I entered a prompt contest. This week I am sure many of the Daily Kos readers fretted over government shutdowns, Trump scandals, GOP cowards and traitors, our wannabe dictator threatening generals and journalists. I was trying to write a story based on the three prompts. I had chosen from five possible prompts for character and location. I chose teacher, 1920s, and the required element of earthquake in less than 3000 words. Ambrose Bierce is an interesting man. His Devi’s Dictionary may be one of his most widely circulated works today. I hope the story treats the times and Mr. Bierce fairly. I hope the readers find it enjoyable enough to take your mind away from our current national nightmare. My impoverished word wrangling took me away from the senselessness most of the week.
My Final Home
The once scenic view of coffee trees was now the tumbled aftermath of a cannonade. Bodies were being removed, then thrown into a pit for burning. It was the third day since the death quake, none had resurrected. There was a stench. The priest came to add blessing and comfort. God had already given or withheld last rites. As two bodies were extracted from under a collapsed wall, a book fell on the ground. The priest picked it up, flipped through it, then handed it to me. He pointed, “Muchacho.” I returned to my post. I was to run get medical aid if any were alive; I had done no running today. My family had been here for three years helping in the school and clinic. My Mexican was better than my parents.
Reading the journal took my mind away from the misery around me. It started with this notation: I, Floyd Carr Frost, am assigned to uncover a mystery and discover the true end of Ambrose Bierce. I have had a great adventure. I am writing a narrative from my notes. I love this mountain paradise. I will come live, teach, and enjoy the coffee here. First, I must finish my obligation and return to Indiana.
I was a cavalryman during the Great War. I planned to rejoin the farm in Indiana, but corn prices were cut in half that year. I got a teacher’s certificate then secured a post in a country school. I would assess the prospects for farming next year. One student, a big and disrespectful oaf, had intimidated prior teachers. He tested me; I whipped him quickly. My military time taught me how to handle a larger man. Discipline was restored; I planned on a smooth year with a very contrite student. The student’s father was the head of the district; he dismissed me.
I went to the Warsaw Daily Times checking on available jobs. While I chatted with the classified editor, Mr. Kling, the owner, invited me to his office. He had overheard some of my background. He verified my army experience and tested me on my three Rs. He then made a most attractive offer. He wanted a fit young man to learn the truth about the disappearance of Mr. Bierce. Kling and Bierce joined the 9th Indiana in 1861. They had kept in correspondence over the years. He would provide funds. I would keep a diary. He gave me this handsome journal. When I returned, he would print a serialized column of my search. If I came up with discoveries, it might attract a national publisher.
Carlos Sanchez, a California businessman, would help me. Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Kling had corresponded over the years. Bierce told stories about the Civil War; Mr. Sanchez had doubted one. Mr. Kling spoke in a confiding tone to me, “Ambrose could spin a tall tale.” Bierce was prickly, “Write to Kling back home in Warsaw, if you doubt me.” He did, the first of several letters. Mystery surrounded the disappearance of Bierce. Mr. Sanchez offered, “Send the right man, and we will learn the truth. He can join me in Presidio Texas.” Presidio borders Ojinaga, Mexico, where Ambrose Bierce’s life may have ended.
Mr. Kling encouraged me to read about Ambrose Bierce. The Ninth Indiana had been in more engagements than most any other Indiana regiment. I read Bierce’s Chickamauga. Kling told me his story of the Rebels sweeping across the fields. I said, “You and Mr. Bierce were the lucky ones who survived.”
He thought for a while, then replied. “Well Frost, we both lived and have made lives in newspapers. The lucky may be the ones buried in Tennessee or Georgia. They are now at peace in an eternal rest. We carry wounds and memories. Men like Ambrose and I, live lives accompanied by shadows.”
“Sorry sir, meant no disrespect.”
Mr. Kling had an unfixed look, “I work here making the bills, but another realm is there. It is filled with the screams, the stink, the fear, and the rage. I can exist in either one. Sometimes if I feel a chill or see the flicker of a candle I’m still there.”
I reflected as I looked out of the train car. Travel as a civilian was more pleasant than army transport. The U.S. Army had sent some cavalry to France; we were couriers and reconnaissance. Old man Pershing knew the cavalry era of warfare was over. I had seen war; I knew its stink. I asked Mr. Kling why a successful man like Mr. Bierce would go chase a war and bring the horror back? He told me of Ambrose’s personal tragedies; he had little family left. His words were far sharper than his lieutenant’s sword; he became the victim of his own words. If captured by the other side, weapons, whether words or steel, can be used against you. Bierce sought to complete life’s circle, tour where he was once young. Ambrose sought the quiet place in chaos where the mind exists outside the struggle.
