“Horses. And my people.” He moved quickly ahead, calling out in the dialect of his village. He was answered by a friendly shout as he went forward to join the circle of men around the fire. He joined them, squatting on his heels as they did, sipping from the aguardiente gourd they passed him. A saddled horse was quietly chewing at the undergrowth, its rider seated on a log close by. It was Porfirio Diáz.

“Still working for the gringos, Don Ambrosio?”

“Some scouting, yes.”

“Better you than me. I had very little success, and lost good men, testing the strength of the British here. I am very glad that this little war is over for my soldiers. Let the Yankees from the cold north and the invaders from across the sea fight with each other. It is no longer my battle.”

“They invade your country and occupy Mexican soil.”

“This does not bother me. We shall let the gringos do our fighting for us here in the jungle. They have big guns and many troops. I encourage their enthusiasm. But I think that they are not doing that well. Is that true?”

True or not, O’Higgins would not permit himself to agree. “The General Grant is a mighty warrior. He has the guns — and the soldiers — to fight with. He has never been beaten.”

Diáz shrugged noncommittally and pushed a twig into the fire, then lit his black Orizaba cigar from its flame before he continued. “I have been called to the District Federal. President Juarez is assembling a new cabinet and he has honored me by his request to aid him in this great endeavor. We must rebuild this war-shattered country. He has such great plans! There will be elections soon, real ones, not corrupt public displays, the sort of thing that the French did when they elected Maximilian.”

“May what you say come true,” O’Higgins said with feeling. “I only pray that it does.” He did not mention the cruel men who would want to usurp power once again, the combined powers of the landlords and the church that had hung like a dead weight from the tired neck of Mexico for centuries. Perhaps this was a new start, a fresh beginning. May it only be so.

“I am off to join President Juarez,” Diáz said, swinging up into the saddle. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Perhaps, later. I would dearly love to be a part of the new Mexico. Meanwhile I must bring my report to the general.”

They would go on in the morning — but first a little rest was very much in order. In the morning he paid Ignacio the promised American silver and watched him disappear into the jungle with his tribesmen one last time. There was no point in any more scouting — and he would tell Grant that. The defenses were there and, for all important purposes, impregnable. What the Americans would do now, he had no idea.

At noon he came to the first of the army encampments and asked to see the commanding officer, a one-eyed veteran named Colonel Riker.

“Been looking at their lines, have you, O’Higgins?”

“I have been doing just that, sir, and mighty impressive they are.”

“They are indeed,” Riker sighed. “I’ll have a runner take you to the general.”

There was a mighty army camped here upon the Mexican plain. Rows of tents and batteries of cannon. There was a steady parade of wagons bringing supplies, vast encampments of soldiers in both blue and gray. It seemed impossible that anything constructed by man could not be destroyed by these powerful warriors. But O’Higgins had seen the defenses that they were facing. Even the most determined soldiers, the most powerful shells of massed cannon, would not prevail against the British lines. It was a sad and unhappy truth, but it was one that he was duty-bound to tell General Grant. He was stopped by an officer before he could reach the large headquarters’ tent.

“The general is meeting with his staff now. You’ll have to wait.”

“Can you at least tell him that I am here? I have the most valuable of reports to give to him.”

The lieutenant rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Well, mebbe. I have to give these messages to his staff. I’ll tell them that you are here.”

“I appreciate the aid.”

He did not have long to wait. A few minutes later a sergeant popped out of the tent, looked around — then waved him over.

“General can’t talk to you now. But he wants you in the meeting. There’s a chair to the back. Just ease into it and keep your mouth shut.”

As O’Higgins slipped into his chair he realized that there was only silence in the tent. General Grant had his watch on the table before him, was scowling at it from behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

“Five minutes to the hour,” he said, and there was the quick susurration of whispered voices. O’Higgins started to ask the officer next to him what was happening, then changed his mind. Obviously something important was happening on the hour.

General Grant finally stubbed his cigar out in the metal tray, stood and seized up the watch.

“That is it! That is the hour!” Only murmurs of puzzlement greeted the announcement and O’Higgins realized that all of the others were as ignorant of events as he was.

But not Grant. He had a great wide grin on his face as he put the watch back into his pocket — then hammered his fist happily on the table.

“As of this moment our siege of the British positions here is lifted. There will be no more attacks — and no more of our soldiers shall die here in this godforsaken corner of Mexico. But we will still keep up our bombardment of the lines, make our presence known. And stay alert. If they make any sallies I want them wiped out as soon as they start. But for all apparent purposes the war on this front is over.”

“Why — General? Why?” An officer shouted, unable to control his curiosity.

“I’ll tell you why. Because at this very moment a new front was opened to attack the enemy. I cannot tell you where this is happening, not yet, but I do assure you that it is a massive and deadly blow that is being struck right now. So strong and mighty is it that I can speak with some authority when I tell you that the war here in Mexico is over. We only wait now for the British to disengage and leave.”

O’Higgins thought he knew what was happening — but had brains enough not to speak his mind. Great powers were on the move. Great events were heralded. The United States of America was fighting back.

In the State of Mississippi, in the city of Jackson, L.D. Lewis sat in his cell and listened to the growing crowd in the street outside. Reverend Lomax had stayed with him on the long walk to the jail, waited there while he was booked. The sheriff had sent two deputies in a wagon to get Jefferson Davis’s body — told Lomax to go with them to the church. There was no way he could refuse so, reluctantly, he got into the wagon.

That was when the sheriff had gone to L.D.’s cell and had beaten him unconscious.

“No Yankee nigger can come to the South and shoot the likes of Mr. Davis. If you ain’t lynched first, you gonna have a fair trial and then get hung — you got my word on that.”

The sheriff had been worried about a lynching — only because he was worried about his jailhouse getting burnt down, people getting killed. When the wagon returned he had the corpse laid out reverently in his best cell, swore his deputies to silence. And then had gone to Judge Reid and told him everything.

“Folks hear about this they’ll burn the whole town down” was the judge’s learned judicial opinion. “Gotta try him fast and hang him. Meanwhile I’m sending for those Texas troops camped outside of town. Let them stand guard. They pretty uppity, might be good to knock them down a bit.”

Meanwhile L.D. Lewis sat in his cell. The blood had dried on his jacket in the heat of the day. One eye was battered shut; he couldn’t see very well out of the other. Well, at least he was still alive.