Carlos was only a few inches taller than a grade school boy, and he wore silly elevated shoes that, rather than making him appear taller, only succeeded in making him look completely ridiculous. He further attempted to augment or amend his youthful looks with a cartoonish handlebar mustache that connected and outlined his face via a very thin beard-line that bordered his overly effeminate jaw. English always thought that Carlos was a caricature of a miniature Mexican bandit with self-image issues.
“No whining about the heat, then?” the Duke said, glancing at his secretary out of the corner of his eye.
“Were they to heat the furnace in this desert hell-hole seven times more than it was wont to be heated, Your Grace, you should not hear a peep from me.”
“Don’t tempt me, English. I’ll hear your report, but zhooo should know that the King is going to want to hear news of the Crown Prince. I do hope zhooo are working on something to tell him?”
The Duke tried so very hard to mask his heavy Mexican accent, but he could not. No matter how hard he tried, whenever he said the word ‘you’, it usually came out sounding like ‘jew’. When he was especially successful, like today, it came out more like ‘zhooo’.
English had prepared a response for this very issue. He smiled reassuringly at the Duke. “I am writing to the King personally today, Your Grace. The Crown Prince was sent here to be trained and disciplined, so that he will be ready to rule Aztlan one day. That is what the King has commanded, and that is what we are doing—we are training the Crown Prince.”
He walked towards the full-length window that looked down into the Duke’s private courtyard. The heat and the topic made the sweat run profusely under his woolen officer’s tunic. By rule, he only had to wear the official tunic when he was in the presence of the Duke, or in royal company, but he had chosen to wear it almost all of the time as a silent protest and to emphasize his own personal suffering to himself. It was his version of the ‘hair-shirt’ once worn by priests and others to cause private discomfort and irritation. Its purpose was supposedly to bring on humility and a disregard for the flesh, so that the individual would become more spiritually aware. He needed every victory he could get… and even private victories counted. His constant wearing of the tunic, along with his unwillingness to have it laundered in the castle laundry, had become a running joke among many of the workers of the castle.
“I think, perhaps, the King may want more detail than that. For example…. His Highness may want to know where the Crown Prince is right now.”
“I will prepare a wonderful answer for the King, detailing the glorious exploits of his eldest son, under the tutelage and training of those appointed personally by His Grace the Duke of El Paso,” English replied, bowing curtly.
“That sounds great, Sir English, but sometime we gonna have to tell the King the actual location of his son, since he is not really training under me.”
“Military training, Your Grace, requires discipline, practice and—above all—secrecy,” English said, clasping his hands behind his back. “You are preparing for a military invasion of the badlands, with an incursion at least as far as San Angelo and maybe farther. This has not been done before, at least not with a force this size. I am certain the King would love to have his son and heir among the host, fighting against his enemies. However, Your Grace, we cannot risk letting the enemy know the whereabouts of the Crown Prince of Aztlan. The letters to the King could fall into the wrong hands. Surely both Your Grace and His Highness must understand that.”
“So zhooo will craft this response to the King? In the way you have relayed it to me?”
“I will, Your Grace.”
“If something happens to the Crown Prince, Sir English, I assure zhooo that 100% of the fault will be laid at your own door. I know nothing of the training or mission of the young Prince. I will deny everything.”
“I understand, Your Grace.”
“And, should the young Prince meet such misfortune, I will send the notice of the Prince’s death in a note placed in the box with your head.” The Duke nodded at English with satisfaction at his own creativity. “What else do zhooo have for me?”
English rifled through the papers, scanning them as if he were looking for something, though he had the contents memorized. “Let’s see… as you know, the attempt to kill the post rider sent from Jonathan Wall to the King of the South States failed. We have no word from the assassin we sent, but we are assuming that he is dead.”
“I see,” the Duke noted, obviously unhappy with the news.
“There is more bad news, Your Grace, but the day’s correspondence will end on a positive note, I assure you.”
“Go ahead with it then,” the Duke sighed.
“The failure of the assassin led to some of our other assets being compromised. The Ghost militia went on a spy hunt and uncovered several other agents we had strategically placed within communities in or near Bethany.”
“What does this mean?” the Duke asked impatiently, “We have no spies among the Vallenses anymore? And we are so soon to launch our attack?”
“Yes, we do, but most of them have been exposed, or, having been exposed, have subsequently fled.”
“But we still have men there? We still have means of finding out what they are planning?”
“We do, I can assure you, Your Grace. But there is no doubt that our intelligence gathering among the Vallenses has recently suffered a great setback, Your Grace,” English said.
“I assume that the Ghost militia and the Vallenses know that we are going to attack?” asked the Duke, shaking his head.
“We have to assume that they are aware that we are coming, Your Grace. However, I fail to see what they can do about it. The Vallenses will not fight. Every piece of intelligence we have indicates that Jonathan Wall will not join forces with the rebels. The Ghost militia themselves can pester us, but we believe they cannot field more than 100 men at one time and place without risking everything. In any conflict, we will outnumber them ten to one.”
“Ok. And zhooo say zhooo have good news?”
