I spoke to him in his native German: “Leutnant Bad Boy, I musten goenzie to investigaten. You musten stayenzie und guarden die fraulein. Savvy?”
He barked a canine equivalent of “Yes, sir!” and sat his haunches.
I took Marshal Ney’s reins and stepped into the saddle.
Rachel said, “Armstrong, surely you’re not leaving us here?”
“Bad Boy will protect you. I’m riding to the guns.”
“But Armstrong…”
I sent Marshal Ney bounding up the slope. Destiny awaited: battle, and perhaps the outcome of this war. Major Gillette raced to me aboard Edward.
“Those guns…” I said.
“Skirmish fire. Obregón’s men trading pepper with the enemy—they’re massed across the river, stirring like angry ants. You can figure it: they expected to waltz down El Camino Real and guillotine the king. Now they’re facing an army, a reinforced army. It’s got them all a-twitter. They counted their headless chickens before they hatched.”
“Headless chickens, Major?”
“Well, sir, you get my drift. They expected the king’s head on a pike. Now they’re in a battle. They’re millin’ around; not organized into platoons or companies; no effective leadership.” La Montaña que Eructa burped smoke. “And with that behind them, they’ve got to be a little unnerved.”
Billy Jack galloped towards us. “Found jungle path—the land bridge. Not suitable for Cavalry—but Infantry can make it, double-file. No enemy guards, but massed enemy at the base. There is a small clearing on the trail; juts out over the river; looks down on the enemy; could be used by two ranks of riflemen.”
“Sergeant, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That depends on what you think.”
I paused to consider that, and then said, “Well, gentlemen, what I’m thinking is that we either wait for Bierce or strike now.”
Major Gillette said, “Yankee, General, sir, when you talk like that, I know what it means: unsheathe your sabre and get ready to ride.”
“Well, Major, since you agree, let’s go into action.”
We rode to a hilltop arbor, tied our horses there, and hiked past straggly trees and bushes down a rock-strewn path to the stone outcropping overlooking the river and facing la Montaña que Eructa. We joined Captain Obregón.
“Generalissimo, thank you for your reinforcements, but as you can see, the enemy host is mighty—at least in numbers, if not in valor. And look at my men, scattered dots behind these boulders. We can fire potshots. But at this range, most often we miss. And the enemy ignores us for now. He cannot cross the river and attack this slope. The angle is too steep. But if he flanks us, I am in no position to stop him.”
From our perch we saw long trails of white peasant smocks emerging from the western jungle; from the side of the volcano came a flight of running Indians. La Montaña que Eructa spewed fire and smoke. Already lava tipped over its brim and descended like a demonic red-black caterpillar inching its way down to consume everything in its path; it would soon prod the rebels into action.
But something else did first: a giant explosion ripped a gash into the near slope of la Montaña que Eructa, sending down an avalanche of rock, dirt, and blown-apart Indians and scattering the rebels at the volcano’s base; then the crater threw up another torrent of ash and lava—and the white smocks swirled in frenzy. Gunfire sparked at the dock. Panicked factions of terrified rebels were battling each other.
I turned to Obregón, “Captain, we’re going to attack. Move your men down the rock face; pour as much lead as you can into the enemy. I’ll take fifty men to an enfilading position—somewhere over there. There’s a trail, a land bridge. Between us, we should do some damage.” The volcano belched; the earth rocked; and a spume of lava poured out like the dregs of a coffee pot. “That’s our rear flanking force,” I said.
Major Gillette gathered our platoons, and with Billy Jack on point, I led the way down the jungle path. It was easily passable; obscured from view by hanging leafy branches and vines; and studded with rocks, boulders, and clumpy tree roots. We reached the partially cleared area that jutted over the river—a former guard post, I reckoned.
Obregón’s men traded rifle fire with the enemy: firing, then trotting or sliding down the rockface, kicking up scree, getting to closer range, shielding behind boulders. I set my own men into two reinforcing crescent-shaped firing lines overlooking the river and the enemy. We knelt behind a modicum of cover. Our first volley, at least, would hit the rebels with total surprise.
“Front rank: prepare to fire. Fire!”
