General Ulysses S. Grant came out of his tent puffing on his first cigar of the day. It was just after dawn and the mist still hung beneath the trees; the grass was beaded with dew. It was almost cool now, but he knew that the heat was only waiting to build up as the sun rose. This place was worse than Mississippi in the summer. If that was possible. He finished his cup of morning coffee and glanced over towards that strange young Latin with the Irish name. He would not sleep in a tent but instead opened his bedroll on the ground at night. He was already up and sitting on his heels talking to a dark man in native clothes. Grant went over to them.

“Are we going to have that little walk in the sun today?” Grant asked.

“We certainly are, General.”

“And are we going to meet any of the local fighters — what did you call them?” Grant asked.

“Guerrilleros,” Ambrosio O’Higgins said. “They are looking forward with great enthusiasm to working with us. In Spanish it means those who fight the little war, the guerrilla. They will join us later today. They have been fighting this war for many years, in the jungle. Attacking the enemy where they are not expected, then vanishing again before they can be caught. They are very good at it. Now, with the French defeated, most of them have gone back to their farms, since the enemy have been driven out. The main force of these fighters is no longer interested in killing Englishmen for us. They feel that they have won their own war and see no future in dying for us. But money is always in short supply in Mexico, and these young men are happy to earn it by working for us. Those who remain in our service are the younger men, the sons who have a love of adventure and no desire to break their backs with a machete or an azadón, a hoe. They also need money, since the peasants in this country are very poor. They greatly enjoy the idea of being paid in American coins.”

“I’ll bet they do. Have you told them that I want to see the enemy’s defenses up close — before I bring the rest of my troops up?”

“I have. Also, I have been speaking with Ignacio there.” He pointed to the young Indian who was sitting on his heels and sharpening his machete with a file. “He says that he found a scouting party on this side of the defenses. He wants to know if we can kill them on our way to look at the enemy lines?”

“A sound idea. But I want prisoners as well, officers. Can they tell the difference?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll pay five dollars for every officer they capture.”

“You are indeed a generous man, General Grant.”

“Don’t you forget it. Let’s go.”

They left behind the army, camped on the coastal plain beneath the twin volcanoes of Ocotal Chico and Ocotal Grande. In addition to the Indians whom they would be meeting, Grant took along a squad of riflemen under the command of a lieutenant. They were all volunteers for this mission, which meant that their uniforms were both gray and blue. And combinations of the two, as new uniforms replaced the war-torn, tattered ones. They had gone only a few miles before Ignacio trotted ahead towards a thick stand of trees. He cupped his hands and produced a very natural-sounding cry of a parrot. A silent group of men appeared from the trees and waited for them. O’Higgins went ahead and explained what they wanted. There were many smiles when he mentioned the bounty they would be paid for enemy officers.

Then the guerrilleros spread out ahead and vanished from sight, while the soldiers followed, walking single file along the rough track. Their pace was slow in the heat, with the sun glaring down upon them through the hot and humid air. They had walked for about an hour when there was the sudden crackling of gunfire from the jungle ahead.

“Double-time!” the lieutenant called out. The soldiers, weapons at port arms, trotted quickly by. Grant and O’Higgins followed them into the clearing. The action was all over. A number of dark-skinned soldiers, in blood-drenched tan uniforms, were sprawled on the ground. An English officer in the same uniform, only with a lieutenant’s insignia on his shoulders, sat on the ground holding his wounded arm. A smiling Mexican stood behind him, his blood-drenched machete ready.

“Lieutenant,” Grant said, “get a bandage on this man. I want your name and rank.”

“God damn you to hell,” the officer snarled, struggling to get to his feet; his captor pushed him back down and held the machete across his throat.

“Are you going to let this savage cut my throat?”

“Perhaps,” Grant said coldly. “Name and rank?”

The officer was pale under his tan, staring worriedly at the razor-sharp weapon. “Lieutenant Phipps, 22nd Bombay.”

“That’s better, Lieutenant Phipps. All right — bandage him up and have two men take him back to camp. And don’t have any accidents on the way. I want to talk to him tonight. Now — let us go see this road.”

They never did see the road itself. They came to the edge of the jungle and faced across a hundred feet of decaying vegetation where the undergrowth and the trees had been cut down. Beyond the cleared area there was a dirt embankment with gun emplacements at its summit. Riflemen too, they discovered, as a bullet slashed through the tree branches above their heads. Grant grunted with annoyance.

“Is it all like this?” he asked. “All of the way?”

“I am afraid it is, General,” O’Higgins said, giving a very Latin shrug. “I have not seen it for myself, but I have talked with some of the men who have walked the length of it. They are very brave, but they say they would not try to attack it. Maybe at night, but never in daylight.”

“Well I want to see some more of it for myself before we turn back.”

Looking at the raw earth defenses and the muzzles of the guns, Grant realized that if he did attack the enemy here it was going to be a long and difficult battle. He needed guns, many of them, to force a breach. And a good number of soldiers.

However well he planned, wherever he decided to attack, he knew that there were going to be a lot of good American boys who would never leave this Mexican jungle. The thought depressed him and he chomped hard on his cigar. Well, what must be done must be done.

But this was a strange place, and far from home, to be fighting America’s battles.

It was a small and very select company that met in President Lincoln’s office. Other than the President, there was Gustavus Fox, who had arranged the meeting, General Robert E. Lee, as well as William H. Seward, the Secretary of State, Stanton, the Secretary of War. They waited in puzzled silence until Nicolay opened the door and ushered in the Secretary of the Navy. Gideon Welles made his apologies and took his chair at the table. Fox made a check mark on the paper in his hand.

“You are the last on the list, Secretary Welles. Please lock the door behind you when you leave, John,” Fox said to the President’s secretary. “I have two soldiers out there to prevent anyone from entering — or even coming close to the door.” He waited until he heard the key turn in the lock before he picked up the sheaf of papers from the table and handed them to General Lee. The general took them before he spoke.

“You must excuse us gentlemen, at what you might think is an excess of secrecy. But there is a reason for it which I will explain shortly.” Lee walked around the table, placing a sheet of paper in front of everyone present. “I am giving each of you a list of those who are attending this meeting today. Please keep this list by you at all times. Because what transpires here today must not be spoken of to anyone not on this list. There can be no exceptions. For our plans to succeed we must do what our enemies did. Keep a secret.”