Crossed Arrows 3 Read online

  Sergeant Sanchez was curious. “And how do we fit into this situation, señor el coronel?”

  “Your job will be reconnaissance,” Valenzuela replied. “As military men you will be able to determine what targets across the Rio Grande are worth attacking. When you find a suitable objective, return here and report directly to me with your information.”

  “Do you lead the attacks?” Gonzales asked.

  “I will give you no information of our organization or command structure,” Valenzuela stated.

  “Most wise,” Sanchez said. “And appreciated by us. We carry no maps or other evidence of our true identities in case we are detained by the Gringos.”

  The colonel smiled. “Your superior officers have complete confidence in both of you. They have granted me the authorization to order you to immediately assume your new duties.”

  “We are ready, mi coronel,” Lieutenant Gonzales assured him.

  “Then you may begin your mission this very moment.”

  The lieutenant and sergeant stood up and saluted, then wordlessly left the hut. Possible sites to attack were already running through their minds.

  ~*~

  A few days later, the vengadores returned to San Patricio after their raid on Rosario, Texas. Comandante Jager’s main purpose in the attack was to get them used to approaching objectives without being detected. They stayed on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande for a simple sniping mission. Jager had them fire a few shots into the town so he could check their firing skills and discipline.

  Once back in San Patricio, Jager and Sub-Comandante Santiago Gomez wasted no time in beginning a new training phase to teach them how to raid larger, better-defended communities. They ran numerous simulated attacks through the village, practicing fire and maneuver, entering buildings, and other aspects of town battles. It was great fun for the young men and also amused the villagers who watched. Since this was not a live-ammunition exercise, the vengadores hollered, “Pum!”—the Spanish language version of “bang”—during the drills.

  After three long days of training that involved several different scenarios, they practiced withdrawal and rear-guard actions. The most important part of this instruction was the proper way to set up ambushes in order to stop an enemy pursuit.

  At the end of the last scheduled training day, Jager and Gomez dismissed the vengadores for a few days of rest and relaxation. Gomez was all smiles. “They are ready and eager, Comandante Jager.”

  “I agree,” the German replied. “They still have a bit of youthful exuberance that might lead to trouble, but after a real battle, such nonsense will be knocked out of them.”

  When the pair reported the results of the latest training cycle to Colonel Valenzuela, the officer was pleased and optimistic. “What we need to do now is have Minister Harrigan give them a pep talk to increase their hatred of the Gringos.”

  Sub-Comandante Gomez remarked, “The Irishman looks forward to establishing a close association with the vengadores.”

  Jager agreed. “We should come up with a battle cry. In the Foreign Legion it was Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion is Our Fatherland.”

  Colonel Valenzuela was thoughtful for a moment. “How about Viva Nuestra Venganza—Long Live Our Vengeance!”

  “Yes!” Jager exclaimed. “That will be most meaningful to those fine lads! That will certainly give them an extra boost of élan and esprit de corps.”

  ~*~

  The name Karl Jager was a Foreign Legion identity the German had taken when he joined the outfit. Every man who enlisted in the Legion was allowed to begin a new life under a name other than his own. At the end of his service, an honorable discharge earned him a certificate of French citizenship bearing the Legion name. Thus he was well protected from arrest for past lawless behavior.

  Jager had been born Heinrich von Richtberg. He was the scion of a Prussian aristocratic family, and chose a military career as was expected of males in that social class. Young Heinrich was commissioned in an elite hussar regiment of the Imperial Guard in the early summer of 1870. He hadn’t been in the army long when the Franco-Prussian War broke out. This conflict was brought about by Prussian plans of German unification. The situation alarmed the French who were seriously worried about the shifting balance of power.

  Lieutenant von Richtberg proved his courage in combat. He was wounded twice and was awarded the Grand Iron Cross for bravery. The war ended with a Prussian victory, and the young officer returned to Berlin to continue his service in the Imperial Guard.

  Garrison life was quite enjoyable for those patrician guardsmen. They participated in ceremonial procedures that displayed their skill at parading. Between the formal exhibitions there was plenty of free time for the young officers. These upper class military playboys partied and drank in Berlin’s most exceptional brothels, the finest cabarets and most elegant gambling casinos.

  It was this latter activity that brought about the downfall of a very immature Lieutenant Heinrich von Richtberg. He lost heavily at the tables, eventually getting into deep debt. When the gambling syndicates began making ominous threats, he came up with a desperate plan to get them off his back. He took money from the regimental funds with the idea of winning enough to solve his financial woes.

  It did not work.

  Heinrich’s theft was discovered and he was cashiered from the Prussian Army. Consequently, his family disowned him, leaving the ex-officer penniless and disgraced. He did what many Germans in dire straits did; he took a train to Marseille, France and enlisted in the French Foreign Legion.

  Thus, he became Karl Jager.

  Jager chose “Karl” because it was the first name of a cousin he had grown up with. Jäger meant hunter in the German language and was also the designation of elite light infantry and cavalry regiments. He hoped that it would bring him luck during his time in the Legion.

