Intervention by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)
Chapter Six (Words: 2,944)
"Listen up, muchachos; I am Sargento Jeraldo Lopez of the Third Company of Infantry, Fifth Battalion in the great and glorious army of the Republic of Mexico. And I am your worst nightmare."
Judging by the way the ordinary soldiers steered clear of him, Johnny was prepared to take the sergeant at his word.
"You are scum," Lopez shouted, addressing the seven men who had unexpectedly joined his squad. Johnny pulled at the collar of his new uniform, the trousers a size too big and the jacket a size too small, and cursed the stupidity of the upside down flower pot he was now obliged to wear as a hat. Even with the annoying flap at the back it wouldn't give as much protection from the sun as a sombrero. "If I had my way you would rot in jail, but instead you will fight for your country, and if necessary, you will die for it." Sergeant Lopez paced as he strode up and down the line, pausing occasionally to glare at one of the convict-soldiers. "For you, there will be no drinking, no smoking and no women. El capitán does not allow even ordinary enlisted men the privilege of soft arms and warm breasts while on campaign. You will have to jerk your own sausage, pretty boy." Lopez leered into Johnny's face, splattering it with spit.
Johnny tried hard not to flinch and said nothing—four months! The sergeant moved on, and Johnny relaxed the muscles in his jaw. He bet the captain and that stinking bastard didn't go without.
"Soon you will be loaded onto wagons. Our camp is two miles south. Check your uniform and equipment while you ride. If you fail to maintain them, steal, or disobey orders you will be flogged. If your crime is serious enough, you will be shot and killed, and left for the flies to walk over your eyeballs." The sergeant stopped his pacing and faced the line. "If you attack me or any other superior or try to escape, you will be shot but not killed." What the hell did he mean by that? Lopez rocked on his heels and smiled like the devil smelling fresh souls. "If you are foolish enough to do one of those things, amigos, you will be left wounded to die a slow death in the desert. What is good for the Comanche is good for vermin of all types. Do we understand each other? Soldado Diego Cervantes, do you understand?" The sergeant went nose to nose with the prisoner at the far end of the line.
"Sí, Sargento Lopez." Cervantes attempted a clumsy salute.
"Cabo Estrada." Lopez turned towards the wagons and soldiers waiting on the far side of the jailhouse yard. A clean-shaven corporal in his mid-twenties stepped out from between a string of horses. "There is a rat on the roof of the building opposite. Demonstrate the skill of the republican infantry for our new recruits."
Corporal Estrada aimed his rifle at the rat. Unfortunately for him, it started scuttling down the barge tiles from the ridge. He fired as it neared the bottom of the roof. The animal exploded, raining down in bloody pieces onto the tiles and dusty ground.
"Mierda." The man next to Johnny looked spooked.
Johnny didn't blame him; that was fancy shooting. It was one thing to hit a stationery target, and quite another to hit something so small on the run.
"You will remain fully shackled until we reach camp; then, if you cause no difficulties on the journey, those pretty bracelets will be removed. The leg irons stay on until morning. You will be re-shackled after each day's march until we reach our destination. By that time you will have learned to obey or you will be dead. Do you understand me?"
"Sí, sargento." The men chorused.
"I didn't hear you. Do you understand?"
"Sí, sargento!" They bellowed.
"In a few days, you will be issued rifles and ammunition. You will keep the ammunition with you at all times, but you will hand in the weapons each night. You are part of this army now, but until you have served your sentence, you will not be trusted." Sergeant Lopez signalled Corporal Estrada, and the soldiers who had brought them from the courthouse began herding them towards the three heavily laden wagons. The recruits squeezed into the back of the wagons in twos and threes, perched on top or in between sacks of rice, beans and flour.
The enlisted men shared a seat with the drivers up front or clambered onto the bare backs of the newly purchased animals. Only the sergeant had a horse with a saddle. The captain was nowhere to be seen.
Johnny rode in the last wagon with a bandit called Gonzalez, followed by soldiers on horseback. Gonzalez had been sentenced to a year.
"It is what I expected. It is you, amigo, who drew the short straw. It is usually seven days in the town jail for fighting and drunkenness, up to thirty if damage is done that cannot be paid for or if someone is seriously injured. A man usually only gets sent to the state prison for theft or killing."
"I figured as much." Johnny undid one of the straps holding his bedroll to his knapsack and began rooting inside the bag. "The fella I wounded calls the judge 'Tío'."
"Yeah? Well, that would do it." Gonzalez also had his knapsack open. He pulled his mess kit out and frowned. "The bastards have taken the cutlery. Look for something else that could break a lock."
"You fixing to escape? You heard what the sergeant said?"
"I heard." Gonzalez grinned with tobacco stained teeth and spat over the backboard into the dirt. "But Valdez is also short of men, and el capitán de bandidos does not deprive a man of the little pleasures in life." Gonzalez winked and continued rummaging in his knapsack. "Is it true what I heard? Did you kill el jugador Cole?"