Our rifles clattered. Rebels fell; some returned fire; others fled. But our harassment of the enemy was picayune compared to the roaring volcano and its menacing, ever-waxing flow of lava. And then, cutting through everything else: a fearsome rapid-fire crackling; a gatling gun mowing down rebels in front of Captain Wakesmith’s boat.
The enemy was now a trapped animal. With the volcano behind him, the unexpected battle before him, dissension within his ranks, Wakesmith repelling boarders, and onrushing rebels colliding with deserters, the enemy had but one outlet: he would rush the trail. The enemy was coiled like a snake. He would strike at us.
Here we stood like the Spartans at Thermopylae (though the Spartans were three hundred, and we were but fifty). Against us: thousands of Neustraguanian rebels, who, if they got past us, would, in their savage bloodlust, sack and pillage their way to the capital. And in their path would be my impostor wife (no match for you, dearest one) and the noble Victoria Consuela Cristóbal, class enemy of the island’s vicious sans-culottes.
The trail approaching us was narrow, of course—a small space to defend—but they could overwhelm us by sheer numbers. As per Zeno’s Paradox of Murderous Motion, no matter the casualties, an enemy that progresses by yards will eventually reach some point or another. If they did that, we’d be cut off on this platform of jutting rock—and massacred. Having been massacred once before, I didn’t want it to happen again. I needed a plan, and I needed one quick. Luckily, inspiration struck.
“Major, the enemy will be coming up this trail—fast and hard and shooting for all he’s worth.”
Major Gillette shifted uneasily. “If you’re thinking of withdrawal, Yankee General, sir, I don’t know that it’ll help us much. If we retreated to the summit, they’d just overrun us and flank Obregón.”
“Precisely; we’re not withdrawing; we’re reinforcing.”
“With Bierce?”
“Can’t count on him. Don’t know where he is.”
“Then who will do the reinforcing?”
“If we get El Cid and the cathedral’s golden bell up on that summit, Captain Wakesmith might see it and think we’re Matteo Rodríguez and his army. In all this confusion—with the enemy turning on himself—he might think we’re trying to fight our way through; it might intimidate the rebellious rebels and embolden Wakesmith.”
“Back to trickery, is it, sir?”
“That—and courage—is all we have, Major. But if Wakesmith can send out a party of Marines, assuming he has some, or if he has more guns, and can turn them on the enemy, it might even the odds.”
I turned to Billy Jack. “Sergeant, I want the golden bell and El Cid perched on that summit as fast as blazes. And if you see Bierce—we need him here now.”
Billy Jack was on the move instantly—and so was the enemy. A wave of them came rolling up the trail, a hailstorm of bullets preparing their way. I detached a dozen men to block the trail. They formed six rows two-abreast—one rank standing, one rank kneeling, the rest reloading—and pivoted the remaining men on the rocky platform. They would provide enfilading fire and fill the gaps as we took casualties.
The enemy surged before us.
“All right boys, pick your targets and let ’em have it!”
For every rebel that fell, more appeared, screaming hatred, swearing at their wounds, and shooting wildly.
Neither Major Gillette nor I was armed,
but we planted ourselves among the men, directing fire, hoping to make each shot count. Once our ammunition was exhausted, it would be down to the bayonet. Our first few volleys had the enemy recoiling, but then they came on—pushing their stacked dead forward as a shield. Our men clawed frantically in their ammunition pouches to keep up a rapid fire. Panic was pressing the enemy onward: lava cascaded down the sides of la Montaña que Eructa; the Gatling gun hammered rebels at the dock, and the scene to the west reminded me of the poet’s words, “Those behind cried ‘Forward!’ And those before cried ‘Back!’ ” as the rebels were torn between fighting and fleeing.
Finally, Major Gillette came to me and announced the inevitable: “Yankee General, sir, in the race between our ammunition and their progress, things are about to get messy.”
“A fighting retreat, Major?”
“I reckon that’s the ticket now, sir.”
