His watch was back in the house, so he couldn’t be sure of the time. When at least a half an hour had gone by he walked down the dirt road to the Broderick house, and knocked on the door until someone called out.
“Who there?”
“It’s me, Reverend Lomax. Open the door will you, Franklin?”
He wrote a note for the sheriff while he told Broderick what had happened. He did not tell him who the nightrider had been. This was bad enough. Their teenage son went running with the note.
“Go to bed,” Lomax said. “And get some sleep. It is going to be busy enough around here pretty soon.”
He walked slowly back to the church, immersed in thought. No good would come of this night’s work — and he was worried for the people of his congregation. As he came close he saw that the church door was open. He was sure that he had closed it. As he walked across the porch L.D. Lewis stepped out. Still carrying the rifle.
“Don’t worry for Bradford,” he said. “I got him onto a train and he is well gone by now. I told him to get to the next big town and to contact the Freedmen’s Bureau. Tell them everything that happened here tonight. They’ll take care of him, surely enough.”
“But you — you came back!”
“Sure enough did, didn’t I?” He laughed a bit as he said it. “No one ever said that I was too bright. But I couldn’t let you carry the can. Also — I didn’t feel right about asking you to lie. I have the rifle and all. I’ll give it to the sheriff.”
“They’ll kill you!”
“Maybe not. This is supposed to be a country of law. So let us just wait and see how that law works.”
It was a long wait. It was well after dawn and the sheriff still had not come.
“Seems that they don’t care much around here when their people get shot,” L.D. said.
“Oh, dear God,” Reverend Lomax said. “That is my fault. In the note, I just said that I was woken up by the sound of gunfire near the church, then found a man shot dead. I never did say that he was white.”
“Just as well — they would probably bring a lynch party. Any chance of some coffee while we’re waiting?”
“Yes, of course. I am being most inhospitable.”
The two women who worked in the Freedmen’s Bureau came at eight. The reverend told them what had happened and sent them home. Sheriff Bubba Boyce did not come until after nine. L.D. had taken a chair from the office and was sitting on the porch.
“Who you, boy?” the sheriff asked, scowling down at him and his bluejacket.
“I am Sergeant L.D. Lewis, 29th Connecticut. I work now with the Freedmen’s Bureau.”
“I hear that you’all had some shooting here last night. Where’s Lomax at?” He puffed as he climbed off his horse. His large belly bulged over his gun belt.
Lomax heard the voices and came out of the church.
“Where at is the body?” the sheriff asked.
“Inside. I did not want to leave it in the street.”
“Fair enough. Do you know who it is?”
Before the reverend could answer, L.D. broke in.
“Hard to know who it was, sheriff, seeing he was wearing a hood.”
The sheriff looked baffled. “Nigger in a hood—” His eyes narrowed as realization hit. He stamped into the church and bent over the body, reached down and pulled the hood off.
“Well I’ll be double God-damned!”
He was back an instant later, loosening his gun in its holster as he shouted.
“Do you know who is dead in there on the floor? That is no other than Mr. Jefferson Davis himself, that’s who it is! Now what in hell happened here last night?”
“I heard shooting—” Lomax said, but L.D. stopped him with a raised hand.
“I’ll tell the sheriff, reverend, since I was here in the church at the time. It was after midnight when I heard the horses. Six mounted men stopped outside, all of them wearing hoods just like the other one in there. They were leading another horse with a Negro in the saddle. He was tied up. They said they were going to hang him and burn the church. They started to, and that’s when I called out for them to stop. That’s when they began shooting at me. I fired back in self-defense. That one fell off his horse. Another rider was injured, but he left with the others. The Negro ran away. I had never seen him before. That’s the way it happened, sheriff.”
Sheriff Boyce’s hand was still on his revolver, his voice was empty of any warmth. “Where’s the gun at, boy?”
“Inside. Shall I get it?”
“No. Just point it out to me.”
He let L.D. go first. Followed him inside to the back room. L.D. pointed and Boyce grabbed up the rifle. Checked that there was a cartridge in the breech, then pointed it at L.D. “You’re coming with me. To jail.”
