Armstrong Rides Again!

by H. W. Crocker

  “You’re a murderer, then!”

  “Just another sacrifice in your book, isn’t it? And it’s science. I just demonstrated the science of ballistics. I hope your subjects took note. Get out of the way! We’re coming up.”

  “The government will hear of this.”

  “I am the government—and yes, it surely will. You’ll be hanged for this. You let the rebels attack Santiago.”

  “I let them attack the church!”

  “They attacked the city.”

  “You are an abusive bastard!” (That was the least of her epithets.) “How was I supposed to stop them? Why should I want to stop them?”

  “If you want to save your life—get out of here.”

  “Oh, I’ll get out of here all right—but don’t you try to follow. My Indians might be in quarantine, but these guards, my guards, will kill you bastards—you damn superstitious, pestilential bastards—if you try to follow us!”

  She swung away, screaming profanities. She moved with a weird herky-jerky gait into the forest, her Indians slow-marching behind her, until they were lost to sight and the cries of the jungle birds finally subsumed her noxious ranting.

  Father Gonçalves, Billy Jack, and the Captain covered the Indian corpse with stones.

  I ascended the hill with Bierce, glancing sidelong to make sure there were no ambushers in the brush. “Well, that was interesting,” I said, “science, theology, and Indian-fighting all at once.”

  “Bunkum and balderdash combined with murder.”

  “Well, you said it, I didn’t.”

  “Just don’t try to arrest me, Marshal; your writ doesn’t run here. Anyway, you saw it: he threw first.”

  “So, he did. I wonder what Father Gonçalves thinks?”

  “I don’t care what he thinks: his god got bushwhacked by his own creation.”

  “Bierce, you’d make a hell of a preacher: all fire and brimstone—and no redemption.”

  “You won’t live to see it.”

  * * *

  Bierce took my horse Edward and rode to la Ciudad de Serpientes to deliver news of our victory. I worked to get El Cid ready for the journey to the capital. The mayor provided us with two transport wagons, hitched together—one for the plinth, one for the statue—and a team of ten mules to pull them. Loading the plinth and the statue into the wagons was a challenge involving hoists and pulleys and the muscle power of more than a dozen men, including my own. It was not just a matter of lifting the weight, but of taking due care to ensure that neither plinth nor statue was damaged. In the end, a corps of West Point–trained engineers couldn’t have done it better.

  The mayor sat at a table just outside the cantina and watched us with amused detachment. He was enjoying an early morning brandy while the rest of us sweated.

  “Generalissimo, next time you want to kill someone, make it Lucretia Borreros; you would do us all a favor.” He gave his comrades a jowly laugh.

  Captain López was beside me, making sure El Cid was secure. He said, “She is from here, you know. Her appointment was a sort of exile. No one could stand her.”

  “Who appointed her?”

  “The Minister of State, Matteo Rodríguez—and it was good to be rid of her, but she is no ally: the rebels travel Indian lands—and we are kept out. Of course, she tries to keep the Indians away from Santiago—she fears the Church will convert them.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “You know, Generalissimo, it is ironic. The Minister of State ordered us to abandon Santiago, to retreat across the river; our position, he said, was untenable. But before we could retreat, the rebels cut us off.”

  “Now they wish they hadn’t. And this is the prize they wanted,” I said patting the fetlock of El Cid’s horse. I stepped back to admire the statue in the wagon. “What a noble bronze animal it is, Captain; and what a noble bronze knight: strong, dutiful, and proud. It would look wonderful anywhere, don’t you think—in Monroe, Michigan; in New York; in your capital; even in a jungle hideout.”

  He shrugged. “There are some who like it.”

  “But not the mayor.”

  “No, not the mayor.”

  “Yes, I can see why,” I said casting my eyes from the noble bronze statue to the fat, cowardly, conniving drunk at the cantina.

  Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal strolled over and slapped me on the shoulder. “It is excellent work, Generalissimo—and a true prize, in good hands.”

  “I wish you could come with us, Colonel.”