“News you might enjoy, Your Grace,” English said, doing his best to hide his own disgust.
“Well… tell it to me, don’t keep me waiting!”
“A little over a week ago, five of our spies, knowing that they had been compromised, took a wild shot in the dark. They had heard from a fisherman that some militiamen were guarding a shack down on the Colorado River. They did not know what they would find there, but they had hoped that, whatever it was, would be valuable to Aztlan. They disguised themselves as Vallensian farmers before approaching the militia guards, and were thus able to catch the men unawares. The freemen guards were under the command of the terrorist known as Phillip, and it turns out that they were guarding Phillip’s own wife and daughters. Our spies were successful in overpowering the guards and taking Philip’s family into custody.”
The Duke’s face lit up as he rose quickly to his feet. He tugged on his ridiculous mustache in his excitement. “Where are these prisoners? Please tell me that they are being brought here to me?”
“Your Grace, it would have been impossible to get them across the badlands without the militias catching up with them. Phillip has used most of his available resources, as you can imagine, trying to recover his family, and the Vallenses have helped too. Hundreds of the plain people have been working in teams with the militia, scouring the area. However, our spies took them to a safe house a hundred miles North of Bethany. When Bethany is burned by your army, Your Grace, we will gather all of the captives, including Phillip’s family, and we will bring them back here safely with the soldiers.”
The Duke, obviously excited at the turn of events, came around the desk. When he was excited, he looked even more like a cartoon villain—dark and swarthy, with the look of the weasel to him. Cocaloco, English thought, as he adopted his most subservient look for the Duke.
“We may not need to bring them here, then, English. We will send a letter un
der the white flag to Phillip himself. Zhooo will tell him that when our army arrives in San Angelo, that he is to surrender himself and all of his militia. If he does not do so, his wife and daughters will be tried as heretics and burned at the stake.” The Duke paused for a moment, looking his secretary in the eye.
“I am not bluffing. We will do it.”
“I assumed that much.” English swallowed with difficulty. “Is that your wish, Your Grace?”
“It is my wish.”
“I will send the letter, Your Grace.”
“One more thing, English.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“The assassin zhoo sent to kill the post rider,” he paused, looking out the window, “he is dead, I assume?”
“We must assume so, Your Grace. Most likely killed by the terrorist Phillip himself,” English lied.
“Have zhoo told this man’s family?” the Duke asked.
“I was planning to draft a letter to his father today, Your Grace.”
Chapter 5 - Phillip
The Ghost Militia didn’t build fires at night. There were no cozy campfire scenes with the hypnotic, dancing, orange-yellow glow of diffused firelight emphasizing the faces of weather-hardened cowboys. Phillip’s militiamen were both hunters and hunted, and most of them had lived their entire lives in this manner—outside, exposed to the elements, usually in close proximity to a horse. They knew that an open fire at night could get you killed.
At night, as in the day, Phillip’s men disappeared into the surrounding hills and brush. They didn’t have to be told what to do. Except for his current guests, each man had been in the unit for so long, that they moved as a single entity. When it was time to sleep, the men melted into the environment as creatures natural and indigenous to it. Each man would quietly eat his supper of sausage, jerky, or pemmican, with hardtack or maybe a dried tortilla. Tonight, perhaps a few of the men had spread a bit of sugared lard on their bread—those blessed enough to have any lard left from the trip to the ranch.
He chewed slowly and deliberately on a piece of dried sausage as his eyes, fully adjusted to the darkness, scanned the area and the horizon. What little moonlight there was gave a blue-black tinge to the juniper and low mesquite brushes that dotted the hills.
On nights like this one, you relied mostly on your ears. His guards knew the idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes of both horse and man. Each man standing guard had a baseline of expected sounds; they knew which man snored, and how loudly; which horses whinnied, how often, and why. From this cacophony of natural sounds and silence, the guard was able to determine if anything was amiss or deviating from the norm. Experience became a sixth sense.
Sometimes two or three men might break the routine, bunch up for a short while and talk in hushed whispers. But this, too, was part of the overall pattern. The need for interaction and camaraderie was understandable and even welcome. They were still human. Still, if they did congregate to talk, they were expected to operate as additional watchers. In their gatherings, they talked in low tones, with eyes and ears open, alternating between talking, listening, and scanning the area. During these powwows, no two men ever talked over one another, argued, or raised their voices. Within this warrior unit, even fellowship was military in its discipline and bearing.
He heard Gareth’s heavy and untrained footsteps, as he approached. Phillip didn’t bother to turn around, remaining crouched down low on the sandstone ledge.
“Greetings, assassin dog,” he said. “If you intend to cut my throat, you’ll have to do better than that. You sneak like a sasquatch.”
“I know that you have eyes in the back of your head, Sir Ghost. I would never try such a thing. Most likely, if I was inclined to kill you, I’d shoot you from a great distance,” Gareth replied, laughing.
“I’m no knight, friend,” Phillip retorted, “so stop with that ‘sir’ talk. I’ll take your insolence only so much. Ghost is one thing, ‘sir’ is another.”
“Yes, sir!”
