“The jungle is rich and kind to those who know how to live there.”
“I wish them the best of luck. It is in the cities that I feel most at home.”
“Do you know, señor, why the tall gringos have come here to build this road?”
“They say to each other that it is to cross Mexico and connect one ocean to another.”
“And when this is done — what will they do with it?”
“I must admit that is a mystery that I have puzzled over. But I have not lost sleep over it. Sharper brains and wiser minds may know the answer. Now — do you think that we should push on?”
“The animals are rested. We will make better time now.”
Insects hummed in the heat; birds called loudly from the trees. Don Ambrosio was tired and found himself nodding off in the saddle. He woke up with a start when Miguel suddenly hissed a quick warning — and held his hand up as he pulled his donkey to a stop. He pointed.
Three men had emerged from between the trees on the far side of the clearing that they were now crossing. Two of them held long, sharp machetes; the third had an ancient musket. Don Ambrosio kicked his horse forward past the donkeys, reined it to a stop.
“We come in peace,” he said quietly.
The man with the gun hawked and spat, then half-raised his weapon.
“Gold?” he said hoarsely.
“Only lead,” Don Ambrosio said in a quiet voice. He loosened the carbine that was holstered to his saddle with his left hand, his right hand resting on the pommel of his saddle. The bandit pointed his own gun in response.
With a motion too swift to follow the Don pulled the Colt.44 from his waistband and fired three quick shots.
The armed man was down, as was the second man. The third staggered, wounded, turned to flee. A fourth shot dropped him by the others.
“We must move quickly now,” Miguel said, kicking his mule forward. “If there are others close by, they will have heard the shots.”
“Who are they? Or perhaps, more correctly, who were they?”
“It does not matter. Hungry men with guns fill this poor land. We have had too many revolutions and rebellions, too much killing. Now, please, we must ride.”
“Take this,” Don Ambrosio said, pulling out the carbine, turning and throwing it to him. “I’ll go first.” He reloaded the pistol as he rode. “I’ll watch the path ahead — you watch the jungle on the side.”
If there were other bandits hiding in the undergrowth they wisely kept their distance. A few miles later the track finally emerged from the forest and passed by the corn fields of a small village. Don Ambrosio put his pistol away and Miguel once more led the way. But he still carried the carbine. Years of war, revolution and invasion had left the countryside well populated with bandits. And now there were others — who were far more of a threat than bandits. Don Ambrosio, riding high on his horse, could see further along the path.
“Dust!” he called out. “A lot of it up ahead.”
They reined up, looked around for cover. There was little of it here on the coastal plain.
“We can’t go back — so we must go ahead. Those trees ahead,” Don Ambrosio said, pointing to a small grove close to the beaten trail. “We must get there before they do.”
He galloped ahead. The donkeys followed protesting loudly when Miguel goaded them cruelly with his stick. The sound of marching feet could now be clearly heard in the distance as they crashed through the underbrush between the trees. Moments after they had found cover the first of the blue-clad soldiers came into sight.
Dusty, hot and weary, they nevertheless marched steadily on, an officer on horseback leading them. Muskets on their shoulders, heavy packs on their backs. The invaders.
The French.
Concealed by the trees and undergrowth the two men watched the long column march by. Even when this main body of soldiers had passed, they remained under cover in case there were stragglers. And indeed there were, a limping band being urged on hoarsely by a sergeant. Only when the track was completely clear did they continue with their journey.
It was almost dark when they entered the cobbled streets of Vera Cruz. Don Ambrosio led the way now through the narrow alleys, avoiding the main streets and the crowded squares. The only French they saw were a few soldiers drinking outside a pulqueria, too drunk to even notice them. They passed a crowded street market rich with the scent of freshly ground spices and chilies. Most of the stalls were closing up for the night, though some Indian women still sat in rows against the walls, offering handfuls of fresh limes for sale. It was dark when they came out of the back streets and onto the waterfront. There was just enough light from the full moon for Don Ambrosio to find his way to a courtyard filled with nets and cordage. A fat man stood on a ladder there and was reaching up to light a lantern, grunting with the effort, tottering precariously on his wooden leg. The wick caught and he blew the match out, turned to look at the newcomers when the Don called out a greeting.
“Good evening, Pablocito. We’ve come a long way and are very tired.”
“Don Ambrosio!” He climbed down the ladder, stumped over and threw his arms around him in a warm abrazo, for they were old friends. “Come inside and we will drink some mezcal, the very best from the city of Tequila. Leave your animals, my men will take care of them.”
“I will go with them,” Miguel said. Don Ambrosio untied his wrapped bedroll from the horse.
“You will take good care of Rocinante while I am away,” he said.
“As always. Do you know when you will return?”
“Not yet. I will let Pablo know if I can, and he can get a message to you in your village.”
Pablo took the bedroll from him and led the way into the building.
