Stars And Stripes In Peril

by Harry Harrison

  "Do we return to Salina Cruz?" Miguel asked.

  "Not this time. We follow the trail only as far as San Lucas Ojitlán. Then turn south, into the Oaxaca Mountains. Do you know the trails?"

  Miguel nodded, then shook his head unhappily. "I know them, yes, but they are not safe. Not unless you are a friend of Porfirio Diáz. He and his followers are the law there in the mountains."

  "I have never met the good general—but I am sure that he will be very happy to see me. How do we find him?"

  "That is not a problem. He will find us," Miguel said, his voice laden with doom.

  It was hot under the afternoon sun but they kept moving, stopping only to rest and water their beasts of burden. This time they encountered no French troops. By mid-afternoon clouds had moved in from the sea, cooling the air. A light rain fell which they ignored.

  The flat coastal plain of Tehuantepec ended abruptly at the foothills of the Oaxaca Mountains. As they went higher they came to fewer and fewer villages, since there were very few places among the crags that were fit for farming. Fifty years of revolution after revolution had left their mark as well. They passed by one nameless village, now only a burnt and blackened shell. The trail went on, slowly winding uphill between the trees. It was cooler at this altitude, as the lowland shrubbery gave way to giant pine trees. The hoofbeats of their animals were muffled by the carpet of pine needles, the only sound the wind rustling in the branches above them. Further on they emerged into a clearing and found a mounted man barring their way.

  O'Higgins pulled his horse up. He thought of reaching for his gun, then quickly changed his mind. This was no chance encounter. They must have been watched, followed, cut off. The mounted man did not reach for the rifle slung across his back, but movement in the foliage to both sides of the path proved that he was not alone. He had the emotionless face of an Indian; his black eyes stared coldly at O'Higgins from under the brim of his large sombrero. Miguel had pulled up the donkeys as soon as he had seen the stranger. O'Higgins dismounted slowly, carefully keeping his hands away from his weapons. He handed the reins to Miguel and walked slowly towards the horseman.

  "That's far enough," the man said. "We do not see many strangers in these mountains. What do you want?"

  "My name is Ambrosio O'Higgins and I am here on a mission. I want to see Porfirio Diáz."

  "What is your business with him?" As he spoke the rider flipped his hand. A number of men—all carrying rifles—emerged from the undergrowth on both sides of the trail. O'Higgins paid them no attention and spoke directly to the rider.

  "My business is with Diáz alone and I assure you that it is of great importance. All I can tell you is that he will consider it most critical when he understands why I have sought him out. He will surely want to talk with me when he understands why I have come to his mountains."

  "Why should I believe you? Why shouldn't I shoot you on the spot?"

  Miguel began to shake so badly that he had to clutch his saddle so he wouldn't fall off. However O'Higgins showed no emotion—and his stare was as just as cold as the other man's.

  "If you are a bandit then I have no way of stopping you. But if you are a warrior and a Juarista, why then you will take me to your leader. I fight for a free Mexico—as do you."

  "Where do you come from?"

  "We left Vera Cruz today."

  "And before that?"

  "I will be happy to tell that to Porfirio Diáz."

  "Why should I believe anything that you say?"

  "Because you must believe—since you dare not make any other decision. This is a chance that you have to take. And consider—for what other reason would I be traveling in these hills? It would be suicidal if I did not have legitimate reason to talk with Diáz."

  The horseman thought about that—and made a decision. He waved his hand again and his followers lowered their guns. Miguel let out his breath in a relieved sigh and crossed himself with trembling fingers. O'Higgins remounted and rode forward to join the other man.

  "What of the war?" the guerrillero asked.

  "It goes very badly. The French are victorious everywhere. Juarez has been defeated but has managed to escape to Texas. The French hold all of the cities. Monterrey was the last to fall. But Mexico itself is not defeated—never will be. Fighters like yourselves hold the mountains where the French dare not follow them. Regules is in Michoacán with armed followers, Alvarez the same in Guerrero. These are places where the French dare not go. And there are others as well."

