Dusk had just begun to overtake daylight as the vengadores set up a firing line that spread out along the trees and brush on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. They had their carbines with plenty of bullet clips within easy reach.
Comandante Karl Jager and Sub-Comandante Santiago Gomez had seen that the young fighters observed unit integrity in the selection of their firing positions. The sergeants were placed in the rear to ensure their respective teams properly utilized their fields of fire when the time came. Their target would be the steamboat Viajero coming down from El Paso on its way to Sumter Landing. The two spies Gonzales and Sanchez had supplied them with the time the vessel would be steaming past that particular location.
A flock of flycatcher birds suddenly fluttered into the vicinity, landing in the trees above the firing line. This had been their nesting and resting area for decades. When the creatures realized there were humans just under them, they broke into excited chirping, hopping from branch to branch in a panic. But they eventually calmed down when there were no threatening moves below their roost.
Jager, satisfied all was ready, left the ambush site and walked in a westerly direction down the river bank. After reaching a good viewpoint, he settled down to listen for the approaching steamboat. The Teutonic mercenary lit a cigar and languidly smoked as he kept his ears tuned for the chug-chug sound of the vessel’s steam engine.
Lately he had begun to consider the possibility of returning to Europe after finishing this latest contract as a mercenary. He already had plenty of money in an Argentine bank that could be transferred to any financial institution in Switzerland. Some wise investments would set him up for a dignified and luxurious existence in that country. His French identification papers from the Foreign Legion would allow him to reside there permanently using the name Karl Jäger.
Jager smiled as he considered the possibility of getting a young and beautiful blond wife. After his career in the Legion and mercenary employment in Latin America, all his sexual partners had been brunette women with yellow or brown skin. As a wealthy man he would have no trouble finding a European beauty who would consider him the perfect choice for a husband. No doubt the potential bride’s family would also approve of him. Jager smiled to himself as he suddenly considered keeping a mistress on the side as well. He could set her up in a luxurious apartment for occasional trysts.
Suddenly the German caught the distant sound of a steam engine. He got to his feet and stepped back into the trees. Ten minutes passed before the Viajero came into view, moving ponderously down the river. Jager hurried back to the scene of the planned ambush to alert the vengadores.
He arrived at the site, loudly announcing, “Get ready! The target will be here within a quarter of an hour.”
Sub-Comandante Gomez grinned in anticipation. “This is going to be easy, eh?”
“Easy?” Jager remarked with a smirk. “It is going to be murder.”
The steamboat appeared with sparks flying out of its twin smokestacks. Jager waited for the right moment, then hollered the command, “Fire!”
Fusillades of aimed shots burst from the riverbank into the craft, causing the birds in the trees above to frantically flap their wings into flight, climbing upward away from the rattling detonations.
A mass of bullets hit the pilot house, shattering the wood superstructure. The captain and pilot shuddered violently under the impacts of the volleys as other rounds cut down crewmen on the bow and stern. The paddlewheel collapsed under numerous bullet strikes, causing it to jam to a stop until the cylinders on the port side were unable to function. Within moments the blocked steam pressure began to build up until it went past the danger mark on the engine gauge. But there was no crewman alive to open the safety valve.
The explosion was sudden and devastating as the boat shattered into several pieces, and careened across the water. The vengadores ducked their heads as boards, slats and splintered hunks of wood rained down on them.
“I certainly was not expecting that!” Jager exclaimed.
When the last of the debris hit the ground, the young fighters got to their feet. Sergeant Jaime Rayan looked up at the birds frantically circling above the trees. “They will never come back to this spot again to seek sanctuary.”
His fellow noncommissioned officer Roberto Sulivan agreed. “That is very sad, is it not? Pajaritos pobres— poor little birds!”
~*~
Alan Densmore, the American ambassador to Mexico, had been called back to Washington to make a personal report on the information he had dispatched to the Secretary of State regarding German intentions toward Mexico.
Before leaving, he had his secretary type up several copies of the documents given him by Minister Tim Harrigan. The ambassador had decided it would be worth the effort to have enough bundles of evidence to pass around when he reported to the Secretary of State.
On the morning when Densmore arrived at the State Department, he expected expressions of alarm from the foreign relations staff. But that was not the case. A low level bureaucrat had passed on an order for the ambassador to take the information to the War Department.
Densmore protested. “This is obviously a situation for the State Department to deal with first. If a satisfactory solution cannot be reached, then we turn to the Army.”
The bureaucrat was adamant. “The Secretary of State does not consider this matter important enough for his attention.”
Densmore, knowing better than to argue, headed for the War Department with the satchel in his hand. He consoled himself with the thought that both the Secretary of War and Commanding General of the United States Army might turn out to be the best persons to deal with after all.
Upon his arrival at the War Department, the ambassador was once more frustrated. He was ushered into a small office where an undersecretary of war and an army staff major were waiting to meet him. The small chamber had a table with three chairs. No file cabinets or shelves were in view; not even as much as a waste basket. Densmore assumed this was a location for unimportant matters to be discussed.
After a round of introductions and handshaking, Densmore was invited to take a seat at the table. Undersecretary of War George Deacon and Major David Newton both seemed bemused. Deacon cleared his throat, asking, “Now what is this Mexican thing, Mr. Densmore?”
Densmore retrieved his paperwork from the satchel and set it in front of him. “These are maps and descriptive documents regarding a series of attacks into the United States from Mexico. This was provided to me by—“
Major Newton interrupted. “Ah! So that is the subject you wish to discuss. Let me assure you that we are well aware of those bandit raids.”
“Those raids were not by bandits!” Densmore snapped back. “This is part of a military action contrived by renegade officers of the Mexican Army and—“
Another interruption, this one by the undersecretary. “The Mexican Army is of no consequence, Ambassador. And that goes double for any rebellious Mexican officers. Surely you know that.”
“May I continue?” Densmore stated impatiently. “It is a revolutionary plot by certain officers of both the Mexican Army and the German Imperial Army. And I believe you will agree that the Kaiser’s forces are of great consequence! There is a corps of them in Cuba waiting to enter Mexico and join forces with those renegade officers.” He passed copies of the paperwork to each man. “The informant who provided me with this information is trustworthy. He is also an influential man who does not want Mexico and the rest of Latin America turned into a giant colony ruled by Germany.”
“Give us a chance to digest this information,” Undersecretary Deacon requested.
Densmore sat back in his chair as the pair perused the reports, maps and diagrams provided by Tim Harrigan. It took a half hour of reading and commentary between the pair as they passed the documents back and forth.
Undersecretary Deacon looked up. “Who exactly is this Tim Harrigan you mentioned? Is he a subject of Ireland?”
“He was,” Densmore replied. “Now he has Mexican citizenship and is prominent in financial and political circles of that country. I have met him both officially and socially many times in my duties as ambassador.” An instinct developed from countless diplomatic situations caused him to avoid mentioning that Harrigan had been a deserter during the Mexican War.
“Mmm,” Major Newton mused. “Are you aware that there is already a U.S. Army detachment ordered to react to those raids?”
“I have been informed of that by Minister Harrigan,” Densmore replied. “He advised—and I agree—it will take a much larger force to deal with a situation this serious.”
“I see,” the undersecretary said. “Major Newton and I will take this material to the Secretary of War for review by our superiors. I suggest you come back in a couple of days and we’ll have an answer for you.”
“Thank you,” Ambassador Densmore replied. Another implanted instinct developed during of his long career as a diplomat was to recognize when he was being given the cold shoulder.
The undersecretary and staff major hurriedly exited the room, leaving Densmore sitting by himself.