The Baron War

by Jory Sherman

  “It is not a wagon,” Martin said, his words an abrupt intrusion into the silence between him and Ramón. “It is a buggy.”

  “A buggy?”

  “Yes. Hear it. It creaks like the joints of my knees in the morning.”

  Mendoza laughed. “Yes, I hear it.”

  “Two wheels,” Martin said. “One horse.”

  “Yes. I know it.”

  “Wait here. I will go and see who it is.”

  “Have your rifle ready.”

  “I do not think I will need it.”

  “It could be a trick.”

  “You listen good, Ramón.”

  “I will listen. I will be ready.”

  Martin walked around the side of the house. He stepped with care so that he would not make noise. There were men in the barn, there were others flanking both sides of it. They would know he was there, but they would not be alarmed if he did not hurry.

  The buggy pulled up to the front of the house. Martin waited in the shadow of the porch.

  “It’s so dark,” someone said. A woman’s voice. Martin did not recognize it.

  “Shh,” said another, a man’s voice, lower in register.

  “Doc?” Martin called.

  “Is that you, Martin? We can’t see you.” The horse pulling the buggy, snorted and blew steam through its nostrils, a silvery spray by the thin light of the carved-out moon.

  “Light down,” Martin said. “Quiet as you can. Walk over here slow. By the porch.”

  Doc Purvis set the handbrake. He stepped down from the wagon and walked to the other side. Martin saw someone else get out, a woman by the shape and size of her, and then another got out, taller than either Doc or the woman.

  “Where are you?” Doc asked, as he walked toward Martin.

  “Just keep coming. Keep your voice down.”

  “My niece insisted on coming,” Purvis whispered when he saw Martin. Behind Purvis, the tall man stopped short. “It’s Lorene,” the doctor said lamely.

  Martin stepped out from the porch shadow and saw that it was indeed Doc Purvis and his niece. He peered at the tall man behind them.

  “Socrates?” Martin said. “What in hell are you people doing here?”

  “Well, I thought you might need a surgeon if there was a fight. Socrates wanted to come. And Lorene.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Martin said.

  Lorene tittered.

  “Shh, Lorene,” Doc said.

  “I come to fight with you,” Socrates said, his accent thick with the twang of his African roots.

  “This isn’t your fight, Socrates.”

  “You done made us free, Mr. Martin. I want to fight with you.”

  “Can you shoot a rifle?”

  Socrates stepped forward, close to Martin. He raised his hand into the air. A stream of moonlight glinted off the blade of a machete.

  “Holy Christ,” Martin swore. “Socrates, you’re crazy. You go into a fight with that machete and they’ll cut you down before you could lift your arm.”

  “Yes, suh. They calls me ‘Sox’ now. I wants to fight.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that. Doc, you and your niece come into the house. You’ll be safer there. But I wish you’d both get in that buggy and go right back into town.”

  “I think you may need me,” Purvis said.

  “Where’s Anson?” Lorene asked.

  “He’s not here,” Martin replied.

  “Oh.”

  “Socrates, uh, Sox, maybe you ought to drive the young lady back to Baronsville.”

  “No, suh, I’se stayin’ right here.”

  “Doc. Are you sure you want your niece to be here?”

  “She has assisted me on many operations.”

  “All right. Into the house, then, both of you. Sox, you wait out here. And I mean don’t move. You might get shot. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yes, suh,” Socrates said.

  Martin led the doctor and his niece around to the front steps and up to the door. He knocked loudly. After a few moments he heard footsteps.

  “Who is it?” Wanda asked through the door.

  “It’s Martin. Open the door.”

  The latch rattled and the door swung open. Wanda stood there with a rifle in one hand.

  “Make sure Doc and his niece have a safe place to wait,” Martin said.

  “My name’s Lorene,” Lorene said.

  “Yes, I know. Inside, both of you. And do what Wanda tells you.”