  The trail narrowed and the horseman pulled ahead. They rode on slowly so the men on foot could keep up with them. The trail meandered up through the trees, occasionally forking, at other times vanishing altogether. They crossed broken scree, then entered another pine forest: the pine needles underfoot smelling sweetly as the horses' hooves sunk silently into their surface. Then, through the smell of pine, there was a whiff of burning wood. Soon after this they came out into a clearing scattered with brushwood huts. Sitting on a log outside the largest shelter was a young man in uniform, a general's stars on his shoulders.

  So young, O'Higgins thought, as he swung to the ground. Thirty-three years old—and fighting for most of those years for Mexican freedom. Three times he had been captured, three times he had escaped. This young lawyer from Oaxaca had ridden a hard trail, had come a long way.

  "Don Ambrosio O'Higgins at your service, General." Diáz nodded coldly and looked the newcomer up and down.

  "That is not a very Mexican name."

  "That is because I am not a Mexican. I am from Chile. My grandfather came from Ireland."

  "I have heard of your grandfather. He was a great fighter for freedom from Spain. And was an even greater politician, as was your father. Now—what does an O'Higgins want of me that is so important that he risks his life in these mountains?"

  "I want to help you. And I hope that you will aid me in return."

  "And how will you be able help me? Do you wish to join my guerrilleros?"

  "The help I bring you is worth far more than just another man to fight at your side. I want to help you by bringing you many of these. From America." He began to unwrap the canvas bundle. "I have seen the weapons that your men carry. Muzzle-loading smooth-bore muskets."

  "They kill Frenchmen," Diáz said, coldly.

  "Your men will kill that much the better when they have many of these."

  He pulled the gun out of the canvas wrapping and held it up. "This is a Spencer rifle. It loads from the breech like this."

  He took out a metal tube and pushed it into an opening in the wooden stock, then worked the cocking lever. "It is now loaded. It contains twenty bullets in that tube. They can be fired just as fast as they can be levered into the firing chamber and the trigger pulled." He passed the rifle over to Diáz who turned it over and over in his hands.

  "I have heard of these. Is this how you load it?"

  He pulled the lever down and back and the ejected cartridge fell to the ground.

  "It is. Then, after firing, you do the same thing again. The empty cartridge will be ejected and a new one loaded."

  Diáz looked around, pointed at a dead tree ten yards away and waved his men aside. He raised the rifle and pulled the trigger; splinters flew from the tree. He loaded and fired loaded and fired until the magazine was empty. There was a splintered circle on the tree; smoke hung in a low cloud. The silence was broken as the guerrillerros shouted loud approval. Diáz looked down at the gun and smiled for the first time.

  "It is a fine weapon. But I cannot win battles with this single gun."

  "There is a ship now loading in the United States that will bring a thousand more of these—and ammunition. It will be sailing for Mexico very soon." He took a heavy leather bag from the roll and passed it over as well. "There are silver dollars here which you can use for food and supplies. There will be more coming on the ship."

  Diáz leaned the rifle carefully against the log and hefted the money bag.

  "The United Sta
tes is most generous, Don Ambrosio. But this is a cruel and savage world and only saints are generous without expecting some kind of reward in return. Has your country suddenly become a nation of saints? Or is there something that they may want from me in return for all this largesse? It was not so long ago that I walked out of these mountains to join the others in the battle for my country—against your Gringo invaders from the north. That war is hard to forget. Many Mexicans died before the American guns."

  "Those days are long over. As is the war between the states. There is peace in America now between North and South, just as there is peace between the American government and your Juaristas. Guns and ammunition, like these, are crossing the border in greater numbers. America is waging a diplomatic war against Maximilian and the French. It will be a fighting war if the French do not acquiesce to their demands. Even as we speak attacks by Juaristas in the north are being launched against the French, and the Austrian and Belgian troops they command."

