Intervention by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)
****WARNING: This chapter contains sexual violence****
Chapter Eleven (Words: 4,025)
The troop made camp for two nights. Estrada and Moya reported to Herrera and the lieutenant sent word and documents back to Tomás. The French also had a transport: approaching through the pass, headed for Durango.
"Lieutenant Moreau refused to answer my questions, but he took great pleasure in telling me his entire troop was about to arrive." Estrada sat bare chested by the campfire as Johnny cleaned the graze on his arm. "According to him, I would hardly have time to tie him up before his men would come to his rescue."
"Pendejo!" Rivera snapped a small branch in half and tossed the pieces onto the fire. "He must be new to Mexico."
They all knew Estrada wouldn't mess around once he heard they would be outnumbered. He cut Moreau's throat and searched his pockets for orders.
"His troop was on its way to El Salto to take over the escort of a delivery from Mazatlán."
"What do you think they're carrying?" Diaz asked, eyes gleaming. "Weapons or gold?"
"I don't think his orders said, amigo—they were in French—but we shall find out soon enough." Estrada stretched his legs and winced as Johnny pressed aloe vera pulp onto the wound, wrapping it tightly with a bandage soaked in the plants' juice. "Gracias, Madrid. You have hidden talents. I will live to fight another day."
"Only the good die young." Johnny grinned. "But now your arm won't drop off."
Estrada made a swipe for him, and Johnny ducked.
He had washed the graze, checked it for debris and used the aloe vera in the same way an old Indian woman had done for him once. His wound had healed like magic.
"I wonder how Cervantes is getting on." Rivera poured more coffee for those that wanted it. Cervantes had been sent back to the republican transport for medical attention. Manuel had gone with him, along with two more injured men and an escort of soldiers not involved in the day's fighting.
"We'll find out tomorrow." Estrada raised his mug. "A toast to Garza, Ramos, Castillo and…what was the kid's name?"
"Duran," Johnny said eventually when no one else answered.
"To fallen friends."
The men around the campfire toasted the day's dead and then changed the subject to more cheering topics, like the many virtues of the two señoritas. It was a pity they couldn't stay to enjoy them.
Johnny joined in for a while, but his heart wasn't in it. He went for a walk around the campsite, wishing Manuel was there. Duran had lived to be eighteen, if he was telling the truth, and yet no one cared he was dead. Hell, the other soldiers didn't even remember his name.
Johnny knew he wasn't being fair. Duran was part of Moya's squad, and he didn't talk much. The men under Sergeant Lopez hadn't had a great deal to do with him, but Duran's own squad would miss him.
Johnny wandered into their part of camp. Quiroz was seated against a tree, rubbing aloe vera sap into his feet.
"All right?"
"Sí, Madrid, and you?"
Johnny nodded. "I'm sorry about Duran. Why do you think he did it?"
"Who knows, muchacho?" Quiroz looked up at Johnny and smiled. "But all is not lost. Others can take his place."
It wasn't quite the response Johnny was hoping for. Quiroz invited him to sit awhile, but Johnny didn't want to stick around. He didn't really know why. He said good night, wended his way back to the other side of the camp, and turned in early.
In the morning, he collected his rifle and the LeMat from the weapons pile. He was allowed to keep the revolver, but even after being congratulated by Lieutenant Herrera for his part in the day's excitement, he still had to hand in the weapons at suppertime. Now, as they waited for orders from Tomás, he stripped both guns down and cleaned and oiled them. It was almost like old times.
The orders didn't come until after he had returned the guns to the pile that evening. Manuel came with them.
"How's Cervantes?" Johnny shunted over to make room on the log where he was sitting. He was manning the cooking fire. On this duty they had to cook their own food; Jésus and his big pots and pans had stayed with the transport.
"Corporal Luna says he'll live if there is no infection." Manuel rested his rifle against the end of the log and sat down. "He was still weak when I left."
"He lost a lot of blood." Johnny served up his friend's supper.
Manuel started scooping beans and rice into his mouth as soon as he had the plate in his hands. "I'm starving."
"Where'd you get the knife?"
"It belonged to Garza. Rivera gave it to me."
"Don't you have to hand it in with…?" Johnny looked past Manuel. "How come you still have your rifle?"
