The men huzzahed. I nodded my acknowledgement and continued. “And with us are some of the greatest symbols of Neustraguano.
“With us is the statue of El Cid.
“El Cid, the man, never saw Neustraguano. He never had that honor. But El Cid, the statue, was forged several centuries later, on a different continent, indeed on this island—I presume—and who can deny that he has served your country nobly? He will go into battle with us and serve as a rallying point, a standard for our cause.
“And then there is the golden bell of your great cathedral. Ask not for whom that bell tolls, men of Neustraguano; know that it tolls for thee—and thine and thou.
“The enemy lies behind us. They are led by Matteo Rodríguez—a traitor. And any man who serves him is a traitor—no matter the cut, color, and general appearance of his uniform.
“The enemy also lies in front of us. The Indians of that madwoman Lucretia Borreros are on the warpath. They have burned down Santiago. Nothing now lies between the rebels and la Ciudad de Serpientes but a thin picket line—and us.
“Men of Neustraguano, we are the ones who—today, tomorrow, perhaps over the next several days, depending on the behavior of that volcano—will make history.
“Now, let each man do his duty. And let us set our faces to the task by taking this oath:
“Viva El Claudio!”
“Viva! Viva!”
“Viva la Churcha Catholica!”
“Viva! Viva!”
“And Viva El Generalissimos—olé, olé, olé!”
“Viva! Viva! Olé! Olé! Olé!”
And thus was forged the grand alliance. The men cheered wildly, but beneath the cheers came a torrent of Spanish curses from the prison wagons. I had forgotten about them.
I scanned Bierce’s column and asked the obvious question: “How many men has Matteo Rodríguez?”
“Don’t know. He has no reason to expect trouble, but he likely stripped the capital’s garrison—just to leave El Caudillo defenseless.”
“If Rodríguez has the garrison, and the rebels cross the river in force…”
“Then we’re stuck in the middle, aren’t we, Marshal? You should like that. Fighting back to back, I can’t betray you.”
“Our duty is clear, Bierce: rescue Victoria and Rachel.”
“There’s that interesting order of affection again.”
“Bierce, turn your column and march on Rodríguez. He has no reason to suspect you. Capture him without a fight, if you can; fight him, if you must—but remember, our goal is to free the women. Meanwhile, I’ll take my force to the river. If the rebels attack, we’ll repel them until you can reinforce us.”
“Right; what about the prisoners, the statue, the bell? They’ll just slow me down.”
“I’ll take them: the statue is mine anyway.”
“Yes, I seem to recall that. I’ll keep Father Gonçalves though.”
“You need a chaplain?”
“I told you Wakesmith is waiting with his boat. What if Father Gonçalves sank it? He’s been working on a sort of secret weapon. You’re familiar with the CSS Hunley? The Confederates built it: a ship that can go underwater. He’s built one too; it’s an ironclad, but also an underwater boat—at least that was the idea: a cross between the Monitor and the Hunley. He could flank Wakesmith and give him a hell of a surprise.”
“Can it transport men?”
“Some—I don’t know how many. Not enough to make a landing, if that’s what you’re thinking. But enough to drill a hole in Wakesmith’s hull or maybe bombard him. I don’t know—I only know the padre’s been testing an underwater warship. And I reckon a navy might come in handy.”
“So it might.”
“That’s settled, then—we’ll hit them by land and sea. You trust me?”
“Of course not; but you’re an officer, if not a gentleman.”
“I think you’ll find me both.” Bierce saluted, a devilish grin on his face. “Good day, Generalissimo, and good luck to you.”
He charged off. I watched him for a moment, wondering what mischief he would get up to next. Then I turned my gaze to El Cid. I had fewer doubts about him. Major Gillette came alongside. The volcano rumbled again.
“Yankee General, sir, that volcano’s beginning to worry me.”
“Major, never take counsel of your fears.”
“Didn’t Stonewall Jackson say that, sir—or Old Hickory?”
“Perhaps, Major: great commanders of the past have often copied my thoughts. Tell Captain Obregón that you and I will ride to the picket line immediately. He is to follow as rapidly as possible with the men and Bierce’s impedimenta: the golden bell, El Cid, and the prisoners.”
