11 With the Army

The crossing of the Rio Grande was a formidable task, and the train could never have accomplished it in the face of a foe, even small in numbers, but no Mexicans were present, and they went about their task unhindered. One of the streams was too deep to be forded, but they cut down the larger trees and constructed a strong raft, which they managed to steer over with long poles. The reluctant horses and mules were forced upon it, and thus the train was carried in safety over the deep water. Nor was the task then ended. It usually took six horses and ten or twelve men to drag a wagon through the sand and carry it up the bank to the solid earth beyond, the way having been carefully examined in advance in order to avoid quicksand.

It took three days to build the raft and complete the passage. Phil had never worked so hard in his life before. He pushed at wagon wheels and pulled at the bridles of mules and horses until every bone in him ached, and he felt as if he never could get his strength again. But the train was safely across, without the loss of a weapon or an animal. They were in Mexico, and they did not deceive themselves about the greatness and danger of the task that lay before them. Phil felt the curious effect which the passage over the border from one country to another usually has on people, especially the young. It seemed to him that in passing that strip of muddy river he had come upon a new soil, and into a new climate—into a new world, in fact. Yet the Texas shore, in reality, looked exactly like the Mexican, and was like it.

“Well, Phil,” said Bill Breakstone, “here we are in Mexico. I’m covered with mud, so are you, and so is Arenberg. I think it’s Texas and Mexico mud mixed, so suppose we go down, find a clear place in the water, and get rid of it.”

They found a cool little pool, an eddy or backwater, where the water standing over white sand was fairly clear, and the three, stripping, sprang in. The water was deep, and Bill plunged and dived and spluttered with great delight. Phil and Arenberg were not so noisy, but they found the bath an equal pleasure. It was an overwhelming luxury to get the sand out of their eyes and ears and hair, and to feel the cool water on bodies hot with the ache and grime of three days’ hard work.

“You’d better make the best of it, Phil,” said Breakstone. “The part of Mexico that we are going into isn’t very strong on water, and maybe you won’t get another bath for a year.”

“I’m doing it,” said the boy.

“And don’t you mind the fact,” said Bill Breakstone, “that the alligators of the Rio Grande, famous for their size and appetite, like to lie around in lovely cool pools like this and bite the bare legs of careless boys who come down to bathe.”

Phil felt something grasp his right leg and pull hard. He uttered a yell, and then, putting his hand on Breakstone’s brown head, which was rising to the surface, convulsively thrust him back under. But Breakstone came up three yards away, pushed the hair out of his eyes, and laughed.

“I’m the only alligator that’s in the stream,” he said, “but I did give you a scare for a moment. You are bound to admit that, Sir Philip, Duke of Texas and Prince of Mexico.”

“I admit it readily,” replied Phil, and, noticing that Breakstone was now looking the other way, he dived quietly and ran his finger nails sharply along his comrade’s bare calf. Breakstone leaped almost wholly out of the water and cried:

“Great Heavens, a shark is eating me up!”

Phil came up and said quietly:

“There are no sharks in the Rio Grande, Mr: William Breakstone. You never find sharks up a river hundreds of miles from the ocean. Now, I did give you a scare for a moment, you will admit that, will you not, Sir William of the Shout, the Shark, and the Fright?”

“I admit it, of course, and now we are even,” said Breakstone. “Give me your hand on it.”

Phil promptly reached out his hand, and Breakstone, seizing it, dragged him under. But Phil, although surprised, pulled down on Breakstone’s hand with all his might, and Breakstone went under with him. Both came up spluttering, laughing, and enjoying themselves hugely, while Arenberg swam calmly to a safe distance.

“You are a big boy, Herr Bill Breakstone.” he said. “You will never grow up.”

“I don’t want to,” replied Bill Breakstone calmly. “When it makes me happy all through and through just to be swimming around in a pool of nice cool water, what’s the use of growing up? Answer me that, Hans Arenberg.”

“I can’t,” replied the German. “It isn’t in me to give an answer to such a question.”

“I suppose we’ve got to go out at last, dress again, and go back to work,” said Breakstone lugubriously. “It’s a hard world for us men, Phil.”