  Although Jager had accepted the fact that he would be serving in the worst parts of the North African desert, he was surprised when orders came down shipping him to the French colony of Indo-China. Rather than a dry burning environment, he found himself soldiering in the boiling wet heat of southeastern Asian jungles. But at least it was more comfortable than trudging across the Sahara Desert under a blazing African sun.

  His regiment fought under appalling conditions against local tribes who hated their French colonial masters. It was irregular warfare at its worst, but young Karl Jager adapted to it beautifully. During his fifteen-year career he won medals, accolades and a promotion to adjudant-chef, the highest grade of warrant officer. During his final year of service, he was given a staff position at French headquarters in Hanoi.

  Jager obtained a “wife”—a congaye in Legion terminology—a young and pretty Ind0-Chinese woman who was an obedient and obliging sexual playmate. It was actually the best time of his life, but as the end of his career approached he had to consider what he would do after retirement. One of the staff captains he served under had been stationed in France’s South American colony of French Guiana. During lulls in the administrative work, the two chatted and the captain told Jager about numerous revolutions throughout South and Central America.

  “There are plenty of jobs for mercenary soldiers,” the officer explained. “And the revolutionary leaders are always seeking skilled professionals to help them topple their governments. And those bumbling generalissimos pay well for their services.”

  When Jager retired from the Legion, he took his brand new certificate of French citizenship and his savings, to buy passage to South America. He had read in newspapers about some unrest in Ecuador. Upon arrival in that nation, he made discrete inquiries to find martial employment. However, when he obtained a job after a few months, it was not with rebels. The Ecuadorian Army needed experienced officers to help them in their struggle to quell a vicious rebellion. Much to Jager’s surprise he was given a commission as a colonel. He received bonuses for each victory he achieved as a field commander. When the revolution folded and all the rebel leaders ha
d been taken to the wall to face firing squads, the ex-Foreign Legionnaire had built up a solid reputation as a combat commander. He was also wealthy by local standards.

  More mercenary work came as he traveled through South and Central America to hire out his military skills. It was in Guatemala when he was between jobs, that he received a telegram from Mexico City offering a position that would pay him no less than 50,000 silver pesos. This was the largest pay-for-hire ever offered to him, and he wasted no time in traveling north. That is when he met Colonel Juan-Carlos Valenzuela and Minister Tim Harrigan. When they explained the job to him, Jager wasn’t very enthusiastic. The idea of leading a small campaign of raids into the United States of America seemed more like a position for a bandit chief. But an advance of 10,000 silver pesos plus the deed to an old Spanish land grant in California won him over.

  And, now with the preliminaries taken care of, Jager was confident and ready to begin this small but lucrative war on the Rio Grande.

  ~*~

  Back in the village of San Patricio, Comandante Karl Jager and Sub-Comandante Santiago Gomez were commended by Colonel Juan-Carlos Valenzuela for the Rosario raid.

  The trio was in the colonel’s tent, seated at a table with a bottle of tequila and three glasses. The colonel raised his libation and pronounced, “You have both done a magnificent job of preparing those lads for war.”

  “Muchisimas gracias, mi coronel,” Gomez said.

  “Have you decided on how you are going to organize the vengadores?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Jager replied. “We have twelve young soldiers who will be divided into two teams of six. I will take one and Gomez the other.”

  “Yes,” Gomez said. “Of course, Comandante Jager will always be in overall command.”

  “We have two sets of brothers,” Jager said. “The Finigans and Obrayens. We are separating them.”

  Valenzuela was confused. “But why do that?”

  Jager answered, “It has been my experience that in the case of brothers, if one gets wounded or killed, the other will forget everything and try to help his sibling or at least recover the corpse.”

  “Does that happen very often?” the colonel asked.

  “It does in cases like this. In regular army units it is rare for brothers to serve in the same unit, but in revolutions and guerrilla warfare, it is quite common.”

  “You know best, I am sure,” Valenzuela said. He recharged the glasses, then proposed a toast. “Here’s to our campaign. May it draw the Gringos in where we can slaughter them. To victory!”

  “La victoria!” Gomez exclaimed in Spanish.

  “Der Sieg!” Jager echoed in German.

  Seven

  After a couple of weeks of searching out possible targets for the first serious attack across the Rio Grande, Lieutenant Roberto Gonzales and Sergeant Humberto Sanchez reached the town of Sumter Landing, Texas.

  It was a riverfront community served by the small steamboat Viajero that carried freight between it and the shared wharfs of Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua and El Paso, Texas. Those two towns faced each other across the Rio Grande and were partners in trade. From Sumter Landing the cargo was transported northeast by mule train to the railhead in Casa Grande, Texas. From that point it was shipped north to various markets. All in all, it was a lucrative commercial enterprise.

  As the two spies rode into Sumter Landing, they gave the place a quick but careful scrutiny. “This appears to be a worthwhile objective for a serious raid,” Sanchez remarked. “Any destruction would seriously disrupt the economy in this part of Texas.”

  “I agree,” Gonzales replied. “It would seem the dock area would be the most vital target.”

  Sanchez grinned. “Muy bien, mi teniente! Shall we go see?”

