Mexican Fire (13 page)

Alejandra ducked her head. “I am the one who sent 'Rasmo to your home. If not for me, he wouldn't have gone to del Noche. You see, I needed a doctor, so I asked him to fetch your husband. Oh,
hermana mia . . .”

Mercedes's hackles rose. “Did you do that on purpose? To try to cause trouble between my husband and Erasmo?”

Hurt crossed Alejandra's face. “You ought to know me better than that.” She explained the events of that ill-fated night. “That's why I just want to go home. To lick my visible and invisible wounds. And to protect our lands,” she affixed, almost as an afterthought.

“Protecting property? Huh! I think you wish to return to find out what part your Anglo played in the loss of San Juan de Ulúa and Vera Cruz.”

Alejandra got to her feet. She walked to the window and stared out. Turning to face her sister, she replied, “That's not quite true. First of all, I must see to Erasmo's comfort.”

“¡Dios mio!
Have you lost your mind? He's been charged with murdering my husband! Yet you propose to see to his comfort? Why would you do such a thing?”

“In the name of friendship. Guilty or not, he needs my help. I will not turn my back on him.” Alejandra bit her upper lip, then leveled a look at Mercedes. “Would you have me do otherwise?”

Pondering the question, Mercedes shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
What do I feel deep inside myself?

Her heart was torn. One part of it grieved for Joaquin and the respectable life they had shared. The second, the part she had tried to deny these past three years but had miserably fallen victim to under Erasmo's sexual advances, wished that some miracle would happen. Perhaps to prove the innocence he claimed in Joaquin's death.

She recalled the beginning of their love affair, when he had been tender and dear, when he had shown her how right it felt to delve into forbidden love. The Erasmo of 1835 had not been a murderer. The Erasmo of that fateful Saturday night in this year of 1838 . . . when they had lain in the hay—oh God! He had seemed the sensitive and lovable man of three years ago.

Surely he couldn't be guilty of slaying Joaquin. Surely!

“Dulce, go to him. I would not have it any other way.”

Alejandra exhaled. “I'm glad you approve of my helping 'Rasmo.”

“Why do I get the impression that helping Erasmo”—she would not mention that Anglo again, for he annoyed Alejandra—“is not your only purpose?”

Alejandra nodded. “I must search for the Yucatecan, Don Valentin Sandoval. He is old, and far from the succor of his Merida home. I worry for his health. And pray God that he left before the bombardment began.”

Mercedes, caring nothing for some stranded octogenarian, studied her sister's mien. Courting trouble, she said, “Those are all well and good, your proposed good deeds, but I still think your purpose is to seek revenge against the golden-haired Señor.”

Alejandra clenched her teeth; her face was molded into stone. “Maybe, sister, you know me too well.”

Reece Montgomery figured he was living on borrowed time.

While her brother-in-law's death had quelled her determination, at least temporarily, to expose Reece as a traitor, he knew Alejandra was out to get him.

Right now it was past twilight on the evening of December fourth. He was giving quite a bit of thought to the widow Sierra as he sat in the captain's quarters of the frigate
Néréide,
his chair tilted back on two of its legs, his fingers laced behind his head, and a cigar perched in a corner of his mouth. What would it take to make peace with her?

Which was what he would rather be doing.

Rowing out here, undercover of course, hadn't been his idea. It had been his intention to ride for Jalapa and try to make amends with Alejandra. Obligations got in the way, not only to Antonio but also to the French admiral who was pacing this spacious shipboard cabin.

Being that distance forestalled him, Reece could neither protect Alejandra nor protect himself from her. He knew she was damned mad, and if he had been walking in her shoes, he'd want to get vengeance on a spy. Unfortunately, he was the spy in this case.

How much longer would it be before she did something to expose him as a French sympathizer? What, if anything, could he do to save himself from a firing squad?

Well, there was always retreat. He felt and heard water lapping against the
Néréide'
s hull, swaying the frigate. All it would take was a word to the admiral, and Reece would be aboard a northbound supply ship headed for the calm waters of Texas.