“One iss not a fish, and, being not a fish,” said Arenberg, “one must go out on dry land some time or other to rest, and the some time has now come.”

They swam to land, but Bill Breakstone began to plead.

“Let’s lie here on the sand and luxuriate for a space, Sir Philip of the Rio Grande and Count Hans of the Llano Estacado, which is Spanish for the Staked Plain, which I have seen more than once.” said Bill Breakstone. “The sand is white, it is clean, and it has been waiting a long time for us to lie upon it, close our eyes, and forget everything except that we are happy.”

“It iss a good idea,” said Arenberg. “There are times when it iss well to be lazy, only most men think it iss all the time.”

They stretched themselves out on the white sand and let the warm sun play upon them, permeating their bodies and soothing and relaxing every muscle. Phil had not felt so peaceful in a long time. It had relieved him to tell the secret of his quest to Breakstone, who, with his permission, had told it in turn to Middleton and Arenberg, and now that he was really in Mexico with strong friends around him he felt that the first great step had been accomplished. The warm sun felt exceedingly good, his eyes were closed, and a pleasant darkness veiled them, a faint murmur, the flowing of the river, came to his ears, and he floated away with the current.

“Here! here! Sir Philip of the Sleepy Head, wake up. It isn’t your first duty to go to sleep when you arrive in Mexico! Besides, it’s time we were back at the camp, or they’ll think Santa Anna has got us already! Also, you need more clothes than you’ve got on just now!”

Phil sprang up embarrassed, but he saw Arenberg looking sheepish, also.

“You had good company, Sir Philip of the Sleepy Head,” exclaimed Breakstone joyously. “Count Hans of the Snore was traveling with you into that unknown land to which millions have gone and returned, and of which not one can tell anything.”

“It iss so,” said Arenberg. “I confess my weakness.”

They dressed rapidly, and, refreshed and young again, ran back to the train. The twilight was now coming, and the wagons were drawn up in the usual circular formation, with the animals in the middle, and, outside the circle, were burning several fires of dry cactus and cottonwood, around which men were cooking.

“Just in time for supper,” said Bill Breakstone. “I was a great rover when I was a boy, but my mother said I took care never to get out of sound of the dinner-bell. It may be funny, but my appetite is just as good in Mexico as it was in Texas.”

They ate strips of bacon, venison, and jerked buffalo, with a great appetite. They drank coffee and felt themselves becoming giants in strength. The twilight passed, and a brilliant moon came out, flooding the plain with silvery light. Then they saw a horseman coming toward them, riding directly through the silver flood, black, gigantic, and sinister.

“Now what under the sun can that be?” exclaimed Bill Breakstone.

“You should say what under the moon. It iss more correct,” said Arenberg. “I can tell you, also, that it iss a white man, although the figure looks black here—I know by the shape. It iss also an American officer in uniform. I know it because I saw just then a gleam of moonlight on his epaulets. He iss coming to inspect us.”

The approach of the stranger aroused, of course, the deepest curiosity in everybody, and in a few moments a crowd gathered to gaze at this man who came on with such steadiness and assurance. His figure, still magnified by the moon, out of which he seemed to be riding, showed now in perfect outline. He carried no rifle, but they could see the hilt of a sword on his thigh. He wore a military cap, and the least experienced could no longer doubt that he was an army officer.

“He knows that we are friends,” said Middleton, “or he would not come on so boldly. Unless I mistake much, he sits his horse like a regular officer of the United States cavalry. That seat was learned only at West Point.”

The stranger rode out of the magnifying rays. His horse and himself shrank to their real size. He came straight to the group, leaped to the ground, and, holding the bridle in one hand, lifted his cap with the other in salute. Middleton sprang forward.

“Edgeworth,” he exclaimed, “when you came near I thought it was you, but I scarcely dared to hope.”

The officer, tall and striking of appearance, with penetrating gray eyes, seized Middleton’s hand.

“And it is you, Middleton,” he said. “What a meeting for two who have not seen each other since they were at West Point together.”

“But it’s where we both want to be,” said Middleton.

