Stars and Stripes in Peril (14 page)

"Ambrosio O'Higgins. We're not expecting him, are we?"

"We've no orders, sir."

O'Higgins was pacing back and forth as the ship drew close—he even grabbed the thrown line and wrapped it around a bollard. As soon as the gangway touched the dock he was up it and on deck, then he climbed quickly to the bridge.

"Captain," he said, "is it possible to sail south as quickly as you can?"

"Possible, but not probable—we need coal..."

"I cannot tell you how important this is. I have had a message from the
guerrillero
forces about some construction further down the coast. I'm not sure exactly what is happening, but the message said it was most dangerous. That I should go there at once and see for myself. Might I see your coastal map, if you please?"

Captain Weaver crossed the chartroom and pointed at the opened chart on the table there. O'Higgins hurried to it, placed his fingertip on Vera Cruz and moved it south along the coast. "Here it is! A small fishing village they said, name of Coatzacoalcos." He tapped the chart over and over. "Can we get to this place? Can we find out what is happening there?"

Captain Weaver took a map compass and carefully spread the points apart to measure the distance, then transferred the measurements to the scale on the chart.

"Yes, it's possible. Just about one hundred and twenty-five nautical miles. Even at six knots we should be there in the morning. We have enough coal to get there and back. But I will have to hold the speed down."

"Anything, as long as we get there. Will you do it?"

The captain rubbed his jaw in thought. "Well—if it is that important..."

"It is—I assure you that it is. Most important to those who employ me—and send the cargo that you carry."

"All right then. We'll find this village with the unpronounceable name."

"Coatzacoalcos."

"If you say so."

They cast off, while the firemen threw sheets of resin onto the burning coal to quickly raise pressure. The big paddle wheels thrashed the water as they took a south-easterly course. O'Higgins stayed on deck until the sun set behind the shadowed mountains, then went below. Dinner was the usual pork and biscuits which he loathed, although he had forced himself to become accustomed to it. The ocean they sailed was brimming with fish, yet still the Yanquis ate this greasy horror. The only thing good he could say about it was that at least it was filling.

Later, he tried to sleep in the watch officer's bunk, but his eyes stayed open. His stomach growled in protest at the greasy and indigestible meal. Eventually he did fall asleep. It seemed only an instant later when a hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

"Captain says that dawn is about twenty minutes from now."

"I'm coming." He splashed water on his face from the basin, toweled himself dry and hurried on deck.

There was a dim glow over the sea ahead. The stars marched down to the horizon on all sides in the moonless sky. The captain's face was barely visible in the faint light from the binnacle. He pointed towards the bow, where the mountain range was a dark silhouette against the stars.

"That's it, as near as I can estimate. We'll head towards shore as soon as it gets a bit lighter. We'll find out then just how close we are to this village."

The tropical dawn came swiftly, the stars vanishing as the sky lightened. The mountain tops glowed red, then the jungle slopes appeared as the sun cleared the horizon. The captain was using his binoculars.

"Two ships offshore there, I can just make them out. But they're big, I can see that much."

Now as the light grew the whitewashed shapes of the buildings in the village came into view, clearer and sharper, as well as the hills beyond. A number of sailing ships were at anchor just offshore.

"Those are warships—I can see their guns now. And the shore beyond the village—good God!"

"What is it? Tell me!" O'Higgins pleaded. Captain Weaver shook his head, then passed over the glasses.

"Look for yourself. Beyond the village, and on both sides of it."

The air was clear as crystal. O'Higgins raised the glasses, looked through them. "I don't understand. Raw earth, dug up..."

"Look closely and you will see the muzzles. Those are gun emplacements, well dug in. Big guns at that. Coastal defenses. No one is going to land on that shore, not with those guns there."

"Captain, sir—" the lookout called out from the bow. "One of those ships is getting up steam. I can see the smoke. It's an ironclad warship."

