Lost Lands_Scanlon and Fisher_Book 1
Page 8
San Alberto was a New Mexican town with Texan sympathies, and confederate agents went to work there. The town became a base for Southron guerrillas, hitting hard at Union supply lines, stealing materiel, then shipping it across the Pecos to Magruder’s grateful rebs.
The place had to be dealt with. And Carson chose Scanlon for the task.
So, with three troops of cavalry, two howitzers and Fisher as scout, the major rode out.
Under a flag of truce, he had called for San Alberto’s surrender. The town had hoisted the Stars and Bars and opened fire. When the day was done, San Alberto was no longer a thorn in the Union’s flesh, and two of its women were among the dead.
The killing of women by bluecoat troops on Union soil was electoral meat and drink to those who wanted Lincoln out, so a scapegoat had to be found.
Circumstances being what they were, only one goat could be scaped.
Scanlon grunted. “San Alberto, a bad business, all around. The one who’s in command takes the blame, I guess. On that count, I can’t complain.” This last part was not true, but he saw no purpose in burdening this ageing nun with his old grievances.
She looked at him, compassion showing in her eyes. “I have heard it said that you were unjustly treated. Mother Church teaches us that to kill, in a righteous war, is not the sin of murder. It seems you were punished for no wrongdoing.”
Her hands made a gesture of reluctant acceptance of life’s iniquities. “Still, you are not the first for that. I doubt you will be the last.”
She glanced at the letter again. “Your mother was a member of the Castro family?”
“That’s right, from Baja California.”
“I see.” She nodded. This knowledge of Scanlon’s maternal pedigree explained Don Leopoldo’s choice of escort for his daughter. Satisfied that all was above board, she picked up a small brass bell from her desk.
In response to its ring, the novice-nun appeared.
“Conducte Senorita Sanchez aqui, por favor,” the Mother commanded, using, Scanlon noted, the polite form of address.
The girl nodded, “Si, Madre.” She left the room.
While they waited on the arrival of Sanchez’s daughter, the Mother offered explanation of her presence in a place so far from home. “Back when the English relaxed their penal laws, the order established a house in Dublin. I spent my novitiate there. Then I was in Spain for some years, before the Madre Superior sent me here. A beautiful place, New Mexico.”
Forestalling Scanlon’s response, a light knock came at the door. “Adelante!” Madre Patricia called.
The novice pushed the door open, then stepped aside.
Another girl walked into the room. “Usted envie a buscar me, Mi Madre,” the girl said.
“That is correct,” the Reverend Mother replied. “It is time for you to leave us, Belen. Your father has requested Major Scanlon here to escort you to Mora.”
The girl looked at Scanlon for the first time, her surprise that her father would send a Gringo to perform such duty clear to see.
“Su padre y el mio eran amigos,” Scanlon reassured her. “Me llamo Jose Scanlon-Castro. Estoy a su servicio.”
He extended his hand, and the girl took it briefly in her own, as his gaze passed over her.
She was dressed in a plain, dark-blue, floor-length dress, the uniform of pupils at the convento. A uniform unchanged since Scanlon’s own schooldays in the town. On her head she wore a blue cotton mantilla over her jet black hair. The dress, though cut for modesty, could not disguise the swell of her breasts and the swanlike aristocracy implicit in her stance.
“Mucho gusto, Senor Commandante,” she said. Her voice was low-pitched with a husky catch in it. It was the kind of voice, the major thought, that a man would give much to hear whispering from a pillow by his side.
“Encantada, Senorita.” He returned her greeting, watching her face, as he did.
Her features were finely sculpted and well-defined. She had a chin whose firmness hinted at strong will. Her nose—slightly too bold for perfection—told of grandee blood, and added arrogance to her aspect. Her lips were full and had parted over white, even teeth as she spoke to him. Her skin had the sheen of ivory to it, off-setting the raven lustre of her hair. Her eyes studied him. These were large and a deep shade of blue, telling of the Irish strain of which Don Leopoldo had spoken.
She was, Scanlon thought, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
“?Quando saliremos por Mora, Senor Commandaante?” Belen asked.
