Intervention by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)
Chapter Eight (Words: 2,831)
They marched nearly twenty-five miles before making camp late in the afternoon. Johnny's legs and back ached; he wasn't used to walking so far, and the straps of his pack cut into his shoulders. The thick leather boots on his feet stood up to the ground, but he and the other new men were all nursing blisters by the end of the day. As the lines dispersed they collapsed in exhausted heaps, oblivious to the taunting of the more experienced soldiers.
"Lárguense!" Gonzalez snarled at Corporal Estrada and Private Alvarado as they approached with the leg irons barely ten minutes later.
"Sorry, amigos, but orders are orders." Estrada glanced over to where Sergeant Lopez was barking more orders at a pair of regulars. "Cheer up; today you get to play with guns."
Re-shackled, the seven men lined up facing makeshift targets. Each man was issued with a Minié rifle, percussion caps and a box of cartridges. Then Alvarado took up a guard position, and Sergeant Lopez joined Corporal Estrada at the camp-end of the line.
"Load your weapons." Lopez scowled as he watched the recruits attempt to load their rifles without instruction.
Johnny checked the Minié over and set to work. His own rifle was a lever-action Spencer, but he'd handled muzzle-loaded guns before. This was very like a Springfield. The conical shape lead ball was the same, and it fit snugly into the barrel, which was a good sign.
Once he was done he looked down the line. Gonzalez, Perez and Leon had also finished. Rodriguez and Cervantes were getting there. Manual hadn't even started; he just stood there, looking dumbly at a cartridge in his hand.
"Bite the end off and pour the powder down the muzzle," Johnny whispered out of the side of his mouth, unsure whether he was allowed to help. "Good, now put the ball in and ram it home with the rod."
Manuel fumbled at each stage, but he managed to fully load before Lopez drew level with him.
"Faster, Ruiz, or you'll be dead."
"Sí, sargento." Manuel gave a shaky salute.
Lopez spat into the dirt. "Right, you bastards, let's see you shoot."
The next hour was spent firing and reloading.
"Speed will keep you alive, muchachos. Practice loading your rifle whenever you can." Sergeant Lopez stalked the line, snapping at any man who tried to rest between firing and reloading.
Johnny was pleased to discover that the Minié didn't clog up like some muzzle-loaded rifles; in fact, it was almost exactly the same as the Springfield a Union soldier had once let him try out in Santa Fe. He was soon firing and reloading and firing again to a steady rhythm.
"I see the rumours are true, Madrid," Estrada said as he helped Manuel adjust his aim. "Learn to use your sights, muchacho." Poor Manuel had never used a firearm before. "Bravo, Ruiz! You hit it."
"Less of the mothering, Cabo Estrada." But despite his words the sergeant seemed satisfied with the afternoon's practice. He signalled its end and ordered Estrada and Alvarado to collect in the weapons.
"What's its range?" Johnny asked as he handed the rifle back to Estrada.
"It's accurate to about six hundred yards, but I would not feel safe until I was at least one thousand yards away from an enemy who had one."
"Not if he could shoot like you, cabo."
Corporal Estrada nodded. "Sí, and not if he could shoot like you, Johnny Madrid."
"Don't you get any ideas, Madrid." Lopez came up from behind and grabbed Johnny's newly returned rifle out of Estrada's hands. He checked the gun was operational and the bayonet and ramrod were still attached; then gave it back. "Watch the bandidos."
As Lopez strode away, Estrada double checked the other rifles, and then he and Alvarado escorted the men back to camp.
Manuel sat down on a rock next to his gear. "You'd think Sargento Lopez would be glad you and the bandidos can shoot."
"I guess he's not sure who we'll aim at." Johnny stuffed his bandana into the gap between his left leg and leg iron. Maybe that would stop the rubbing. He hated to give Lopez credit for anything, but he wouldn't trust the bandidos either.
The following morning the company rose at daybreak and marched on. This time the recruits carried rifles. The company had gone about five miles when the dark shape of the state prison came into view. They were east of it. Johnny had come at the fortress from the west before so he hadn't realized they were approaching it.
Perez spat into the dirt. He and Gonzalez were marching in front of Johnny and Manuel. "There it is, amigos: hell's dungeon."
"What's that stink?" Gonzalez pulled his bandana up over his nose, and the others followed suit. It wasn't the same smell Johnny remembered.
"The shit hole lies just over that rise. Gallons of crap, piss and a few dead bodies." Perez laughed at the horrified look on Manuel's face. "It's true, amigo. Fuck with the guards, and they'll drown you in it. The army is heaven compared to that place."
"Where's the captain going?" Johnny pointed as Tomás rode west with his private guard.
"I'll give you three guesses," Gonzalez growled. "Look, Sargento Moya is following with a cart and soldiers."
Two hours later, as the company rested in an olive grove in fresh air, Johnny and the others saw the cart return laden with bedraggled men.
