“Now, now, whatever you men are talking about—all your strategy and tactics; all your wars of religion—it can surely wait until the morning. They were fighting this war long before you got here, Armstrong—and now that you are here, victory is certain. And I’m equally certain they can manage a few hours without you. Anyway, shouldn’t strolling around the plaza, looking over the city, checking out its defenses, be part of your job? I’m appealing to your sense of duty, Armstrong; come with me and let’s do an inspection. Tell him, Generalissimo Bierce, give him an order that your conversation can wait.”
“With pleasure—it can wait; I have work to do.” Bierce thrust the sword letter-opener back into the skull’s eye socket.
Rachel winced and pressed close against me. “Thank him, Armstrong.”
“Very well, then, Generalissimo Bierce, I will inspect the plaza and its defenses. Summon me whenever you’re ready.”
Bierce said nothing, but his cold blue eyes seemed to sit in judgment as Rachel took my arm and led me away.
Bierce’s office was in a building nearly adjacent to the Palacio Blanco. Between them was a very pleasant courtyard. In its center was a fountain. Three giant stone snakes sprayed water like a benediction.
“They’re a little frightening, aren’t they,” said Rachel. “Our house has a courtyard too, with a fountain—just like this one, only much smaller; I asked about the snakes. Apparently, they’re from the crest of El Caudillo.”
I read the motto carved into the base of the fountain: “Si Ellos Muerden, Nosotros Morderemos más Fuertemente.”
“What does it mean?”
“I think it translates as ‘If Ellen Murders, then Nostradamus Murders More Fiercely.’ ”
“Hmm.”
“That’s the literal translation—colloquially it’s probably something like ‘Don’t Tread on Me.’ ”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t tread on El Caudillo—and it’s that Senator who’s the spouting snake, if you ask me.”
We perambulated. The moon was full, with a hint of a moon bow, and the humid air teased impending rain. Tropical blooms released their fragrance—even in autumn. And all about us was the reassuring crunch of soldiers’ boots on gravel as they patrolled the grounds.
“Oh, Armstrong, isn’t it lovely here?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Our house is just across the square. It’s the one with the dark green shutters—and the matching sentry boxes. We’re right in the center of events, Armstrong—with you and Bierce and the king. Oh, it could all be so splendid. I imagine they must have tremendous state balls and banquets and…”
“I’m sure they do. Where’s Captain Wakesmith?”
“He’s in that building across the street—a boarding house for visiting dignitaries, they said—but that man lacks ambition. I told him, ‘Look, you’re still the captain of your ship; you’re still the master of your fate; why not make the best of it?’ ”
“Sound advice. And Bad Boy?”
“I thought you’d ask about him. They wanted to kennel him with the horses, but I knew you wouldn’t approve, so he’s with us—another guardian, for when you’re not around.”
“Well done.”
“I thought I might need one. Between the rebels and that Matteo Rodríguez…”
“You’re right not to trust him. In fact, until I get a better grasp on the situation here, don’t trust anyone—except for Bad Boy and me.”
“And your Indian?”
“Where is he?”
“The same boarding house as Wakesmith.”
We had just reached the center of the checkerboard plaza, when behind us came the rumble of pounding hooves. A caped Cavalry officer, a half dozen Cavalrymen, and two riderless horses charged us, hell bent for leather. The officer whipped his saber from its scabbard. Rachel gripped me like an anaconda. A single well-placed stroke could have decapitated us both. Instead, his horse clattered to a halt and the saber swung into a salute.
“Generalissimo Armstrong?”
Rachel tightened her grip. I gasped like an asthmatic, “Yes.”
“I am El Teniente Balduino Pérez. El Coronel Monteverde Cristóbal has sent me and these men. He requests the pleasure of your company. He offers you supper at his hacienda. We have two horses—one for you, one for the señora. It is not a far ride: half an hour, perhaps. You will come?”