"What if I did?" Johnny examined a flattish tin full of boot polish. "You a friend of his?"
"Sí, I lost money to him and did not try to shoot him. I am as close to a friend as el gringo ever had." Gonzalez snorted at his own joke and grasped the sideboard as they went over a pothole. The contents of the wagon rocked, and a cage containing chickens threatened to slide forward off the top of the flour sacks. "El jugador had a way of leaving a man with hope; tomorrow he would have better luck—always tomorrow." The bandit chuckled. "And then there was his lady. It was worth losing a few reales to gaze upon the many virtues of Señora Maria. Ah, to rub up against that warm, succulent body when Señor Cole wasn't looking…My, my, my, what a beauty. Maybe I will seek her out when I am free and give her a taste of Mexico."
Shut up! Johnny rammed everything back into his knapsack. It wasn't news to him that men lusted after his mother, but he hated to hear it.
Gonzalez's prick hardened, pressing against the cloth of his trousers, as he closed his eyes and licked his lips. "Oh, amigo, what a man would not give to tap that sweet honey."
"Cállate!" Johnny kicked out with his clumsy boots, chains clanking, and glared at Gonzalez.
The bandit stared back in surprise, and a soldier following them pointed his rifle. "Muchachos?"
Damn, damn, damn! Now he had done it. Johnny raised a hand to indicate there would be no more trouble. Then, throwing Gonzalez another dirty look, he changed position so he didn't have to see the bastard.
For a minute or two they travelled in silence. Then Gonzalez started to laugh. "Oh, amigo, now I understand. You are the boy, the son of the señora. Of course; it all makes sense."
Johnny gritted his teeth and didn't answer.
"Where is your mamá?" Gonzalez kept chuckling. "In bed with another gringo, or free for the tasting?"
Cabrón! Johnny turned his head, but it was a mistake. Gonzalez waggled his tongue and jiggled his crotch.
It took all Johnny's self-control to look away again and shut his ears to Gonzalez's chortling and lewd comments. He tried to concentrate on the soldiers riding a few yards behind them. Their mounts had clearly been bought as pack horses or for hauling wagons. The other horses in the string were similar, and there was at least one mule. They weren't dog meat, but if they were to pull wagons of this weight, some would be buzzard bait before the company reached the battle lines five hundred miles south near the Chihuahua-Durango border.
The mare on the left was a pinto. Johnny wondered how Pícaro was getting on. Thank goodness he had left him with Emilio. If Judge Martinez had known the gelding existed, he would have ordered him sold to pay for damages, and a liveryman would certainly sell rather than pay to keep a horse for four months. There was a chance that Emilio would too, but with luck he would just use him and agree to give him back.
"Halt!" Sergeant Lopez gave the order from the front of the wagon train. The sun was now only a warm, yellow line on the horizon, and in front of them were the campfires of the Third Infantry.
Keeping his back to Gonzalez, Johnny clambered off the wagon, and looked around. At the far end of the encampment a long line of wagons and carts created a dark wall; there must have been near on two dozen, most of them packed high like the ones they had just brought from El Paso del Norte.
A soldier nudged Johnny forward with his rifle, and he had no choice but to line up next to Gonzalez.
"You must be fast, Johnny Madrid. I have seen el jugador draw. Come with me when I go. Valdez would pay you well."
"No." Johnny stared straight ahead. He was no bandit, and if he was going to run it would not be with a load of shit like Gonzalez.
The bandit shrugged and turned his eyes forward as the three wagons were driven off to join the others and an officer approached. It was their troop's lieutenant, Herrera. He was wet behind the ears and seemed intimidated by Sergeant Lopez. No prizes for guessing who would rule their world for the next few months—if they stayed.
Sergeant Lopez called out each man's name as Lieutenant Herrera inspected them. Then after a few more threats from the sergeant, the lieutenant gave the order for the manacles to be removed and departed to his tent. The leg irons stayed on, but at least they weren't chained together as they had been behind the courthouse. Johnny could put some distance between him and Gonzalez. He rubbed his chafed wrists, reunited with Manuel and joined the line for supper. He was famished.
Once they got their food, Johnny and Manuel approached a nearby campfire, hoping they'd be welcome. The two privates sitting next to it eyed the leg irons warily, but after a moment's consideration the older man held up the coffee pot. "Want some?"
"Sí, gracias." Slipping off his knapsack and bedroll, Johnny sat down on top of them and held out his tin mug. Manuel did the same.
As the coffee was poured, the younger private got to his feet. "I'm off."
The first soldier put the pot back on the fire. "Don't take it personal. We've got jobs to do." Gulping his last mouthful, he threw the dregs on the ground and followed his friend.
A minute later, Gonzalez and the other four recruits sat down uninvited. Johnny cursed, but there was nothing he could do. At least Gonzalez didn't sit next to him.