Perez shaded his eyes from the sun. "It would seem we are no longer the company's newest recruits."
That evening they found out the newly released prisoners would stay under Sargento Moya's command. There were six of them, shackled with leg irons, and ravenously hungry. Johnny and Manuel stepped aside and let them go first for their supper. A couple shovelled their food into their mouths with their fingers so fast that they brought it all up again.
"Eat slow and little to start with, amigos." Perez handed his plate over for the two men to share. "I know. I have been where you have been."
The ex-prisoners nodded gratefully and did as he suggested.
"I had no idea," Manuel said later that evening as he and Johnny settled down for the night, apart from the others.
"Bet next time you think twice before helping a friend." Johnny winked, but then he turned solemn. "You know, I never thanked you, Manuel. You risked a lot for me—a fella you hardly knew. Thank you, amigo, I won't forget it."
Manuel waved away his thanks. "You stood up for me. We are even."
Johnny wasn't too sure about that, but sleep soon overtook both of them and by morning only the day ahead was in his thoughts.
And so they continued as the days turned into weeks: rising at dawn to march fifteen to thirty miles, depending on the terrain; rifle or bayonet practice; and then blessed sleep. They had covered nearly three hundred miles, and Manuel was hitting the target with almost every shot by the time there was any real excitement.
Foot-sore and unbelievably weary they marched longer than usual to fully cross a patch of badlands, but there were still rugged mountains to the left and to the right of them. They made camp in a small oasis surrounding a spring-fed pool.
"Cheer up, amigos. I grew up near here. There is pleasanter land ahead." Gonzalez dumped his pack on the ground and stretched.
"Don't see why we didn't follow the river instead of crossing badlands," Cervantes grouched, tipping sand out of his boot. "What if one of the wagons had broken an axle? We'd be stuck out there in the dark. No water, no shelter, nothing."
"You should thank Capitán Flores for his decision, amigo. Going around those mountains would have added a hundred miles to our journey."
Throughout the day, Tomás had ridden ahead with one of his lieutenants surveying the route, marking the trail and testing the water holes—only one had been useable. Now and again, he would choose a high point, a rocky outcrop usually; from there he would watch as his company and wagons slowly moved forward.
"Capitán Flores does not make many mistakes," Corporal Estrada said later as the leg irons were put back on. "He is young, but he is the best commander I've ever served under. And he cares about the men. Juárez will honour him as a general one day, you mark my words."
Johnny smiled at the corporal's conviction, and laughed at himself, because he felt kind of proud. Tomás was about the closest thing he had to a brother. It was too bad neither of them could admit it.
Tomás was not seen as a particularly kind man, but he was recognised as a good officer by more than just Corporal Estrada. Even Sargento Lopez respected him, and common opinion was that he was fair. In El Paso del Norte the enlisted men had been allowed certain freedoms and leave, but on campaign Tomás demanded discipline. He had inspected the entire company on the second day out and made that very clear. "There will be no looting unless authorised. No stealing or fighting among the ranks. No rapes if you are sent into villages. Any man caught sneaking out to fraternize or entertaining secret guests will be flogged."
The camp followers that dogged them for the first few days gave up and went home. True, by the time the company reached the badlands more than one man had earned his stripes, but it was for getting on the wrong side of their corporals or sergeants in some way. No one disobeyed Tomás' orders.
Estrada put it best. "The Third Infantry owes its allegiance in equal measure to God, country and Captain Flores, and don't you bad hombres forget it."
It had taken a full day to cross the badlands, and the company bedded down early; there was no breath left for the usual talking and singing. But nerves were frayed and a few tempers flared. Gonzalez and Perez argued, and instead of sleeping next to each other Gonzalez took himself off to settle down alone nearer the horses.
It was the sound of agitated horses that woke Johnny in the morning as the sun began to creep over the mountain tops. The light was still dull and shadowy, too early for the bugle let alone harnessing horses.
"Halt or I'll shoot!"
A horse thundered past where Johnny and Manuel were lying, heading back into the badlands.
Seconds later, Private Morales ran out into the open. "Mierda!" Kneeling, he took aim and fired.
The rider jerked in the saddle about seven hundred yards away from camp. He fell backwards and was dragged by the horse a few yards further before his boot worked free. By that time half the company was awake and gawking in his direction.
"Out of our way, Madrid." Sergeant Lopez and a half-dressed Lieutenant Herrera ran past him. Johnny tried to follow, but one of the sentries forced him back.
When Lopez and Herrera reached the untidy heap lying in the desert, Lopez crouched down. He exchanged words with the lieutenant, and then went to retrieve the horse that had stopped a few yards on. Herrera walked back a stride or two and bent down to pick up a rifle. Examining the gun, he waited for Sergeant Lopez, and they returned to camp together.