  “Ah, we have our separate duties. I don’t know what delays the reinforcements, but I will wait with my troops until they arrive. Father Gonçalves will drive the wagon?”

  “Yes, with my Sergeant; I’ve detailed eight troopers to come with us.”

  “Not much of an escort.”

  “It’ll do.” I mounted my horse. “I’ll see you in the capital.”

  “Vaya con Dios, Generalissimo. Don’t take all the credit for our victory. Save some for an old soldier.”

  “Colonel, if we each do our duty, there will be glory enough for all.”

  And so, my darling Libbie, we set off. Needless to say, taking credit for the relief of Santiago was hardly my primary interest. My reward for this gallant act, whatever it might afford me personally—a medal, the offer of a plantation estate, or perhaps the hand of Victoria in marriage (which of course, dearest Libbie, I would decline)—would be as nothing to the reward of seeing El Cid, in all his chivalric glory, centered on the capital square, smack between the grand cathedral, with its magnificent giant cross and glorious golden bell, and the palace-fortress of El Claudio.

  Lest there be any mistaking our direction, I rode to the head of our column. The city gates were open, the barricades had been removed, and the people had turned out with cheers and flowers to strew before us. I waved my kepi at the appreciative throng. Pointing the way with my hat I bellowed the order, “Forward, ho!” and away we went, through the gates, and down a path to the stone wall, where we halted briefly and surveyed the former scene of battle. The corpses had been cleared away and buried in a mass grave. The lines of the burial trench were still visible, but the burial detail had worked hard to restore the lawn of green. Bierce himself, I was told, had stamped the ground back into place; he probably saw it as stamping his enemies to hell.

  Our column meandered around the stone wall, our horses stepping carefully down the slope and to the bridge. I thought it wise to inspect the span before we crossed. It was still spattered with blood and detritus but looked structurally undamaged; I reckoned it could bear the weight of El Cid and the plinth.

  I rode to our muleskinners and said to Father Gonçalves, “You’re an engineer; any qualms about the bridge?”

  “If we don’t stop in the middle, those girders—and our prayers—will see us through.”

  “We stop for nothing! Pray away, Father!”

  I led our Cavalry escort across the bridge. Then I called to Billy Jack: “Make a running start for it.”

  The slope of the hill made that practically impossible, but Billy Jack slapped the reins, the mules took a slightly hastier step, gained speed as their hooves hit the bridge, and bounded safely across, with the statue and the plinth tottering barely at all.

  We traveled the main road to the capital, El Camino Real; it was clear and straight, and more than once I rode off to the side to watch, in wonder, the progress of El Cid in his wagon. There he was: lance aloft, encouraging us forward. Bad Boy was in the wagon and frequently struck a similarly heroic pose. It was, I’m sure, an inspiring sight to the pickets of government troops we passed occasionally. Indeed, I thought of our procession as a triumphal march, such as might have graced the streets of ancient Rome. In our case, it was a march of two days before we reached the outskirts of the capital city—and a surprise.

  I had the men polish their buttons, shine their boots, and brush their uniforms; I wanted our dramatic entry to coincide with the noon ringing of the golden bell in the cathedral tower. W
e would, in turnout and appearance, be everything that El Claudio would want us to be. We did not neglect our animals either, currycombing each horse to an immaculate sheen. In the late morning, teeth agleam from a fresh cleaning, I paused to imagine our reception. In my mind’s eye, I could envision the crowds swarming us. I could hear the cheers and the chants of “El Cid! El Cid! El Cid!” I could see myself waving my kepi at the crowd and saying to Father Gonçalves. “Well, Father, we survived the siege—but will we survive the celebration?”

  But then reality intruded. Coming towards us was a contrary procession: two massive columns of Infantry with mounted troopers on the flanks. At first, I thought it must be our (surprisingly large) escort into the city. But then I saw they had their own wagons: enclosed wagons with barred windows, wagons for prisoners apparently, and an oversized, reinforced wagon like our own—bearing the golden bell from the cathedral.

