They quickly left the small village behind and followed a twisting path into the jungle beyond. There was shade under the trees now, but little relief from the muggy heat. They plodded on. For a short while their path paralleled that of the new road below, where it cut a dusty track through the forest. When they passed through the occasional clearing they could see the laboring soldiers hacking through the jungle and digging into the rich volcanic soil. When the road was finished it would stretch from Salina Cruz on the Pacific coast, right across the narrow Isthmus of Tehuantepec, to Vera Cruz on the Atlantic shore. That’s what the officers had said: he had heard it more than once. They talked a lot when they drank, never considering for a moment that they might be overheard. All of them agreed that this was a most ambitious project. Don Ambrosio agreed with them — and a most unusual one in this poverty-stricken and neglected country. Because when it was finished it would also be the only road in all of Mexico. The British were the first invaders to ever have bothered building a road. Certainly the Spanish, in all their centuries of occupation never had. The most recent invaders of this unfortunate country, the French and the Austrians, had followed suit. All of them too interested in plundering the country so that there was never enough time to bother bringing the benefits of civilization to these shores. Communications were slow and commerce primitive where all of the messages and trade between cities went on muleback.
Don Ambrosio touched his jacket pocket where the small book was safely settled, and smiled. His time here had been well spent. He had watched the sailing ships arrive and the soldiers come ashore. He had counted the men and made careful record of their number. He had noted their guns and their cavalry, and recorded as well their progress on the construction of their road. And, most important of all, he had transcribed every spoken word that he had heard. But all of his effort would be wasted if he and his book did not get to Vera Cruz as soon as possible.
The trail wound upward to the pass at Matias Romero, then sloped gently down towards Campeche Bay. They stopped when they reached the summit to rest their weary animals.
“Tell me, Miguel, will we reach the city by dark?”
“I cannot promise. But once out of the mountains the going will be easier because the land is very flat along the shore.”
“I am certainly hopeful of that. I am not used to the jungle and I am afraid that I do not like it all.”
“The jungle is rich and kind to those who know how to live there.”
“I wish them the best of luck. It is in the cities that I feel most at home.”
“Do you know, señor, why the tall gringos have come here to build this road?”
“They say to each other that it is to cross Mexico and connect one ocean to another.”
“And when this is done — what will they do with it?”
“I must admit that is a mystery that I have puzzled over. But I have not lost sleep over it. Sharper brains and wiser minds may know the answer. Now — do you think that we should push on?”
“The animals are rested. We will make better time now.”
Insects hummed in the heat; birds called loudly from the trees. Don Ambrosio was tired and found himself nodding off in the saddle. He woke up with a start when Miguel suddenly hissed a quick warning — and held his hand up as he pulled his donkey to a stop. He pointed.
Three men had emerged from between the trees on the far side of the clearing that they were now crossing. Two of them held long, sharp machetes; the third had an ancient musket. Don Ambrosio kicked his horse forward past the donkeys, reined it to a stop.
“We come in peace,” he said quietly.
The man with the gun hawked and spat, then half-raised his weapon.
“Gold?” he said hoarsely.
“Only lead,” Don Ambrosio said in a quiet voice. He loosened the carbine that was holstered to his saddle with his left hand, his right hand resting on the pommel of his saddle. The bandit pointed his own gun in response.
With a motion too swift to follow the Don pulled the Colt.44 from his waistband and fired three quick shots.
The armed man was down, as was the second man. The third staggered, wounded, turned to flee. A fourth shot dropped him by the others.
“We must move quickly now,” Miguel said, kicking his mule forward. “If there are others close by, they will have heard the shots.”
“Who are they? Or perhaps, more correctly, who were they?”
“It does not matter. Hungry men with guns fill this poor land. We have had too many revolutions and rebellions, too much killing. Now, please, we must ride.”
“Take this,” Don Ambrosio said, pulling out the carbine, turning and throwing it to him. “I’ll go first.” He reloaded the pistol as he rode. “I’ll watch the path ahead — you watch the jungle on the side.”
If there were other bandits hiding in the undergrowth they wisely kept their distance. A few miles later the track finally emerged from the forest and passed by the corn fields of a small village. Don Ambrosio put his pistol away and Miguel once more led the way. But he still carried the carbine. Years of war, revolution and invasion had left the countryside well populated with bandits. And now there were others — who were far more of a threat than bandits. Don Ambrosio, riding high on his horse, could see further along the path.
“Dust!” he called out. “A lot of it up ahead.”
They reined up, looked around for cover. There was little of it here on the coastal plain.
“We can’t go back — so we must go ahead. Those trees ahead,” Don Ambrosio said, pointing to a small grove close to the beaten trail. “We must get there before they do.”
He galloped ahead. The donkeys followed protesting loudly when Miguel goaded them cruelly with his stick. The sound of marching feet could now be clearly heard in the distance as they crashed through the underbrush between the trees. Moments after they had found cover the first of the blue-clad soldiers came into sight.
Dusty, hot and weary, they nevertheless marched steadily on, an officer on horseback leading them. Muskets on their shoulders, heavy packs on their backs. The invaders.
The French.
Concealed by the trees and undergrowth the two men watched the long column march by. Even when this main body of soldiers had passed, they remained under cover in case there were stragglers. And indeed there were, a limping band being urged on hoarsely by a sergeant. Only when the track was completely clear did they continue with their journey.
It was almost dark when they entered the cobbled streets of Vera Cruz. Don Ambrosio led the way now through the narrow alleys, avoiding the main streets and the crowded squares. The only French they saw were a few soldiers drinking outside a pulqueria, too drunk to even notice them. They passed a crowded street market rich with the scent of freshly ground spices and chilies. Most of the stalls were closing up for the night, though some Indian women still sat in rows against the walls, offering handfuls of fresh limes for sale. It was dark when they came out of the back streets and onto the waterfront. There was just enough light from the full moon for Don Ambrosio to find his way to a courtyard filled with nets and cordage. A fat man stood on a ladder there and was reaching up to light a lantern, grunting with the effort, tottering precariously on his wooden leg. The wick caught and he blew the match out, turned to look at the newcomers when the Don called out a greeting.
“Good evening, Pablocito. We’ve come a long way and are very tired.”
“Don Ambrosio!” He climbed down the ladder, stumped over and threw his arms around him in a warm abrazo, for they were old friends. “Come inside and we will drink some mezcal, the very best from the city of Tequila. Leave your animals, my men will take care of them.”