The Last Pilgrims (9 page)

“I want our men up there and in charge,”
Phillip said, “I don’t want the Vallenses stumbling upon the
kidnapping party and mucking things up. They are superb trackers,
but they are not killers, and they’ll ruin any possible rescue
attempt if they find them first.”

“Yes, maestro. We had anticipated that this
would be what you wanted, and we have sent a force of twenty men to
take over the northward search.”

“What else?”

“A little over a day ago, we captured an
Aztlani messenger riding under the white flag towards San Angelo.
He had a message for you.” The outrider handed the message to
Phillip. It was sealed with the ducal seal of The Duke of El
Paso.

“What did you do with the messenger?”

“We told him that we did not recognize or
honor the white flag at this time. We said that until the captive
women and children were released, along with all captives held by
Aztlan, the militia in Texas will be operating under the black flag
and had every right to kill messengers. No surrender, no captives,
and no hostages. We went on with the threats for a while before
letting him go. We assume that the black flag message will make its
way back to the Duke.”

“I’m sure it will,” Phillip agreed, as he
opened the letter.

****

Attention: To the Insurgent leader named
Phillip, and to all of the leadership of the illegal Rebellion
against the Rightful King of Aztlan.

HEED THESE WORDS!

In order to put an end to your cowardly acts
of terrorism and your continued unlawful war against the rightful
Liege Lord of the Kingdom, the wife and children of Phillip the
Insurgent have been arrested and taken to New Rome, where they are
to be tried on charges of Heresy and Treason!

Upon their conviction by the New Office of
the Inquisition, they will be turned over to the secular authority
to be burned at the stake.

Upwards of 20 times you have been warned to
cease your activity, Phillip, but you remain in league with all of
the enemies of Aztlan. For this, you are bound to see your wife and
children perish—unless you are willing to give up your fruitless
war, and surrender yourself (and all of your men) to the proper
authorities. Your lives in exchange for those of your family,
Phillip, those are your choices.

A day’s hard ride could free your loved
ones, if only you will surrender.

We look forward to your positive response,
and to seeing this rebellion come to an end. Enough blood has been
shed on both sides. Your own sacrifice could bring the peace for
which all good men pray.

Sincerely,

Duke Carlos Emmanuel, Lord Provider of the
Duchy of Texas, by the hand of His Royal Secretary.

Phillip read the letter through aloud so
that the leaders among his men could hear it. Then he smiled
faintly, almost imperceptibly.

“Why the smile, maestro?” Only Rollo, the
huge, muscular man that most of the militiamen called
The
Mountain,
had noticed it. “Your wife and children are in danger
of being killed, and they’ve been taken to New Rome! Even we, as
good as we are, can’t invade New Rome to save them.”

“They haven’t been taken to New Rome,
gentlemen.” He looked at the outrider. “You and your men were
right, they’ve been taken north—60 miles away. 20 leagues.”

“How can you know?” asked Rollo. “How can
you possibly be so certain?”

He looked up and the smile faded from his
face. “It’s a code. The Duke’s secretary is an old, old friend of
mine. We even survived the collapse together 20 years ago. He’s
ex-British SAS and he’s been helping us from inside for a very long
time. Now, he’s told me where to find my wife and daughters and
he’s risked his life to do it.”

Gareth whistled. “Oh, what a web we
weave!”

Phillip looked at Gareth, “Deception goes
both ways, Assassin. So maybe you thought yours was the only side
with spies?”

“I thought no such thing, Ghost man. I know
for certain that that is not the case,” Gareth responded, “I know
Sir Nigel Kerr very well too. English and I go back quite a long
way; not so long as you, but I’ve known him for almost all of my
life.”

“You’ll have to fill me in on that later.
I’m interested to find out how else you and I might be connected.”
Phillip looked to the outrider, “Is there anything else?”

“The guests you are expecting have been
spotted approaching from San Angelo way. They are alone. We’ve sent
a guide to bring them to you. They should be here momentarily.”

“Ahh,” Phillip noted, “more friends from
Aztlan.” He turned to Gareth and pointed, “You should be starting
to feel at home.”