The man who did was Cervantes, a slick looking fella with smooth hands and clean fingernails. "I heard you shot the judge's nephew, Madrid."
"So I'm told." Johnny shifted around slightly on his pack. He should never have said anything to Gonzalez. They probably all knew his business now.
"I worked in the office of an investment company."
Johnny glanced at the other men; the tall one—Rodriguez—gave in to curiosity. "Okay, I'll bite. How does a clerk get sent to the state prison?"
"I cooked the books for nearly two years. They think I spent it all, but I stashed some in a safe place—money will wait." Cervantes took a mouthful of chilli and smirked as he chewed. "My boss was as thick as two short planks."
"And you were greedy, muchacho." Perez, a sun-wrinkled bandit, gazed at Cervantes with fox-like eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong."
The younger man looked away. "Well, perhaps I should have stopped when the new manager arrived."
"Pendejo," Rodriguez coughed out the word, and the others sniggered. Cervantes reddened. "Take heart; you are not the only fool." Rodriguez threw his arm over the clerk's shoulder and gave him a friendly hug. "I killed a man over a woman—gutted him like a fish—but she will not be waiting for me when I get out."
Cervantes wriggled free from Rodriguez's arm. "But it was self-defence?"
"Sí, amigo, Juez Martinez himself declared it was not murder."
"How much did that cost you?" Perez smiled, knowingly, wiping his plate with the last of his tortilla.
Rodriguez winked.
Looking between the two of them, Cervantes shunted closer to Johnny. Maybe Gonzalez hadn't spilled the beans—well, not all of them. Johnny shifted in his seat; it might be fun to see Cervantes' face when someone told him the rest.
But the conversation didn't go that way. Perez went on to his own introduction instead. "I worked for Valdez herding Ortega cattle."
"Me too." Sitting next to him, Gonzalez reached for the coffee pot. "It wasn't our day."
"Not mine either." All eyes turned to Leon. He sat in Manuel's shadow; a stocky man with a bushy handlebar moustache. Sighing loudly, he shook his head in sorrow. "Take my advice, amigos; if you ever plan to hold up a stagecoach, make sure there are no Rurales on board."
There was a pause, and then the seven men burst out laughing.
"I swear it could happen to anyone." Leon happily filled in the details. Then he kept them in stitches with other stories until the regular soldiers began to find places to sleep. Licking fingers and tin plates clean, the new recruits followed their example. Only officers had tents; the ordinary soldiers spread their bedrolls on the ground under the stars.
Johnny and Manuel chose a spot together a few yards apart from the rest.
"You got folks, Manuel?"
"No, amigo. You?"
"Nope." Absentmindedly, Johnny scratched the letter 'L' in the dust with a stick and then scrubbed it out quickly before Manuel could see. "What happened to yours?"
"I don't remember my papa. Mama died of cholera when I was nine."
"That's young to be on your own. Did you live at the mission?" Johnny had stayed at the San Andrés mission for a short time after his mamá died.
"Sí, until Padre Jeremias found me work in the cantina."
"How long have you been there?"
Manuel shrugged. "I don't know. Eight years, maybe."
Johnny stared at his friend. He couldn't be more than nineteen at most. Poor devil.
"It was okay. What happened to your mamá and papá?"
"Dead." Johnny didn't know why he'd brought the subject up. Silly really; he didn't want to talk about Mama or his bastard father or stepfather. And he'd have to be careful not to mention his cousins. Still, it was good to talk to a friend after so long alone in a cell. Joking with the other men around the campfire didn't seem to count. "When I was small I used to visit El Paso del Norte. Sometimes I went to the mission school."
"Me too, but I wasn't good at learning. I'm sorry I don't remember you, Johnny."
"That's all right. I wasn't there long, and I think you're older than me." Johnny made a circle with the stick in the sandy soil, and wondered if it would be possible to find one strong enough to pick a lock. Not much good if he did; if he managed to undo his chains and run, he'd be easy meat in this terrain. He wouldn't get far on foot, and the horses were well guarded. No, let Gonzalez take the risk if he wanted, Johnny would bide his time. If worst came to worst, four months in the army had to be an improvement on four months in the Chihuahua State Prison.
"Can you write your name, Johnny?"
"Yeah, can you?"
"I write it real pretty." Manuel puffed up with pride. "I learned by copying Padre Jeremias's handwriting from the school register. That's where I found out my papa's name was the same as mine."
"Is that right?" Johnny was suddenly interested. "Are the names of fathers recorded?"
"In the back. My papi was called Manuel Ignacio Ruiz."
"That's a fine name."
Manuel smiled and lay down on his bedroll. It was a clear night and the stars were bright in the sky. "I think he is watching over me from heaven."
Johnny was damn sure his father wouldn't be—if he was dead, that is. Why change the habit of a lifetime. Johnny pulled his blanket up over his shoulders. Time to sleep; it had been a long day, and tomorrow would be even longer.
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