Manuel reddened a little. "I've served my sentence. My two months are up."
"They are?" Damn, they probably were. Johnny had been trying to keep track of the days by making scratches on his boot polish tin, but he'd missed the last few days, and he'd kind of forgotten that Manuel's sentence was shorter than his. "Well, dang, what are you doing here? You're a free man." Johnny's grin faltered for a second as he realized that he'd be on his own from now on, but hey, this was good news. His grin widened. "Amigo, you can go back to El Paso del Norte, or anywhere you want."
"Sí. Capitán Flores told me. He said I could choose to stay or go. I chose to stay."
Johnny stared. "No, I won't let you do this. Not for me."
"I did not enlist for you, amigo…well, not only for you. There is nothing for me in El Paso del Norte. Here I have family."
It was true. Manuel was popular with the other soldiers. The officers treated him with unusual tolerance, and even Lopez didn't seem to mind him too much. Not that the feeling was mutual; the sergeant scared the shit out of Manuel.
All in all, even though he wasn't very bright, the big fella was an asset to the Third. He followed orders, he was reliable and friendly, and now he could even shoot straight. Despite the size of him, the regular soldiers treated him like their little brother, and when Estrada, Diaz and the rest heard the news, they celebrated his enlistment well into the night. Sergeant Lopez had to remind them that it was back to work in the morning.
Word was they had time to spare before the French transport was expected, but their wagons needed to be into the pass and well-hidden before they intercepted it. The company continued as before but at a faster pace.
They checked out El Salto and found nothing alarming, but all the same, the republican transport skirted the town at dusk. It entered the pass without being seen by the locals, and the company camped together down by a stream as soon as they were a safe distance away.
The next day Johnny was part of a scouting party to locate the French wagon train as the rest of the company marched further into the pass at a slower pace. They found it with an escort of forty men on horseback, a forward and rear guard with the wagons travelling in between. The opposing forces were less than thirty miles apart, but the terrain was rugged —rocks, sheer cliffs, white water streams and tall trees—and the French transport moved slowly, even though there were only two wagons.
"Gold," whispered Diaz. "To pay their army. There would be more wagons if it was anything else."
That was probably true, especially as Tomás himself issued the warning that night, "Any man caught stealing from the transport will be shot." Whatever the spoils of war, they belonged to the republic.
"On the bright side, muchachos, those of us who get paid for being here might see our wages on time for once." Rivera grinned broadly and spat what was left of his tobacco into the dirt. "And what we find on the enemy is always finders, keepers."
"Only after the work is done, Rivera," Estrada growled. "You leave my back open to rob a Frenchie, and I promise you, you'll never get a chance to spend what you find."
The next day the Third stayed where it was while Tomás took lieutenants Herrera and Garcia with him on horseback to survey the route. Upon their return the whole company was ordered to assemble.
"There is a causeway crossing white water about three miles up ahead. It has steep banks above and below on either side. Lieutenant Herrera's troop will hide in the trees of the upper bank on the western side, and Lieutenant Garcia's men will do the same on the eastern side. We attack as soon as the wagons are on the causeway." Tomás paused for breath and appeared to take stock of the troops in front of him. Every man stood to attention, listening with growing excitement. Johnny could almost taste their eagerness for battle. "Lieutenant Vasquez's troop will guard our wagons. I will watch the battle from an outcrop above where they will be hidden. If the men fighting need reinforcement, they will get it. Viva la República!"
The chosen troops got into position early the next morning. Corporal Fernandez from Sergeant Moya's squad acted as lookout so they knew in advance when the imperial transport approached.
Lieutenant Herrera gave the signal, and Sergeant Lopez and Sergeant Moya waved their men down behind bushes and trees. Clutching his rifle to his chest, Johnny pressed his back against a pine tree about ten yards above the road, rifle and revolver loaded and ready.
At first all he could hear was his own breathing. All he could see above were rocks and trees, but he knew men were hidden, just as they were below him and on either side. A burst of distant laughter broke the silence; then the sound of horses and the scrunch of wagon wheels on the steep, stony road. The imperial soldiers had no idea they were entering a trap. They came like lambs to the slaughter.