L.D. turned to Lomax and said, “Would you mind coming with us, reverend? After we get to jail I would appreciate it if you would send a telegram to the Freedmen’s Bureau, telling them what happened here.”
They walked side by side down the dusty street. The sheriff followed on his horse, the rifle pointed down at them.
THE SECRET REVEALED
The seaport was ringed with defenses. Don Ambrosio O’Higgins knew that because in the past weeks he had laboriously worked his way completely around Salina Cruz. When he, and his Indian guide, Ignacio, had probed the gun positions and rifle pits to the north of the fishing village they had found no chink in the armor, no weak spot that might be attacked. In desperation they had gone to an Indian fishing village on the Pacific shore and had paid Yankee silver for one of the dugouts. Then, on a dark night, they had rowed out to sea to clear the harbor mouth, risking disaster as they rode the big Pacific rollers. They had made a successful landing on the shore south of the port, and a nocturnal investigation of the defenses proved them to be equal — if not superior — to the defenses north of the seaport. Exhausted and depressed O’Higgins made his way back to their starting point. They were pulling the dugout ashore when Ignacio touched his finger to O’Higgins’s lips and pulled him down quietly into the shelter of the jungle undergrowth. His whispered voice was barely audible.
“Enemy under the trees. I smell them.”
The British were getting bolder now that they were secure behind their impregnable positions, and were beginning to send out patrols at night.
“Gurkhas?” O’Higgins breathed the question. He and his Indians had great respect for the little men from Nepal who were as good as — or even better than — they were in the jungle.
“No. The others. Not the blancos.”
They must be Sepoys, or from another native Indian regiment.
“What should we do?”
“Follow me. We will then go around them, ahead of them — ambush them when they come back down the trail.” They both had breech-loading, repeating rifles. Twenty shots fired from the darkness would kill the first men and send the rest panicking back into the jungle. They had done it before.
Ignacio was at home in the jungle. He led the way down unseen trails, occasionally taking O’Higgins’s hand to place it on a branch he had pulled aside so they could pass.
“Good here,” he finally said, levering a cartridge into the breech of his gun. He rested it on the forked crotch of a tree, the thick trunk sheltering his body. “They come soon from there.” The wave of his hand unseen in the night.
The insects hummed in the darkness and O’Higgins fought to remain motionless under their relentless attack. When he had almost despaired of the ambush he heard the enemy soldiers approaching. The breaking of a twig: the brushing of leaves pushed aside. He held his fire, waiting for Ignacio to shoot first. He actually saw them, moving shapes in the darkness, the pale lapels of their uniforms.
Ignacio’s gun went off by his ear and he began firing as fast as he could. Load and fire, load and fire. There were screams of pain, cries of terror. A single shot was fired in reply, then the enemy was retreating nosily back through the jungle. Ignacio handed O’Higgins hi
s heated rifle, pulled free his machete and slipped forward. They did not take prisoners.
In a minute he was back carrying an epaulette from one the soldiers. He wiped his machete on it and handed it to O’Higgins; they would use it to identify the regiment.
“Five dead. Rest gone,” he said with professional satisfaction. He turned and O’Higgins followed him back to their encampment by a fresh-water stream. It was after dawn when they approached it; Ignacio stopped and raised his head, sniffing the air.
“Horses. And my people.” He moved quickly ahead, calling out in the dialect of his village. He was answered by a friendly shout as he went forward to join the circle of men around the fire. He joined them, squatting on his heels as they did, sipping from the aguardiente gourd they passed him. A saddled horse was quietly chewing at the undergrowth, its rider seated on a log close by. It was Porfirio Diáz.
“Still working for the gringos, Don Ambrosio?”
“Some scouting, yes.”
“Better you than me. I had very little success, and lost good men, testing the strength of the British here. I am very glad that this little war is over for my soldiers. Let the Yankees from the cold north and the invaders from across the sea fight with each other. It is no longer my battle.”
