Seven

The next few years were fierce and brutal. I felt driven, every waking moment – to what or by what, I could not have said. I learned constantly, from anyone and everyone. Whenever we were stopped, in a camp or just resting, I was a nuisance, bothering whoever I could to teach me something about fighting, or just to spar with me. Most of them put up with it, jokingly calling me el niño con el halcón ["the boy with the hawk" - trans], or el Niño Halcón, before they shortened it to just Halcón, until I wasn't called anything else. I practiced every moment I could, every maneuver I learned, hundreds and hundreds of times until they were completely automatic, and as fast as I could possibly move. I did any kind of exercise anyone could show me, until every muscle was as strong as I could get it, and then I kept doing it to maintain it. Even now, as an old man, I am much stronger than I look. I could not be bothered to cut my hair, so I let it grow long and tied it back, and only trimmed my beard close – once it began to grow. I learned every style of unarmed fighting I found in the company, with fists and even feet, and fighting with knives and throwing them, and swords, and how to clean and load and shoot every kind of gun we had, as fast and smoothly and accurately as I could get. And whenever we rode, I put myself next to someone and asked a million questions, learning everything I could about... anything. Anything they knew and could pass on to me. Those habits of constant learning, constant practice, and ever-present curiosity about everything, have stayed with me my whole life.

And of course, I was also training Diablo and Alaric, too, turning the three of us into a fierce, effective fighting unit, that could channel my ever-present fury into cold, lethal action against any enemy. Diablo already had the heart for it, he only needed to learn what was expected by the different signals I learned to give him. War horses are not as effective as they used to be, in these days of firearms, but a good one can still make a huge difference. Alaric, of course, turned into my eyes in the sky, not always reliable, but he often gave warning of hidden, waiting enemies. And other times it was one of my few untainted joys to simply sit and watch him soaring free, high in the air.

And yes, there was fighting. Lots of it. Although Oso had joked about being a bandit and robbing the rich, he was truly a partisan, not a thug. His aim was to disrupt the operations of the Army of New Spain whenever and wherever and however he could, as his small part of the broader effort that was springing forth all over Mexico, all over the new world, as people at last began to wake up to the realities of life under the yoke of the Empire, and the possibilities of something else, something better. It often felt as though we accomplished nothing, especially if a large battalion was on the move and we could do nothing, or a smaller group threw off our attack like flies, but even a nuisance has value. And the tide of public opinion was slowly changing.

Even in failure, I learned. Oso and several others had military backgrounds, and taught me tactics, and strategy, and maneuvers, and logistics. Oso was a big brown bear of a man, earning his pet name, smart as a whip, and he took a liking to me and shared all he could. One other older man I became especially close friends with was named Costa. He had put decades in uniform, rose through the ranks and even received a field promotion to lieutenant, and Oso and the others called him that still. Lieutenant Costa was a fierce, lean, quiet man with the heart of a lion – and a wicked sense of humor. He had finally been summarily drummed out of Spain's army for arguing with his commanding officer about some act of retribution the latter was planning against basically an innocent civilian target. When he told me that, several months after I knew him, I brought up what little I knew about the massacre at Marenga. He stopped his horse cold, staring at me, then spurred on without a word. Two days passed before he would speak to me again, and then he finally told me quietly that he had been there, an ordinary soldier manning the cannons. That hideous day, and his part in it, had gnawed at his conscience and sparked his growing disenchantment with the empire, blossoming at last into his taking up arms against it. I loved him from that day. It was he who finally told me the details of what had happened, some of which I started this story with. It was finally learning the truth of that day, and who was responsible, which cemented my hatred of the Empire and its Army. Every bad thing that had ever happened to me, they had been behind. They had destroyed my life as a boy, had ruined Don Diego's life, had caused my horse to be stolen to supply their officer, had me flogged. And more, they had wrecked the lives of countless others, that I could see all around me every day. Life in the Empire had always been brutish and bloody. There had to be a better way without them.

There were many others in the company, of course, who I also got to know well. Gino of the sharp wit and sharper knives, Sanchez, Menendez, Bolero who could find food anywhere (but one did not ask how), Luis who flirted with every woman he met, many many others. And some who I did not get along with – Oso's second in command was one. He called himself the Cobra, and he certainly lived up to the name. He was not a partisan, he just loved to fight, out of sheer meanness and half-hidden blood lust. A handful of others followed him, being of the same mind, but most of the company agreed with Oso and Costa. Cobra was only second because he was so fast and deadly, but I never asked him for lessons in anything.

And there were others, too, in a wider circle. Oso's company had homes, some in the area, and they did not travel too many days away. In their minds, they were defending their homes and families. I got to know some of them, wives and children, and others – cantina owners and shopkeepers who supported Oso. And there were a few women who traveled closer with the company, fighting when needed. And a couple of them undertook at different times to quietly teach me... other things. There was never any deep attachment, but I was grateful for the instruction.