Taos lay east of the upper Rio Grande, forty miles or so crow’s-flight from Mora. But Mora was on the headwaters of the Canadian, which meant that the crow must fly over mountains. Even in the fast, light carriage Scanlon would rent, it would be a long day’s journey. “Manana a la manana,” he told her. “la salida del sol.”
She nodded her acceptance of the next day’s sunrise start.
“Go, now, and pack your belongings, Belen,” the Mother said, speaking English again.
“Si, Madre,” the girl replied. To Scanlon, she said, “Hasta manana, Senor Commandante.” Then, turning, she left the room.
The Reverend Mother gave a rueful smile. “A strong-willed girl, Belen. We teach classes in English here, so the girls will be equipped to be Americans. She resents the language. Then, who can blame her? Her people were here first.”
Scanlon returned the smile. “The Indians were here first, Madre.”
The Nun nodded. “That is true.” She put out her hand. “Until tomorrow, Major.”
Chapter 13
Lije Fisher sat on the veranda at Hacienda Sanchez wondering where in Hell Scanlon was at. The major had peeled off west for Taos, on the ride back from Trinidad. Fisher, Pedro, and the crew had kept on south, and reached Mora ahead of him.
It was coming on to nightfall of the third day since their return, and Lije was growing restless. He was a man of action, when all was said and done, and all this hanging around, waiting for Scanlon to show up, was wearing on him. At least, he had the presence of the young boy, Federico, for which to be grateful. He had started the kid on Yankee-speaking, and was glad of the distraction. He still did not like this furtive business. For two cents, he would saddle up and head out. Left to himself, he would have been long gone by now, and be damned to Carson and the army. Let them catch him if they could.
Something was up at the hacienda. A man had ridden in earlier that day, a travel-stained Mexican on a lathered horse. Sanchez was excited at the man’s arrival, and they had talked for long in the Don’s estudio. Maybe the man’s coming, and the hablar it gave rise to, had nothing to do with the comanchero goings-on. But Lije doubted that, somehow.
He heard the sound of a trotting buggy horse, and looked up, to see Scanlon drive the carriage into the patio. Scanlon’s roan mare was tethered to the buggy’s tail.
Beside the major sat a dark-haired girl of startling beauty—Sanchez’s daughter.
Not for the first time, Fisher pondered on the injustice by which the ones with money always got the looks as well. He stood to walk down the steps to where Scanlon was pulling the buggy up.
The major climbed down from the buggy seat, and reached up, to help the girl alight. He held her hand for longer than he need have done, it seemed to Lije. But she showed no sign of disquiet at this, the Negro noticed.
Miguel appeared and, without instruction, began to unload traps from the carriage-rear.
“Belen.” The voice was Sanchez’s, and it came from the stair-head. On Don Leopoldo’s face was a smile—one with love and pride in it. He came down the stairs, his hands outstretched. “Mia Nina,” he said. “Has volvido.”
She took his hands, and he embraced her. They engaged in an exchange to which Fisher’s grasp of their idioma was unequal.
Then the don turned to Lije, and said, “Sergeant Fisher, may I present my daughter, Belen.”
Lije, a man not easily tongue-tied, was nearly so, as he took her hand. “Encantada, Senorita,” he said, ha
ving fumbled for, and found, the words.
“Mucho gusto, Sergento Fisher,” she replied with a courtesy Fisher did not often come across. There was haughture in her tone. But, Fisher guessed, that had more to do with class than color.
Lije decided then that, for all her look of noble blood, he could maybe grow to like this Mexican girl.
So that was yet another reason to sleep badly yet another night.
It was full-dark on the veranda when Federico came to summon Fisher to the dining-room. Lije, having eaten dinner early with Pedro and the vaqueros, had not joined in Sanchez’s welcoming repast for Belen.
The girl was about to retire for the night, when Lije walked into the long, west-facing room. She bade ‘Buenas noches’ to her father with a kiss, to Fisher with a handshake, and to Scanlon with a look that smoldered like a buffalo-chip fire. Then she left them to their masculine affairs.
Sanchez, standing at the table’s head, watched his daughter leave. “Sergeant Fisher,” he greeted then, “please sit down.” Taking his own seat, he poured a large measure of brandy into the glass set by his left hand, the place where Fisher would sit.