“That is so,” said Edgeworth with emphasis, “but I had heard, George, that you were sent on an errand of uncommon danger, and I had feared—I will not hesitate to say it to you now—that you would never come back.”

Middleton laughed. He was obviously delighted with this meeting of the comrade of his cadetship. Then he introduced Woodfall and the others, after which he asked:

“How did you know we were friends, Tom? You came on as if you were riding to a garden-party.”

“A scout brought news of you,” he replied. “We have a small force about twenty miles ahead, and I rode back to meet you, and see what was here.”

“We have some good men.” said Woodfall, “and they are willing to fight. We’ve come a good many hundreds of miles for that purpose.”

“I believe you,” said Edgeworth, running his trained eyes over the crowd. “A finer body of men I never saw, and we need you, every one of you.”

“What news?” asked Middleton eagerly.

“Much of it, and all bad. Our government has mixed the situation badly. We’ve been steadily strengthening Scott, and, in the same proportion, we’ve been weakening Taylor. There are rumors, I don’t know how authentic—perhaps you have heard them—that Santa Anna is coming north with a great force to destroy us. Taylor is expected to retreat rapidly, but he hasn’t done it. You know old Rough and Ready, George.”

“I hope to Heaven he won’t retreat!” exclaimed Middleton.

“He hasn’t. So far he has advanced,” said Edgeworth. “But I ride back with you in the morning, boys, and I think great things are going to happen before long. Besides the men with you, Middleton, we’ve use for everything you’ve got in the wagons. You won’t suffer, Mr. Woodfall.”

The train moved the next morning an hour earlier than usual. Wheels were turning before daylight. Hearts were beating high, and they pushed on at great speed now, for wagons, until past sunset. In the middle of the day it was hot, in the evening chill winds blew down from the crests of distant mountains, but at all times, morning, noon, and evening, they marched in a cloud of dust, much of it impregnated with alkali. It annoyed Phil and his comrades terribly, sifting into nose, mouth, ears, and eyes, putting a bitter taste on the palate, and making them long for the sweet waters of the pool in which they had bathed so luxuriously.

The next day was the same; more dust, more alkali, and the deadly monotony of a treeless and sandy plain. But that night it was extremely cold. They were approaching the mountains, the spurs of the Sierra Madre, and the winds were sharp with the touch of ice and snow. Winter, also, had come, and in the night ice formed in the infrequent rivulets on the plain. Now and then they passed little Mexican villages, mostly of the adobe huts, with dirt and children strewed about in great quantities. The children were friendly enough, but the women scowled, and the men were away. Phil did not find the villages picturesque or attractive in any sense, and he was disappointed.

“I hope this isn’t the best Mexico has to show,” he said.

“It isn’t very inviting,” said Bill Breakstone, “you wouldn’t look around here for a Forest of Arden or a Vale of Vallombrosa, but this is only the introduction to Mexico. Monterey, which General Taylor took, is a fine city, and so are others farther down. I’ve seen a lot of them myself. Don’t you worry, Phil, you’ll find enough to interest you before you get through.”

They also picked up some wandering scouts and hunters, who joined them in their march. Several of these brought news. Taylor was at Saltillo, and his force was small. The Mexicans were raiding to the very outskirts of the city, and they looked upon Taylor’s army as already destroyed. The American force of about four thousand five hundred men contained less than five hundred regular troops. The others, although good material, were raw volunteers, very few of whom had been under fire.

Phil saw Middleton and Edgeworth talking together very anxiously, and he knew that they were full of apprehensions. It seemed as if Fate itself were playing into the hands of Santa Anna. Occasionally they saw bands of Mexican guerillas hovering on the horizon, but they did not bother with them, keeping straight on for Taylor and Saltillo. The cold still increased, both day and night, and the winds that came from the peaks of the Sierra Madre, now plainly in view, cut to the bone. Phil was glad to take to the wagons for sleep, and to wrap himself in double blankets. It was now well into December, but in two more days they expected to reach Taylor at Saltillo.

The last day of the march came, and every heart in the train beat high with expectancy. Even the army officers, Middleton and Edgeworth, trained to suppression of their emotions, could not restrain their eagerness, and they, with Woodfall and others, rode on ahead of the train. Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg were in this little group, but the three were at the rear.

