginia.”

  “If the Army learns of this, they will assume I deserted.”

  “Then we should take care so your army does not learn of this. I will see to it that a letter is delivered to her discreetly.”

  Cal exhaled. “Then Governor, I suppose we have a deal.”

  Nieves smiled warmly. “Excellente. Aurelio will journey with you to Virginia to ensure your safety.”

  “I hardly need a bodyguard.”

  Nieves gave him a grim smile. “You will once I inform Capitán Veras that you are being released.”

  CHAPTER 16

  March, 1863

  Richmond, Virginia

  The officer’s cologne wafted across the table, so pungent and overpowering that Cal could no longer enjoy his squash soup. He lowered his spoon and made eye contact with James, the portly, gray-haired house servant who had minded the Peyton dining room since befo
re Emily was born. James shuffled behind him and quickly removed the dish.

  “I understand President Davis has assembled quite an accomplished circle of military men to advise him,” said Elias Peyton, lifting his wine goblet. “Do you find the president receptive to your counsel, Major?”

  Alex Saunders bowed his head at the implied compliment. “Oh, I should say so. Though the president certainly has his own experience to draw upon. He fought valiantly in Mexico, as did you, sir. Yet I hear he had the misfortune of being shot in the foot. Imagine the embarrassment!”

  As the man guffawed at his own remark, Cal resisted the urge to think of Saunders as a horse’s ass. It was too insulting to the horse.

  Since he had returned to Virginia nearly two years ago, Cal had encountered too many pretentious fools such as Saunders. Men who fervently believed in the cause, but had scant understanding of military affairs or appreciation of the foot soldiers that would be needed to carry out their cockeyed plans. Political animals like Saunders simply masqueraded as Army officers, costuming themselves in gold-braided uniforms and elegant swords.

  “You are married, Major?” asked Emily, artfully steering the conversation to seemingly safer ground.

  “Indeed I am. Lizzy and I wed back in sixty-one, the day we fired on Fort Sumter. She’s a local Charleston girl, from a good family. We met when I was a captain in the militia there, commanding one of General Beauregard’s artillery batteries.”

  And there it is. His bona fides. A fighting man, he would have us believe, worthy of that fifty dollar uniform.

  In truth, as an artilleryman, Saunders had likely been half a mile away from Sumter, and to this day had probably never discharged the sidearm he carried on his service belt. Certainly not in combat.

  Cal felt the pressure on his toes again. Emily had taken to stepping on Cal’s foot as the major spouted one absurdity after another. She was looking at Saunders intently, as if hanging on each word, but Cal knew her too well. She was envisioning belting this man in the nose as much as Cal was. But they were at her father’s table, and she was mindful of her obligation to the family patriarch. As for her feigned sweetness to Saunders, well, he could excuse that, as a Southern lady never forgets her manners. The men at Camp Chance would surely attest to that.