Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  It was dawn before I took a breather and treated myself to a bottle of sarsaparilla in the hotel parlor and pulled from my breech clout a folded sheet of paper. It was the map I had drawn outlining our rescue plan. I glanced at it fondly and, I confess, shook my head in genuine admiration for the simple genius it represented—the genius of your very own Autie. With that thought in my mind, I finished the sarsaparilla and feel asleep in the chair.

  I awoke in, of all places, a soapy bathtub with Hercules standing next to me holding out a large sponge, which I accepted. Billy Jack, who was sitting in a chair facing me, explained: “Miss Saint-Jean wanted you cleaned up and dressed. She didn’t like the look of you in the parlor. Said it was bad for business.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing—I was still half asleep—and set about scrubbing myself clean with the sponge.

  “All’s well, Sergeant?”

  “All’s well, sir. Miss Saint-Jean is preparing dancing costumes for the women. The children are asleep at the saloon. They stayed up all night talking in high-pitched voices. They reminded me of the Chinamen.”

  “Hmm—well, Sergeant, I doubt they’re related linguistically—Western girl-talk and Cantonese—but I could be wrong. Are they under guard?”

  “The Chinamen?”

  “No, the children.”

  “Yes—Mathis and Llewellyn. I assumed it was civilian duty.”

  “Well done. And the cordon around us? Any movement?”

  He shook his head. “No movement. All is quiet. I think they are stunned—like the Romans were when Hannibal brought elephants over the Alps.”

  “I reckon I’d be stunned too—but I’d do something about it; right away. Where’s Beauregard?”

  “He’s drilling the acrobats. The women are watching.”

  “By his invitation, I’m sure. I should have figured as much—that Dixie Don Juan.”

  Clean, dressed, and with a cup of coffee inside me, I decided to show our new arrivals who was really in charge. I stepped onto the veranda of the hotel, Billy Jack and Hercules beside me. Beauregard was on our improvised parade ground, standing with a gentleman’s cane (part of the booty we had acquired from the General Store). The acrobats had formed a human pyramid. Fu Yu stood at the top. Doves emerged from his sleeves, and he released the birds skyward. The women—those we had rescued and Miss Saint-Jean’s veterans—watched from the balcony, gasping, cheering, and applauding.

  “Billy Jack, saddle me a horse, and bring him here on the double!”

  I nudged Hercules in the ribs and motioned for him to step into the street. I placed my booted foot in his stirrup-shaped hands, clambered onto his shoulders, and his hands clamped over my feet like shackles. We walked onto the parade ground, the strongman acting as my stilts, and I balanced as adeptly as any acrobat.

  “Good morning, ladies,” I declared. “I am General, and U.S. Marshal, Armstrong Armstrong. My subordinate Major Gillette and I are pleased to welcome you as our guests. Last night, we rescued some of you. I was the half-naked Indian of savage mien and startling physique—but do not be afraid: I am a gentleman, not a savage, and a gracious respecter of the fairer sex.” This was greeted with appropriate polite applause.

  Billy Jack ran onto the far side of the field, leading the horse I’d named Marshal Ney. I waved for him to keep running towards me and shouted: “How do you say ‘one, two, three,’ in Chinese?”

  “Unos, dos, tres,” he shouted back, which didn’t sound right to me, but I tried it on Hercules, and bang on the count of tres he threw me into the air and I spun myself so that I landed perfectly astride the saddle as Marshal Ney came trotting by. The feminine gasps and cheers were easily the match of anything Beauregard had elicited. Billy Jack tossed me the reins, and I raced the horse down the dirt track, turned dramatically, volte face, and charged the human pyramid. Fu Yu screamed and jumped off the pyramid, doves shooting from his sleeves like fireworks, but the acrobats held steady, and Marshal Ney and I leapt over them to more cheers. I pulled the good marshal up so that he reared, jabbing his front hooves like a prizefighter showing off for the ladies, and whinnied his victory roar. I trotted him beneath the balcony and bowed in the saddle. Marshal Ney pawed the turf.