Now I was on a train headed for Texas. I had bumped along getting ever hotter, less comfortable as I went South. From lush Indiana to arid and sparse Texas, each held a beauty. Presidio is a small town even by dusty Texas standards. There seemed to be active or at least operating businesses. I went to the hotel where we had agreed to meet. The desk clerk had a message for me. I was to meet Mr. Sanchez in the lobby at five o’clock. I looked out of my room’s window; it was easy to see Ojinaga across the river. I stood on a ledge about to leap. I was a gringo chasing ghosts barely able to understand a language or a culture. After checking my not-always-reliable pocket watch, I walked down to the lobby.
As I approached, a man pushed himself up on the arms of his chair. He asked, “Señor Frost?” I nodded. “We need to plan tomorrow, follow me.” We walked over to a livery and leather goods business. I was introduced to Alejandro. He was a harness and saddle maker. Alejandro helped me choose a horse and saddle. They thought I would prefer to be mounted knowing I was in the cavalry. Mr. Sanchez and he would drive a buckboard. We shared a meal of tortillas and beans at a small café. We listened to Alejandro. He said he was a U. S. citizen and not eager to go to Ojinaga. It had been almost six years since he had crossed the river. The politics were more stable, but he wasn’t going without documents. If his boss hadn’t insisted, he wouldn’t have agreed to go. Carlos Sanchez had been here for two days. He had tracked down stories and had a list of specific locations to see in person. We set a time for early in the morning and left. Carlos insisted he write translations of my documents just in case. As we sat in the lobby, he described his business selling nuts and fruit. He and a cousin had worked in the orchards on the Hearst estate. They saved and were able to acquire land with their own trees. While working for Hearst he had met Mr. Bierce. Carlos said, “Ambrose liked to get away. He used to come out sit and write in our arbor. I don’t believe rumors of suicide; I want answers.”
I went to the stable early. I wanted to get acquainted with my horse. Hez Collins introduced himself as the owner. He asked, “Do you have a gun?”
“I have a revolver in my saddle bag.”
He put a Winchester in the saddle holster and handed me a cartridge belt, “Put the revolver on the outside. You’re a military man, don’t look like a banker, or worse, one of those scribblers seeking lies. I want my horse back.”
I nodded and took the horse on a short exercise. When I returned, we began our journey across the river. We looked like a merchant accompanied by security. I was comfortable on a horse, riding with a rifle felt right. Alejandro said as we entered Mexico, “Collins is an Anglo; he has you looking like a Ranger. Don’t expect friends in Ojinaga.”
I nodded and smiled. I did like Winchesters, but one man is not a regiment. Carlos directed and I followed. We found an older man willing to be a guide. He wanted twelve of my cartridge shells; they were the same caliber as his revolver. He wanted twenty-four but Carlos negotiated him to twelve. Carlos said some of the stories fell apart as soon as one looked at the actual battlefield. In the afternoon the old man directed us to a stable where we could water our horses. His directions led us past a tortilla vendor. He didn’t get twelve extra shells, but he did get tortillas and beans. The man helping unhitch the horse looked at Alejandro and said, “Federale”. Alejandro replied, “American”. Alejandro and Sixto Mateos, the stable man, began a heated argument. I took care of my own horse. I missed most of the meaning. It was too fast. They were speaking at the same time, interrupting each other. As Mr. Sanchez became the questioner, I drew the Winchester out the holster and held it across my body. Our guide positioned himself near me. I wasn’t pointing it at anyone; he made sure it wasn’t pointed at him. They listened to Carlos as he spoke, then they seemed to agree. They became calm and amicable; I re-holstered the rifle. We moved over to the shade of the trees. We sat on the logs there. All four Spanish speakers trading stories. Carlos looked at me and gave me a quick English update. “All three were here during the battle. They did see Bierce.” I told him he could update me when he sorted it out.
We took the old man home. Carlos had stopped and bought two bottles. Mr. Sanchez gave them to the old man; he was most grateful. Alejandro was quiet. Carlos assured him he had nothing to worry about. We returned to Presidio. Alejandro had chores to finish and then we met him at a café by the hotel. I learned Alejandro had been in the Federal army as a teamster. He and the man who recognized him had both come from the province of Vera Cruz. When the revolutionary army began encircling the city, the teamsters were at the area near the stable. A hospital was there because of the water source. Alejandro thought Zamaro was the name of the man who brought Bierce to the doctors. Mateo had said one of the doctors knew who the gringo was. Alejandro never knew his name.
Carlos had pieced together a story. There were some skirmishes in the two days before the night attack. Bierce and a Mexican journalist who sold stories to outside papers had gone up on a hill to get a better view of the defenders. When artillery was brought up on the hill the Federal army fired upon the artillery making them vacate the hill. Bierce had pushed his fellow journalist to the ground protecting him. Bierce was wounded. His wounds were not mortal. The concussions of the explosions broke loose old wounds. He was filled with terrors and hallucinations. Zamaro brought Bierce for medical aid. It was clear Pancho Villa and the revolutionaries would soon control the area. The doctors stayed considering themselves neutral. Sixto Mateos began helping with the wounded. Alejandro and Sixto were not in uniforms; many of the teamsters were not. The doctors told Zamaro to keep the wounds clean then gave Bierce narcotics to calm him. Alejandro traded his wagon and team to Zamaro for Ambrose Bierce’s horse. He was a deserter who had sold government property.
