“I wish I could tell you that everything is fine — because it is not. Though there has already been much progress right across the country, and particularly in the South. The economy is booming with the new mills and factories, the railways rebuilt, new rolling stock coming out of the train yards. New warships launched, others being built. But, as always, Congress is being difficult about the appropriations bill. And there is a strong movement to dispatch troops to Mexico to throw the British out. And the British seem to be up to their old tricks — sending arms to the West Indies, planning to retake the islands.”
“That’s all politics. I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about the nigras and the South.?
??
Lincoln sighed. “I thought that you might be.”
“People come to see me. They tell me things that I don’t like to hear. The freed slaves are getting very uppity. They got schools going in their churches now, with teachers from the North teaching them how to read and write.”
“That is not against the law.”
“Well it should be. Who is going to work the fields while they are all in their schools and such and dilly-dallying and telling each other how great they are? And when they’re not in school they’re out there plowing a couple of acres for themselves. While the cotton just hangs in the fields and rots.”
“That is what the Freemen’s Bureau is for. They can aid the planters as well as the Negroes, they can find field hands…”
“I don’t see any Southerner of class going to those places, asking favors of carpetbagging Yankees and nigras.”
“It’s not quite like that. You can help, Jefferson. Talk to them, they know and respect you. Write for the newspapers, lead the way. We never thought that peace would be easy to obtain. But we have. Now we must hold it to our bosoms most strongly and not throw this golden opportunity away because of ancients hatreds…”
Lincoln broke off as Davis slowly stood up. “That’s not for me to do,” he said. “It is for you and your Mr. Mill to find a way out of this situation that you have created. And, I am most positive about this, it must be done soon.”
Lincoln could think of no response to that. He said a few polite words as he walked the former president of the Confederacy to the door. Watched in silence then as he slowly rode away.
General Escobeda was not a man who normally took chances. Those officers who fought the battles of the little war could not afford to leave anything to chance. Their enemies outnumbered them ten to one, outgunned them a hundred to one. Therefore they avoided fixed battles and planned their skirmishes in detail. It was a matter of hit and run, striking from their mountain strongholds, hitting hard then vanishing back to their safety.
Now Escobeda was taking a chance — but he had no choice. Almost as valuable as the guns and supplies that they carried, the sure-footed donkeys were always in short supply. Without their assistance life in the mountains would be impossible. They brought in food and water, carried out the wounded and the dead. But now Escobeda was forced to do what he did not want to do. He had brought together all the burros that he commanded, and was now leading them out of the safety of the mountains and across the plain to the north.
They moved only at night and by a circuitous route, avoiding the main pathways that led from Monterrey to the border. These were well patrolled by the French. Now the guerrilleros moved as fast as they could, until men and beasts stumbled with fatigue. Yet they still went on, fearful of the French troops, arriving just before dawn at the ford in the Rio Grande del Norte, the river just south of Laredo. Only the scouts went forward while the rest of them remained in a dry arroyo. Here the donkeys ate the hay that they had been carrying. The men slept. Only the guards and the general remained awake. Looking north.
“I see him, General,” one of the guards called out softly. “It is Victoriano.”
The scout appeared on the far bank and waved his hat. Escobeda signaled him to come over. He waded the sluggish river, stumbling with fatigue.
“They are there,” he gasped. “Many wagons pulled by giant mules. Many gringo soldiers as well.”
“We cross as soon as the scouts return. Here, take this.” He passed a small flask of caña over to him, the fiery spirit distilled from sugar cane. Victoriano mumbled thanks as he raised it to his lips.
The scouts returned; the trail behind them was clear. The tired animals brayed protests as they were prodded to their feet. Short minutes later they crossed the river and hurried, as fast as they could, to the safety of the Yankee soldiers.
The weapons and ammunition were waiting just across the Mexican-American border in Laredo, as had been promised. General Escobeda now sat outside the pulqueria, a mug of pulque mixed with pineapple juice in his hand, beaming with pleasure while the military weaponry, the rifles and ammunition, was transferred from wagons to donkey-back. One of the cavalry officers who had accompanied the wagon train was a Texican, Captain Rawlings, and he spoke passable Tex-Mex. Like most gringos he could not abide the foul smell of the fermented pulque, so drank instead its distilled version, mezcal.
“You aiming to attack Monterrey now you got these guns, General?” Rawlings asked.
“Not at once. But we will now be able stop their convoys, also wipe out any of them foolish enough to leave the city. Their patrols will be easy to ambush now that we have all these rifles and their ammunition. With great pleasure we will kill any of them stupid enough to poke their heads outside of the city’s gates. After that has happened they will stand on the thick walls and think themselves safe. Until we strike.” He patted his pocket. “In his letter President Juarez says that heavy cannon are on the way here right now. With these we knock down the walls and eliminate these vermin.”
Rawlings drained his mug and coughed heavily. “That sure is mean stuff,” he said when he got his voice back. “I wish you good luck. The French sure need teaching a lesson.”
“And the Austrians as well, those who garrison Monterrey. Will you be staying here, Captain?”
“Looks like it. I have orders for my company to ride cover for the guns when they get here and cross the border.”
“That is good. You can talk to them, for none of my soldiers speak English. I will leave two men here as guides.”
“You just do that.”
It was two weeks before the heavy artillery arrived, splashing through the shallows of the Rio Grande del Norte. After they had watered the horses they began the long, hot slog across the dry plains of Nuevo Leon. The horses pulled wearily on the heavy guns and limbers of ammunition and made slow progress. But the guides knew where to find the scattered villages where they could water the animals and feed them hay, so the march went smoothly, if slowly. They were a day’s march from Monterrey when they were joined by General Escobeda and his guerrilleros.
They waited for nightfall before they approached the city. The riflemen went forward to guard against any possible sorties being made by the enemy within; scattered fire went on through the night as they exchanged shots with the defenders on the city walls. All of that night the men labored hard. At dawn the only part of the guns that could be seen from the city were the muzzles protruding from the mounds of dirt that concealed the gun positions.