Crossed Arrows 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Since there was now a chance for battle casualties, Jager decided to encourage maximum dedication to their cause of not only the vengadores but their families as well. This would reduce the possibility of undue grief and anger in the kinfolk of the dead and wounded. The German decided to hold a ceremony in which everyone in the village could witness the award of the promotions.

  The next evening both teams were marched out to the center of the plaza and Jager stepped up on the same box used by Tim Harrigan in his farewell speech. “Good people of San Patricio,” the German began. “These courageous young men who stand here are the direct descendents of the Batallón de San Patricio as you know so well. They are trained and experienced fighters, ready to avenge their fathers and grandfathers!”

  Applause and shouts of “Olé!” erupted from the crowd.

  “We will now begin our campaign that will draw the yanquis to the border where the Mexican Army will destroy them, and send them running northward to escape our wrath. The massive land mass stolen from Mexico will be seized and rejoined to the fatherland. During the long preparation, Sub-Comandante Gomez and I have determined which two individuals are the best vengadores. This was a difficult task since all these fine young men are excellent soldiers. However, we did decide on two.” He paused, then raised his voice. “Vengador Roberto Sulivan! Vengador Jaime Rayan! Step forward!”

  The two young men, happily surprised, obeyed.

  Jager continued, “I now promote you each to the honored rank of sargento. You will now assume the responsibility of noncommissioned officers of the San Patricio Vengadores.”

  The new sergeants saluted, performed faultless about-face movements and stepped back into the ranks. The crowd cheered while Jager silently contemplated which of those brave young men would be the first give his life in this struggle.

  ~*~

  It was two nights later that Jager led the vengadores in a westward trek along the Rio Grande toward the town of Sumter Landing Texas. When they reached the objective Gomez’s team ordered his men to halt. They took up positions in the brush along the riverbank directly across from the warehouse. They lay in the thick cover, their Berthier carbines locked and loaded as they kept their eyes focused on the dock area.

  Meanwhile, Jager and his team continued on to a place where they could cross over to the American side. After gaining the northern bank, he called a halt. Sargento Roberto Sulivan detailed Vengador Jorge Calahan to stay with their hobbled horses hidden in a copse by the river. Jorge had been disappointed with the chore, but Jager reminded him that good soldiers obey all orders without complaint. The young vengador was soothed somewhat when the German assured him that everyone would take turns doing unpleasant or unpopular assignments.

  Commandant Jager quickly aligned his men as skirmishers. Within minutes they were moving soundlessly through the community’s shantytown, emerging only a few yards from the warehouse.

  Jager went alone to the building while his vengadores watched out for anyone who might be approaching. The German crossed the dock and went into the warehouse. He stopped and grinned. A night watchman of sorts was asleep on top of a bale of clothing. Jager raised his carbine up and brought it butt-down on the man’s head as hard as he could. He repeated the blows three more times, then walked out on the dock. He motioned for the team to join him.

  When they arrived, Jager led his men to where the kerosene was stored. Numerous canisters of the flammable liquid were neatly stacked in the rear of the building. Everyone began grabbing containers and unscrewing lids, pouring the contents across the floor.

  As soon as Jager felt there was enough spillage, he ordered the team back on the dock as he dribbled a stream of kerosene out to where they were located. He dropped the empty canister, then reached in his pocket for a match. A quick strike and it was thrown into the combustible liquid.

  Fire leaped up and raced back into the warehouse as Jager led his team back through the shantytown and down the river bank to the horses.

  Across the River Sub-Comandante Santiago Gomez and his men saw the first flicker of fire lighting the scene. Within a few seconds the structure exploded into flames.

  “Get ready, vengadores!” Gomez ordered.

  Shouts could now be heard coming from the shantytown area. People appeared in the firelight, yelling and backing away from the intense heat. It was obvious the growing flagellation was out of control.

  “Fuego!” Gomez hollered. “Fire!”