“Yes, sir.” Major Gillette’s place was taken by Billy Jack, who arrived in a cloud of dust, Bad Boy at his horse’s heels. I looked down affectionately at my loyal Lieutenant and said, “We’re in our element, old friend: a saddle beneath me, the prospect of action, damsels in distress, and you by my side.”
The volcano belched and Bad Boy barked in reply.
Billy Jack said, “Volcano sound menacing. I think the enemy stokes its fire.”
“That’s not far wrong, Sergeant. We have enemies all around us, and a natural enemy to boot. Let’s be off—to the picket line!”
The three of us charged up the road—Billy Jack, Bad Boy, and I. I waved my Generalissimo’s kepi at the men: “To victory lads—to victory!”
I could see it in their eyes and read their thoughts: “How lucky we are to have such a Generalissimo! With him we will conquer all!”
The volcano sounded again, and the words came unbidden to my mind: “… until that volcano blows us to smithereens.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN In Which Battle Is Joined
Smoke rolled down the hill from the burning city of Santiago and from the billowing volcano. A sooty haze hung over the jungle; snowflakes of ash fell along the road.
Major Gillette said, “Without that moat around the city, we’d be eating fire.”
The picket line was barely visible just ahead. The sound of crackling flames in the city was suddenly joined by the smacking of rifle shots. Arrows flew between our horses.
“Enemy on north side of road,” said Billy Jack.
We spurred our horses ahead, crouching low in our saddles, hoping to avoid the zing of bullets or whiffling of arrows. At the picket line we jumped off our mounts; troopers took our horses and hurried them into cover. Sergeant Esteban crouched towards us in the roadside trench.
“Apologies, Generalissimo, the Indians watch the road. They saw you before I did—a small war party.”
“And in the city?”
“Flames you can see. Gunfire has kept us pinned down.”
“Indians or rebels?”
“Rebels, I assume. They sometimes use Indians as scouts.”
Billy Jack looked at me. He said nothing, but I knew what he meant.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
Major Gillette interrupted: “Now hold on there, Yankee General, sir; you can’t flank Indian scouts, even if you knew where they were.”
“Don’t worry, Major, we’ll find them—and there can’t be many, or they’d attack this position, not harass it. I need a weapon, though.”
Sergeant Esteban held out his rifle, thought better of it, then undid his holstered revolver and ammunition belt and handed it to me: “For fighting at close-quarters.”
I cinched it on. Billy Jack slithered away towards the river, and I followed. Bad Boy crept warily after us. The jungle undergrowth was good cover, rolling clouds of smoke provided more, and the rumbling of the volcano and the crackling of fire-eaten timber helped muffle the sound of our movements. We paused at a gnarled knot of tree roots. The river flowed beside us, and across it were snipers. From our position, we needed to slink along a muddy ledge that extended beneath the bridge and slide into the ditch on the opposite side of El Camino Real. The Indians, we assumed, were farther up, watching for the approaching column
. But the sharpshooters would be looking to get a bead on any of Esteban’s men (or us) poking his head up. Still, we reckoned they’d be watching the road, not under the bridge.
Our best hope, I thought, was to time our movements to coincide with a wave of smoke. Bad Boy was beside me. I patted him on the shoulder and whispered softly in his native German: “Leutnant Bad Boy, you musten creepinzie acrossen das ledgen und vaiten vor das Generalissimo Armstrong and Feldwebel Wilhelm der Indian, ja? Vaitin vor ein shielden ov smoken—then schnell, schnell.” He bobbed his head in acknowledgement, pressed himself close to the ground, crawled into the next wave of sooty fog, and began his wary crossing. Like a cat stalking a bird, he moved deliberately, softly, quietly, his body low, his legs coiled springs. Had the Indians seen him, they might have mistaken him for a panther and fled in terror, but between his black coat, the muddy path beneath the bridge, and the tumbling black smoke, he crept into the opposite ditch unpursued by bullet or arrow.
I decided to go next. Immersed in a wave of smoke, I pulled myself across the dirt and mud as slowly as my beating heart would allow. Any hunter knows that it’s movement that catches the eye—so I tried to coordinate every extension of an arm or shifting of a leg with a drift of smoke. When I rolled into the opposite ditch, I was breathing as heavy as if I had sprinted a mile.