Scanlon, likewise supplied, resumed the place at Don Leopoldo’s right.
Of the Mexican, who had ridden in that day, there was no sign.
“To business, gentlemen,” Sanchez began. “I have received news today from the south. News, profound in its importance.” He paused to let the impact of this sink in, then went on. “La Cuidad de Mejico has fallen to the Juaristas. The Austrian usurper and the traitors who supported him are prisoners.”
Scanlon’s head lifted in surprise at Sanchez’s words.
The tide of war had already turned against Maximilian, at the time of Armandez’s treachery. Juarez’s people were fighting with grim resolve, the U.S government was exerting pressure, the French were losing heart, about to quit the game, and a Juarista victory was on the cards.
But, if Sanchez spoke true, the cards had fallen sooner than expected. “You are certain of this information, Don Leopoldo?”
Sanchez’s smile was broad. “Absolutely, Major. The report is authentic. Swear by it.”
Scanlon took note of the grandee’s triumphant look. Sanchez was sure of what he had said, and that would be good enough. “Then that is true cause for celebration, Senor.”
“Indeed.” Sanchez gave his agreement. “But soon there will be cause for even greater rejoicing, Major.”
“Oh?” Scanlon’s eyebrows rose. “What cause would that be?”
Sanchez walked to the window, looking out into the moonlit dark across the acres that a long-dead Spanish King had granted to the Sanchez line. A moment passed. He turned back to face the room, his eyes alight—as those of dreamers and martyrs might be, Scanlon thought.
The grandee spoke. “Soon the Gringos will be driven from our land, just as the French have been. Soon this land, the land we lost, will be returned to us. From the Sabine to the Pacific, we will take back all that was stolen from us. Mejico will be whole again.”
Chapter 14
The don’s pronouncement left his table guests dumbstruck. For some moments there was silence.
Then, the disbelief plain in his voice, Scanlon said, “I think you’d best explain just what you have in mind, Don Leopoldo.”
“I can understand your surprise, Major.” His triumphant smile still in place, Sanchez recrossed the room to resume his place at the table’s head.
“Shock would be a truer word, Senor.”
Scanlon made no bones about this admission, and Fisher had no problem seeing why. For himself, Lije had a hard time believing that their host was serious. Take back Texas, California, and the SouthWest? Make Uncle Sam give up his winnings? Jesus Christ! One thing Lije knew for sure—if Sanchez meant business, he had to have a piece loose in his head.
Scanlon caught Fisher’s eye. It was plain to each what was on the other’s mind, though neither put thoughts into words. They were here to spy, not to scoff. Their need was to know what Sanchez planned, and how he aimed to go about it. They sipped their brandy, and waited for the grandee to elucidate.
Don Leopoldo lowered his voice, as if to make his listeners attend the harder. “Maximilian is defeated. The Juaristas have captured arms depots at Zacatecas and at San Luis Potosi. As we speak, Juarez’s forces are holding thirty thousand European rifles—modern firearms, Lebels and Mannlichers—with abundant stocks of ammunition.”
“Sergeant Fisher,” he turned his attention to Lije, “you have served with Gringo cavalry in Texas. You have seen the damage the Southern Plains Alliance has done there, armed with bows and arrows and a few outdated single-shot carbines.”
“I surely have.” Lije knew what the Comanche and their compadres had got up to on the Texas plains. He had followed enough smouldering trails to know too well.
“Think then,” Sanchez urged, “of what they could accomplish with modern rifles in their hands.”
So that’s his loco scheme, Fisher realised. Hand shooting-irons to the tribes, and hope they’ll fight for Mexico. Aloud he said, “It wouldn’t bear thinking on—for a Texican.”
Sanchez smiled that victor’s smile again. “But we are not Texicans. And, for us, it bears a great deal of thought.”
Since his first show of scepticism, Scanlon had not spoken. Now he cut in with a question. “That was the real reason for your involvement in the comanchero trade, Senor?”
Sanchez nodded. “Indeed, Major. Because of it, I now have links with the fighting chiefs of the plains tribes. They will put to good use the weapons we will place at their disposal.”