  “What a marvelous performance! What style! What grace! What courage! What dash!” These words, I guessed, were forming in their minds—their children’s too, for the little ones were gathered at the front of the saloon, cheering and clapping, with Isabel as their shepherd.

  I dismounted and said, “Ladies, I am at your service. Meet me in the parlor and I will brief you on my plans.” Marshal Ney whinnied his assent, and I gave him a well-deserved pat on the neck and draped his reins over the hitching post.

  I took a commanding position in the center of the parlor and was soon surrounded by admiring glances and the susurrus of cotton and silk. “Ladies,” I said, “we are gathered here today in an epic struggle against the Largo Trading Company. We are engaged in a war to decide whether women, such as yourselves, and children, such as those next door, and your boys and menfolk can live as happy families undisturbed by Seth Larsen’s greed. Soon we will take the next step toward victory. We will raid the mine and the foundry and bring your men and boys back here.” Cheers erupted, but I bid them cease. “In the meantime, meals are at seven, noon, and seven. The children will dine at the saloon; you may take your meals with them or here at the hotel. I, most often, will be here, contemplating matters of tactics and strategy.

  “Though you are our guests, we count on your assistance. Miss Saint-Jean will carefully arrange your schedules so that you may help with the children at the saloon, oblige as needed in the farmyard or the kitchen, and still be fresh for cancan rehearsals in the evening. Your rehearsal nights could be long, ending at the discretion of Miss Saint-Jean, who,” I chuckled, “is a stern taskmistress. That is all for now, ladies. Dismissed.”

  But instead of dismissing they fluttered around me, bombarding me with questions, which, for the most part, I dodged for the sake of military secrecy. I pressed my way through the throng and outside to the safety of Marshal Ney’s back. Before an avalanche of fluttering feminine fear could come pouring out the hotel door, I applied my spurs to the good marshal and we sped away. I needed to think. Billy Jack was soon riding beside me.

  “General, I thought you might want a council of war.”

  “Decent of you to come along.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “For the mine and the foundry? Nothing as detailed as the plan for rescuing the women; just an idea. I do know we can’t repeat the Indian trick.”

  “Indians have many tricks. I have another, adapted from a book I read, given to me by the priest. Ives and I have been working to build what we might need: a giant cannon.”

  My face, I’m sure, betrayed my amazement, because he continued: “It is in sections, but can be assembled quickly. We made it from the scrap of the torn down buildings. It cannot fire, but it can fool the enemy. We load it with the Chinamen and drag it to Larsen. We offer to exchange it—our cannon for the imprisoned men and boys. It is the Quaker Gun as Trojan Horse.”

  “My goodness, that’s a clever idea. But could it really work; could it fool Larsen?”

  “We make the exchange at night. In the dark, he will not look in the horse’s mouth, the mouth of the cannon. He is greedy. He will take the gift. He’ll think it’s a weapon he can turn against us. That’s how we surprise him.”

  “Is the cannon ready?”

  “Nearly. We’ve worked hard into the night while others sleep, using muffled hammers and working by lamplight. The parts are hidden in the grove by the farmyard fence. It can be ready in two days. You, or Major Gillette, can offer Larsen the exchange.”

  “Beauregard knows?”

  “No. No one. We kept it secret. May I show you?”

  “Of course!”

  We rode to the grove. Hidden there, beneath bushes and branches, were the materials of the giant ca
nnon; sections of barrel that could be fitted together; wagon wheels; and limber. I tapped the barrel and asked: “Wood wrapped in tin?”

  “And disguised with paint.”

  I thought of the acrobats squeezing themselves down the tube—they were flexible little fellows and could probably manage.

  “Two days, you say.”

  “Yes. Give me two days. Then write Larsen a message and I will deliver it.”

  “He’ll want shells; you can make dummy ones?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Then, by Jove, let’s do it! I’ll draft the note to Larsen—and I’ll do it now, while I’m inspired; no need to dawdle. Orders, battle plans, books, notes, I can write them all. Have you read My Life on the Plains? Brilliant literary work, if I say so myself. I can write quickly and with popular appeal, but this, this is a different challenge, an invitation to a gunfighter—or to a villain who hires them. To the hotel, Sergeant—to the hotel!”