Having just advised Rachel to trust no one, I now wondered if I could trust this young officer. I decided I had no choice. For one thing, Rachel had practically squeezed all the air out of me, and I was turning blue. For another, if I declined, his men could simply ride us down. If I accepted, however, I had a horse beneath me—and that evened all odds. Before I could catch a breath and speak—the tropical air exploded with a boom, boom, boom. The plaza flagstones seemed to shift beneath us, and Rachel cinched her grip so tightly that I nearly fainted. My eyes pleaded with the Lieutenant for an explanation.
“It is merely la Montaña que Eructa,” he said, “it is like a dog that has a bark worse than its bite. You do not look well, Generalissimo. Perhaps you are hungry. You will come?”
“We will come,” I croaked.
“We will?” Rachel said, suddenly brightening and releasing me. “Oh, yes, indeed we will, Lieutenant—how delightful, supper at the hacienda!”
Our ride there afforded me a chance to better reconnoiter our position. I now saw in more detail how heavily fortified the city was; it was as if Bierce or El Claudio thought a siege was imminent. Nevertheless, the general mood of the city, as far as I could judge it, was calm. People strolled up and down the avenues contentedly; soldiers marched past, but the civilians barely acknowledged them, or if they did, it was with smiles on their faces that said, “There go our boys!” The people were handsome, in an Iberian way; and the buildings beyond the plaza were handsome too: stone walls painted a vibrant variety of colors, topped by red tile roofs.
We left through the eastern gate. It was much less traveled than the southern approach by which we had entered the city. The shops here were sparser—there was a blacksmith pounding his anvil, a harness-maker tending his leather, a stable-hand brushing a horse—but entrenchments were prominent. The ubiquitous guard posts were enhanced by batteries of cannon. If this was the city’s vulnerable point, Bierce was taking no chances.
Sooner than I expected, we crossed a bridge over a narrow river and then into the jungle borderland that separated the city from the plantations beyond. As the jungle had blotted out the sun when we journeyed toward the city, now it blotted out the moonlight; our horses slowed their pace; and I kept a sharp lookout for tangled roots that could lame or ambushers who could kill. But the jungle tunnel was brief, and we then entered a world of moonlit fields stretching to the horizon, separated here and there by colonnades of trees.
The entrance to El Rancho del Chaparral Alto, the estate of Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal was up a long path, lined by what I was told were Italian cypress trees, imported to the island long ago. Interspersed among them were the inevitable guard posts, though these guards wore black sombreros and suits—a private security detail, I gathered. They saluted as we rode past. Ahead was a long adobe and red brick house built around a courtyard. A group of black-clad vaqueros trotted out to greet us; in their wake strode a Cavalry Colonel in full uniform. The Lieutenant saluted him and said, “Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal, I have the honor of introducing Generalissimo Armstrong.”
We were assisted from our horses, and the Lieutenant led his men cantering back down the track. The Colonel shook my hand firmly. He was a burly man, whose wrinkles were hidden behind a grey goatee and mustache. He said, “Generalissimo Armstrong, I greet you for the moment, not as one of your officers, but as an honored hidalgo of Neustraguano. I will of course serve you faithfully once your appointment is official. Señora,” he bowed to Rachel, “I am graced by your presence here.” He returned his gaze to me. “My daughter has told me much about you. From her descriptio
n, you are a remarkable man—and one to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude.”
“Any man of noble sentiments, fierce devotion to duty, and marked physical prowess would surely have done the same, Colonel. It was my pleasure to serve such a poised and patriotic young lady.”
Rachel whispered under her breath, “I’ll say.”
“Come, I have refreshments waiting inside. Neustraguano is famous for its sangria. You will have some, yes?”
I had no idea what sangria was, so I assented, thinking it the proper thing to do, but it is of course a type of wine, and as soon as I realized my error, I handed my glass to Rachel so that she had a glass in each hand. “Perhaps, my dear, you’d like another—in fact, I’m sure you would. One is never enough.”
“Well,” she said shrugging, “it is wonderful.”
The Colonel approached me, full of concern. “You do not care for it, Generalissimo?”