He shook his head, and then held up his hand for silence, focusing his ears on a sound from the brush. “Ah… young Raymond Stone went to water a bush. So, why are you still up Gareth? Can’t sleep under the stars? I’ll admit, it can be difficult to find rest with both God and your conscience looking down on you.”
“God sees through barn roofs just as well as castles. There is no hiding from Him. But, in case you were wondering, I’ve been sleeping just fine during this fortnight with you, Phillip. I’m becoming more at home out here as the days pass.”
“Good to hear. Good to hear.” Phillip pulled out his battle knife and sliced off a piece of the sausage, handing it to Gareth, who accepted it gratefully.
“I know that you didn’t want me to come with you,” Gareth said, seriously. “I hope I haven’t slowed you down.”
“Not too much. We’ve been unable to track the Aztlanis this way anyway. We’ll wait now for any word from the other militias, or from the Vallensian searchers to the north.” His head moved slowly and deliberately like radar, as he “watched” with his ears. “Tomorrow, if the Lord wills, we will meet up with an old friend of mine. He’s been at New Rome, and we’re hopeful he’ll have some news for us.”
“You… have a friend who’s been at New Rome? Wow. That’s an interesting twist.”
“Yeah, I figured that since you are an Aztlani spy and assassin, you’d enjoy a visit from New Rome.”
Gareth dropped his head, and responded seriously, “Phillip, I came along to help you find your wife and daughters. I know we joke around a lot, but I want to find them just as much as any of your men do. I want them to be safe with you. I pray that we find them soon.”
“I know, Gareth. I don’t doubt you, though I know that many do.”
“I am your friend, Ghost.”
Phillip looked upward. The sky was clear, and the stars were uncountable in their number, and unfathomable in their beauty. “In our line of work, you’ll understand that we don’t trust words very much. These men began riding together for their own reasons—out of their hatred for Aztlan, or because they refused to worship according to the dictates of New Rome. Some of them are here because their families were killed, or because they merely wanted freedom and saw the militia as the best way of obtaining it. Some came because they were orphans and they had no family. Now, they ride together because they are a family—a clan.
“Like family, they are united in the fundamental opinions of life and living. Yet, unlike a traditional family, they have bled and died together. Out here, the word ‘friend’ means something. In fact, it is from the Hasinai Indian word for ‘friend’ or ‘ally’ that we have the name Texas, which is our home. You might recall that, in the Book of John, Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not what his lord doeth: but I have called you friends.’” With that, Phillip went silent for a moment, listening and watching, before he continued.
“You know, monarchs rule by right of blood—each son ruling in the place of his dead father—even if they despised one another in life and even if they had different beliefs. Thus, in a system of divine and royal right of heirs, the concept of ‘blood’ can be distorted and confusing. Out here, things are much simpler. We are kin by providence, and not by blood.”
“I understand,” Gareth said, pondering Phillip’s words.
The militia commander turned to Gareth and whispered, “These men do not value words. They ride with you, but they watch you. They’ll fight with you and die for you, or… they’ll cut your throat. I can’t tell which is more likely.”
“Well, let’s hope they judge righteous judgment,” Gareth said.
“It’s strange and ironic, you know,” Phillip added, “that one of the Indian words for ‘friend’ that some people believe became our word for Texas was the word Taysha. That conclusion is up for debate, of course, because others believe that our word Texas had to come from the Hasinai word for ‘friend’, the word techas. Anyway, one thing
most everyone who discusses such things agrees on is that the word Taysha is also the Mayan word for spy.”
“You sir,” Gareth said, smiling, “are a fount of etymological irony. Good night, Ghost.”
“Good night, Assassin.”
The night passed uneventfully, and Phillip managed to grab a few hours of sleep before he was wakened by the sound of approaching horses. He jumped to his feet, prepared for anything, when he saw his militia outriders returning from their reconnaissance mission.
Soon, the entire camp was up and moving organically, preparing for the day’s ride. Very small fires—fires that did not smoke—were started, and each man would take coals from the fire to heat his own breakfast. A small hole, maybe four or five inches deep and five inches in diameter, would be dug into the hard ground. A small hand shovel-full of coals would be placed into the hole, over which a small pot would be placed.
Heating up the mesquite coffee always came first. Each man carried a ration of roasted mesquite pods, and each prepared their own cup of coffee each morning. It was more practical this way. It would take too long to heat large pots of coffee, but only a few minutes for a small cup of water. When the water boiled, small broken bits of mesquite pods, roasted black, would be tossed into the water and boiled for a few more minutes. The sweet, highly caffeinated concoction was then poured through a rough cloth into a drinking cup and the ‘grounds’ were set aside to be buried with whatever other evidence might be left over from the night’s stay. It was said that if the Ghost militia was ever tracked and caught by an Aztlani army, it would be by the smell of mesquite coffee oozing from their pores.
Phillip credited the mesquite coffee with the great health and vitality of the militia—that, and the abundance of lacto-fermented foods in their diet. The militia had been riding for nearly 20 years, although most of the men were actually younger than that. Still, it was notable that disease was almost unknown among the freemen militias who lived primarily off the land.
The Last Pilgrims Page 6
