“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.

At first light a ranging shot was fired that blew a large gap in the city walls. The guerrilleros cheered mightily.

The siege of Monterrey had begun.

The paddle wheel steamer SS Pawatuck was a venerable coaster, a familiar sight along the Gulf coast of the United States and the shores of Mexico. Through the years smoke had discolored her funnel and left its scars upon her deck. One of her paddlewheel covers had suffered damage against some wharf and had been only roughly repaired. For the most part her cargo was mining machinery taken to the port of Vera Cruz. Usually she made the return trip in ballast, though sometimes she managed to find a cargo of metal ingots. Mexican Customs officials rarely looked into her cargo hold, and certainly never into her engine room. They were much happier in the captain’s cabin, drinking his whisky and pocketing the silver coins of the mordida, the little bite, the bribe without which Mexico could not function.

Had they gone down the scruffy companionway and opened the hatchway that led to the engine room they would certainly have been surprised at its pristine condition. And certainly startled by the sight of the modern, powerful steam engine that was located there. They would have been more than startled to discover that the ship’s commander, Captain Weaver, was an Annapolis graduate and a lieutenant in the United States Navy. For this carefully scruffy vessel was in reality the USS Pawatuck, and all of her crew navy officers and naval ratings as well.

The crew was tired, the officers exhausted. None of them had had very much sleep in over twenty-four hours. The ship was just returning from a nighttime rendezvous with the guerrillero forces at Saltabarranca, where they had landed a cargo of ammunition and yet more breech-loading rifles. There had been treacherous sandbars offshore, and the ship’s keel had brushed over them more than once. But the donkey train had been waiting for them, and many hands made a quick job of unloading the military supplies. The tide was on the ebb before they had finished and only the lightening of the load had enabled the Pawatuck to leave without grounding herself.

Now, as she puffed slowly towards the quay in the harbor of Vera Cruz, the duty officer raised his binoculars to look at the man seated on a bollard where she was to berth.

“It’s that Irishman with the funny name, captain, the one we’ve carried before.”

“Ambrosio O’Higgins. We’re not expecting him, are we?”

“We’ve no orders, sir.”

O’Higgins was pacing back and forth as the ship drew close — he even grabbed the thrown line and wrapped it around a bollard. As soon as the gangway touched the dock he was up it and on deck, then he climbed quickly to the bridge.

“Captain,” he said, “is it possible to sail south as quickly as you can?”

“Possible, but not probable — we need coal…”

“I cannot tell you how important this is. I have had a message from the guerrillero forces about some construction further down the coast. I’m not sure exactly what is happening, but the message said it was most dangerous. That I should go there at once and see for myself. Might I see your coastal map, if you please?”

Captain Weaver crossed the chartroom and pointed at the opened chart on the table there. O’Higgins hurried to it, placed his fingertip on Vera Cruz and moved it south along the coast. “Here it is! A small fishing village they said, name of Coatzacoalcos.” He tapped the chart over and over. “Can we get to this place? Can we find out what is happening there?”

Captain Weaver took a map compass and carefully spread the points apart to measure the distance, then transferred the measurements to the scale on the chart.

“Yes, it’s possible. Just about one hundred and twenty-five nautical miles. Even at six knots we should be there in the morning. We have enough coal to get there and back. But I will have to hold the speed down.”

“Anything, as long as we get there. Will you do it?”

The captain rubbed his jaw in thought. “Well — if it is that important…”

“It is — I assure you that it is. Most important to those who employ me — and send the cargo that you carry.”

“All right then. We’ll find this village with the unpronounceable name.”

“ Coatzacoalcos.”

“If you say so.”

They cast off, while the firemen threw sheets of resin onto the burning coal to quickly raise pressure. The big paddle wheels thrashed the water as they took a south-easterly course. O’Higgins stayed on deck until the sun set behind the shadowed mountains, then went below. Dinner was the usual pork and biscuits which he loathed, although he had forced himself to become accustomed to it. The ocean they sailed was brimming with fish, yet still the Yanquis ate this greasy horror. The only thing good he could say about it was that at least it was filling.

Later, he tried to sleep in the watch officer’s bunk, but his eyes stayed open. His stomach growled in protest at the greasy and indigestible meal. Eventually he did fall asleep. It seemed only an instant later when a hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

“Captain says that dawn is about twenty minutes from now.”

“I’m coming.” He splashed water on his face from the basin, toweled himself dry and hurried on deck.

There was a dim glow over the sea ahead. The stars marched down to the horizon on all sides in the moonless sky. The captain’s face was barely visible in the faint light from the binnacle. He pointed towards the bow, where the mountain range was a dark silhouette against the stars.

“That’s it, as near as I can estimate. We’ll head towards shore as soon as it gets a bit lighter. We’ll find out then just how close we are to this village.”