  The vengadores picked out targets and began a routine of aim, pull the trigger, work the bolt…aim, pull the trigger, work the bolt…aim, pull the trigger, work the bolt…

  The victims silhouetted against the flames collapsed as the bullets flew into their midst. The screaming and hollering increased as the fire spread to the cantina next door. A moment later a loud explosion split the air as the entire structure blew up. Sparks, embers and whirling pieces of burning wood flew across the site.

  At that point, Gomez’s team withdrew toward their hobbled horses. As soon as they emerged from the brush, they saw Jager and his men riding up. Everyone looked at the reflection of the flames off the clouds in the night sky.

  “Mission accomplished,” Karl Jager announced. “Let us return to San Patricio.”

  Twelve

  The acrid smell of burnt wood and smoke lingered in the air as Mack Hawkins, Ludlow Dooley and Jesse Buford stood in front of the charred remains of the Sumter Landing warehouse and dock. With them was Tommy Joe Klugg, the owner of the business, who gazed forlornly over the scene. The vessel that had arrived an hour previously was anchored in the middle of the Rio Grande. But without a dock the only cargo unloaded were the smaller crates that could be manhandled from the boat’s deck to a raft.

  Klugg, a portly fifty-six year old, lived in the largest house behind what was left of the dock area. His other home, more expensive than this one, was located in Casa Grande to the north. He sighed loudly. “Let me tell y’all something. It’s gonna take awhile to get things back to normal around here.”

  Hawkins felt sorry for the man. “Can you tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Klugg?”

  “All I know is that the warehouse caught afire in the middle of the night. Actually is was set afire. Anyhow, I come a-running and there was some of the fellers already here. We was standing on the dock without being able to do a godamn thing when somebody started shooting at us.”

  Ludlow asked, “Where were the shots coming from?”

  Klugg pointed. “Across the river there. And whoever was doing it, done it fast and deadly. We run off the dock as quick as we could, but before we cleared it, fourteen of my crew was shot. Ten died.”

  “Mmm,” Texas Ranger Jesse Buford pondered. “Can you tell if anything was stole before the fire was set?”

  “I don’t think so,” Klugg replied. “The main cargo had already been sent out on the mule train two days ago. But there was a few things left over.” He paused and spat. “That includes one hell of a lot of kerosene. I had ol’ Ben Weaver as a kind of watchman to keep an eye on things. At first I thought he might’ve got drunk and accidental-like started the fire. O’course when the shooting started, we knowed it wasn’t him. We found what was left of the poor feller earlier this morning. At least we’re perty sure it’s him. There was nothing but a scorched skeleton. The skull had been bashed in.”

  “That means somebody or somebodies came inside and kilt him,” Jesse said.

  Ludlow glanced where the shooting had come from. “Is there a ford where we can get on the other side of the river?”

  “None nearby,” Klugg replied.

  “The scouts all know how to swim,” Hawkins said. “Send a couple over there and see if there’s anything of interest.”

  Ludlow hurried off to where the scouts waited on the bank. Klugg watched him approach the detachment. “So them Injuns is in the Army, huh?”

  “Yep,” Hawkins replied. “We were sent down here from the Indian Territory to put a stop to these raids. We’
re having a hell of a time figuring out where the bandits will strike next.”

  “You got a hard row to hoe all right,” Klugg remarked.

  Several of his surviving employees had launched a raft and poled it out to the steamboat. They were supervised by Wyatt Clemens who was Klugg’s chief assistant. He lived behind the warehouse like the boss, but in a smaller home.

  The floating platform had been constructed from lumber stacked behind the warehouse. When they reached the vessel, crewmen took the ropes and secured it to the railing. With that done, small crates, boxes and parcels in the cargo were passed over and stacked on the raft.

  A half hour passed before the raft was loaded, then poled back toward the bank. Ludlow walked up with Michael Strongbow and Charlie Wolf. Both young scouts were shirtless, bootless and soaking wet.

