The Diezmo by Rick Bass (top fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

Mexican army moving through the fog at dusk on the other side of the river, heading upstream toward Laredo. It was but blind luck that we weren’t already on the riverbank, fishing, but in the bushes, where we remained, watching and taking a rough assay of their numbers. We counted two thousand before darkness obscured the columns. If they were searching for us, we were flattered and terrified that we were considered dangerous enough to inspire such a large expedition. At camp, we announced our discovery, and after a quick parley, Green and Fisher decided to push hard upstream and cross the river a day or two ahead of the Mexicans’ march. There we would capture and hold hostage the first undefended village we found.

I knew it was wrong. The logic was obviously faulty, but I had been stirred by the sight of the Mexican cavalry, the precision of their riverside march. It was an honor to be their enemy. Green encouraged us, “You may take pride in the battle when the cause is just.” When I asked myself much later why he and Fisher had not turned back north to recruit more men to fill Somervell’s departure, it occurred to me that they were afraid they would be disciplined for the atrocities in Laredo. That already, they—we—were prisoners.

In a long and tattered line, our horses slick and darkened by the cold rain, we rode without lanterns through the night. All I saw in front of me were milky clouds of breath from my horse and plumes from the horse ahead.

We prepared to cross over near the Mexican village of Guerrero, which would be our first target. We didn’t go fishing that night but stayed around our campfires, cleaning and re-cleaning our weapons and talking quietly. Bigfoot Wallace argued with old Ezekiel Smith about the relative unimportance of numbers in opposing armies. In a cause such as ours, Wallace argued, we could succeed with one tenth the force of our enemy. A discussion ensued concerning which was the greater war—Thermopylae, under the defense of Leonidas I, or our own recent Alamo, in which one hundred and eighty-six men stood against six thousand of Santa Anna’s finest, buying time and inflicting enough casualties to allow Sam Houston his victory at San Jacinto a month later. Ezekiel Smith held that Thermopylae was the greater victory, since it allowed Greece to become Greece, whereas the birth of Texas meant nothing to the world. Wallace disagreed strongly, promising that the republic was a cradle of democracy, the birthplace of a civilization that would advance arts and letters, science, engineering, the production of goods from a bounty of natural resources, and, above all, the chivalry, honesty, fortitude, and fairness that marked man’s highest purpose. He became so exercised in his assertions that I think he would have thrashed the old man had Smith dared to disagree.

We crossed the river in the darkness before first light, riding into Guerrero in a heavy downpour. The smoke from the pueblos hung dense and blue. We were agitated, nervous that the slightest sound would give us away, unleashing enemy fire. The creak of saddle leather from so many horses and the splashing surge of our river crossing swept me up in a collective courage and daring. I was not afraid of dying, only losing.

We rode into the darkened village with our rifles ready, our pistols loaded. Those of us who carried swords had practiced drawing them, for use in close combat. We entered the village and rode through it, nearly a thousand horse hooves clopping, a sound from a dream perhaps. A few dogs roused and barked. I was certain we would find our battle, and waited in delighted anticipation for the first rifle shot.

We rode all the way through the village undisturbed, then turned around and came back to its center. Fisher and Green dismounted and announced loudly to the sleeping town that we would now be occupying it, holding it hostage. The rest of us sat on our horses, strung out up and down the streets, while Fisher and Green dispatched a number of men to commandeer enemy funds.

We took possession of the village without a single shot being fired; indeed, we never saw a weapon in Guerrero other than our own. The inhabitants were gaunt mules and starving paisanos. Hostage to what? one of them asked.

Fisher found the town priest and threatened to harm him if a $5,000 ransom was not paid. He gestured toward Shepherd and indicated that with his good arm Shepherd would execute the priest with a sword.

The town leaders hurried from door to door in the driving rain—curious faces appearing in the open doorways and windows while we sat around on our horses getting drenched. The town presented us with $381 at noon, and after counting it Green spat and said, “If that’s all they can do, tell them to keep it.”

We stayed the night, splitting up and taking refuge in the huts of the starving villagers, with none of the revelry of Laredo; as if, to a man, we were ashamed of that past behavior, and as if the spirit of Christmas commanded us, in spite of Fisher’s threats to the priest. The rain shifted to sleet. We shared soup with the various families whose huts we occupied.

In the morning, we discovered that many of the lame and starving of our horses had died from the freezing cold. After we butchered and ate as much as we could hold, there was horse meat left for the villagers, and they asked for the hides of the horses as well.

Two more of our lieutenants—Byrd and Kenedy—decided to turn back, taking their men with them. Several men not belonging to the two lieutenants’ companies chose to go with them. One man—Joseph Berry—was suffering from a cactus needle lodged in his leg, his kneecap stinking and swelling, Sinnickson eyeing it daily—but Berry chose to stay.

Fisher, however, was determined to push south—Look how easily