And it was a slaughter. As soon as the back wheel of the second wagon touched the causeway, Herrera gave the call, "Viva la República!"
Rifles fired from the hills and as the men higher up reloaded to shoot again, the men lower down flooded the road, dragging Imperialists from their horses, using bayonets, handguns or knives to dispose of them. The wagons couldn't go backwards or forwards. Some of the enemy fell or jumped to their deaths; there was no means of escape.
"It's like I said, Madrid. Capitán Flores is a man of planning and strategy. He rarely makes a mistake." Estrada finished searching the dead soldier at his feet and rolled him over the bank to join the others.
The Republicans had lost four men so far. Rodriguez was shot and then bayoneted before Rivera could return the favour. The rest were from Lieutenant Garcia's troop. Two men, one from each troop, were seriously injured, their futures doubtful. They had joined Cervantes and one other in what was now referred to as the hospital wagon. This travelling dispensary of medical attention and its patients were under the sole care of Corporal Luna, the closest thing the company boasted to a doctor.
"That feels a lot better. Gracias." Johnny pulled his shirt back on after Luna dressed a cut just below his ribs on his right side. An imperial soldier had been in mid-slash when Johnny shot him with the LeMat; the blade had still connected. It wasn't serious, but it was oozing blood until the corporal put a stitch in it.
"Two years of medical training has its uses." Luna pulled a box sitting on the tailgate towards him and dropped the leftover bandage inside.
"How come you're here?"
"My father died of pneumonia and the money ran out. One day, if I stay alive long enough, I will go back to my studies."
"Are you ready, Madrid?" Estrada came up behind them. "It's time to pay our respects." He led the way to where the company, now all in uniform, were assembled.
The republican dead were buried together just off the road near where the wagons had been hidden.
"Rodriguez won't be happy," muttered Leon as they lined up. "He wanted to be buried in sight of a brothel and downwind of a saloon."
Johnny smiled. That was probably true. He opened his mouth to say so, but the officers appeared and everyone fell silent.
The service was a short one. Tomás read a passage from the bible and said a few words, and then he ordered the company onward. They would have to grieve as they marched.
Tomás had inspected the imperial wagons earlier. Johnny had paused from clearing the road to watch his cousin walk away after he was done. There was energy and purpose in his stride. One thing for sure, those wagons didn't contain sacks of flour.
The wagons were turned around, and the republican wagons brought up behind. Any horses not run off or killed were ridden by Juaristas or tied to the end of the wagon train. Lieutenant Vasquez's troop took the forward guard, allowing Johnny's battle-worn comrades to fall back and drive, ride or walk alongside the wagons. Johnny wasn't allowed to ride a horse or drive, but for the last mile or two that day he took his turn on a seat next to one of the men who were.
The company made camp where the Imperialists had camped the night before, a patch of mostly level ground close to a waterfall. Manuel had drawn guard duty so after Johnny handed in his weapons, they chose a place to dump their gear before going for something to eat. When Manuel left, Johnny turned in.
As usual, they had selected a spot on the outskirts of the encampment as far away from others as they could get. A large boulder and bushes gave a little privacy and distance and the sound of water cascading over rocks meant he could only just hear the laughter around the campfires. Johnny spread his bedroll and was careful not to lie on his injured side. He was tired, and he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the rolled-up jacket he used as a pillow.
A hand over his mouth woke him up.
Almost at the same time a huge weight crushed him, forcing air from his lungs. The hand left his mouth as another grabbed his hair, smashing his head down into the gravelly soil. He tasted dirt, and the world spun in blackness. Then his head was yanked up. Fingernails scraped as a cloth was stuffed into his mouth, forcing blood from his nose down his throat.
Johnny gagged. His arms were wrenched back, and leather was pulled tight around his wrists.
He jerked and writhed, snorting his nostrils clear so he could breathe. But it was no good; his attacker was too strong and too heavy.
The man ground Johnny's face into the dirt. "Lie still, Madrid, and you might live."
Johnny knew that voice—Quiroz.
The bandit let go of Johnny's hair and pressed down on the centre of his spine instead, shuffling back to sit on his legs. Johnny kicked and squirmed, but he only seemed to make it easier for Quiroz to get a hand under his belly.
Por favor—no!