  The women, thank goodness, had abandoned the parlor. I sent Billy Jack to find the major, and I grabbed a sheaf of paper from behind the reception desk, as well as pen and ink, and set to work.

  “Dear Mr. Larsen. . .” No, that wouldn’t do. I wouldn’t call him “dear.” “Larsen.” That was better. “Larsen, we rescued the ladies and the girls. Now we will trade for the men and the boys. In our possession is a giant cannon, once belonging to the Chinese Emperor Hu Dat Mhan. We will trade this priceless—and deadly—weapon for the boys imprisoned at the mine and the men enslaved at the foundry. You could not build a weapon like this if you had a thousand years. We deal from a position of strength. We can raid your positions and liberate captives at will—we’ve proven that. But our next raid could result in casualties—needless casualties among your men. As a professional soldier, and marshal, I would rather avoid this. We will give you an incredible weapon, but first you must hand over your remaining hostages—all the men and all the boys. Once they’re reunited with their families, and once you give us your word that we have free passage out of town, we will provide you with the shells that feed this monstrous cannon. We will have our freedom, and you will have a weapon beyond compare. You have forty-eight hours to decide. If you agree to these terms, we will deliver the cannon at midnight. If you do not, you will feel its wrath—and perhaps be its first victim. RSVP. Sincerely, U.S. Marshal Armstrong Armstrong (Brevet Major General, U.S. Army, 1865).”

  Beauregard appeared in the doorway. “Yankee General, sir, Sergeant Bill Crow said it was urgent.”

  “Everything we do is urgent, Major. Hours and days are precious—we should use them wisely.”

  “Thank you, sir, I appreciate that. Was there something in particular?”

  I handed him my note. He read it and looked at me with an arched eyebrow. “Emperor Hu Dat Mhan?”

  “An embellishment; acceptable given the circumstances.”

  “And this cannon?”

  “The handiwork of Ives and Billy Jack, assembled at night in the grove behind the farmyard. I’m surprised you don’t know about it. You’re responsible for assigning the sentries.”

  “I am—and my nightly sentries are Ives and Sergeant Bill Crow.”

  “So, they outsmarted you.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect them to be Yankees pulling shenanigans behind my back.”

  “Thank goodness they were; thank goodness I can rely on someone around here to go above and beyond the call of duty, instead of showing off for the ladies.”

  “Yankee General, sir, is that why you called me here, to dress me down because the ladies of Bloody Gulch seek my company? Well, sir, I can say I was only behaving as an officer and a gentleman.”

  “Major, I want your thoughts on that note. If you were Larsen, how would you respond? We plan to load the cannon with Chinamen.”

  “And fire it? That would be as messy as a woodpecker trapped in a tub of molasses.”

  “No, you Confederate Casanova—have you never heard of the Trojan Horse? We wheel the cannon into Larson’s Trading Post and bang, Chinese acrobats leap from the barrel with blood-curdling screams.”

  “Well, sir, I can confirm that would certainly frighten me.”

  “Do you think it would work?”

  “After last night’s performance, sir, I reckon you have Bonaparte’s gift.”

  “Genius?”

  “Luck, sir, something even greater than genius.”

  “So, you’re in favor?”

  “Well, sir, if we have the cannon, we might as well use it—and that’s as good a way as any.”

  “Indeed. In two days, we’ll have Billy Jack deliver that note. In the meantime, we must prepare for battle. The acrobats need to be trained. We’ll need a mock cannon for them to practice loading themselves in and firing themselves out.”

  “Well, sir, I reckon we could knock the bottom out of three wooden barrels, lash them together, and then prop them on a water trough for elevation.”

  “See to it.”

  And he did. I watched the men train, and my confidence rose with every drill. The Chinese order for “fire,” as advised by Billy Jack, was: Sechuselvesonfire. This he said was not classical Chinese but a dialect version that most Chinamen understood, and ours seemed to, as they leapt out screaming and waving their curved swords. It was, in its own way, an impressive demonstration.