“Phil, you were right when you called it a strange looking land,” said Bill Breakstone, “and I’m of the opinion that we’re going to see strange things in it. Our military friends look none too happy, and as I’ve eyes and ears of my own I know we’re likely to have lively times after Christmas. Did you know that Christmas was not far away, Phil?”

“No, I had forgotten all about it,” replied Phil, “but, since you mention it, I remember that it is December. Ah, what is that shining in the sun straight ahead of us, Bill?”

He pointed with his finger and showed the faintest red tint under the horizon.

“That,” replied Breakstone, “is a red tile roof on a house in Saltillo, and you’re the first to see the town. Good eye, my boy. Now, the others have seen it, also! Look how they quicken the steps of their horses!”

They broke into a gallop as they came into a shallow, pleasant valley, with green grass, the Northern palms, clear, flowing water, and many a neat stone house with its piazzas and patios. The domes of several fine churches rose into view, and then men in uniforms, rifle in hand, stood across the road. Phil knew their faces; these men were never bred in Mexico. Brown they were with the wind and sun of many days, but the features beneath the brown were those of the Anglo-Saxons, the Americans of the North, his own people.

“Halt!” came the sharp order from the commander of the patrol.

Middleton replied for them all, but, as Phil rode past, he leaned over and said to the bronzed leader of the patrol:

“I’m here, Jim Harrington. I told you in Paris that I was coming to Mexico. It’s a long road, and you’re ahead of me, but I’m here.”

The leader, a thick-set, powerful man of fifty-five, looked up in amazement. At first he had not recognized Phil under his tan and layer of dust, but now he knew his voice.

“Phil Bedford, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think that you and I would ever meet in Mexico, but when the call came I couldn’t keep away!”

Then he lowered his tone and asked:

“Any news of John?”

Phil shook his head sadly.

“Not a thing,” he replied, “but I’m going to find him!”

“I believe you will,” said Harrington, “but your search is going to be delayed, Phil. You’ll have to wait for something else that none of us will ever forget. But, Phil you’ve landed among friends. Lots of the boys that you used to know in Paris and around there are here.”

As Phil rode on, the truth of Harrington’s words was confirmed. Tan and dust did not keep strong, hearty voices from hailing him.

“Hey, you, Phil Bedford, where did you come from?”

“Is that old Phil Bedford? Did he drop from the clouds?”

“Here, Phil, shake hands with an old friend!”

He saw more than a score of familiar faces. A number of these soldiers were almost as young as himself, and two or three of them were related to him by blood. He had a great sensation of home, an overpowering feeling of delight. Despite strangeness and distance, old friends and kindred were around him. But old friends did not make him forget his new friends, or think any less of them. He introduced Middleton, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg. Middleton was compelled to hurry to General Taylor with his report, but the other two remained and affiliated thoroughly.

“You camp with us,” said Dick Grayson, a distant cousin of Phil’s. “We’ve got a fine place over here, just back of the plaza. Lots of Kentuckians here, Phil—in fact, more from our state than any other. The rest are mostly from Illinois, Indiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. We haven’t got many regulars, but we’ve got mighty good artillery, and we’re ready to give a good account of ourselves against anybody. You ought to see old Rough and Ready. He’s as grim as you please. Just as soon bite a ten-penny nail in two as not. Mad clean through, and I don’t blame him, because he’s been robbed to strengthen Scott.”

Phil and his comrades went readily with Grayson. The wagon train was already scattering through the encampment, the volunteers taking their places here and there, while Woodfall and his associates were arranging for the sale of their available supplies. Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg owned their horses, and, leading them with the bridles over their arms, they walked along with their new friends. Phil noticed that the town was well built in the Mexican style, with many handsome houses and signs of prosperity. The American invaders had harmed nothing, but their encampment was spread throughout the city.

The group walked by a green little park in which a small fountain was playing. A young Mexican in sombrero, gaudy jacket and trousers sat on a stone bench and idly thrummed a guitar. Several thick-set Mexican women, balancing on their heads heavy jars of water, passed placidly by. A small train of burros loaded with wool walked down another street. There was nothing save the presence of the soldiers to tell of war. It all looked like play. Phil spoke of the peaceful appearance of everything to Dick Grayson. Grayson shrugged his shoulders.

