Chalmers coughed damply and took a kerchief from his sleeve to wipe his face. Lord Russell, seeing his obvious distress, poured a glass of water and took it to him. The major smile weakly and nodded his thanks, then went on.
“After the swamps we were back in jungle again. In addition, there is a backbone of low hills running the length of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec which must be crossed. No real difficulties there, though a few bridges will have to be built. Plenty of trees so that won’t be a problem. Then, once past the hills, we will be on the Atlantic coastal plain and the grading will be that much easier.”
“You have a completion schedule, I do believe,” Lord Palmerston said.
“We do — and I believe that we will better it. More and more regiments are arriving and they go right to work. We have enough men now so that we can rotate them for the most onerous duty. I can firmly promise you, gentlemen, that when you need the road it will be there.”
“Bravo!” Lord Russell said. “That is the true British spirit. We all bid you a speedy recovery, and sincerely hope that you will enjoy your leave here in London.”
A DANGEROUS JOURNEY
Don Ambrosio O’Higgins left the paddle wheel coaster after dark. A small carpetbag was passed down to him, then a long bundle wrapped in oiled canvas. He seized up the bag, put the bundle over his shoulder and started forward — then stepped back into the shadows. A French patrol had appeared on the waterfront, lighting their way with a lantern. They proceeded carefully, muskets ready, looking in all directions as they came forward. They knew full well that every hand was against them in this country of Mexico. O’Higgins crouched down behind some large hogsheads, staying there until the patrol had passed by. Only then did he make his way quickly across the open docks and into the safety of the now familiar streets of Vera Cruz. There were many other French patrols in the city, but they never penetrated these dark and dangerous back alleys. Too many patrols had been ambushed, too many soldiers had never returned. Their weapons lost, now used to fight the invaders. O’Higgins kept careful watch around him, for not only the French were unsafe in these dismal streets. He emitted a low sigh of relief when he finally reached the merchant’s shop. It was locked and silent. O’Higgins felt his way carefully to the rear of the building where he tapped lightly on the back door. Then louder still until a voice called out querulously from inside.
“Go away — we are closed.”
“Such a cold greeting for an old friend, Pablocito. I am wounded to the core.”
“Don Ambrosio! Can that be you?”
The bolt rattled as it was drawn back. A single candle lit the room; Pablo resealed the door behind him, and then went to fetch a bottle of the special mezcal from the town of Tequila. They toasted and drank.
“Any news of interest from Salina Cruz since I went away?” O’Higgins asked.
“Just more of the same. Reports filter in that the English are still bringing in their troops. The road advances slowly — but it advances. When these invaders are thrown from our country — God willing! — we will at least have the road that they will have to leave behind. Everything else they steal from our country. But a road — no!” Then Pablo touched the canvas-wrapped package with his toe.
“Another mission?” he asked. O’Higgins nodded.
“Like you, I fight for the freedom of Mexico. Also like you I do not speak of what I do.” Pablo nodded understandingly and drained his glass.
“Before the French came Mexicans were always ready to fight Mexicans. When the French are driven out they will undoubtedly fight each other again. There are those now out of power who are just biding their time, waiting for the French to leave.”
“I sorrowfully admit that I know little of Mexico’s turbulent past.”
“That is a good word for it. Before the Conquistadores came the various Indian tribes warred with one another. Then they warred with the Spanish. When the tribes were defeated they were enslaved. I must tell you that I go to mass and am most religious. But Mexico will not be free until the power of the church is broken.”
“They are that strong?”
“They are. I believe that there are over six thousand priests and over eight thousand members of religious orders. All of them above the law because of the fuero, their own courts of justice. If that is the word. They own enormous properties where the friars live in luxury while the poor starve. The bishops of Puebla, Valladolid and Guadalajara are millionaires.”
“Is there no way out?”
“It happens. Slowly. We had electoral reform in 1814 where all could vote, an elected congress, it was all lovely. Then the French came. But enough of the past. We must fight now. At least we are both on the side of the Liberals and of the government of Benito Juarez. I have heard that he fled north when the French advanced.”
O’Higgins nodded. “I understand he is in Texas now, waiting only to return.”
“May that day come soon. Shall I send for Miguel?”
“In the morning. And the donkeys?”
“Getting fat in his fields. I have seen him there when I was passing by. I have even ridden your Rocinante a few times. She is fit and willing.”
“I thank you. The donkeys will work that fat off fast enough, never fear.”
They sat and talked, until the candle was guttering and the bottle empty. Pablo stood and yawned widely. “Do you wish a bed in the house? I’ll have one made up.”
“Thank you — but I must say no. My blanket in the storeroom will suffice. The fewer people that know I am here the better.”
Miguel appeared at dawn. They packed their meager supplies during the morning, then had a midday meal of beans and tortillas with Pablo. They left soon after noon. The French had readily adapted to the Mexican siesta, so the streets were empty during the heat of the day. O’Higgins led the way out of the city, to the trails that meandered into the jungle to the east.
“Do we return to Salina Cruz?” Miguel asked.
“Not this time. We follow the trail only as far as San Lucas Ojitlán. Then turn south, into the Oaxaca Mountains. Do you know the trails?”
Miguel nodded, then shook his head unhappily. “I know them, yes, but they are not safe. Not unless you are a friend of Porfirio Diáz. He and his followers are the law there in the mountains.”
“I have never met the good general — but I am sure that he will be very happy to see me. How do we find him?”
“That is not a problem. He will find us,” Miguel said, his voice laden with doom.
It was hot under the afternoon sun but they kept moving, stopping only to rest and water their beasts of burden. This time they encountered no French troops. By mid-afternoon clouds had moved in from the sea, cooling the air. A light rain fell which they ignored.
The flat coastal plain of Tehuantepec ended abruptly at the foothills of the Oaxaca Mountains. As they went higher they came to fewer and fewer villages, since there were very few places among the crags that were fit for farming. Fifty years of revolution after revolution had left their mark as well. They passed by one nameless village, now only a burnt and blackened shell. The trail went on, slowly winding uphill between the trees. It was cooler at this altitude, as the lowland shrubbery gave way to giant pine trees. The hoofbeats of their animals were muffled by the carpet of pine needles, the only sound the wind rustling in the branches above them. Further on they emerged into a clearing and found a mounted man barring their way.
O’Higgins pulled his horse up. He thought of reaching for his gun, then quickly changed his mind. This was no chance encounter. They must have been watched, followed, cut off. The mounted man did not reach for the rifle slung across his back, but movement in the foliage to both sides of the path proved that he was not alone. He had the emotionless face of an Indian; his black eyes stared coldly at O’Higgins from under the brim of his large sombrero. Miguel had pulled up the donkeys as soon as he had seen the stranger. O’Higgins dismounted slowly, carefully keeping his hands away from his weapons. He handed the reins to Miguel and walked slowly towards the horseman.