Victoria: A Novel of 4th Generation War

by Thomas Hobbes

  One of our crew, Sam Medelli, was a paramedic when he wasn’t a topman, and I asked him to keep an eye on our prisoner. After a while I saw him lead her below, and soon thereafter she was topside again in dry dungarees and a flannel shirt. Sam hung her clothes in the rigging to dry. I motioned him over to me and asked how she was.

  “She’s exhausted and frightened, but she has nothing physically wrong with her that I could see. If she can eat and then sleep, she should be all right.”

  Not long after, the cook rang the dinner bell. Sam went over to the woman and spoke with her, and she followed him down to the gundeck where we had our mess. There, she tasted the food, then pushed it away.

  “Try to eat, ma’am,” I said to her. “The sea took a lot out of you, and some food will help.”

  “I am sorry, señor, but your food is very bad,” she said.

  “We know. Yankees generally don’t make good cooks.”

  “I was the cook on the Nuestra Señora de Guadaloupe,” she replied. “If you want me to, I will cook for you also.”

  “Was that the name of the pirate ship?” I asked, surprised.

  “No señor. I was not on the pirate ship. I was cook on the trawler, the one the Aztecs took. The ship you sank with a rocket, señor. It was my brother’s ship. The Aztecs took me aboard their ship for their pleasure, señor.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I am also a little surprised that you are willing to cook for people who just killed your brother.”

  She shrugged. “We are used to these things, señor. He is not the first brother I have lost. We are killed by everybody, enemies and friends alike. It is our fate. I have learned to accept it.”

  “Who do you mean by we?”

  “We are Cristeros, señor. My father is a leader of the Cristeros in the province of Tamaulipas. We are at war with the Aztecs. That is why we were here.”

  I knew about the war in Nueva Hispania, as the Spanish-speaking remnants of Mexico and the former American Southwest were now known. After the Indians took Mexico City they renamed it Tenochtitlan and brought back their old religion. That meant the cult of Huitzilopochtli, the Hummingbird Wizard who demanded an endless diet of human blood and hearts. The Cristeros had been Christian rebels against the Marxist, secular PRI dictatorship in early 20th century Mexico. Putting two and two together, I figured the new Cristeros were the Christian Resistance to the pagan Indians.

  “Just why were you here?” I asked. “There are plenty of fish in the Gulf of Mexico. You didn’t need to come to the Grand Banks for more.”

  “Yes, señor, but the Gulf of Mexico is also full of Mexica ships. It has become too dangerous for us. Sadly, our enemies found us here also.”

  The Aztec flag on the pirate ship was real, then. But why had Aztecs—Mexica, to use their own name for themselves—come so far north? “Do you know why your enemies were here?” I asked her.

  “Yes, señor. They do not search for fish, nor for ships, nor for treasure as we understand it. They have come to take captives for Huitzilopochtli. In the time of Cortez, Huitzilopochtli preferred Indian blood. But through his priests, he has told the Mexica Tlatoani, their priest-king, that he will no longer accept the hearts and blood of Indians. He demands white hearts and white blood now. So the Mexica go ever farther in their quest for those things.”

  Once again, someone else’s fight far away had reached out and touched us. We couldn’t figure what pirates would want with our fishing boats, which were almost all sailing ships with nothing on board but fish. We also wondered why we didn’t get any ransom demands for their crews. Now, we knew. It didn’t make me happy to think of those good Yankee boys having their beating hearts ripped out of their bodies with obsidian knives on top of the Great Temple of Tenochtitlan.

  “Just one other question, ma’am, if I may. What’s your name?”

  “I am Maria Mercedes de Dio de Alva,” she replied. “And I would like to cook for you.”

  Maria Gift of God of the House of Alva, one of the noblest families of Spain. I had no idea any of the Alvas had gone to Mexico. Good thing for her she was rescued by an N.C. ship and not a Dutchman, I thought. Well, if an Alva wanted to cook for us, who were we to say no?

  “We would be grateful, ma’am,” I replied.