  The pair rode through an outlying shantytown, heading directly toward the riverfront. Gonzales pointed to some large homes north of the hovels. “There is where the rich Gringos live. They are the owners and operators of the steamboat and mule trains.”

  “Of course. And I am sure they also operate a system of warehouses. Perhaps stores too.”

  Gonzales nodded. “I think the destruction of the dock would be most beneficial for the war against the United States.”

  The two Mexicans continued through the shantytown and rode down to the dock. The steamship was not in sight, but handcarts and dollies were ready for unloading the vessel after its arrival. A large open-faced warehouse, showing plenty of empty space for incoming shipments, took up some fifty yards of the riverfront. A combination cantina and café was located on the east side of the building for the convenience of dockworkers. It was obviously not a luxurious bistro.

  Gonzales and Sanchez hitched their horses to the rail outside and entered the establishment. A crude bar made of used lumber dominated one side of the room while a dozen tables were crowded together across the rest of the area. The only person in the place was a fat Hispanic bartender. He looked at the poorly dressed visitors with scorn. “Si?”

  “Tequila,” Gonzales replied.

  The man scowled. “Tienen dinero?”

  “Of course we have money,” Gonzales said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a ten-centavo coin and laid it on the bar.

  The bartender’s scowl turned into a smile. He set out a couple of glasses and poured shots of the fiery liquor. Next, the man placed two bowls—one filled with salt and the other with slices of lemons—in front of the two.

  Gonzales and Sanchez each licked their hands between thumb and forefinger, then sprinkled salt on the spot. They licked the salt, downed the shots, then took a piece of lemon, squeezing the juice past their lips.

  The bartender regretted his discourteous behavior. He poured them two more shots. “On the house, señores.”

  They repeated the process after expressing thanks.

  “What brings you fellows to Sumter Landing?” the bartender asked. “Are you looking for work? If so, the steamer is due in this afternoon. There are always temporary jobs to help with the unloading.”

  Gonzales and Sanchez exchanged glances. The lieutenant said, “That is a fine idea. We can use the money.”

  “They pay in dollars or pesos,” the bartender informed them. “Whichever you prefer. After you finish you can come back here for a good meal.” He leered at them. “That is also when our putas work. All three are beautiful and will satisfy you in any way you desire.”

  “Perhaps we will come back,” Gonzales said with a wink.

  The pair went over to the warehouse to apply for work. The foreman liked their rugged strong appearances. “The steamer arrives early this afternoon,” he told them. “Stick around and you can help with the unloading chores.”

  When the steamer docked at two p.m., the spies joined the work gang and began the muscle-cramping work of carrying boxes and bales off the vessel to set them on the dock. They took careful notice of the warehouse layout and what freight went to which part. The load consisted of the U.S. Mail, lumber for treeless areas of west Texas, tools, clothing and other merchandise. There was also a large amount of kerosene. There was a permanent demand for this latter product from domestic, commercial and even military customers.

  The chore lasted three hours, for which Gonzales and Sanchez were paid fifty cents each. They ignored the bartender’s offer of food and whores, leaving the town after being paid off. The pair rode east down the river to camp for the night. The next day they would report back to Colonel Valenzuela to recommend an attack on Sumter Landing.

  ~*~

  Darkness had settled over San Patricio. However, several bonfires were burning on the plaza to provide light for the people gathered in front of Tomas Orayly’s office. The dozen vengadores were standing directly in front of the door of the building while the village population assembled behind them.

  Minister Tim Harrigan stood on a box at the front of the assemblage. Comandante Jager, Sub-Comandante Gomez and Colonel Valenzuela were off to one side. Fidel, the servant and bodyguard, stood ready
to protect his master instantly if a threat arose.

  “I stand before you in happiness as well as sadness,” Harrigan began in his Irish-accented Spanish. “I am happy that the preparations to begin the war against the Gringos have begun in a grand manner. But I am sad because I must take leave of you and return to Mexico City. I must tend to my government obligations in the capital.”

  There were some murmurs of regret from the crowd who had developed a shared liking for the loveable old Irishman.

  He continued, looking at the vengadores. “I want you to fight hard. All of you are aware that I was at the cruel execution of your fathers and grandfathers on that terrible day in Chapultepec. I wept as I saw how brave they were in those terrible last moments of their lives. I know they look down on you now from their place in heaven and smile in gratitude and pride. They know you are going to avenge their cruel imprisonment and death. And if any of you should fall on the field of honor in this great undertaking, they will welcome you with open arms and praise you for your bravery and zeal. You must remember they left this world in the flower of their youth. Fate denied them the joy of seeing you grow into manhood as they lay in a mass grave piled one on top of the other .”

  Several of the older women sobbed out loud.

  Harrigan paused to let the females give vent to their grief. “Colonel Valenzuela and Comandante Jager have told me you will make several more attacks against the Gringos before launching into an all-out invasion to drive them from our land. Have no fear. God is on your side! He encourages you to right these wrongs inflicted on virtuous and honorable Irish lads. And now I bid you farewell. Although I will be gone, I shall remain in San Patricio in spirit. Thank you.”