"Hard about!" the captain shouted. "Twenty-five revolutions. Back to Vera Cruz."

O'Higgins examined the gun emplacements in the growing light. Counted them carefully. Then raised the glasses to the hills beyond the village. Cursed fluently in both Spanish and English as he handed the captain back his glasses and turned to the chartroom. Traced his finger across the map and cursed the harder.

A few minutes later the captain joined him. "The ship turned back. Satisfied I suppose with scaring us off I guess. Good thing too. From the look of her she can do twice our speed."

"They have tricked us!" O'Higgins shouted as he slammed his fist onto the chart. "Tricked us royally. I did not think the English were capable of such subtlety and foresight."

"What do you mean?"

"The road—you know about the road?"

"Of course. That's why we landed all those guns and ammunition. For the armed bands of Mexicans that are supposed to be attacking it."

O'Higgins pointed to the chart. "The British troops were first landed here at Salina Cruz to start digging the road across the isthmus. To the coastal plain on the Atlantic. So that the British could march from the Pacific to the port of Vera Cruz on the Atlantic. I myself heard them say that. Thick-headed British officers. They could not have simulated, the way they talked—they surely believed every word that they said. But their masters didn't. From the very beginning they intended the road to go here! A shorter and easier route."

He went back to the bridge, watched the village and the defenses around it vanishing behind them.

"The enemy will soon be able to march across the isthmus to this heavily defended port. There will be gun batteries on land and ironclads in the harbor. When the troops get there they can board their transports unmolested. And invade the AmericanGulf ports with impunity. This is the very worst news possible."

The rising sun lit the village of Coatzacoalcos, lit as well the new gun positions that surrounded it. Rising higher it shone down on the track slashed through the jungle that would soon be a military road. Soldiers were already moving down this unfinished track. Not widening it and grading it—not yet. They were building defensive positions instead. Just squads and companies of riflemen now, trenches and revetments bristling with guns. Further west the sun shone on the completed sections of road—and on the defenses there.

Lieutenant Calles was new to the business of war. His family was part of the governing elite, the
corregidores,
who, aided by the church, had ruled Mexico with austere harshness for hundreds of years. He had never thought about this state of affairs, but just accepted it as a natural part of life. There were the rulers and the ruled. Blessed by good birth he accepted the fact that the world was made the way it was. He did not begin to query the harsh treatment of the native Indians until after he had gone off to school in Spain. Then, as he had received his education at the University of Salamanca, he had also learned of the new wave of liberalism that was sweeping across the world. Only when he had returned to the family estate in Oaxaca did he begin to question matters he had always taken for granted. Now, educated as an historian, he looked at his native land through an historian's eyes—and was not pleased. But the invasion of the State of Oaxaca by the British had wiped away any feelings of doubt. His country must be defended at any cost. He had made his way into the mountains and joined the
guerrilleros.

Now, as a lieutenant, he had become accustomed to the hardships of guerrilla warfare. That he had survived this far proved that in addition to his intelligence he had bravery, and a strong sense of survival. The illiterate peasant soldiers were aware of this and respected him. More important, they followed him into battle.

Now they followed him along an almost invisible path through the jungle. Ahead of him was an Indian guide who found his way with unerring skill. Lieutenant Calles had told him where he had wanted to go, knew that the command would be carried out precisely. They were paralleling the defenses that flanked the British road, looking for places where it could be attacked.

It had been a grueling day—and a frustrating one. The last time they had come this way there had been a bridge here under construction, where the working soldiers had made fine targets until hastily summoned guards had driven them away. Now, when they reached the gully, they found that the wooden bridge was hidden by a stout dirt rampart. Any attempt to storm it would have been suicidal.

It was late afternoon before they reached their goal. A deep valley that cut through the hills. So steep it could not be bridged. Here the road wound down the valley wall, crossed at the bottom and up the other side. There was ample opportunity for the
guerrilleros
to slip through the jungle to make their surprise attacks. But no more.