  My Cavalrymen and I withdrew to the side of the road and watched as the column advanced—an unstoppable force. I felt an odd sense of dread: there was no cheering; no huzzahs of victory for El Cid; instead, the troops looked sullen and suspicious. They halted just before our mule team, and a young Captain rode up to me.

  He did not salute, but said, “Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Yes, I am Generalissimo Armstrong. What is the meaning of this? Why is that golden bell being moved?”

  “That is not your concern. I have my orders.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Captain. Where is it going?”

  “To Mesa Santiago, to Lucretia Borreros, Administrator to the Indians.”

  “By whose order?”

  “Minister of State Matteo Rodríguez.”

  “Does El Claudio know about this?”

  “I do not advise the king, Mr. Armstrong. I am a Captain, not a Minister of State.”

  “And I am a Generalissimo, Captain. Father Gonçalves is right there. He runs the cathedral—not Matteo Rodríguez.”

  “The priest returns to Santiago. He is under arrest.”

  “What?”

  “House arrest—at the rectory.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “That Indian—he is yours?”

  “He’s my lead scout.”

  “The Indian Administrator, Lucretia Borreros, will take him into custody.”

  “She has no authority over him—he is a Crow Indian, from the United States.”

  “I have my orders.”

  “Forget your orders. I’ll take the responsibility. I am a Generalissimo and I countermand them.”

  “You are not a Generalissimo, Mr. Armstrong; you have been stripped of your rank and have no authority.”

  “Stripped of my rank? That’s impossible. I serve at the pleasure of the king.”

  “Generalissimo Bierce has ordered your arrest.”

  “Bierce?”

  “You are charged with treason. If you resist arrest, I am authorized to use lethal force. I hope that won’t be necessary.”

  Half a dozen of the Captain’s Cavalrymen surrounded me.

  “What about my men? What about the statue?”

  “Your men will join the column; the statue returns to Santiago.”

  “But you can’t. They don’t want it.”

  “Those are my orders. You are my priority. You men,” he said to his troopers, “take his gun and his knife—and let us move along now, Mr. Armstrong.”

  His Cavalrymen crowded around me and relieved me of my weapons. Then my horse and I were effectively bundled onto the road. I saw my troops reformed under their new commanders. Infantrymen boarded our wagons and grabbed the harnesses. The mule team was turned about. From the column’s two barred wagons, Spanish voices hurled catcalls and abuse.

  I looked at the Captain for an explanation.

  “Criminals,” he said, “released from the prison at la Ciudad de Serpientes. We don’t want them; the rebels can have them. They helped us with the church bell; in return, they won their freedom. La Ciudad de Serpientes is under martial law. The prisons have been emptied—to make room for conspirators like you.”

  “Conspirators? You do realize I just freed Santiago; I broke the rebels’ siege.”

  “That is not my concern. I have my orders; I am charged with preventing a coup, led by you and other foreign mercenaries.”

  “A coup? What is your name, Captain?”

  “I am Captain Royce—and you are now my prisoner. I would advise you to say no more.”

  So there it was: one moment the conquering hero, the liberator of Santiago, the deliverer of El Cid; and now—for reasons I could not fathom, and that Captain Royce would not explain—I had been adjudged a traitor. And by Ambrose Bierce! The man was incorrigible, but he would not outmaneuver me.

  There were no raucous crowds at la Ciudad de Serpientes, no cheers, no accolades, no waving flags, no bands playing, only guards and more guards and an eerie silence punctured by the occasional bellow of a Sergeant marching troops.

  Captain Royce turned me over to conquistador-uniformed guards who bustled me to the office of Ambrose Bierce.

  Bierce’s smile was devilish; he toyed with his sword letter opener. “Ah, excellent; a messenger told me to expect you. Senator Rodríguez should be on his way.” To the Captain of the Guard, he said, “You may leave us. I have no fear of this traitor. Just wait outside. If you hear a scream, it’ll be his.” After the door closed, Bierce said, “I’m afraid you’ve lost your commission.”