Inside the well-lit kitchen Pablo opened a cabinet and took out a bottle, slammed it down and pushed forward the cut limes and the bowl of salt. Don Ambrosio nodded happily and reached for a glass. Put the salt on the web between thumb and index finger; licked the salt and then in a quick movement emptied the glass of mezcal. Bit the lime and sucked on it so that all three blended deliciously in the mouth. Derecho. The only way to drink the fiery maguey spirit.
Don Ambrosio smacked his lips with pleasure and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That is wonderful. Now tell me, it is most important — is the ship here yet?”
“Not only here but it has been waiting for three days now. I have talked with them but they will not listen. They say that they cannot stay in port any longer. The captain says they must leave at dawn.”
Don Ambrosio sprang to his feet, unconsciously touching the book in his pocket to be sure it was safe. “Then I must go now.”
“Will you not eat before you go?”
“You are sure that they won’t leave before dawn?”
“The captain gave me his word on it.”
“Then I accept your kind invitation. All we had on the trail were some cold tortillas.”
“We will have carne asada. That will stick to your ribs. You know you can leave your horse with me if you want to.”
“You are kind to offer. But Miguel will take her with him back to his village. He has done it before. He is loyal and strong.”
Pablo nodded, drove the cork into the mezcal bottle and passed it over. “Take this as well. You will need its warmth where you are going.”
They ate quickly. When they had done they left, Pablo locking the door behind them, then leading the way down along the docks. To the grimy side-wheeler tied up at the very last berth. They said their quick goodbyes and Don Ambrosio climbed up the gangplank to the deserted deck. It seemed to be empty — then he saw the glow of a cigar in the shadow of the pilot house. The man in the uniform cap stepped forward and looked suspiciously at the newcomer.
“What are you doing on this ship? Speak up. Habla usted inglés?”
“Indeed I do, sir, indeed I do speak English. Now tell me, if you would be so kind, is it the noble captain of this fine vessel that I am speaking to
?”
“Aye.”
“Then I am the man that you have been expecting.”
“Mr. O’Higgins?”
“None other. Thank you for waiting so long for me — but your wait is at end. If you have no other reasons to stay in this port, might I suggest that we cast off as soon as possible. I have with me information of the greatest importance.”
The captain was bellowing orders even before Don Ambrosio O’Higgins had finished speaking. Down in the engine room coal was shoveled liberally over the banked fires. A sailor jumped ashore and cast off the line, swung back onto the ship as she drifted away from her berth. As soon as steam was raised the big paddlewheels slowly turned, then faster and faster as they thrashed their way out of the harbor. As soon as they were out in the open sea, well clear of the land, the flag was raised on the stern.
The full moon cast a clear light on the stars and stripes, flapping proudly in the air that was rushing past.
A THREAT FROM THE SOUTH
It was just a short walk from the White House to the War Department, and Abraham Lincoln enjoyed the few minutes of respite from responsibility. There was a smell of spring in the air — along with the perpetual fetor of horse manure — during these few balmy days in Washington City, between the snows of winter and the humid heat of summer. He passed a dogwood tree just beginning to blossom and stopped to admire it. But could not really enjoy it because of the shadows of the responsibilities weighing him down, his many problems that obscured its beauty. He could not forget the problems in the South — as well as the fate of the former slaves. There were strong forces pitted against the attempts to integrate the Negroes into general society. And of course there were the British, always the British. They were still not reconciled to their defeat. American ships were being stopped at sea and boarded, bringing echoes of the War of 1812. And now there was apparently worse news. The brief message he had received from the War Department hinted at even more threats to the fragile peace, and strongly suggested that he come at once.
Lincoln sighed and went on. The two soldiers guarding the entrance to the War Department came to attention as he approached and smartly presented arms. This effective military display was spoiled slightly by the younger of the two men; obviously a new recruit.
“Fine mornin’, Mr. President.”
“It surely is, my boy, it surely is.”
A more superior military efficiency was displayed when he had climbed the stairs and approached the door of Room 313. The two veteran soldiers there, a corporal and a sergeant, came to attention but did not step aside.
“Just a minute, sir,” the sergeant said, then knocked on the door. It opened a crack and he spoke in a low voice to someone inside. Then the door opened wide and a major, he had never seen the man before, stepped forward and saluted him.
“Would you please come in, Mr. President.”
He did so, and found himself in a small bare room, containing just a desk and a chair. The major locked the outside door before he crossed the room and unlocked the other door on the far wall. This was Lincoln’s first visit to Room 313 and he found it most intriguing. He went through this last door and into the large room beyond. Gustavus Fox, in naval uniform, hurried forward, saluting as he came — then took the President’s outstretched hand.
“You have been mighty busy since I saw you last, Gus,” Lincoln said. “Time you told me about it.”
“Well past time, Mr. Lincoln. But things have kept us very occupied here since the war ended. We realized when we looked closely at what we were doing, without the pressure of war, that it was long past time to rationalize our operations. We were all new at the game and sort of made up the rules as we went along. This made for a lot of duplication of effort. I am still Assistant Secretary of the Navy, but that is my public persona. You, of course, know what my real work is. We have had to expand and add more people. Then the first thing we did was combine the SGSD and the BMI into a single operational unit—”
“Whoa there, young man. As I have said in the past take time and think well upon this subject. Nothing valuable can be lost by taking time. So take a moment, I beg you, to spell out all those letters to me.”