All the blood seemed to have drained out of Lieutenant Herrera's face, but Lopez looked like it was Christmas. Sergeant Moya strode out from camp to meet them on the outskirts. Johnny strained his ears to hear what was being said, but he only caught the last part. "Find out, Sargento Moya. Sargento Lopez, assemble the men serving sentences."
The sergeants saluted and Herrera hastened towards the captain's tent.
Johnny and the other convict-soldiers from both squads were lined up. Without speaking, Corporal Estrada, Private Rivera and Private Diaz removed the leg irons and marched them towards the dead man.
Only he wasn't dead.
It was Gonzalez—or what was left of him. Still shaking from the shock, he moaned as they approached. His right arm was gone; shreds of muscles and bone leaked blood six inches down from his shoulder. His detached hand was lying halfway between him and where Johnny finally stopped. It looked like it was clawing its way up from beneath the earth.
The twelve men were lined up on three sides around him, about six yards back. Estrada and the two privates took the fourth side.
Gonzalez pissed himself as they got in position, and when his head flopped to one side, a weekly shaver from the other squad lurched violently and threw up in the dust. Evidently, even Duran's time in the state prison hadn't prepared him for this.
Johnny swallowed hard. He couldn't talk; he wasn't far off puking himself. Manuel had his eyes shut.
Lieutenant Herrera joined them just as Duran emptied the contents of his stomach. There was a little more colour to his cheeks, and he was now fully dressed. Marching straight past Gonzalez without a glance, he took his place next to Sergeant Lopez at one corner of the square and fixed his eyes on the surrounding hills.
The sergeant stepped forward. "Soldado Rivera, teach Soldado Diaz how it's done. Quick march!"
Private Rivera, half-Mexican and half-Indian, broke ranks. He had rope and wooden stakes with him. Private Diaz followed, carrying a mallet. Looping the rope around Gonzalez's injured upper arm, Rivera pulled it tight, slowing the loss of blood. He tied the other end of the rope to a stake, and positioned the spike so the rope was taut. Then he held it steady until Diaz hammered the stake securely into the ground. They did the same to the arm and legs that were still whole. The deserter laid spread eagle on his back, gazing up at the sky as the sun rose higher and higher.
Sweat trickled down Johnny's spine, one ridge at a time. He licked his lips and prayed for a speedy end to this nightmare.
God seemed to be listening for once; his cousin appeared soon after Diaz and Rivera stood back from ramming the last stake in place. Johnny breathed a little easier. Tomás approached slowly on horseback, followed by his guard. The two soldiers reined in their horses before they reached the square, leaving the captain to ride into it alone. He circled the dying man, paused and then dismounted.
Tomás was a compassionate man. Johnny was sure he wouldn't let even a deserter die like this. He would grant mercy. He would…
The thought died in Johnny's head. Tomás whispered a few words in Gonzalez's ear, and then he spat in the man's face. The loathing in his eyes was unmistakable. Mercy was not on the table.
Remounting, Captain Flores, now a stranger to Johnny, walked his horse to join Lieutenant Herrera and Sergeant Lopez.
The soldiers stood in silence around the dying man for what seemed like an eternity. A large bird appeared in the sky, a black mass against the blue. It began to circle. After a time it was joined by another.
When a third buzzard cast shadows on the ground, the lieutenant ordered Rivera to check the prisoner.
The private got down on one knee, looking for signs of life. He shook his head. "He's still alive."
Words were exchanged by the officers. Lieutenant Herrera and Sergeant Lopez saluted, and Captain Flores rode back to camp.
God help them, the vigil lasted another eternity, and a fourth bird joined the slow square dance above. The ground shimmered and moved beneath Johnny's boots. He could taste salt from his own sweat and bile, held down by sheer determination. He needed water; they all did.
Then, in the distance the bugle sounded; the rest of the company and wagons were moving out.
Lieutenant Herrera called to Rivera again. The private knelt down, sending a cloud of flies up into the air, and another man vomited.
Johnny's guts gave a nasty jolt, but with muscles tense he managed to keep everything inside. Holding his breath, he willed Rivera to nod.
But again Private Rivera shook his head.
Johnny nearly cried. Tears dripped onto the dry ground between Manuel's boots—why should Johnny be any different? But he still fought the sensation. Die, you bastard! Please. He didn't think he could control his innards much longer.
"Attention!"
Gracias a Dios.
Sergeant Lopez stepped into the square. "About turn. From the left—march!"
Shaky and stumbling, the men returned to the near abandoned campsite and joined the end of the company lines.
Gonzalez, the deserter, was left to die alone on the edge of the badlands in his own time—or at the whim of nature—and the rest of them were left with the memory.
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.
2. El Paso del Norte is the old name for Ciudad Juarez, Mexico.
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
6. For more information on the Minié rifle and the Minié ball see wiki/Mini%C3%A9_rifle and watch?v=spvI-95Goe0 and watch?v=dBjJS42VnyE