  “It’s awful quiet,” Wanda said.

  “Pray that it stays that way,” Martin said.

  “Won’t you come in?” Wanda said to Doc Purvis.

  Martin left before the door closed behind him, and walked back to where Sox was waiting.

  “Come on,” he said. “Stay close and don’t wave that damned blade around.”

  “Yes, suh,” Sox said.

  Back at the wagon, Martin told the other men that Sox would be there to help. “If any man falls, you take his place, Sox.”

  “I wants to fight.”

  “You’ll probably get more fighting than you want. Now, just find a place to sit and be quiet. And put that machete someplace where it can’t hurt anybody.”

  Sox drew the blade close to him. “I’ll be careful,” he said. He sauntered over by the tree and sat down cross-legged. He laid the machete across his lap.

  Martin walked away far enough so that he could not hear all the men breathing. He wanted a smoke more than anything, but he had given orders that no man should light a pipe or cigarette and give away their positions.

  He looked up at the star-sprinkled night sky and breathed deeply of the warm air. At least the wind was down, he thought, and they wouldn’t have to fight dust and the noise while they were waiting for something to happen. He listened intently for any distant sound. He was counting on Roy and Al to fire warning shots. He knew they would carry on the still night air and give him time to climb up in the wagon and maneuver the cannon for a shot.

  He had gone over the battle scenario in his mind dozens of times, but he knew that things never worked out the way they were planned. He had no idea of Matteo’s strategy. He had tried to work out his plan of defense for any contingency, but he knew Aguilar was smart and would probably attack in some unexpected fashion for which Martin had not prepared.

  Martin shifted the rifle in his hand to the other, then laid it on his shoulder for a while. He waited and listened and knew it was going to be a long night. He wondered if the men could wait that long without speaking. As if reading his thoughts, he saw one of the Mexicans leave the wagon and walk a few yards away then stand stock-still. Then he heard the swooshing sound of the man urinating. He was sure that such a sound could be heard by Matteo, no matter where he was. It sounded like a cascading waterfall, like a cow pissing on a flat rock.

  Martin sighed and watched the man walk back to the wagon. Then two others arose and walked to the same spot and relieved themselves. It was contagious, he thought, and now he had to piss, himself. But he waited, and sure enough he could hear men get up, walk a few steps, and piss into the silence of the night.

  A moment later Martin heard the sounds of violent retching. He turned and saw a lone dark shape doubled over like a horseshoe. The man was vomiting up everything in his stomach and the fluid gushed forth in a hideous flood of sour liquid and food chunks that stank to high heaven.

  Martin walked over and saw the man drop to his knees and gasp for air. He slapped the man’s back.

  “Socrates, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “I’se sick.”

  “God, man.”

  “I’se scared, suh.”

  “Scared? Then why in hell did you come out here? Why didn’t you stay in town where it was safe?”

  Socrates stood up. He was trembling, and Martin could see the whites of his rolling eyes. He waited while Socrates regained his breath.

  “I’se all right, suh. I just got me a wrigglin’ in my stomach.”

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nbsp; “But you’re scared.”

  “No, suh, not no more. It was just sittin’ there, thinkin’ and so awful quiet. And dark. I got scared thinkin’ somethin’ might come at me out of the dark.”

  “Well, something might.”

  “No, suh. I got my machete.”

  Martin looked at Socrates’ hands. They were empty. “You better forget about that damned machete.”

  “No, suh. I aims to fight.”

  “Well, you just stay out of my way when the shooting starts. If you get in front of that cannon when it goes off, you’ll be blown into a thousand pieces.”

  “No, suh, I won’t get in the way of no cannon.”

  “Go on back and be quiet. You’ve already made enough racket to wake the dead.”

  “Yes, suh. I’se goin’.”

  Socrates walked back to the wagon and disappeared from Martin’s sight.