  "And your Americans wish me to do the same? To march against Mexico City?"

  "No. Their wish is that you go south. Have you heard of the troop landings there?"

  "Just some mixed reports. Strange soldiers in strange uniforms. Something about building a road. It is hard to understand why they should be doing this here. People I have talked to think that they must be mad."

  "The soldiers are British. And far from being mad they have a carefully worked out plan. Let me show you, if I may?"

  Diáz waved him over. He took a map from his saddle pouch and unrolled it. He sat beside Diáz on the log and pointed at the south of Mexico.

  "The landings were made here on the Pacific shore at the small fishing village of Salina Cruz. The soldiers are from many countries in the East, but mainly from India. Their commanders are British, and what they mean to do is to build a road across the isthmus here, to Vera Cruz on the Atlantic."

  "Why?"

  "Because these troops are from many places in the British Empire. From China and India. The North Americans, though they do not wish it, are still at war with the British. They believe that when the road is complete these troops will be used to invade the United States."

  "Now it is all becoming very clear," Diáz said, his voice suddenly cold. "Your Americans wish me to pull their hot chestnuts from the fire. But I am a patriot—not a mercenary."

  "I think that it would be more correct to say that my enemy's enemy is my friend. These British troops are also allies of the French. They must be driven from Mexican soil. As proof of what I say I have something else for you." He drew the envelope from inside his jacket and passed it over.

  "This is addressed to you. From Benito Juarez."

  Diáz held the letter in both hands and stared at it thoughtfully. Juarez, the President of Mexico. The man and the country for which he had fought these many long years. He opened it and read. Slowly and carefully. When he had finished he looked over at O'Higgins.

  "Do know what he says here?"

  "No. All I know is that I was told only to give it to you after I had told you about the guns and the British."

  "He writes that he and the Americans have signed a treaty. He says that he is returning from Texas and is bringing with him many rifles and ammunition as well. He also brings American soldiers with cannon. They will join with the guerrilleros in the north. Attack through Monterrey and then move on to Mexico City. The invaders shall be driven back into the sea. He asks that I, and other guerrilleros here in the south, fight to stop the British from building this road. He writes that this is the best way that I can fight for Mexico."

  "Do you agree?"

  Diáz hesitated, turning the letter over and over in his hand. Then gave a very expressive shrug—and smiled.

  "Well—why not? They are invaders after all. And mine enemy's enemy as you say. So I shall do what all good friends must do for one another. Fight. But first there is the matter of the weapons. What will be done about that?"

  O'Higgins took a much-folded map from his pocket and spread it on his knee and touched the shore on the Gulf of Mexico. "An American steamer is loading the rifles and ammunition here in New Orleans. In one week's time it will arrive here, in this little fishing village, Saltabarranca. We must be there to meet it."

  Diáz looked at the map and scowled. "I do not know this place. And to get there we must cross the main trail to Vera Cruz. There is great danger if we expose ourselves on the open plain. We are men of the mountains—where we can attack and defend ourselves. If the French find us there in the open plain we will be slaughtered."

  "The one who came with me, Miguel, he knows this area very well. He will guide you safely. Then you must get together all the donkeys that you can. Miguel, and others, they watch the French at all times. He tells me that there are no large concentrations of French troops anywhere nearby. We can reach the coast at night without being seen. Once you get the guns you will be able to fight any smaller units that we may meet when we return. It can be done."

  "Yes, I suppose that this plan will work. We will get the weapons and use them to kill the British. But not for you or for your gringo friends. We fight for Juarez and Mexico—and for the day when this country will be free of all foreign troops."

  "I fight for that day as well," O'Higgins said. "And we will win."