  By the next day, Maria was up and working. She didn’t have much to work with. The Hornblower's galley wasn’t fancy. But I found at breakfast that she knew how to soft-boil an egg without turning it as hard and green as a Martian’s testicle. Dinner proved chowder didn’t have to be fish mush. Maybe we should rename our ship Babette’s Feast, I thought.

  We cruised for three more weeks, but came up empty. It seemed we had stomped the one roach in the kitchen. As usual, I enjoyed being at sea under canvas, even if we didn’t get any action. As the days grew shorter the winds grew stronger, and in them was more than a hint of winter. I found myself drawn to the warm galley, whence instead of cooky’s curses came the soft aromas of fresh bread, good stew, cinnamon buns, and apple pies.

  As Maria kneaded and chopped and stirred, we talked. At first we talked about our wars. She knew more about mine than I expected. It seemed the example of our success helped motivate the Cristeros of old Mexico. If Christians in one part of the Americas could not only fight but win, perhaps Christians elsewhere could do the same.

  At first, it had seemed as if the Cristeros' hope might triumph. They drove the Aztecs back almost to Mexico City. But in the night before the climactic battle, the Christian left wing melted away, and morning found an Aztec hoard in its place. The battle was lost, the Cristeros fled and in Tenochtitlan, Huitzilopochtli feasted.

  “Why did it happen?” I asked Maria.

  She shrugged. “It was a plot, señor. More than that I do not know. But now we are reduced to guerrilla warfare, trying to hold on to a few places in the hills.”

  I was always puzzled when someone used the phrase, “reduced to guerrilla warfare.” Even brain-dead attritionists with their Lanchestrian equations thought a superiority of three-to-one enough to attack a conventional opponent, when a superiority of ten-to-one was the minimum required against guerrillas.

  “Mexico has lots of hills,” I said to Maria. “You should be able to grind up one Aztec army after another with guerrilla warfare. Why do you speak as if the situation is hopeless?”

  “We have no leader, señor,” she replied. “Remember that we are Latins. With us, everything depends on one Great Man. Without such a one, there may be ideas, hopes, even efforts, but in the end nothing happens. If we had a leader like yourself, then we would have hope. But as it is…” Again, she shrugged. “Would you help us?”

  Well, here I go again, I thought. The Hispanics had driven the Anglos out of the old American Southwest, and killed plenty of us in doing it. Was I now supposed to go in and help pull their tamales out of the fire? On the other hand, the Hispanics were Christians and the Mexica religion was pure devil-worship. One of the problems with war is that people keep changing their hats: black for white and vice-versa.

  It’s always hard for a man to say no when a woman asks for help. That’s as it should be. But this was a strategic decision, and it wasn’t even mine to make. “I’ll think about it,” I replied to Maria’s question. “There’s someone else we’ll need to talk to when we get back to Maine.”

  Getting back to Maine was on my mind. I needed to ready our fishing fleet to defend itself and take pot-shots at foreign poachers. But those hours in the galley talking with Maria exerted a growing hold on me. We talked of many things: our families, growing up, our hopes and dreams before our countries came apart and the strange twists and turns in our lives since. It had been many years since I’d spent much time with a good woman, and Maria was a good woman. She took life as it came, doing whatever woman’s work needed to be done, including cooking on a warship that had sunk her brother’s boat with him on board. She didn’t demand and she didn’t complain. She had none of the excitability of Latin women, for which
I was thankful. The blood of the Alvas had left its mark on her. She had the quiet strength and genuine humility that mark a real aristocrat.

  I didn't shirk my shipboard duties for the pleasure of Maria’s company. I hauled lines, stood to the capstan, worked gun drill and in the end fished, once we decided we weren’t likely to find any more pirates and might as well fill up with cod. The N.C. still needed every codfish it could catch to get through the winter. As we worked, winks and nods and occasional sly comments from the rest of the crew told me they thought Maria and I had something going.