  “Take a look at this, sir,” Ludlow said to Hawkins, holding out a handful of cartridge brass. “Michael and Charlie found it where the shooters had concealed themselves.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Hawkins said. “Eight-millimeter, right?”

  “Yes, sir. The same as before.”

  Jesse Buford was disturbed. “Damn! We’re worser off than a blind man at midnight.”

  Hawkins glanced at the Rio Grande. “Not if we cross that godamn river and go on a hunt-and-kill expedition.”

  Ludlow wondered about how long it would be before they rode into Mexico.

  ~*~

  Tim Harrigan had remained in Mexico after being branded with the D on his cheek as a deserter from the American Army. The main reason he was staying was because that mark would make him an outcast and rogue in the United States. It might attract curious and bothersome attention in Mexico, but once the circumstances of the branding were explained, he would be accepted as a hero of the war against the Gringos.

  Unlike most of the Irish immigrants who deserted the American Army, Harrigan had not been a farmer or laborer. He was a bank clerk in Dublin, earning a small salary with no chance of advancement because of the British upper class management. Unable to be promoted or given a raise, he decided to immigrate to America where he’d heard the streets were paved with gold and any ambitious, intelligent young Irishman could be a millionaire within a year.

  In the first week of his arrival in the U.S.A. he discovered two facts; the streets were not paved in gold and his Irish nationality and Catholic religion made it impossible to find a job in an American bank. It was even difficult to get hired on in a permanent position as a ditch digger. Signs stating JOBS AVAILABLE—IRISH NEED NOT APPLY were many and rigidly enforced. The only work he could find was day jobs and those were scarce and paid extremely low wages. Thus, hungry, disappointed and angry, he enlisted in the United States Army out of desperation. The recruiting sergeant had signed him up with the traditional military promise that he would be provided “three hots and a cot.”

  That sounded awfully good to a near-starving young Irish lad.

  Harrigan felt like he had died and gone to heaven not long after his assignment to Fort Monroe, Virginia. His career as a bank clerk brought about an assignment in the pay department branch of the Army. His skill with accounts and finances earned him a quick promotion to the rank of corporal and he settled in to earn fifteen dollars a month and the “three hots and a cot” promised by the recruiting sergeant.

  When the war with Mexico broke out, Corporal Harrigan was reassigned to the staff of General Winfield Scott who was the commanding general of the American forces. Once more the luck of the Irish blessed the corporal. He stayed with the general staff, living in a comfortable tent while serving the Army’s paymaster.

  But a big change was in the making.

  Harrigan and another Irish soldier had become friends. That fellow was part of the provost marshal detachment that provided security for the headquarters. The man visited Harrigan in his tent one evening with a pamphlet given him by yet another Irishman. It had been issued by the Mexican government, promising Irish Catholic soldiers who deserted the American Army promotions along with citizenship and land grants at the war’s end.

  Harrigan and the other Irishman wasted no time in sneaking out of camp and heading south for a better life of money and property. The shooting war hadn’t actually begun and sneaking away to the Mexican side was easy. But the hopeful pair’s aspirations were dashed after their capture just before the battle of Chapultepec. Luckily the fact they hadn’t deserted during a shooting war kept the pair from being hanged.

  But not from branding.

  Thirteen

  When the Mexican-American war ended, Tim Harrigan knew there was no future for him in the United States. Bitter and angry, he stayed in Mexico and headed south toward Mexico City, deciding that the national capital was the best place to begin a new life. He recognized that his lack of skill in speaking Spanish precluded any chance for a position in a bank, but at least he had a small working knowledge of the language learned in the Batallón de San Patricio. He decided to take any job available and concentrate on learning the local lingo from interaction with the indigenous people. When he was confident and comfortable speaking Spanish, he would strike out to make his fortune.

  After reaching Mexico City, he found a room to rent in a rundown neighborhood. The people in that barrio thought him odd not only from his European appearance, but wondered why he had a D on his cheek. Harrigan thought it best not to become a recluse, and he began patronizing a small cantina. He quickly established a few friendships despite his scanty knowledge of Spanish. After a short while he became somewhat of a local celebrity when he disclosed the circumstances of the branding.