  PERFIDIOUS ALBION

  Brigadier Somerville waited on the quayside, holding his hat to prevent it from being blown away. The bitter north wind whipped spray and rain across his face, more like December than May here in Portsmouth. The fleet, at anchor, were just dim shapes in the harbor. Dark hulls with yardarms barely visible through the rain. Only one of the ships was bare of masts, with just a single funnel projecting above her deck.

  "Valiant, sir," the naval officer said. "Sister ship of the Intrepid which will be arriving tomorrow. Her shakedown cruise was most satisfactory I understand. Some trouble with leaks around the gunshields—but that was soon put right."

  "Ugly thing, isn't it? I do miss the lines of the masts."

  "We don't," the commander said with brutal frankness. "I had friends on Warrior. She went down with all hands. We are determined to see that shan't happen again. Valiant can equal or better the Yankees. We have learned a thing or two since Monitor and Virginia fought each other to a draw. I saw that battle. My ship was stationed outside of Hampton Roads at that time for that very purpose. It seems a century ago. The first battle of iron ship against iron ship. Naval warfare changed that day. Irreversibly and forever. I have been a sailor all my life and I love life under sail. But I am also a realist. We need a fighting navy and a modern navy. And that means the end of sail. The ship of war must now be a fighting machine. With bigger guns and far better armor. That was the trouble with Warrior. She was neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring. Neither sail nor steam, but a little of both. These new ships of war have been built to the same pattern—but with major improvements. Now that the sails and masts are gone, along with all their gear and sail lockers, there is more room for more coal bunkers. Which means that we can stay at sea that much longer. Even more important is the fact that we can now cut the crew requirements in half."

  "You've lost me, I am afraid."

  "Simple enough. Without sails we don't need veteran sailors to climb the masts to set the sails. There is also the rather dismal fact that aboard Warrior sails and anchor were lifted manually, for some forgotten admiralty bit of reasoning. We use steam winches now that do the job faster and better. Also, although it will be small solace to those who died in Warrior, we have redesigned the citadel, the armored box that was to protect the gun batteries. But it didn't. We have learned a thing or two since then. The Yankee guns punched right through the vertical armor plate. The plate is thicker now—and we have learned as well from the design of Virginia. You will remember that her armor was slanted at a forty-five-degree angle, so solid shot just bounced off of her. So now our citadel also has slanted sides. And, unlike, Warrior, we also have armor plate covering the
bow and stern. They are real fighting ships that can better anything afloat."

  "I certainly hope that you are right, Commander. Like you, I believe that we in the military must change our ways of thinking. Adapt or die."

  "In what way?"

  "Small arms, for one instance. During the past conflict I watched the Americans shoot our lines to pieces, over and over again. I believe we had the best soldiers, certainly the best discipline. Yet we lost the battle. The Americans fired faster from their breech-loading rifles. If—when—we go to war again we must have guns like those."

  "I've heard of them, yes," the naval officer said. "But I value discipline more highly. Certainly we need it aboard ship. It is the disciplined and highly trained gun crew who will not wilt under fire. Men who will continue serving their gun irrespective of what is happening around them. The marines too. I've watched them train—and I have watched them in combat. Like machines they are. Load, aim, fire. Load, aim, fire. If they had these fancy breech-loaders, why they could fire at any time they pleased. No discipline. They would surely waste their ammunition."

  "I agree with your guncrew training. Discipline shows under fire. But I am sorry to disagree with your attitude towards repeating rifles. When soldiers face soldiers the ones who put the most lead into the air towards the enemy will win. I assure you, sir, for I saw it happen."

  The steam launch sounded its whistle as it approached the quay and the two men waiting there to board it. A companionway was slung down from the boat and Somerville followed the naval officer down into the cramped cabin. It stank of a chill fug, but at least it offered protection from the rain as they puffed out into the harbor. A few minutes later the launch tied up to a landing stage. They hurried across it and climbed the companionway that gave them access to the new warship. The commander called out to one of the sailors on watch and instructed him to take Somerville below to the captain's quarters.