A fighting retreat is one of the most difficult military maneuvers, and, inevitably, once they recognized our intention, the enemy was emboldened, lunged at us, and there was some very hot fighting indeed. The narrowness of the path was now both blessing and curse: it limited the enemy’s advance, but it also limited our retreat. I reckoned we couldn’t fire a volley by rank, withdraw, fire, and withdraw in seriatim because the men would continually bump into each other. So instead I sent our forward ranks running up the hill with Major Gillette while our enfilading force fired covering volleys; then I sent the rest of us out the same way, five or six men at a time. I led the last six men running up the hill.
The rebels pushed their shield of dead off the path, over the precipice, and now it was a footrace, in which, thankfully, we had the lead. There is nothing like the bloodthirsty cries of enraged Neustraguanian rebels to add sparks to one’s stride, and I believe I may never have run faster in my life. I actually regretted, dearest one, that you and Bad Boy were not there to see my deerlike speed and agility as I sprang up that trail.
Whenever I heard the zing of a bullet, I silently rejoiced because some rebel had stopped to fire and I had gained ground—and of course I was still alive. As far as I could tell, we had not lost a trooper; and at the finish line was Major Gillette’s welcoming party of riflemen. I stumbled through them, and they sprayed lead to stifle our pursuers. There was no time to rest. I jogged to the crestline of the summit and looked down, trying to assess the scope of the battle. Obregón must have seen our retreat because his men were scrambling back up the rockface. Behind him on the other side of the river were chaos, crossfire, flame and ash, and a giant curling tongue of lava stretching down to snatch unwary peasants.
Then I looked behind me and saw an extraordinary sight: Billy Jack had retrieved the golden bell and the glorious statue of El Cid and was now leading the muleskinners on a pell-mell charge up the slope, the bell and El Cid rocking dangerously in their carts. The carts swung into position—towards me—but too fast. El Cid stayed majestically aboard his steed, but the golden bell teetered violently against its restraining ropes, and then burst free. It bounced off the top of the cliff with a deafening clang, and then ringing louder and more erratically than any church bell, it bounded down the rocky face of the plateau. Captain Obregón’s men scattered, the enormous bell skipping past them, tolling doom and crushing rock before it shot out and crashed into Wakesmith’s boat like the world’s largest cannonball. The impact was terrific. The boat’s timbers blew apart in all directions, and the bell hammered the hull into the depths like a nail.
El Cid sat his horse at the summit—like an avenging bronze knight. Under his steady gaze, the rebels screamed like banshees—and their footrace into the jungle was like the fleeing of ants from a broom. The crash and thunder of the bell had apparently unnerved the rebels on the jungle path as well, because our riflemen were cheering; and a new flood of white smocks joined the flight west.
Billy Jack came alongside and said, “The bell is now sunken treasure.”
“We need to sink the remaining rebels. Where’s Bierce?”
“He follows. Should be crossing Santiago bridge.”
I looked down the hill. Bierce’s troops were not in view, but he was—his horse tearing up the turf. He pulled up and said, “What in Sam Hill’s name was that? It sounded like the last judgment.”
“It might be,” I said. “We haven’t much time. We’ve engaged the enemy—and that volcano is about to engage everyone. All hell’s broken loose, Bierce; you should feel at home.”
“It certainly smells like Hades—smoke and sulfur.”
“The enemy is on the run; let’s charge and scatter him.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Bierce. “Five minutes and I’ll have my army.”
Major Gillette arrived aboard Edward. He saluted Bierce and said, “I do hope you brought us some troops, General.”
Billy Jack pointed to the river. “Ironclad,” he said. “Warship. Have read of them.”
“Father Gonçalves,” said Bierce.
It was the most stunning sight yet: the spitting image of the USS Monitor recreated in blue-black steel. Long, low-slung, with a knob turret, it sailed up the channel like a calm, well-armed monarch of the sea. Its sight alone affrighted the rebels, and when it fired a cannon shot, flame licked from the turret, and the volcano’s thunder was matched from the river.
“That’s our rescue ship,” I said.
Another explosion from the volcano. I ducked. Charcoal flew past us.
“Yankee General, sir,” said Major Gillette, “that volcano’s getting our range.”
“We’ve got to get Bad Boy, our horses, and the women to that ship and safety.”
“Marshal,” said Bierce, “your priorities continue to amaze me.”