I wasn’t so worried about sharpshooters now as about an Indian ambush, but Bad Boy could take care of that. I pointed my revolver at Santiago’s walls, ready to return fire if a sniper did spot Billy Jack. But he was over the muddy ledge faster than a ferret chasing a snake and plopped down beside me. He motioned us into the jungle, and we dragged ourselves through ferns and vines, crawling around trees and bushes, until he raised his hand and halted us. He directed my eyes to a pocket of long grass to our left in which appeared the bare tattooed backs of five Indians who looked sturdier and fiercer than Lucretia Borreros’s tribe. They had arrows strung, bows pointed down, and were scanning the road for targets. If they were alone, our surprise would be total.
Billy pointed to his knife and slid a finger across his throat. I shook my head and cocked my revolver. The Indians heard it, turned instantly, and an arrow shot past me; six inches closer, and I’d have lost half my teeth. Billy Jack barrel-rolled behind a log—and I followed his good example. He fired a shot—and when I fired mine, he scrambled away out of sight. I rolled again, this time behind a bush. I popped to my knees and had an Indian directly in my sights. He saw me—but too late. I planted a perfect shot that knocked him on his back. Another Indian gave a war whoop, running at me with his bow raised. We fired almost simultaneously. He flew backwards to the ground in an awkward sprawl, and his arrow, partially deflected by the bush, bounced over my shoulder. More war whoops. Gunshots on my right. I rolled in that direction, hoping to find Billy Jack. I rested my revolver on a downed log and stuck my head up. A wounded Indian was tripping towards me, an arrow strung in his bow. He raised it to let fly; Bad Boy exploded from the bushes; and the arrow thudded into the log in front of me. Bad Boy had the Indian pinned, his teeth anchored in the enemy’s throat; he snarled as he ripped him to pieces; he has a taste for enemy blood.
Billy Jack ran up and knelt beside me. “You wounded?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I see no others—but we should not stay. Back to picket.”
He whistled Bad Boy to join us. We didn’t crawl this time, we ran across the road, and, as we did, I shouted, “Sergeant, we’re coming through!” Minié balls from the sharpshooters chased us, we threw ourselves into the trench, and scrambled away from the river toward the picket line. Waiting were Major Gillette and Sergeant Esteban. I returned Sergeant Esteban’s gun belt.
Major Gillette said, “You certainly don’t rest on your rank, Yankee General, sir.”
“A Generalissimo must always lead by example, Major.”
I heard a jangling noise from the road—the column!
I ran down the ditch and saw El Cid’s wagon in the vanguard, then the golden bell, followed by the Infantry, the two convict wagons at the rear.
The rebels must have heard them too because there was a storm of lead into the jungle near the bridge. I hurried to the sound of the guns and joined Sergeant Esteban at the foremost part of our trench facing the river. We looked up at the flaming city: white peasant smocks fanned out from the city’s northern wall. The smocks wore bandanas around their faces; they looked like an army of train robbers. There was a single rifle shot and then a voice shouted: “Caudilloistas! Do you hear me? Caudilloistas! Look at Santiago! Or do you fear what it portends? This is the hell we bring you—fire and death!” Another rifle shot. “You hear me Caudilloistas? Your hours are numbered. We are coming after you—all of us, thousands of us; the people’s army is here!”
With the smell of cordite still in my nostrils, I wasn’t about to take this blather. I retrieved my horse Edward, stepped into the saddle, and leapt him over the ditch. I trotted him up to the bridge. Another rifle shot—a warning, I reckoned—but I didn’t care; I had a message of my own to deliver.
“Greetings, banditos!” I said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t hear you before. I was too busy killing your Indians. Are you offering to surrender?”
“Surrender? You ask for surrender? You will surrender your life. The country is ours.”
“Not yet. You need this road—and we’re here.”
“Your dogs in uniform cannot stop us; the county is in rebellion.”
“We stand ready to do our duty.”
“Duty to what: to the people—or to that pig on the throne?”
“I am Generalissimo Armstrong Armstrong, servant of El Claudio, defender of the loyalist people, rescuer of the oppressed, guardian of women, master of dogs and horses, and scourge of every rebel who needs scourging.”