  During this time he searched for jobs, but his difficulty in communicating made it difficult to get hired. But after a couple of weeks, he finally obtained gainful employment. And, surprisingly, it was at a bank; El Banco Mexicano de Comercio e Industria—the Mexican Bank of Commerce and Industry. But he wasn’t going to be a teller. The Irishman signed on as a janitor.

  Harrigan wore a workman’s apron on the job, and his tools consisted of a broom, mop, dust pan and bucket. He had a small cart to hold the items as he made his rounds, picking up paper, sweeping and mopping. It was a boring repetitive job, but his quick mind quickly absorbed the ins-and-outs of the Spanish language from his fellow workers.

  A year later, extremely fluent in the native tongue, he continued his janitorial chores. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to acquire a more sophisticated line of employment. The brand on his face didn’t help matters much. It was admired but distracting.

  But all that came to an end on a day when coffee was spilled on the floor of the bank president’s office. This exalted being, Don Alfredo Quintana, was going over his daily correspondence when Janitor Harrigan entered his office to mop up the mess on the marble floor.

  Quintana took quick notice of the employee who was obviously a European. Harrigan’s red hair, blue eyes and freckled complexion proved that. The president asked, “What is your name, young man?”

  Harrigan looked up from his mopping chore, replying, “Me llamo Tim Harrigan.” Then he repeated it slower. “Tim Harr-i-gan.”

  “You speak Spanish quite well. Where are you from?”

  “Ireland, señor.”

  Quintana looked closer at the janitor’s features. “You have had the letter ‘D’ put on your face. Por qué—why?”

  “The Gringos did it to me,” Tim replied. “I deserted their Army to serve in the Batallón de San Patricio. I was captured at the Battle of Chapultepec. They did not hang me because I deserted before the fighting started. So they gave me this mark with a branding iron and turned me loose. There was no future for me in the United States, so I remained in Mexico.”

  “I commend you!” Quintana exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “You are a brave man who has risked his life for the Mexican Republic!”

  “I now have Mexican citizenship. But it has been difficult for me to find a decent paying job.” He grinned. “In Ireland, before I came to
America, I worked in a bank similar to this one. But not as a janitor. I was a teller.”

  Quintana sat back down. He was a short, stout man with a dark complexion that was almost mahogany. His black hair and moustache were thick and streaked with gray. “We will have an opening for a teller within a month. One of the oldest and most reliable members of our staff is retiring. Would you be interested in the position?”

  “Yes, sir!” Harrigan quickly replied. “But I have no knowledge of your banking practices nor of the terminology of the profession.”

  “I do not think you will have any trouble, young man,” Quintana assured him. “You are obviously intelligent. You have developed a knowledge of Spanish grammar that is superior. And your accent is slight. As far as learning the duties of a teller, I do not think you will have to struggle to adapt to our business procedures.” He shrugged. “They are really quite straightforward and uncomplicated.”

  “I thank you for your confidence, señor. I accept your kind offer of employment. I promise I shall do my best to deserve your trust.”

  Harrigan was given an advance in salary to purchase clothing suitable for a bank professional. This windfall also included enough money to move into a better neighborhood. It was one that would be fitting for an employee of the Mexican Bank of Commerce and Industry. Now the Irishman was ready to charge ahead and attain his goals.

  It wasn’t long before the bank president found that his investment in Tim Harrigan had been an extremely wise one. The Irishman learned fast, adapting to the customs and traditions of Mexican banking. This included all aspects of the legalities as well as the underhanded practices of bribes, tax evasions, money laundering and other techniques of the shadier side of local financial operations.

  Within two years Harrigan was the head teller. After a half a decade more, he was appointed as a special coordination officer to deal with the higher echelons of Mexico City’s businessmen and politicians.