  “Of all the dirty tricks you’ve played, Bierce, this is the worst.”

  “It’s not a dirty trick at all. It is an act of high statesmanship. Charging you with treason keeps me in Matteo Rodríguez’s confidence.”

  “How can you possibly charge me with treason?”

  “You trespassed on Indian land, violated their quarantine, killed one of them, contradicted orders from the Minister of State, and one of your confederates recently landed in jail—shall I go on?”

  “What?”

  “That’s your favorite word, isn’t it? In Spanish it’s qué?”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “No it’s not. I have an English–Spanish dictionary on my desk. I can prove it.”

  “You know what I mean, Bierce. If we trespassed, we did it together. If I violated Rodríguez’s orders, so did you. And you killed that Indian. I have witnesses.”

  “They’re not here, are they? And anyway, that’s not really the issue—murder never is in Neustraguano. The issue is your motives. Rodríguez doubts them. He thinks you’re here to fight for El Caudillo.”

  “Well, yes, aren’t you?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions, Marshal; you’re the one guilty of treason.”

  “I serve the king—how is that treason?”

  “That’s how Matteo Rodríguez sees it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I work for the Minister of State. He recruited me; he didn’t recruit you. Your motivations were different. They were sincere.”

  “And that’s treason?”

  “Of course.”

  “So what happens to me now?”

  “That’s up to Matteo Rodríguez. He’ll be here soon. He wanted to question you himself. I expect a firing squad.”

  “And you’ll accept that?”

  “Why should I make a scene?”

  “So that’s it, then? You led me all the way to Neustraguano just to kill me?”

  “Marshal, I tried to stop you—every step of the way. Your mad infatuation with that girl…”

  “I am not infatuated with Victoria Cristóbal; I am a married man.”

  “You think that makes a difference?” He looked at the skull on his desk and tapped it with the sword letter opener. “There’s something else you should know. When I said they jailed a confederate of yours—that wasn’t a figure of speech. They’ve arrested a Southerner; a former Confederate officer; a man named Beauregard Gillette—says he’s a friend of yours. You know him?”

  “Major Gillette? Yes, but
what is he doing here?”

  “I thought you’d know. I don’t. Anyway, Rodríguez suspects you’re hiring mercenaries to overthrow the government.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “I could be convinced.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, but I am curious about the Minister’s methods of interrogation—aren’t you? Inhumanity arouses my curiosity. That’s why I came here, remember? And so far, Neustraguano hasn’t disappointed.”

  There was a knock at the door, it swung open, and the guard announced: “The Minister of State.” The grave and stately Senator Matteo Rodríguez entered. He turned, nodded to the guard, and the door was closed behind him. He looked at Bierce and then at me.

  “Mr. Armstrong, I regret your arrest; I regret even more what happens now.”

  “Torture?”

  “I fear that is inevitable. Mr. Armstrong, you need to understand your situation. You are charged with treason. Anglo-Saxon legal principles do not apply in Neustraguano. You are not presumed innocent. You are not guaranteed counsel. You are not guaranteed a trial. It is my sole responsibility to find you guilty or innocent—and I must say the evidence is overwhelming.”

  “What evidence? You have none.”

  “We have enough—and torture will provide more.”

  “Does El Claudio know about this?”

  “He cannot help you—and he wouldn’t want to. I told him the plain truth: that you are conspiring against this government.”

  “In what way—by winning battles you won’t fight?”

  “I understand the larger diplomatic picture. The United States wants improved relations with Mexico—and Mexico wants to annex Neustraguano. What better way to curry favor than with a soldier-spy? You send information to Washington; it is relayed to Mexico City; and when Mexico City gives the word, you lead an armed revolt against the government.”

  “That’s fantastic—you know I’m not a spy.”

  “On the contrary, I know very well you are.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “I need only prove it to myself. What else explains your occupation of Señorita Cristóbal’s private train compartment? Why else insist on a commission in El Caudillo’s army?”