“They invade your country and occupy Mexican soil.”
“This does not bother me. We shall let the gringos do our fighting for us here in the jungle. They have big guns and many troops. I encourage their enthusiasm. But I think that they are not doing that well. Is that true?”
True or not, O’Higgins would not permit himself to agree. “The General Grant is a mighty warrior. He has the guns — and the soldiers — to fight with. He has never been beaten.”
Diáz shrugged noncommittally and pushed a twig into the fire, then lit his black Orizaba cigar from its flame before he continued. “I have been called to the District Federal. President Juarez is assembling a new cabinet and he has honored me by his request to aid him in this great endeavor. We must rebuild this war-shattered country. He has such great plans! There will be elections soon, real ones, not corrupt public displays, the sort of thing that the French did when they elected Maximilian.”
“May what you say come true,” O’Higgins said with feeling. “I only pray that it does.” He did not mention the cruel men who would want to usurp power once again, the combined powers of the landlords and the church that had hung like a dead weight from the tired neck of Mexico for centuries. Perhaps this was a new start, a fresh beginning. May it only be so.
“I am off to join President Juarez,” Diáz said, swinging up into the saddle. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Perhaps, later. I would dearly love to be a part of the new Mexico. Meanwhile I must bring my report to the general.”
They would go on in the morning — but first a little rest was very much in order. In the morning he paid Ignacio the promised American silver and watched him disappear into the jungle with his tribesmen one last time. There was no point in any more scouting — and he would tell Grant that. The defenses were there and, for all important purposes, impregnable. What the Americans would do now, he had no idea.
At noon he came to the first of the army encampments and asked to see the commanding officer, a one-eyed veteran named Colonel Riker.
“Been looking at their lines, have you, O’Higgins?”
“I have been doing just that, sir, and mighty impressive they are.”
“They are indeed,” Riker sighed. “I’ll have a runner take you to the general.”
There was a mighty army camped here upon the Mexican plain. Rows of tents and batteries of cannon. There was a steady parade of wagons bringing supplies, vast encampments of soldiers in both blue and gray. It seemed impossible that anything constructed by man could not be destroyed by these powerful warriors. But O’Higgins had seen the defenses that they were facing. Even the most determined soldiers, the most powerful shells of massed cannon, would not prevail against the British lines. It was a sad and unhappy truth, but it was one that he was duty-bound to tell General Grant. He was stopped by an officer before he could reach the large headquarters’ tent.
“The general is meeting with his staff now. You’ll have to wait.”
“Can you at least tell him that I am here? I have the most valuable of reports to give to him.”
The lieutenant rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Well, mebbe. I have to give these messages to his staff. I’ll tell them that you are here.”
“I appreciate the aid.”
He did not have long to wait. A few minutes later a sergeant popped out of the tent, looked around — then waved him over.
“General can’t talk to you now. But he wants you in the meeting. There’s a chair to the back. Just ease into it and keep your mouth shut.”
As O’Higgins slipped into his chair he realized that there was only silence in the tent. General Grant had his watch on the table before him, was scowling at it from behind a cloud of cigar smoke.
“Five minutes to the hour,” he said, and there was the quick susurration of whispered voices. O’Higgins started to ask the officer next to him what was happening, then changed his mind. Obviously something important was happening on the hour.
General Grant finally stubbed his cigar out in the metal tray, stood and seized up the watch.
“That is it! That is the hour!” Only murmurs of puzzlement greeted the announcement and O’Higgins realized that all of the others were as ignorant of events as he was.
But not Grant. He had a great wide grin on his face as he put the watch back into his pocket — then hammered his fist happily on the table.
“As of this moment our siege of the British positions here is lifted. There will be no more attacks — and no more of our soldiers shall die here in this godforsaken corner of Mexico. But we will still keep up our bombardment of the lines, make our presence known. And stay alert. If they make any sallies I want them wiped out as soon as they start. But for all apparent purposes the war on this front is over.”
“Why — General? Why?” An officer shouted, unable to control his curiosity.