“I’m not sure that is exactly how I feel,
Ghost, but I do have the feeling that things are just starting to
get interesting in our friendship.”

Gareth, Phillip, The Mountain, and a few
other militiamen sipped mesquite coffee and discussed the plan to
free Phillip’s wife and daughters. It wasn’t going to be easy, they
all freely admitted. First, there would be the hard ride north in
this heat. Phillip had assumed from the letter that they needed to
move quickly…
A day’s hard ride could free your loved
ones.

As the group made their plans, the guide
returned with the two men riding in from Aztlan. Again, the ballet
of men went into action to obscure events for those who might be
watching from afar. As the choreographed scramble of men continued
wordlessly, Phillip scanned the horizon in every direction. They
were miles and miles away from anyone. He wondered if the
protective machinations even mattered, and if anyone would even be
watching.
No
, he thought, shaking his head.
Diligence and
obedience are ours; results belong to God
. Our decisions do not
depend on the enemy. We do our duty and do things right regardless
of how safe we may or may not be.

Phillip ducked down into the small group
that now surrounded him, and greeted the militia guide—Tyrell of
Terrell the men called him—and the two men who had just ridden from
Aztlan.

Like Gareth, the men had been given
‘uniforms’ that approximated the dress of the Ghost militia—black
or brown cotton pants girded with heavy leather in the knees and
backside. The high leather boots were strapped up the leg, to guard
the rider against mesquite thorns, cactus, and rattlesnake bites. A
long leather coat was worn over a tan cotton shirt while riding,
even in the summer. It was only partially as bad as it sounded.
“Leather breathes; that’s why cows wear it,” Phillip liked to say.
The coats had pockets throughout in which pounded steel or iron
plates could be placed as makeshift armor, but these were kept in a
secure location, and were only very rarely worn. Only when the
militia intended to fight in traditional battle array—which was
almost never—would they wear any armor.

Likewise, the militiamen very rarely carried
guns, although they had access to them. Guns were heavy, ammunition
was rare, and the Ghost militia survived and thrived by moving
quickly and silently as an invisible recon force. Only a few times
in the past ten years had the militia ever used guns in a
battle.

Phillip embraced Rob Fosse, who was his best
friend and often operated as a spy in New Rome, and greeted Sir
Gerold Holcutt of Riverdell, Rob’s traveling companion and a
supporter of the insurrection against Aztlan.

Rob looked over the militia contingent and
beamed. “Well, isn’t this a strange court? And me so underdressed
for such esteemed company!”

Phillip could not help but laugh at his old
friend Rob Fosse. Rob was the funniest man he had ever met.
This
ought to be interesting,
he thought.

“Greetings in the name of The Most High
God,” Phillip announced formally. “We humble servants of Jesus and
lowly militiamen of Texas do kneel before Your Graces, newly
arrived from Aztlan.”

“Stand up, man!” Rob said, laughing. “We are
the ones who ought to be bowing.” He and Sir Gerold bowed down on
one knee and dropped their heads.

Rob looked up with a grin on his face, “I
didn’t know that you kept company with royalty, Phillip, but you
cannot have friends much higher than the Crown Prince and future
King of Aztlan himself!” He turned his attention to Gareth. “Our
surprised but heartfelt greetings to you O’ great Prince Gareth and
peace be unto you.”

Phillip’s eyes went from Rob Fosse and Sir
Gerold to Gareth as they bowed to the Crown Prince, and his hand
instinctively went to his sword.

For only a split second, confusion set in on
the faces of Phillip’s men; but instantly that confusion cleared
and the men set into motion. The sound of swords being drawn all
over the camp was both awesome and terrifying. Rob and Sir Gerold
staggered backwards at the frightening sound, as blades appeared
from everywhere, pointed at Gareth. “He’s a traitor and a spy!”
someone shouted.

Phillip’s sword was drawn, but his was soon
intersecting those of his men. “Easy boys!” he said with a smile on
his face, “I know what you’re thinking, but the Crown Prince is
with us.”