Quiroz undid Johnny's belt and hauled down his trousers. Then leaning forward, using more pressure to keep him still, he whispered in Johnny's ear. "Listen carefully, muchacho. I could snap your neck like a twig, but I don't want to do that." Something firm but fleshy flopped onto Johnny's bare skin. "Now Duran is gone, you are the next best thing to a señorita. Play nice, and I let you live to play again."
Eyes wide, Johnny shouted into his gag. He could hardly breathe and the only sounds he could make were muffled grunts. He threw all his energy into bucking. He tried to roll. Desperately, he did everything he could to unseat Quiroz, but the bastard just laughed and repositioned his weight. Could no one hear them? Johnny howled his frustration and fear into the bandana filling his mouth.
Then suddenly Quiroz gasped. Without warning, he slumped forward; squashing Johnny with his body. Something thumped down from above, pressing Quiroz's weight into him, and what little air Johnny had left was forced out of his lungs. He was suffocating, and one kind of panic was replaced by another.
Then, merciful heaven, Quiroz rolled off.
Through blood, grit and snot Johnny saw Quiroz, lying on his side, bleeding from his lower back and another wound higher up. A soldier stood over him holding a gun with its bayonet shining wet in the moonlight.
Lopez.
Never in a million years… Johnny wouldn't say a bad thing against him ever again.
But he still couldn't breathe properly, and bile was choking him.
Sergeant Lopez stepped over Quiroz. Kneeling down, he removed the bandana, and mopped away the snot as Johnny gulped air, coughing and spitting vomit.
"Untie me". The words came out raspy and faint. Lopez was looking away. He didn't seem to hear him. Johnny tried to get up, but he didn't have the strength to do it without using his hands. A cool breeze tickled his bare buttocks. "Untie me."
Lopez got to his feet. He glanced at Quiroz and looked about him. Then he locked eyes with Johnny and smiled.
The sergeant's hand dropped to his crotch.
No!
Johnny tried again to shout, but Lopez was too quick. He shoved the bandana back into Johnny's mouth. "Only a fool lets a pretty ass go to waste."
Struggling to free his hands, Johnny twisted and kicked as Lopez straddled him—high at first—clamping him between his legs to stop him from wriggling away. Johnny kept bucking and thrashing, but as Lopez shunted back, he cut what was left of Corporal Luna's bandage and pressed a blade into the open wound. "Shut up and lie still, Madrid, or I gut you."
Almost crying now, Johnny knew he should follow orders and get it over with, but his body wouldn't obey. He jerked as his stomach lurched. His legs flailed, his boots gouging the dirt but making no difference to the weight on top of him. Lopez forced Johnny's bound wrists into his backbone. He must have returned the knife to his boot, because with the other hand he brought his prick to full erection, prodding Johnny's tail bone with its tip over and over again. Then edging back, the sergeant fingered the thing into position. Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle tense, bracing against what was to come.
"Halt!"
Manuel?
The swollen cock slid forward above its target, immobile but not lessening in size on the base of Johnny's spine. He tried to squirm free, but again the sharp point of the knife jabbed into his belly, forcing him to lie still.
"Halt or I shoot."
"Go back to your post, Ruiz. That's an order. This doesn't concern you."
"No. Get off him." Manuel's voice was high and shaky. Johnny shut his eyes again; his friend had been terrified of Lopez from the very beginning. "Get off him or I'll shoot."
"Go ahead, muchacho—if you want to die like Gonzalez." The sergeant stowed his knife and pressed Johnny's buttocks wide. "Lárgate!"
He rocked back to thrust forward.
Behind the gag Johnny roared.
But Manuel fired.
Dirt sprayed up, peppering bare skin like buckshot.
"You stupid, dummy bastard!" Lopez jumped to his feet, and Johnny rolled.
He ended up face down again, but straining his neck, he saw the sergeant hurrying to do up his fly. The relief! It washed through him like a river in flood.
Manuel crouched down next to him and began to ease the bandana out of his mouth.
Lopez grabbed his rifle. "Say nothing, you hear me. I do the talking."
Men were coming, running and yelling. Manuel was trying to pull Johnny's trousers up when the first of them arrived.
"It's all right. It's all right. Go back to your beds." Sergeant Lopez raised his hands and tried to herd the soldiers away.