  Well, maybe we did, I thought. Being a Christian, something had to mean marriage. It seemed eons ago that I’d last thought about marriage. I admired Maria, and I liked her. Could I love her? I had no expectation of romantic love, nor any desire for it. By its nature it was a flash in the pan, the only effect of which was to lead incompatible people into marriages that didn’t last. A better question was, were Maria and I two people who would grow to love each other over time? I couldn’t answer, but I found it interesting that I was asking myself the question.

  By the 11th of November, our hold was full up with codfish and we turned our bow toward Portland and home. We made landfall on the 19th, and that afternoon saw us safe in harbor and auctioning off our catch. Rick Hoffman appeared on the dock as the last of the codfish were being winched up out of the hold.

  “Nice catch, Admiral,” Rick shouted above the din. “But we were hoping for something more than fish.”

  At that moment Maria appeared on the quarterdeck to ask how many people would want dinner on board. “A very nice catch indeed,” Rick added. “Or did you have a stowaway?”

  “Come aboard, you looby, and let me make a proper introduction,” I yelled back. Rick ran up the gangplank, mounted the quarterdeck, doffed his cap and bowed to Maria. “Allow me to introduce Maria–of the House of Alva. Maria, please meet the distinguished commander of our fleet, Captain Rick Hoffman. Rick was a SEAL. Toss him a ball and watch him balance it on his nose.”

  “Charmed, madam,” Rick replied, bowing again. Maria curtsied in return, looking at me with a quizzical expression. Humor is hard in a foreign language.

  “Maria was a captive on a ship we had a bit of a tussle with,” I explained.

  “So you did see some action?” he replied, looking around for signs of damage, which were few, thanks to our fast shooting and a good ship’s carpenter.

  “Aye, we did. Sent Davy Jones a little present, too. Unfortunately we couldn’t bring any pirates back for public entertainment, but we did find out who’s been messing with our ships.”

  “My guess was frogs out of Quebec,” Rick said.

  “Guess again.”

  “Philadelphia orcs?”

  “Good try, but too far north. The pirate craft we sank was Aztec.”

  “Aztecs? Shit! You're kidding! Up here? What in hell for?”

  “You put that question better than you know. Why don’t I explain over a piece of Maria’s apple pie?”

  “It figures you’d pull some waif out of the ocean only to find she’s a pastry cook. Are all the Rumford’s born dumb lucky?”

  “Mostly just dumb. Anyway, come down to the galley and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  I did, and when Rick realized what had happened to the crews of our missing ships, he lost his sense of humor for a time. “Good God, John, we don’t have much of a navy, but isn’t there some way we can pay those bastards back? We’ve got some nukes. Why don’t we just fry Mexico City, their stinking temple, and them with it?”

  “As Chief of the General Staff, I’d have to advise against using nuclear weapons unless our survival is at stake. Any country that looks like it’s loose with nukes invites pre-emption. Remember, Rick, it’s a nervous world out there.”

  “There’s gotta be something we can do, John. General Staffs are supposed to come up with solutions, not just objections.”

  “That’s correct. The people who only offer objections are the JAGs, which is why we don’t have any. Maria said that the Cristeros' main weakness is that they lack a strong leader. She asked if I would go down there and be one.”

  “If you’ll do it, I’ll go with you, if that’s any help. I had two cousins on the Edwin Drood, John, one thirteen and one sixteen. It was hard enough thinking of them as lobster kibbles, and what you’ve just told me is a whole lot worse.”

  “So you think I ought to do it?”

  “Hell, yes. We voted to help Christians against their enemies. All these people want is one of us. They’re not asking for an army–or even a fleet.” John was still rankled that he’d missed out on our here-today, gone-tomorrow Pacific squadron.

  “I wouldn’t say this about Maria, Rick, since she is a Spanish Alva, but its mestizos we’re talkin’ about helping. La Raza. Mexicans.”

  “I guess that doesn’t bother me so long as they aren’t planning to come up here. You know we won’t make that mistake again.”

  “I know.” I was thinking that I hoped we might make one exception. “Well, we’re seeing this along the same lines. But there is someone else I need to talk to before I make up my mind.”

  “Bill Kraft?”

  “Ayuh.”