“It’s not that, Colonel. It’s merely that I’ve taken a vow not to touch alcohol. But my wife has taken no such vow. I’m sure she will happily drink for the two of us.”
“May I get you something else, then?”
“Alderney, if you have it.”
“Alderney? What is Alderney?”
“It’s a type of cow; my pet word for milk.”
“Milk? Ah, that is most interesting, Generalissimo. Here in Neustraguano men drink water during the day; at night they drink tequila or beer; if they are officers, they drink wine like our sangria. But our Caudillo, he too drinks milk; he too refuses alcohol.”
“I had no idea, but I’m gratified to be in such good company.”
“And I am impressed, Generalissimo, very impressed by men who keep their vows—whether my brother-in-law the priest or El Caudillo or yourself.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really—just a matter of high moral character.”
“Just so—and we do keep stores of milk, or, er, Alderney, in case El Caudillo calls.” He ordered a servant to fetch some.
Presented along with a perspiring pewter cup of well-chilled Alderney was Victoria—or Consuela Victoria Margarita Monteverde Cristóbal. Apparently, her father was unaware of her preference for being called Victoria; he called her Consuela. She was even more attractive than I had remembered—dressed as if she had just returned from a ride: black riding boots, flared grey pants, a flame-red blouse, a black vest laced tight as a corset, and, in her hand, a just-removed black, stiff, flat-topped, wide-brimmed hat. She shook her dark flowing tresses. Her face had a classical beauty about it—simultaneously noble, passionate, romantic, and welcoming—but it also seemed puzzled.
“Generalissimo, it is wonderful to see you again—and in the service of my country, but this is the sister, is it not?”
“Your sister?” said the Colonel.
“No, no, not my sister,” I said.
“Oh, my dear,” Rachel replied, “I’m afraid the Generalissimo and I have a little secret to share. We were married—it happened so quickly; I have yet to catch my breath. I was still a nun in training, you know, and the Church was so generous in letting me surrender those vows to take up my new vows of holy matrimony. San Francisco is such a beautiful city to be married in. This is sort of our honeymoon. The Generalissimo said to me, ‘Would you like to go to an island at war off the coast of Mexico?’ And so of course I had to say, yes, and here we are.”
“Yes,” I said, “and here we are. Perhaps, Colonel, you could pass my wife a bottle of sangria while we retire to discuss military matters.”
“Ah, you jest, señor—you are just like your countryman, Bierce, in that regard. But Consuela tells me you are a much better man than he is—and it is that I wish to discuss with you. But first, come, supper awaits—and so does my brother-in-law, Father Ricardo Gonçalves. He is very interested to meet you both. He is presently reading his breviary in the hacienda chapel. I will have him summoned to supper. It was his idea to invite you.”
“How kind.”
“Yes, he suspected that the rebels might attempt to assassinate you tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHT In Which I Take Command
We were standing around a dining table set in the courtyard when Father Ricardo Gonçalves entered and bade us sit down. The Colonel sat at the head of the table and beckoned me to sit at his righthand side. Father Gonçalves took a seat across from me. He walked stiff-legged, but otherwise exuded a surprising air of youth; his fair hair had something to do with that, though it was greying at the sides, and his blue eyes sparkled. Like El Claudio, he must have had Dutch blood. And he still had that peculiar look—as if trying to stifle a smile.
“I am glad to see you well, Generalissimo Armstrong.”
“Apparently you’re glad to see me alive.”
“Oh, indeed—but you are perfectly safe here. My brother-in-law takes precautions.” Father Gonçalves directed my attention to an earthen bank that rose about forty yards distant and about twenty feet high, a natural parapet. Silhouetted on top were riflemen wearing sombreros.
“Yes, I appreciate that. Neustraguano seems to have plenty of guards.” I turned to the Colonel and said, “I assume those men are yours—not men from the Army.”
“As Father Gonçalves says, I take precautions. My vaqueros protect my ranch; my Cavalry have other duties.”
“We live in dangerous times,” said Father Gonçalves, “and the greatest danger is to the unsuspecting.”