We were a small part of a larger effort, and a few times Oso met with a commander of uniformed armies fighting more formally against the Army of New Spain, in those first long, exhausting years of the revolution. He took me along twice, and I met both Vicente Guerrero and Armande Calderone, who later became leading generals for independence.

But if I ever thought it was a game, the deadly nature of our efforts was brought home to me early. After several weeks of being left behind, or watched over too closely by Oso or Costa, I found myself as part of a wide-ranging scouting patrol, spread out across several slopes. Riding carefully through a stand of trees, I was startled when a Spanish army scout came far too quickly down the path I was paralleling. We saw each other at the same moment, and both swung our rifles around for a shot. I was a shade faster, and I shot him out of the saddle. I had killed a man, for the first time.

When Costa came quickly up a minute later, following the sounds, I was still sitting there on Diablo, staring down at the man I'd killed. He shoved his horse in between us and punched me on the arm to get my attention. "Move on. If you're going to fall apart, do it later."

I nodded blankly, then managed to kick Diablo after him. I spoke to no one for the rest of the day, wrestling with what I had done, so contrary to everything Don Alejandro and especially Don Diego had taught me. I cannot recreate the million thoughts that tumbled through my head, nor the emotions they conjured up. I write these things not to pump myself up, or make myself a hero, but to be truthful. I never enjoyed killing, although it became a little easier over time, but I came to understand that it was necessary, that the only way to make an army leave is by costing it enough blood.

Or maybe I simply got better at lying to myself. Maybe I still am. I am explaining the path I chose, not justifying it so that everyone will agree – an impossible task. I do not think anyone can truly judge the rightness of his own actions. Everyone I have ever known has only done the best they could, with what they knew then. Only history can truly judge whether they were right. Only you can judge me, I cannot judge myself. Perhaps that is what I am trying to do by writing this.

The following morning, after leaving me alone all day and night to wrestle with my conscience, Oso had enough. He pulled me aside and said simply, "I have already told you why we do this. You agreed with the cause. Now you must decide if you can stomach the means. Stay or go. Choose."

I stayed. If part of the reason is that the company had become my new family, or that I had nowhere else to go, does that make it right or wrong? I do not know.

But all things end, and some three years after I joined them, Oso was hit by a pair of bullets in a running battle with a whole battalion through the mountains, once in the thigh, and once in the chest. We pulled back and regrouped, slipping through the passes by paths only we knew, and gathered in a high valley to wait and see. But he did not survive the night, and in the morning, Cobra declared himself the leader.

The rest of us were uneasy, but no one challenged Cobra. He rode through the camp as if he were king, staring down any who raised his head. He took us back down to the lower valleys, and started looking for the battalion we had been attacking. When they proved too well entrenched in their new camp, he set us to making small raids and harassing their patrols. After a few weeks of this, he got bored, and started making noises about attacking nearby plantations instead, looking for gold or jewels, but others talked him out of it. Finally, he gathered us all together and led us to a small valley, where he had planned a trap for one squadron from the battalion, out on a sweeping patrol.

It proved to be a trap for us, instead, cunningly laid by the battalion commander. After we had begun our attack, three more squadrons swept in from either side and behind, pushing us towards a field of rocks where they would have us pinned in a crossfire. Cobra froze, under heavy fire, unable to comprehend what had gone wrong, unable to see a way out.

I did. If we turned and went straight through the original patrol, who were in a thinner line than the rest, then on down the valley to the far end, there was a slight chance of escape. I wheeled Diablo around and yelled at the others to follow, then plunged him headlong down the slope, plowing through the patrol and away, ignoring the bullets whistling past. I glanced back a few moments later and discovered all the rest of our company strung out behind me, galloping at top speed, and I grinned. Miraculously, every one of us made it, even Cobra.

When we finally stopped to rest and regroup, many miles away and safe, Lieutenant Costa stood in the middle of the clearing, slowly looking around at each of us without a word. Most of them nodded back. I did also, thinking he was checking on whether we were each unhurt. But I was wrong. When he had finished his circuit, he turned to Cobra, whom he had skipped, and said simply, "Get lost. We're following Halcón," tipping his head at me.

Cobra, shocked, blustered and bellowed, and said he would fight me for the leadership, and kill me. I laughed at him, although I was more surprised than he was, saying "We are not stags, and these men are not our harem. They have chosen me. It is as simple as that." And then I told them to mount up again, and we left Cobra and his few supporters gaping after us in the clearing.

And so I became the leader of my company of partisans, and they started calling me Capitán Halcón.