Ruth smiled as she struggled to lift the
stringer of twelve largemouth bass to show her father. Jonathan
estimated them all to be at least 14 to 16 inches long and meaty
too. He smiled back at her, clapped her on her shoulder and helped
her carry them to the concrete worktable behind the springhouse.
Although Wally would cook them, both knew that he wouldn’t clean
them. Over the years, the old cook had made sure everyone
understood that. Jonathan and Ruth got to work with their fillet
knives while Ruth chatted excitedly about the day’s events,
minutely dissecting the finer points of her fishing success.

Fishing had recently become a very popular
pastime at the ranch, but it seemed that now folks were fishing
more for sport rather than mainly for food. Jonathan could remember
back when Ruth was too young to go fishing alone. Back then, he had
been forced to assign fishing duty. Almost no one wanted to fish,
especially in the hot dog days of summer. Now, Ruth’s excitement
and energy about anything to do with fishing, hunting, or trapping
had started to rub off on everyone else.

Sometimes, when he walked past the lower
tank on his way to the woodlot, or to check on the cattle in the
bottom acres, he would see four or five people fishing with Ruth.
Very few days passed without there being fish on the menu in some
form or fashion, or, at the very least, bass fillets hanging in the
smokehouse for long-term preservation.

The tanks on the Wall ranch were man-made
ponds that had been originally designed to provide water for the
cattle. Tanks were usually built on the lowest parts of a piece of
land, where there was evidence of regular run-off from rains.

Only a few years prior to the collapse,
several of the small cattle tanks along or beside the creek had
been expanded to increase the total amount of water catchment, and
to enable fish farming as an additional source of protein. The
lower tank had been steadily expanded until now it encompassed
about four acres. It was a pond, even if everyone still called it
the lower tank.

In order to maintain a good population of
fish in the tanks on the ranch, Jonathan had finally been forced to
adopt both a flexible fishing season, and a quota. Every time a
fish was caught out of any tank on the property, it had to be
logged into the ledger hanging by the cleaning table behind the
springhouse. Jonathan kept a close eye on how many fish were being
taken from the tanks on the ranch, and would put an end to fishing
season if too many were being caught. In addition, any servants who
took fish from the tanks had to return a specific amount of food
for the fish in the tank. Fish feed could be anything from old eggs
past their prime that were scrambled up for fish food, to small
pieces of meat, bits of rattlesnake or possum, or, preferably,
buckets of grasshoppers caught in grasshopper traps.

Jonathan had been so excited when he
discovered plans for the grasshopper traps in an old, antique book
that included plans for hundreds of old-timey farming devices.

The large grasshopper traps were screened
boxes, some as wide as twelve feet across, with partial openings on
their bottoms. The traps could be dragged through the fields and
grass behind a horse or mule. The grasshoppers would jump and get
trapped in the boxes. When the boxes were full, they were left out
in the fields until the grasshoppers dried up; then they could be
bagged and stored as chicken or fish food. Dried grasshoppers were
one of the primary forms of chicken feed on the ranch, and provided
most of the protein that would one day become eggs for the
inhabitants of the ranch. Excess eggs (and there were a lot of
those) were usually cooked up and fed to the pigs, but would
sometimes also become fish food. The guts and heads of Ruth’s fish,
when cleaned, went into the bucket of stuff to be fed to the
chickens; and any unproductive or culled chickens would be fed to
the pigs. It was quite a system! Because of it, and with the
regular hunting, the Walls and their ranch staff had quite a
variety of meat regularly appearing on the menu.

After he finished helping Ruth clean all the
fish, Jonathan washed his hands in cool water that was pumped up
from the cistern. He used a bar of homemade lye soap to make sure
he got rid of the stench and the stickiness from his hands.

Every time he washed his hands here, he
thought of the ‘grey-water’ system they had installed on this sink.
The used water swirled down the drain, into a pipe that ran
eighteen inches below the ground. As the pipe ran past three large
pecan trees that shaded the tannery and the root cellars, the water
seeped out through tiny holes that had been drilled in the pipe
several feet from the trees. The pipe with the holes drilled in it
passed through a bed of coarse gravel so that the mud and dirt
wouldn’t compact around the holes and plug them up. Owing to this
method, these productive trees regularly received some watering,
even between rains and during droughts.