"The lines..." he said under his breath.

"Mande?"
the guide said.

"Nothing. I was talking to myself. But look ahead. Do you see that?"

"The British have been very busy. They must want to build this road very badly."

"They do. And they are not afraid to learn from history. Their own history."

The valley was no longer a possible entrance through enemy lines. It was filled with rubbish, boulders, dirt, entire trees ripped up by their roots and toppled down onto the valley floor. More and more heaped until the valley was filled—and impassable.

"There was a great British general," Calles said, "who fought against Napoleon in France and Portugal. He built the lines at Torres Vedras that stopped the French general and sent him back in defeat. He did it like this. Someone has studied General Wellington and applied that knowledge of history to build his defenses here."

"We will go on," the guide said. "There will be a way through."

"I hope so—but I doubt it. Like Napoleon, I am afraid that we are stopped."

The USS
Avenger
found the sea empty of ships when she reached the navigational location that they had been given, the rendezvous of the British squadron. This was the right place and the right date. The only things missing were the ships. Nor did they find any sign of the invading force in the West Indies. They stayed for a day at this position but the horizon remained clear. In the morning they sailed to Jamaica and found only American or neutral vessels there. The warship poked about the nearest islands before returning to the rendezvous. Commodore Goldsborough himself checked the noontime sight. The navigator was correct. This was the exact latitude and longitude that the spies in England had provided. Goldsborough had the uneasy sensation that something was very, very wrong indeed. He turned to his first mate.

"I do not like this, do not like it at all. We are in the right place at the right time, aren't we?"

"We are indeed, sir."

"Well do you see any vast invasion fleet? I'll be damned if I do."

"None, sir."

"Would you hazard a guess as to what has happened?"

"It seems, well, obvious now, sir. Our intelligence service has been duped, for reasons I do not know. We have been sent on a wild goose chase."

"I am in compete agreement. Set a course for Florida. Washington must know what we have found."

At top speed
Avenger
turned and headed for Florida and the nearest telegraph station.

"You have, then, been presented to the Queen before?" Lord Palmerston asked, then muttered with pain as the carriage lurched over a rough patch of cobbles. His gout had improved greatly, but his foot was still tender.

"I have had that pleasure," Brigadier Somerville said. Which was not quite the truth. He had no liking of the court and the hangers-on there. He would far rather face shot and shell in battle than go through with this afternoon's business.

"You're a brainy fellow," Palmerston said, with more than a little condescension. "You can explain all the technical bits to her."

"Will not the Duke of Cambridge be there? Surely as Commander-in-Chief of the army he is in a far better position to clarify matters than I am."

"I assume so. But that's neither here nor there. The Duke and I discussed this matter in the club last night. We're in perfect agreement, dear boy."

I'll wager they are,
Somerville thought to himself, but did not voice his suspicions aloud. He hoped that this would not be the simple matter of shooting the messenger who brings the news of ill tidings.

All too soon they were rattling across the courtyard of BuckinghamPalace, the footman opening the door as soon as they had stopped. When they went inside they found that the Duke of Cambridge was already there, enjoying a pipe in the anteroom.

"Ah, there you are," he said, climbing to his feet. "Ready to reveal to Her Majesty the interesting details of our great victory."

"As you say, sir, though I seek no notoriety. If you wish to speak..."

"Nonsense, Somerville. One's doesn't want to hide one's light under a bushel. After all this entire matter was all your idea. Credit where credit is due, old boy, and all that."

Somerville bowed to the inevitable and entered the reception chamber. Head high and shoulders back, as though bound for the headsman's axe.

Victoria was peevish this day. "Now what is all this of events in Mexico? We were informed that a fleet had been dispatched to the West Indies. Yet still we hear strange reports—"

"One should not listen to the fiddle-faddle of people who gossip just for gossip's sake, dear cuz. Let us go to the font of knowledge of the victorious planner himself. Here is Brigadier Somerville to enlighten us all."