“You cannot tell a thing by its looks in this country,” he said. “Mexicans seem nearly always to be asleep, but, as a rule, they are not. You don’t see many men about, and it means that they are off with the guerillas, or that they’ve gone south to join Santa Anna. We haven’t done any harm here. We’ve treated the people in Saltillo a good deal better than their own rulers often treat them, and we’re friendly with the inhabitants, but Mexicans are bound to stand with Mexicans, just as Americans stand with Americans. It’s natural, and I don’t blame ’em for it.”

“I’d wager that many a message is carried off to the enemy by these stolid looking women,” said Bill Breakstone.

Yet the town itself showed little hostility. Nevertheless, Phil could not keep from feeling that it was thoroughly the enemy of the invader, as was natural. As Bill Breakstone truly said, information concerning the Americans was certainly sent to the Mexican leaders. Everything that the Americans might do in the town would quickly become known to the enemy, while a veil always hung before the Mexican troops and preparations. Nevertheless, the life of the city, save for the reduction in the number of its adult inhabitants, went on as usual.

Some of the officers occupied houses, but all the men and younger officers were in tents, either in the open places of the town or on the outskirts. Phil, Arenberg, and Breakstone spent that night with Dick Grayson and others in a little park, where about twenty tents stood. These were to be their regular quarters for the present, and, as Middleton had foreseen, the reinforcement was welcomed eagerly. They ate an abundant supper, and, the night being cold, a fire was built within the ring of the tents. Here they sat and talked. Besides Dick Grayson, there were “Tobe” Wentworth, Elijah Jones, Sam Parsons, and other old friends of Phil.

As they sat before the cheerful blaze and put their blankets over their backs to shield themselves from the bitter mountain winds, they discussed the war and, after the manner of young troopers, settled it, every one in his own way and to his own perfect satisfaction. “Tobe” Wentworth was not an educated youth, but he was a great talker.

“I could a-planned this war,” he said, “an’ carried it right out without a break to a finish.”

“Why didn’t you do it, then?” asked Dick Grayson.

“I did think o’ writin’ to Washin’ton once,” said Tobe calmly, “an’ tellin’ them how it ought to be done, but I reckoned them old fellows would be mighty set in their,ways an’ wouldn’t take it right. Old men don’t like to be told by us youngsters that they don’t know much.”

“I’ve got a plan, too,” said an Indiana youth named Forsythe.

“What is it?” asked Wentworth scornfully.

“It’s a secret. I ain’t ever goin’ to tell it to anybody,” said Forsythe. “I’ve drawed up my will, an’ I’ve provided that when I die it’s to be buried with me, still unread, folded right over my heart.”

All laughed, but “Tobe” rejoined:

“Sech modesty is becomin’ in Hoosiers, all the more so because it’s the first time I ever knowed one of them to display it.”

“Did you ever hear about that gentleman from Injiany that went out in the Kentucky Mountains once, drivin’ a fine buggy?” asked Forsythe. “He noticed some big boys runnin’ along behind him. He didn’t think much of it at first, but they kept right behind him mile after mile, but sayin’ nothin’ an’ offerin’ no harm. At last his curiosity got the better of him, an’ he leaned back and asked: ‘Boys, why are you followin’ me this way?’ Then the biggest of them boys, a long, lean fellow, barefooted and with only one suspender, up and answers: ‘Why, stranger, we reckoned we’d run behind an’ see how long it would take for your hind wheels to ketch up with your front wheels.’”

“Tobe” Wentworth sat calm and unsmiling until the laughter died. Then he said:

“Any of you fellers know how the people of Injiany got the name of Hoosiers? No? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s so wild and rough over there, an’ them people are so teetotally ignorant an’ so full of curiosity that, whenever a gentleman from Kentucky crosses the Ohio and goes along one of their rough roads, up they pop everywhere, and call out to him: ‘Who’s yer?’ meaning ‘Who are you?’ and that started the word Hoosier, which all over the world to-day means the people from Indiany.”