I saw Bierce’s men marching up the slope. I turned to him and said, “Take your troops, and follow Billy Jack to that land bridge over the river. The enemy is running, but we need to ensure our path is clear.”
“As you say, Generalissimo.”
“And you, Major Gillette, come with me: we’ll fetch the women.”
The volcano exploded again. We galloped our horses through a shower of charcoal and ash. Though I may have looked like a chimney sweep, Rachel didn’t hesitate when I reached down to lift her onto the saddle. Her arms were around my waist like a taut rope. “Thank goodness, you’re here,” she said. We watched Major Gillette perch Victoria behind him, and Rachel added: “And thank you for making the right choice—dear husband of mine.”
“Hang on!” I spurred Marshal Ney up the hill. Bad Boy hurtled after us.
I waved my kepi at Bierce’s column. They cheered, and I heard Bierce shout, “All right, boys, on the double!”
I couldn’t resist but command “Follow me!” and pointed to the crestline. Major Gillette and I reached it nearly in tandem. Rachel gasped at the sight of la Montaña que Eructa glowing red. Captain Obregón’s men were reforming at the jungle trail to the land bridge, and I rode to give him instructions. “Captain, get your men down that trail swift as lightning. Bierce and his column are right behind us. Victory awaits!”
His troopers fired a volley to clear any rebel malingerers, and then charged. Bierce’s men poured in after them. It was gratifying, watching from the crestline, as our men pooled out on the valley floor—the enemy in headlong retreat, our troops in pursuit.
A shout behind me: “Generalissimo!” Captain Royce was on horseback. He had a rope tied onto his pommel. Tethered at the other end was a staggering Matteo Rodríguez. The rope bound Rodríguez’s wrists together. “As your aide, I thought you might need me as we go into action. I brought the prisoner. What should I do with him?”
“Bring him along—and your horse.”
The jungle trail over the land bridge was cleared, and now it was our turn. The volcano bade us hurry, but our battle-tested horses knew better, and as we walked them down the path they stepped carefully over roots and rocks and shied away from the trail’s edge and a precipitous fall. When we emerged on the other side of the
river, the volcanic heat was searing, and with that and my endless exertion, sweat leaked into my uniform and dripped down my brow.
Rebel bodies littered the ground, but we cut a path through the enemy dead to the shoreline—and there was the ironclad. A welcoming sight stood on its prow: Father Gonçalves, in full naval regalia, sword at his hip, naval revolver pulled from its holster.
“Ah, it’s you, Generalissimo. I’ve been trying to get my bearings. Fired a few shots from my cannon but wasn’t sure whether I missed most of the battle or ended it.”
“Father, our main enemy now is that volcano. Unless you brought the entire Navy with you…”
“Be not afraid, my son. Thanks to Matteo Rodríguez’s foresight,” he nodded to our prisoner, “the Navy was confined to quarters. I gave them immediate orders. Marines are evacuating the island.” He turned to Victoria. “Your father, Consuela, is safe; I sent a ship to fetch him at the port of Alto Nido de Pájaro.”
“Oh, gracias, Father.”
To me he said, “Generalissimo, order your men to El Pueblo del Pelicano Sagrado; our Navy is concentrated there.”
“Captain Royce,” I said, “see to it. You can leave your prisoner here.” He untied the rope that bound Matteo Rodríguez to his saddle, saluted me, and rode down the beach. I never saw him again. To Father Gonçalves I said, “How many of us can you take aboard?”
“You Americans, Consuela, the animals—all will fit. But no more. I already have passengers.”
A hatch opened from the turret. A man in resplendent uniform—grey tunic, blue epaulets, a red sash, a Cavalry dress helmet on his head—strode up the deck. I saluted. It was El Claudio.
“You know, Generalissimo, I am really glad to see you again. You’ve done a great job, a really great job—and, of course, I have done a really great job too. I gave you great tools, didn’t I: the best soldiers, innovative ships, the finest fighting priests in the world! This ship is his design, you know. Someday, he tells me, it will be submersible. It will travel beneath the seas and be a great benefit to science. But he’s still working out the kinks on that part, and he doesn’t want to take risks with it now—and I appreciate that. But, again, Generalissimo, let me just say: I did a really great job choosing you, didn’t I?”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 21