  Martin breathed in deeply, caught the smell of the vomit, and himself nearly threw up. He walked far enough away so that he could handle the acrid taint that lingered on the air.

  Yes, he thought, it was going to be one long goddamned night.

  27

  LAZARO SAT BY the back window in Caroline’s bedroom. He had lifted it a crack so that he could hear the men talking by the wagon below. But they were silent. He only heard Martin’s voice and another’s, the black man, Socrates. He heard the other noises, too, and pieced them together in his mind so that he could see through his blindness, could see Socrates throw up his food, and then he could smell the sour aroma of chilies and the half-digested musk of corn tortillas and the acidic fermentation of pinto beans, all mingled together, wafting toward him like messages from another world, another civilization.

  He heard the women whispering in the other rooms and he could identify their voices. Hattie and her daughter, Wanda, were across the hall, at a front upstairs window. Ursula was with Lucinda in the bedroom next door, and Esperanza was in her room down the hall, alone. But he knew she would be looking for him. He had sneaked away while she dozed in a chair, a rifle across her lap.

  He heard the clunk of Martin’s bootheels as he walked back toward the wagon. The black man, Socrates, was making noises in his throat and then louder ones as he dry-heaved. Martin’s voice floated up from near the wagon. Lazaro strained to hear his words.

  “What in hell did you have to eat tonight?” Martin asked.

  “Mexican food.”

  “Chili peppers?”

  “I don’t know. Somethin’ real hot.”

  “I can smell the chilies.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “Stop making noise. Go in the house if you have to do that.”

  “I’se over that now.”

  Then it was quiet once more. He heard Martin walk away again and his hearing followed Martin until the footsteps stopped.

  He wondered what Martin was thinking as he stood out there in the dark. Lazaro knew there was going to be shooting, like there was before, when the Apaches came. He could still hear the sound of the cannon’s roar when he thought about that time. He could still hear the screams of the Indians as the pieces of metal tore into their bodies, and he could still smell the blood, scent the death that had lingered over the courtyard for a long time afterward. And he longed to touch the sleek metal body of the cannon again when it was cool and had not been fired. Caroline had let him touch the cannon before and he still remembered how it had felt, the solidity of it, the coolness of the brass, the shape of the barrel.

  Lazaro heard footsteps down the hall and he followed them closely with his ears. He heard a door open and then close a few moments later. The footsteps continued down the hall and he heard them go down the stairs. He recognized the footsteps as belonging to Esperanza. Then he heard voices from downstairs. She was talking to the doctor and his niece. Lazaro had known when they arrived and came into the house, and he knew they had stayed in the front room, talking in whispers. Then he knew they had fallen asleep down there.

  “Have you seen the blind boy, Lazaro?” Esperanza’s voice carried up the stairs and into Caroline’s room.

  “No, I’ve been dozing,” Doc Purvis said.

  “He has not been downstairs,” Lorene said, and Lazaro let out his breath.

  Esperanza would come looking for him, he knew. She must have thought he had gone downstairs. He did not want her to find him. He was sleepy, but he wanted to stay up and listen for the cannon’s roar if Martin fired it off. He wanted to know what the men were saying while they waited through the night for the attack by Matteo Aguilar.

  He heard Esperanza’s footsteps on the stairs, and he shrank against the wall beneath the window. She walked on past his mother’s room and went to the one where Ursula was sitting with a rifle. He knew that Lucinda was with her, too, and had another loaded rifle across her lap, for he had made Esperanza tell him where the women were and where they were sitting, and about the rifles. He wished he had a rifle and wished he could see to shoot it, or at least hear enough to point it at the sound of an enemy and pull the trigger.

  Lazaro heard whispers floating down the hall. He could not make out the words, but he could associate the voices: Esperanza, Hattie, and Wanda. The whispers stopped and he heard no sounds for several seconds. Then the slap of Esperanza’s sandals broke the quiet and he knew she was once again walking down the hall.