“Sorry, sir. You are right. We must take time to save time. The SGSD is of course the Scouts, Guides, Spies and Detectives. Their records were kept by the Provost Marshal General’s Office. They had the files of all the correspondence, records, accounts and related records of the military scouts, as well as the guides. In addition there were masses of reports from the spies and detectives. There was an awful lot of paper, let me tell you. When we started to sort things out we found that in many cases reports never reached us, or efforts were duplicated since there was no overall control. That is why we organized the BMI. The Bureau of Military Information. It is our aim to gather all of the intelligence-gathering services under this one roof. All reports, of any kind, will end up here in Room 313. These will be gathered into a single report every night — and a copy of this report will be on your desk every morning.”
“An ambitious idea and a very original one. Do you think that you can do it? As I remember it, there is absolutely no one in the military who likes anyone else looking over his shoulder.”
“You are right of course — it is not easily done. Too many people in the field are used to keeping information to themselves. Commanding generals in particular. Pardon my saying so but they are an ornery lot who are very much used to making decisions on their own. But we are building a powerful weapon to convince them differently.”
“Indeed?”
“We will also be making relevant abstracts from the daily report. These will be wired daily in code to an intelligence officer on their staff. When they begin to see information relating to their individual commands, they should allow reports to move in the opposite direction.”
“I wish you all the luck in the world, my boy. But, as you said — they are an ornery lot.”
“Thank you. We can but try. At the present time only the very upper echelon officers know of our existence — and we mean to keep it that way. To everyone else we are, well, just Room 313.”
Fox led Lincoln to the armchair, across from a leather couch, where the President stretched out his gangling form as he looked around the room. Maps covered most of the wall space between the banks of filing cabinets. Fine mesh curtains draped the windows so that no one on the outside could look in. There were two doors on the far wall — one of which opened now and let in the sound of clattering telegraph bars. A soldier brought in a sheet of paper and gave it to Gustavus Fox without comment. He glanced at it and put it aside.
“It is Mexico that concerns us most at the present time,” he said.
“Concerns me too. It is a well-known fact that the Mexican government has borrowed millions from Britain and France — and appears to be unwilling or unable to pay them back. I would normally feel that we have had enough problems of our own to worry about, not to take the time to bother our minds about our neighbor to the south. But I just don’t like the way that the Emperor Napoleon and the English Queen have sent over military bill collectors by the thousands to lay their hands on the Mexican national treasury.”
“You are very correct, Mr. President. They came as bill collectors — but they have stayed as an army of occupation. The French have even managed to arrange a rigged vote requesting that the Archduke Maximilian of Austria be established as Emperor. The whole world knows that the ballot was a complete fake — but Maximilian has managed to convince himself, against all evidence, that there really was a public call for him. He and his wife, the Belgian princess Carlotta, have now arrived and, supported by the French armies, he rules in their name. And there is much worse.”
Lincoln folded his legs on the chair before him, wrapped his arms around them and shook his head. “And now I am afraid that you are going to tell me the bad news.”
“Not I — but one who has an intimate and personal account of events in Mexico. Does the name Ambrosi
o O’Higgins mean anything to you?”
“It rings a distant bell. Yes, there was a politician by that name! Wasn’t he the governor of Chile?”
“He was. An Irishman who made his mark in the new world. His son, Bernardo O’Higgins, helped throw the Spaniards out of Chile and went on to govern the country as well. The O’Higgins family has been prominent in South American history. Now the namesake of the first O’Higgins, Don Ambrosio O’Higgins, is following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. But he is making his mark in Mexico, not Chile, this time. He is the man I want you to meet.”
Fox pressed a button fixed to a table next to him; a moment later the second door opened and a clerk poked his head in. “Tell Lobo to come in now,” Fox said. When the door had closed again he added, “We use code names wherever possible to keep the identity of our agents secret.”
“A wise precaution. And that is surely a magic button you have there,” Lincoln said.
“Not really. It’s run by electricity, like the telegraph. When I press it, it rings a bell in the other room.”
“Well I will just have to get one of them for myself. I can press away all day and surely keep my secretaries on the hop.”
They both stood when O’Higgins came in. A dark-haired young man, still in his twenties. He was tanned by the sun, as dark as any other Latin-American, but none of them had his pale-blue eyes of the Celt. With true Irish loquacity he spoke first.
“President Lincoln, I am merely speaking the truth when I say that meeting you now makes this the most memorable moment in my life. I fight for a country’s freedom and look to you, the leader of the world’s greatest democracy, to be a guiding light in the darkness for all of those who battle for justice and democracy of our own.” He took Lincoln’s extended hand in his own and held it tightly, looking at the same time into the president’s eyes. Lincoln smiled.
“If you can say that just as well in Spanish,” he said, “why, young man, I predict a great future for you as a politician.”
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