Alejandro rode away from the coming battle crossing the Rio Grande farther down. The fleeing Federales also crossed the river when the battle was lost the next night; they were arrested in Texas and taken to Marfa. Alejandro came to Presidio a couple of days later. Collins hired him because he was a skilled leather worker. He made a fancy custom saddle for the judge who granted him citizenship. He had a fiancé now; Alejandro didn’t want anyone asking questions. Carlos Sanchez assured Alejandro we would not disrupt his life. We thanked him and said we would meet in the morning.
We went back to talk with Sixto. Alejandro was more open. Zamora was the name of the man. He was going to Coatepec; it was his home. The mountain climate and the coffee soothed souls. I learned it was a thousand miles from Ojinaga, possibly Ambrose Bierce died on the way. Sixto Mateos had stayed out of the way of armies for six years. He worked caring for mules and horses. Alejandro wanted to marry and work; he didn’t plan on crossing the river again. Sixto longed to return home but couldn’t afford to leave. Alejandro and Sixto agreed the warring factions had come to a truce, traveling would be safer now. I asked how long to travel by horse to Coatepec. Sixto and Alejandro explained on a horse with a pack animal possibly forty days. A rider would need to avoid bandits and not find trouble in towns. Carlos quizzed them, then summarized the details for me. I asked Carlos, if Sixto and I left on horseback each with a pack animal, could I trust him? Did he think it was feasible? Carlos spoke solemnly to Sixto. His voice had authority, commanding respect; I didn’t understand many words. After a few back and forth replies he turned to me and said yes, he is sincere in going back to his home. I told him you are an honorable man, and he will be treated fairly. Sixto promises the same. I make many business deals with men; I believe he is reliable.
We discussed preparations. I had been provided sufficient funds to purchase horses. Sixto wanted mules as our pack animals. Collins sold me my horse, saddle, and rifle. The Mexican stable owner sold me a horse and two mules. In the morning before we left, I sent a telegram to Mr. Kling. ‘We have learned Ambrose Bierce was wounded but not killed in the Ojinaga. A Mexican journalist may have taken him to the Vera Cruz region to recuperate. Will pursue. ‘
We began our fool’s errand. I mounted my horse. He was a young strong horse, and we had become partners. Alejandro said you still look like an Anglo Ranger, you will not find many friends. Mr. Sanchez wished me well, “Mr. Kling sent the right man. Trust Sixto. Dios Padre protect you in the valley.”
I nodded and rode across the river. Sixto had his mules and horse ready, and we began. The stable owner said something I didn’t understand. As we got out of Ojinaga, I asked Sixto what it was. In mixed words and expressions, we understood each other. Sixto smiled, I was one loco gringo; so was he for riding along.
I am sure the world will want the story in this journal. Someday in a separate work, I will try to publish the notes and descriptions of our journey. We avoided trouble. We were threatened a couple of times. My Winchester did cause trouble to pause and weigh the risk. Sixto had never fired a gun; it wasn’t a teamster’s job. After forty-two days we arrived at Coatepec. We did find a man named Zamaro; he was surprised we had traveled this far. He didn’t think anyone knew they had come here. He said Ambrose Bierce had died three years ago. Ambrose had thought Coatepec was a paradise. Zamaro said he never fully recovered and would often be lost in a world of the past. Bierce decided to stay a mystery. He wasn’t well enough to write anymore. Sixto and I spoke with others who remembered Señor Bierce. They all commented on his love of coffee.
Sixto went on to Vera Cruz. He wanted the two mules, not his horse. I hugged him as he left; he was truly an honorable man. I thanked God for Carlos Sanchez and his wise insights. I love Coatepec; it is a paradise. I have stayed with Zamaro. He has a story we hope will be published. I have been here almost two months. I plan to make it the final place I will live. I have taught a few classes and have been promised a position when I return. Zamaro says I should stay for Candelaria, but I intend to be in Vera Cruz by January 20th. I will fulfill my promise to Mr. Kling. I will book passage from Vera Cruz back to America. I never expected to come to love a town. Coatepec is isolated, but it has captured me lock, stock, and barrel. Now on January 1, 1920, my resolution is to make it my final resting place.
It was signed, Floyd Carr Frost
I was excited and sad. He had finished this only a few days ago. Now he was dead, and no one would learn of his search. I did not know who Ambrose Bierce was, but he was important enough for this journey. The priest called me; I ran over. I was handed a baby. They had found a baby still clinging to its dead mother. Everyone was rejoicing. The priest took the journal. I told him what a marvelous story it held. He opened the journal. He firmly gripped all the written pages, tore them out, and tossed them into the pyre of burning bodies. He put the journal in his pocket. He told me to run the baby to the medical station.
Written by Steve Davis — ShireSteve on substack shiresteve.substack.com shiresteve.blog
Now back to the inanity of our current world. Climate should the first priority of every policy.