“I’ll tell you why. Because at this very moment a new front was opened to attack the enemy. I cannot tell you where this is happening, not yet, but I do assure you that it is a massive and deadly blow that is being struck right now. So strong and mighty is it that I can speak with some authority when I tell you that the war here in Mexico is over. We only wait now for the British to disengage and leave.”
O’Higgins thought he knew what was happening — but had brains enough not to speak his mind. Great powers were on the move. Great events were heralded. The United States of America was fighting back.
In the State of Mississippi, in the city of Jackson, L.D. Lewis sat in his cell and listened to the growing crowd in the street outside. Reverend Lomax had stayed with him on the long walk to the jail, waited there while he was booked. The sheriff had sent two deputies in a wagon to get Jefferson Davis’s body — told Lomax to go with them to the church. There was no way he could refuse so, reluctantly, he got into the wagon.
That was when the sheriff had gone to L.D.’s cell and had beaten him unconscious.
“No Yankee nigger can come to the South and shoot the likes of Mr. Davis. If you ain’t lynched first, you gonna have a fair trial and then get hung — you got my word on that.”
The sheriff had been worried about a lynching — only because he was worried about his jailhouse getting burnt down, people getting killed. When the wagon returned he had the corpse laid out reverently in his best cell, swore his deputies to silence. And then had gone to Judge Reid and told him everything.
“Folks hear about this they’ll burn the whole town down” was the judge’s learned judicial opinion. “Gotta try him fast and hang him. Meanwhile I’m sending for those Texas troops camped outside of town. Let them stand guard. They pretty uppity, might be good to knock them down a bit.”
Meanwhile L.D. Lew
is sat in his cell. The blood had dried on his jacket in the heat of the day. One eye was battered shut; he couldn’t see very well out of the other. Well, at least he was still alive.
But for how long?
BOOK TWO
INVASION!
THE MIGHTY ARMADA
Never had the little island of Graciosa in the Azores seen such a sight. In the past, there had been two, sometimes three, ships that might be taking on coal in the harbor at the same time. But this — this was unbelievable. Black steel warships filled the ocean outside the small port, dark guns pointed menacingly at the city and the sea. Anchored close offshore was a sailing ship and two small steamers. The three-master — which had flown the Union Jack — was now a prize of war. The captains of the other two ships, one French, one German, had protested mightily when the American marines had boarded them. Politely, but firmly, they had been promised release after the fleet had sailed.
But for the moment not only wasn’t it sailing — it was being reinforced. It seemed that the entire population of the island was gathered now on the shore staring, gape-mouthed, at the horizon. Where vessel after vessel appeared, until the sea was filled with ships.
But there was a logic among all the bustle and apparent confusion. Signalmen relayed orders: two ironclads passed through the anchored fleet and pulled up at the coaling wharf. At the same time a steam launch made its way out through the ironclads, stopping at each one just long enough for the ship’s captain to step aboard. When it made its last call the crowded launch then returned to USS Dictator. The most powerful battleship ever launched, where Admiral Farragut hung his flag. The captains crowded the Officers’ Mess, talking intensely among themselves. The murmur of sound died down when the admiral entered, followed by his aide heavily burdened with sealed envelopes.
“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, “this will be our last meeting. At dawn tomorrow we sail for Ireland.” He waited, smiling, until the voices had died down. “I know that until this moment you have heard only rumors about the invasion, knew only our destination. Rumors were circulated that we were going to Scotland, to attack England herself, and, of course, Mexico. As far as we can tell the British have been completely duped and their forces are preparing for our invasion of Mexico. But that does not mean that there are none of her warships now at sea that may be encountered — nor does it mean that the continuing threat of the armed might of the British Isles has been neglected. Many of her ships must now be at sea. That is the one thing we must guard against — being observed before our forces are put ashore in Ireland. Therefore I want an outer screen of your ships around the convoy. No other vessels, enemy or otherwise, will penetrate this shield to see the convoy that you are guarding. Neutrals will be boarded and seized, enemy vessels captured. Now — here is the course that we will be taking.”
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