"What happened, Sargento?" Lieutenant Herrera pushed his way through the crowd and stared at the dead man on the ground as Manuel sawed through the belt binding Johnny's wrists.
"It's Private Quiroz, sir, one of the convicts from the prison. He attacked Private Madrid while he was sleeping." Lopez stood to attention as if nothing unusual had happened, as if he was completely innocent. "Private Ruiz and I came upon them almost at the same time. Ruiz fired, and I used my bayonet." The bastard was going to make himself out to be a hero. Johnny wanted to scream the truth, but he was shaking and numb and the words wouldn't come. "Quiroz was trying…"
"Save it, sargento." The men parted and the lieutenant stood aside as Tomás strode forward. He surveyed the scene in front of him. "I will want a full report, but in private. Wait for me by Teniente Herrera's tent."
"I should stay with my men, sir."
"You should do as you are ordered, sargento." Tomás looked Lopez straight in the eye.
"At once, Capitán Flores." The sergeant saluted and left.
Tomás watched him go. Then he stepped forward. He checked Quiroz's body and looked down at Johnny. Manuel held him, arms crisscrossed over his chest. Johnny was like a rag doll. He met Tomás' gaze for a moment and then closed his eyes. He was hovering in warm, damp mist. "Private Ruiz, take Madrid to my tent."
Manuel picked Johnny up like a child. He carried him without help and laid him down gently on the captain's cot, covering him with a blanket. When Corporal Luna came to care for Johnny's wounds, Manuel helped strip his clothes, wash him and dress him again. Johnny could do nothing for himself. It was as if all strength had been sapped from him, but he would let Manuel do it for him. He trusted Manuel, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
"Was he…?" Johnny woke to the sound of Tomás' voice.
It was still night, and the lantern cast shadows on the tent wall. His cousin spoke in hushed tones, and Johnny faced the canvas. He shut his eyes again.
"No." Corporal Luna stood somewhere near Johnny's feet. "Sergeant Lopez and Private Ruiz stopped Quiroz in time."
"You heard Sargento Lopez's account, Ruiz. Do you have anything more to add?"
Manuel didn't answer. Johnny sensed rather than saw his friend shake his head. It was the word of an ex-convict against an experienced sergeant. Who would the captain believe? Manuel wasn't to know any different; Johnny didn't blame him for staying silent.
"Go. Get some sleep now, both of you. I'll call if you are needed."
Johnny heard the tent flap lift and drop as Manuel and Luna left, and he heard his cousin settle himself down on a bedroll by the desk. Then he fell back asleep.
"Get off!" He woke again, panting with sweat pouring off him and most of the blanket on the ground.
Tomás was already at his side with a beaker of water. "Drink this, Juanito. It was a nightmare. They will pass."
Johnny drank the water and lay down again. Every inch of his body ached. The muscles in his arms felt like they had been stretched like bow strings. He pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. Turning his face to the canvas, he listened until the sound of steady breathing told him Tomás had fallen asleep. Then, imagining he was in his mother's arms, Johnny let the tears flow.
Notes:
1. This story is the sequel to Hate. Like Hate, it has its roots in The Beginning and From Highlands to Homecoming. All of these stories are back stories for characters created by Samuel A. Peeples for the TV series Lancer.
3. Several Spanish swear words appear in this story. You will recognize them from their context, but for those who want to know their precise meaning, here is a list in no particular order: cállate (shut up); pendejo (coward/dickhead/idiot); lárgate/lárguense (fuck off); mierda (fuck/shit); cabrón/bastardo (bastard/asshole); maldita sea (damn).
5. For more information about the French Intervention in Mexico, 1861-1867, see wiki/French_intervention_in_Mexico and for a list of battles see wiki/List_of_battles_of_the_French_intervention_in_Mexico
7. In this story the soldiers of the Republic of Mexico are referred to as 'Republicans' and 'Juaristas'. The term 'Juarista' means a follower of Benito Juárez, President of Mexico, during the period of resistance to the French occupation of Mexico.
10. Aloe Vera (Sábila) is an interesting plant, long used for its healing properties. There is lots of information online including: wiki/Aloe_vera and /tag/use-of-aloe-vera-as-medicine/ .