  When not supervising such drills, I watched over Ives and Billy Jack. They worked hour after relentless hour until, on the afternoon of the second day, the snout of an enormous cannon poked into the sky from behind the grove.

  Billy Jack stood beside me, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Good gun, you think, sir?”

  “A fine gun, indeed, Sergeant. I think it’s time you got the message to Larsen.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said

  “Seize the day, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir, carpe diem.”

  “Indeed, Sergeant, carpe diem—which reminds me: how do you say ‘seize the cannon’ in Chinese?”

  “In Chinese, sir, it would be, ‘Carpe Dayboom.’ ”

  “Very good—on you go now.”

  I set Ives and Hercules as guards over our Quaker Gun. In the hotel parlor, I ordered a stout glass of Alderney and sat down with a sheaf of battle plans—each sheet of paper outlining a scenario we might face. Beauregard ambled in. I eyed him cynically.

  “Afternoon, Major, no ladies’ tea to attend?”

  “I saw Billy Jack riding out to Larsen, and I thought, Yankee General, sir, we might want to discuss our plans again.”

  “Major, take a look at this.” I pulled out a chair and handed Beauregard my latest sketch. “That,” I said, pointing to a long barrel, “is the cannon, wheeled before Larsen. The balls bouncing out of it are the acrobats. You note that the balls, in figure two, form a circle around the letter L. The L is for Larsen.”

  “So, I take it then, sir, that the bouncing balls have taken Larsen captive?”

  “Yes. We hold him until the men and boys are released into our custody.”

  “And then the bouncing balls go bouncing back to Bloody Gulch?”

  “Yes—if possible. If we have to fight it out then and there, I’ll be ready. But I’d rather bring the civilians to safety first.”

  “Brilliant, sir. Sherman or Sheridan could not have done better.”

  “Thank you, Major. I had the pleasure to know both.”

  “Pleasure’s all yours, sir.” He handed me the paper and tilted his hat over his eyes. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “For now, sir, with your permission, I reckon a siesta’s called for. It could be a long night.”

  It certainly was. When Billy Jack returned I was still in the parlor committing my plan to memory while Beauregard slept in the adjacent chair. Billy Jack looked at him, then at me.

  “You saw Larsen, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir, he agreed to see me. He read your note and then stared at me for a long time. Finally he told me to go away.”

  “That’s
all?”

  “That’s all. I believe he wants to verify we have the cannon.”

  “Well, Sergeant, his scouts aren’t worth much if they can’t verify that.”

  “No, sir.”

  “So, we wait to see whether he accepts our offer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any reason why he wouldn’t?”

  “He might try to steal the cannon.”

  “Not worth it—too risky. In his mind, by our terms, he gets the cannon for nothing.”

  “What about his hostages?”

  “He’ll regard their surrender as temporary; he’ll reckon he can recover them in a trice. He’ll deal with us.”

  Beauregard tilted his hat back from his face. “When a man’s bluffing, you can always force his hand.”

  “Meaning?”

  “What if we gave Larsen a taste of Old Blunderbuss?”

  “And just how do we do that, Major?”

  “We’ve got plenty of gunpowder. An explosion’s an explosion. He won’t know where it’s from.”

  I sat tall in my chair, my scalp tingling with excitement. “That, Major, is a splendid idea. Explosions motivateth the man. How close do we set it off?”

  “Well, the closer, the more effective—the riskier too. I reckon if we’re careful we can get a barrel of gunpowder out the same way we left for the farms. Only need two of us, if we roll it along. Get the barrel as close to the enemy as time and prudence allow. They’ll hear it, wherever it goes off.”

  “Right, let’s do it. Beauregard, find your barrel, and get a fuse and make sure you have your matches. The three of us will go—in disguise.”

  “Not Indians again.”

  “We have no choice. There’s no time to make new costumes—and without a black wig my hair shines like a morning star, beckoning all to follow.”

  “You reckon, so, Yankee General, sir?”

  “Yes, I reckon so—and I reckon we should get moving.”

  “Poor Mother Gillette—she did not raise her son to be an Indian.”

  “Or a gambler?”

  “Well, Yankee General, sir, a gentleman can gamble; he will risk all for honor.”