When the second laugh died, Bill Breakstone rubbed his hands together.

“I see that I’ve fallen upon a merry crowd,” he said, “and it is well. The spirit of youth is always delightful, and it leads to the doing of great things.”

“You talk like an actor.” said Dick Grayson, not as a criticism, but in tones of admiration.

“I talk like an actor,” replied Bill Breakstone with majesty, “because I am one.”

“You don’t say so! You don’t mean, it!” exclaimed a dozen voices at once.

“I am, or, rather, was,” replied Bill with dignity, “although I will admit that I am now engaged in other pursuits.”

Most of them still looked at him doubtfully, and Bill, his honor at stake, became the subject of a sudden inspiration.

“I see that some of you suspect my veracity, which is natural under the circumstances,” he said. “Now, I said I was an actor, and I’ll prove that I’m an actor by acting.”

“You don’t mean it!” they cried again.

“I will,” said Bill Breakstone firmly. “Moreover, I will act from a play by the greatest of all writers. Throw the wood together there and let the blaze spring up. I want you to see me.”

A dozen willing hands tossed together the logs which sent up a swift, high flame. The whole circle was lighted brightly, and Bill Breakstone stood up. Phil had never taken seriously his assertion that he had been an actor, but now he suddenly changed his opinion. He stood for a few moments in the full blaze of the light, a tall, slender figure, his face lean and shaven smoothly. His expression changed absolutely. He seemed wholly unconscious of the young soldiers about him, of the palms, or of the stone or adobe houses of the town.

Then, in a tone of martial fervor he began to recite scraps from Shakespeare dealing with war and battle, Macbeth’s defiance to Macduff, Richard on the battlefield, and other of the old familiar passages. But they were new to most of those about him, and Breakstone himself, as he afterward said, was stirred that night by an uncommon fire and spirit. Something greater than he, perhaps the effect of time and place, seemed to have laid hold of him. The fire and spirit were communicated to his audience, which rapidly increased in numbers, although he did not see it, so deeply was he filled with his own words, carrying him far back into other lands among the scenes that he described. The applause rose again and again, and always he was urged to go on. As he recited for the sixth time, a thick-set, strong figure appeared at the edge of the throng, and men at once made way for it. The figure was that of a man with gray hair, and with a deep line down either cheek. Breakstone’s passing glance caught the face and divined in an instant his identity. The applause, the demand for more, rose again, and after a little hesitation the actor began:

He paused a moment, but the man with the gray hair and lined cheeks still stood in an attitude of deep attention, and, skipping some of the lines, he continued:

He sat down amid roars of applause and universal approval. Did they not know? Mexicans were boasting already that Taylor would have to surrender to Santa Anna without a battle. Bill Breakstone stole a glance toward the place where the gray-haired man had stood, but he was gone now.

“Did you know that old Rough and Ready himself was listening to you there toward the last?” asked Grayson.

“Is that so?” replied Breakstone. “Well, I’m not ashamed of anything that I said, and now, if I’ve entertained you boys a little, I’d like to rest awhile. You don’t know how hard that kind of work is, whether your work be good or bad.”

Rest he certainly should have. They had found too great a treasure, these fighting men in a far land, to let him be spoiled by overwork, and they brought him an abundance of refreshment, also.

Breakstone drank a cup of light wine made in Saltillo, as he lay back luxuriously on a pallet in one of the tents. He felt that he had reason to be satisfied with himself, and perhaps, he, playing the actor, had seized an opportunity, and had made it do what might be an important service in a great campaign.

“What was the last piece that you recited?” asked Grayson. “Somehow it seemed to fit in with our own situation here.”

“That,” replied Breakstone, “was a speech from King Henry V. He is in France with a small army, and the French have sent to him to demand his surrender. He makes the reply that I have just quoted to you.”

There was a thoughtful silence, although they had known his meaning already, and presently Phil and his comrades, making themselves comfortable in their tents, went to sleep. They were formally enrolled among the Kentucky volunteers the next day, and began their duties, which consisted chiefly of patrolling. Phil was among the sentinels stationed the next night on the outskirts of the city.

►   ▲