A clattering of ill-aimed minié balls hit the bridge and scattered round me.
My horse and I stood our ground. “Sergeant Esteban, let ’em have a volley!” Our rifles rattled a response—not the thunder of massed fire one would like, but enough. “All right, you rebels, you’ve got thirty minutes. Either I see a white flag of surrender, or I’m coming after you.”
Another hail of minié balls came at us, but I had already pulled Edward back and was riding down El Camino Real to tell Captain Obregón to halt his column. I had a plan.
Back in our makeshift trench, I called another council of war: Captain Obregón, Major Gillette, Billy Jack, and Bad Boy were in attendance.
“Gentlemen, the enemy is right in front of us; he intends a frontal assault; he thinks that by sheer numbers he can overwhelm us. But I doubt this. His men are a mob, not an army. What disperses a mob? Determined, disciplined action. If we pin their ears back, they’ll scatter—at least until they’re reinforced. I reckon we’re in a good position here.”
Captain Obregón said, “But, Generalissimo, I have scarcely a hundred men. They could have thousands.”
“They don’t have them yet,” I said, “or they wouldn’t be waiting. And that’s our opportunity: if we act swiftly, we can disperse them before they charge. As the Good Book says, ‘Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands.’ First, we act as Saul; then, if necessary, as David.”
Captain Obregón appeared dismayed. Major Gillette reassured him: “Ours is not to reason why, Captain.”
“Precisely. Now then, Major and Billy Jack, you are going to perform a reconnaissance in force. Major, you will be the force; Billy Jack, you will be the reconnaissance.”
Major Gillette said, “Just the two of us, sir?”
“Of course not, Bad Boy will go with you, as will the convicts. You are going to impersonate a detachment of Cavalry. The men’s chains will be the jingle of spurs and sabres. In all this smoke, I reckon you can fool them.”
“That would seem a certainty, sir.”
“Billy Jack will show you where to cross the river. Horses can manage it. You’ll leave the wagons behind. String a rope so the convicts c
an make it.”
“Sounds easy.”
“You’re a gambler, Major; I need you to bluff them. You are to convince them that you are Colonel Monteverde Cristóbal’s Cavalry returning from the north, hell-bent for leather.”
“I see.”
“With you distracting them, Billy Jack will reconnoiter behind the enemy. He’ll tell me if we’re facing a company, a regiment, a brigade, a division, or a corps.”
“I must say, sir, that’s a mighty big bluff—and a mighty big risk for your scout.”
“Don’t worry about him—and I’ll support you, Major. When you’re in position, send Bad Boy back to me—that’ll be your signal. Captain Obregón, you will have Sergeant Esteban’s detachment ready to pin down the rebels with covering fire. Then we’ll charge the bridge.”
“Charge?” said Captain Obregón. “But I heard how you defended Santiago. That bridge is narrow, you killed many men upon it. And now they have your position.”
“But they do not have me—or El Cid. We’ll roll him up behind us. In the smoke and confusion, they might mistake him for reinforcements. And I want those muleskinners with the golden bell ready to ring it.” A black cloud rolled down from the flames of Santiago. “Let’s get moving.”
The drivers of the convict wagons acted as guards and unloaded the prisoners whose chains—leg irons and wrist irons—clanked reassuringly. Between that and their Spanish grumbling, I thought they’d do a splendid job of sounding like Cavalry on the march. El Cid—loaded on his wagon, a veritable chariot for horse and rider—rolled to the fore.
Major Gillette took a loan of my horse Edward, and he and Billy Jack began their dangerous mission. I do not need to tell you, my dear, that I waited impatiently for Bad Boy’s return. The time passed so slowly that I had Sergeant Esteban send two men to retrieve the dead Indians’ bows and arrows while I got a fire going. When they returned, I wrapped the arrows with strips torn from the men’s bandanas, set the arrows alight, and lobbed a few balls of fire across the river—more smoke to cover us.
Bad Boy finally came hurtling back. The enemy had withheld their fire, which convinced me they were uncertain of our deployments; they awaited our next move. I decided to make it. I had a trooper bring me Marshal Ney. I patted the horse’s neck. “Once more into the breach, old friend.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 18