  I asked Rick to look after Maria, and the next day I took the train to Augusta. From the station I walked directly over to the governor’s office. I told Bill Kraft the story of our cruise, our new enemy and why I thought I ought to be packing my hot weather utilities and jungle boots to head south.

  Bill puffed on his pipe for a while. “I think I’d like to meet Señorita de Alva,” he finally said. “It would be an honor to be introduced to a member of her house. Can you arrange for her to come?”

  I knew Bill had more than courtesies in mind.

  “We talked a good deal on the Hornblower, and I don’t know what you’ll get out of her that I didn’t, but I’m sure she’ll be willing to meet you. And cook for you too, if you’d like a good dinner.”

  Bill smiled and bowed from his chair. “I’m certain Mrs. Kraft would be happy to have a de Alva’s assistance in the kitchen.”

  Rick Hoffman brought Maria up to Augusta on the early afternoon train the next day. A Hispanic traveling alone in Maine would have been questioned, and maybe stopped, by Maine citizens. That was as it should be. With Rick along in uniform everyone figured it was government business and left Maria alone. I had a two-week visa for her when I met them at the station.

  The Krafts had invited Maria to stay with them, and she was happy to join Mrs. Kraft in the kitchen. Mrs. Kraft was a first-rate cook, but she gamely demoted herself to scullery maid for the evening and let Maria take over. She knew her husband was both catholic and venturesome in matters of the table, and as a good wife she always looked first to his pleasures and comforts.

  As usual, I was counting on a good dinner to put Bill in the best mood toward my proposed adventure, and Maria did not disappoint. Bill was more enthusiastic about the squid cooked in its own ink than I was, but Maria's chicken molé left everyone purring like cats with cream. Dessert was a flan as rich as Ebenezer Scrooge. When the ladies retired to the kitchen to clean up, Bill brought out the treasures he reserved for happy occasions: Uppmanns and Grand Marnier. The omens were favorable.

  Even governors ate early in Maine, and we had sat down at five. Nonetheless, it was almost eight before the ladies rejoined us. “Miss de Alva, we are in your debt for a splendid dinner, and life offers few joys that surpass a splendid dinner,” Bill said graciously.

  “Regrettably, the nature of our times require that we now face some business. Captain Rumford has told me about the situation in your country, but it would help me greatly if I could ask you some questions directly. Would you be so kind as to join Captain Rumford, Captain Hoffman, and myself in the study?”

  Maria nodded. She was nervous, but she was game.

  Bill’s study was small but comfortable, a place where a man could be at ease alone or in company. If Bill had to play the Inquis
itor now, at least he kept the rack and thumbscrews out of sight.

  “Miss de Alva, Captain Rumford has told me that in the early stages of your war, the Cristeros were very successful.”

  “Yes, Señor Gobernador. We defeated the Indios everywhere, even when the Mexica and Maya were joined together. Before the great battle, my father could see the cathedral in Mexico City from his camp on El Popo, the volcano. The Mexica had not yet destroyed it to rebuild their temple.”

  “Then the left wing of your army ran away?”

  “No, señor, they did not run. Our Cristero soldiers are very brave, because they are fighting for Christ. That part of our army was ordered to leave its positions, in the night. The soldiers were just obeying orders.”

  “Who gave that order?”

  “Their captain-general.”

  “Who was he?”

  “My father’s brother.”

  “Why did he give such an order?”

  “It was a plot, señor. The nature of the plot I do not know.”

  “What happened to your father’s brother after his treachery?”

  “He was assassinated.”

  “Did you then put your army back together?”

  “That was not possible, señor. The assassins were from another family, the Ocampos. They made one of their own the new captain-general. That left blood between our families, so we cannot work together. We both fight the Indios, but when our men meet, they also fight each other.”

  “How large is the Cristero army, or armies?”

  “We have many men, tens of thousands, and we have weapons also. Just a few weeks before my boat left, a ship flying the Pope’s flag came in to Matamoros with more.”

  “How much do you know about the fighting?”

  “I see our men go out, señor, and I hear them talk when they get back. My father tells us about the war sometimes. The men do not believe women should go with them near the fighting.”