Scanlon was convinced by none of this, and made clear his reservations. “Thirty thousand rifles in Indian hands would likely clear the Texas range from El Paso to Texarkana. But there’s a fly in that particular tub of buttermilk, Don Leopoldo. The Comanche, the Kiowa and the Southern Cheyenne could not muster thirty thousand warriors to fire those weapons. If you brought in the Southern Arapaho, the Lipan, and the Mescalero with them, you’d still not have a third that number of fighting men.”
Sanchez made a gesture of agreement. “Good point, Major. You show a sound military grasp. However, there are more tribes than those you mention, and more weapons than the thirty thousand counted, up to now. The final tally will be at least one hundred thousand rifles. Half of those will be sufficient to equip not only the Comanche and their allies, but the Apache bands, from the Pecos to the Colorado, the Jicarilla also, and still have thousands of weapons spare.”
Scanlon was silent, as he took in the magnitude of what the don had said. What Sanchez planned was nothing less than the biggest Indian war in the continent’s whole history. Like Fisher, the major had seen what damage a few hundred sketchily-armed scalp-seekers could do, raiding piecemeal and at whim. Equipped, the way that Sanchez proposed, their offensive coordinated, the killing they would bring about would give a sane man nightmares at mid-day.
Yet, he saw big imperfections in the scheme. The first of these lay in the very nature of the Indians themselves. No one in the past had succeeded in persuading the tribes to fight to a central plan, and that was not for want of trying. Pontiac, Tecumseh, both had attempted it. Neither had won more than posthumous glory. If there were a Comanche Pontiac or a Kiowa Tecumseh, Scanlon had not heard of him. And, like as not, would never hear. The plains tribes were too free-spirited to be regimented, that way, the Apache more so still. Then, there were the inter-tribal hatreds to be accounted for. Though the major fighting tribes of the Great Plains had been at peace with each other for more than twenty years, It would be a cold day in Hell when a Comanche and an Apache would come together, or a Ute ally with either one of them.
“You do not appear convinced, Major,” Sanchez said, as if reading Scanlon’s thoughts.
“The idea sounds fine, in theory, Don Leopoldo,” Scanlon replied. “But, in practice, who will organise the Redskins? Grand alliances of the nations have been proposed before. None have held.”
“Bobby Lee gave lessons on it in Virginia,” Scanlon said, recalling examples he knew of from the war. Marse Robert had used Jackson, on the Shenandoah, to pin McDowell down in ’62. He had deployed Breckinridge against Sigel later on, then Jubal Early after him. Each time, to frustrate the Union forces around Richmond, more than a hundred miles off from the Blue Ridge country.
“So you will understand my meaning when I tell you the purpose I have in mind for those spare arms.” Sanchez jabbed his index finger on the tabletop for emphasis.
“The Northern Cheyenne, the Teton Sioux and the Northern Arapaho are all waging war beyond the Platte. Red Cloud’s braves are holding the Gringo army at bay along the Powder. Imagine what warriors such as the Sioux will do, when armed by us. We can win back what Scott and Taylor stole of Mejico, up there in the Dakota country, Gentlemen.”
He stood up, excited, to stride around the room. “It is in our grasp. You have heard of General Sherman, have you not?” He awaited no reply to this, since the question was clearly rhetorical. Even the Pygmy tribes of Africa had heard tell of Sam Grant’s right-hand man. “He toured the western commands last year, and submitted to Washington a report. I have seen what was in that report.”
Fisher, recalling Uncle Billy’s inspection of Fort Chadbourn, felt his eyebrows lift. This Mexican was one well-informed hombre, with strings extending far.
“Sherman believes that the south-western territories were settled too early,” Sanchez told them. “He suggests that the desert forts be abandoned, leaving those settlers too stubborn to move out, to defend themselves. Don’t you see? We will have no need to coordinate the tribes. To arm them will be sufficient. When faced with fifty thousand rifles in the hands of warriors from the Gulf north to Canada, the Gringos in Washington will have no choice but to adopt Sherman’s plan. They have not the men to do otherwise. The whole US Army has less than seventy thousand fighting troops to call upon. And most of those are at work in reconstruction of the former rebel states.”