  The footsteps stopped at the door to Caroline’s room. Lazaro held his breath. He waited, his ears attuned to every nuance of sound. Then he heard the latch lift on the door. The door opened. It did not creak, but sounded like a brush sliding across a rough surface.

  “Lazaro?” Esperanza called in a loud whisper.

  He did not answer.

  “Lazaro, are you here?” Esperanza asked in Spanish. “You answer me. Are you in this room?”

  Lazaro felt as if his lungs would burn up with his held breath.

  “Answer me, Lazaro.”

  Lazaro let out his breath slowly so as not to make any sound. He began to tremble as he drew in a slow breath.

  “I know you are in here, Lazaro. I do not want to light a lamp. Answer me.”

  “I am here,” Lazaro whispered.

  “Where?”

  “I am by the window.”

  “Come here,” Esperanza said. “With hurry.”

  Lazaro stood up. He walked toward the door with measured slow steps.

  “I want you to come to bed, Lazaro.”

  “I want to sleep here, in my mother’s room.”

  “You will not sleep here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will displease Don Martín.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I say so.” Esperanza reached out and took Lazaro’s hand. She led him from the room and closed the door. Lazaro dragged his feet all the way to the room down at the end of the hall, the room where Esperanza slept when she stayed at the house.

  Inside her room Esperanza bolted the door. Lazaro heard the bolt click, but it didn’t matter. He knew how to lift the latch and slide the bolt.

  “Go to bed,” Esperanza said.

  “I do not have sleepiness.”

  “You will sleep. The night will be long.”

  “I want to be awake when Matteo Aguilar comes and the shooting starts.”

  “He will not come this night.”

  “Then why is no one else sleeping?”

  “You ask too many questions, Lazaro. Go to your bed.”

  Lazaro lay on his bed, but he could not sleep. Esperanza had the window open, so he could hear the noises from outside. He heard her breathing and knew that she was getting sleepy.

  “I know you are not sleeping,” Esperanza said, after a while.

  Lazaro twitched in the bed because she had startled him. He said nothing and held his breath.

  “Lazaro, listen to me,” Esperanza said. “You must never mention the señora Caroline as your mother again, especially when el patrón is present or can hear you.”

  “Why?”
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  “Because it would not be good to remind him of her.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “He is stricken with grief and he will carry his sorrow with him a long time.”

  “But I carry sorrow for my mother with me, as well.”

  “I know. But he will wish to keep his sorrow private and would not wish to share his grief with anyone else. And you are not of his blood.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then you must keep your mouth closed about my mistress. Do not speak her name except to me. Will you do that?”

  “I will try.”

  “You must promise.”

  “I promise, then.”

  “Good. I do not want trouble here. I wish to raise you as my own son and teach you what I know. If we anger the Baron family, we will have to leave.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “I do not know. I am old and my family are all dead. We would have to go back to Mexico, and that is a very hard place to live. We would be beggars.”

  “What are ‘beggars’?”

  “‘Beggars’ are those without homes who have to ask for money, for food, for clothes.”

  “I will not be one of the beggars, then.”

  “No, you will not be a beggar.”

  “I could play my guitar and people would give me money.”

  “People would still pity you. I do not want people to pity you.”

  “What is ‘pity’?”

  “‘Pity’ is when you feel sorry for a person who is lower in class than you are. It is a shame to be one who is pitied. I would not want you to have shame. I want you to be proud.”

  “And what is ‘proud,’ then?”

  “‘Proud’ is when you hold your head up high and keep your shoulders straight and do not have to bow and scrape for any man. ‘Proud’ is when you feel God’s hand on your shoulder and know that he has blessed you in a special way.”

  “Am I proud, then?”

  “Yes, you are blessed. God did not give you sight, but he gave you other gifts, and your task in life will be to find these gifts. Perhaps you will play the guitar better than anyone else. Perhaps you will do some great thing that others will admire and praise you for.”