“You mean me.”
“You are new here.”
“I know there’s a war—that’s why I came.”
“There are other treacheries.”
“I’m getting a sense of that.”
“Then you are wiser than many people in Neustraguano. They are willfully blind. They cannot believe our pleasant life is under attack.”
“But the war…”
“Oh, they will acknowledge the war. They have eyes and ears enough for that. But they do not appreciate the nature and extent of the enemy. Not even El Caudillo himself fully comprehends the depth of the treachery around him.”
“And Bierce?”
“Generalissimo Bierce? He is your countryman, yes—your friend?”
“You trust him?”
“Why should I not?”
“Matteo Rodríguez brought him here. Do you trust him?”
Victoria said, “Matteo Rodríguez told me El Caudillo himself called for Bierce. That is why I went.”
“Apparently that was a lie. It is Matteo Rodríguez who wanted Bierce here—and he used you as his unwitting emissary.”
“Minister Rodríguez prefers intermediaries,” said Father Gonçalves. “It is his way.”
“He’s no ally of yours,” I said.
“We have our differences, but we serve the king together.”
“I rode with Rodríguez through San José. He blamed El Claudio for every rebel outrage.”
“And in your country, does no one blame your President Grant when Indians have their massacres? Did no one blame your President Lincoln when Confederados defeated your armies? There are similarities and there are differences. Our rebels are not gentlemen like your Confederados. Would your Confederados—your Generals Lee and Stuart and Jackson—have done what you saw at San José?”
“They were not my Generals. I fought for the Union, as did Bierce. But I take your point; Bierce made it too. This war is different.”
“The enemy is different—and what the rebels did at San José, they would do here, at this hacienda, if they could.”
Boom! boom! boom! The earth shook to the sound of thunder—only it wasn’t thunder.
Father Gonçalves continued smiling, “That is, if la Montaña que Eructa does not kill us all first.”
* * *
I awoke the next morning with a dog licking my face. I pushed Bad Boy aside and sat up in a strange bed, in a strange room, to see a strange man, apparently a tailor, holding out for my delectation a grey uniform with blue epaulets, yellow and black piping, and plenty of gold braid. As my eye
s refocused through the dog slobber, I realized the tailor was Father Gonçalves.
“I sent for your dog, and your Indian; he prays in the chapel. The Colonel’s men are forming up outside. Bierce is here too. He brought you this uniform. It is that of a Generalissimo of Cavalry.”
“What time is it?”
“Dawn has just broken. No doubt you seek your wife.”
“My wife—she’s quite far away, isn’t she?”
“Not that far—she was given separate quarters, near Consuela. I knew duty would summon you early.”
Duty! That was the word I needed to hear—that was the word that would clear and sharpen my mind: duty! I leapt up, and after tripping over entangling blankets, made my way to the washbasin, splashed water on my face, and with Father Gonçalves’s assistance, slipped into the uniform, which fit like the proverbial glove. I looked in the mirror, straightened the epaulets, brushed the gold braid with my fingertips (covertly assessing whether Bierce had shortchanged me), and fitted the kepi.
“What do you think, Father?”
“Un hijo de la estrella de la mañana.”
“I’ve heard that somewhere before—and I’ll take it as compliment.”
“There is coffee waiting for you on the dining table. There is leche, or should I say, Alderney, as well.”
“Well done.”
Boots pounded on the tiles outside, and Bierce erupted into the room. “Come on, Marshal—we haven’t got all day.”
“My command is ready?”
“It’s ready—and so am I. I’m coming with you.”
“Why?”
“For your protection.”
“I’ve got a troop of Cavalry—what more protection do I need?”
“Drunken assassins tried to kill you last night. They broke into your assigned quarters and wreaked holy hell on your bed—murdered it with machetes.”
“Did you interrogate them?”
“Can’t—they’re dead. Guards heard the racket, charged in, shot ’em.”
“That doesn’t help us.”
“Doesn’t hurt us much either.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 12