Sailing off with his tail tucked between his legs had never been his style, though, so why take up cowardice?

“Monsieur Montgomery, have you gone deaf?”

Reece rolled his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth and turned his attention to the speaker. François of Joinville was a lad of twenty who looked as if he were always smelling something foul. A short fellow, rather pigeon-chested, he sported a clipped beard and side-parted straight hair that covered his ears. He had a sleepy-eyed countenance. There was a word for a guy such as this Orleanian prince, what was it? Oh, yeah. Insipid.

On the other hand, the room's third occupant was the personification of prepossessing. Charles Baudin, in the mid-years of his life, stood tall and distinguished, his blue eyes filled with intelligence. He had lost his right arm to one of Wellington's guns at Trafalgar, but none of his naval cunning or ability to lead men.

Rear Admiral Charles Baudin was the kind of man who made Reece wish to be French.

Which had no bearing on Reece's pride in his adopted republic, Texas. On that score, he was ever mindful and appreciative that the French were keeping the Mexicans occupied. And away from the Rio Bravo.

Furthermore, if Baudin's forces gained a total capitulation over this country, Garth Colby would be set free. From wherever he was incarcerated.

He was not in the water-logged dungeons of San Juan de Ulúa.

Accompanying Antonio on his inspection during last week's ceasefire, Reece had made use of those precious two hours by employing a ruse. No one, especially not Antonio, knew about his relationship to Garth Colby. Reece had spread the word, though, that he was out to get the “cardsharp and scoundrel, Colby.” Why, back in New Orleans, that lousy
sinvergüenza
spread lie after lie after lie about Reece's gambling practices to where no one invited him to a game, and none of the women wanted a thing to do with such a craven soul. Then that Colby character had the nerve to skip out on the duel Reece had demanded.

“If I get my hands on him,” Reece had said, over and again, “he'll wish he'd never messed with El Cazador.”

The Mexicans had bought the story, he supposed, for they were eager to relay stories. This may have been a time of war, but men were men; they understood Reece needed to bring honor on himself by showing up that Colby knave.

One rumor, relayed by one of Rincón's lieutenants, was that Garth had long been in the prison at Oaxaca. That was only one rumor. Another had him in Perote, another in Mexico City. A prisoner had been adamant: Garth Colby had died at San Juan de Ulúa—as a result of insubordination.

Reece refused to accept that last rumor.

He would find his brother, alive and in the best condition that circumstances allowed. Nothing else was acceptable.

Charles Baudin was watching him expectantly.

“Did you say something, Admiral?” Reece asked, dragged away from his ruminations.

Baudin smiled. “Actually, His Highness asked if you realize . . . our seizure of San Juan de Ulúa is the only instance in history of a regularly fortified citadel being taken by a purely naval force.”

“That's true, I imagine. Need I point out to the good prince, although Rincón may have surrendered command of Vera Cruz, no marines have crossed the ramparts?”

“And you think we cannot storm the city?” Prince François asked, sneering. “Think again, monsieur.”

Baudin rubbed his chin. “Montgomery, what does General Santa Anna plan to do?”

“Fight.”

“Foolish men and their regrettable actions,” the admiral said, shaking his head.

Reece eased the front chair legs to the floor. “Well, I've been around the Mexicans long enough to figure out one thing for damned sure.” He stood and walked to a porthole. Eyeing the lights of two dozen warships, each bearing the blue and gold of the French flag, he continued. “The Mexican people have a lot of pride. They waited hundreds of years for independence from Spain, and they're not going to let one battle lose them their first war with a foreign power.”

François's nostrils expanded at this latest insult to French might. “It may be their first here, but I assure you, the so-called Pastry War will be their last. Anywhere.”

As much as Reece hated to concede it, he was no soothsayer. The prince might be correct. Mexico could lose. If so, Reece—and the Republic of Texas—had a lot to gain. An ally south of the border for the republic; freedom for Garth Colby. Reece had nothing to gain, really, by a Mexican win—unless the former
caudillo
Santa Anna were to regain power, thus giving his right-hand man carte blanche.

'Twould be better for the French to win.

Right then, a picture formed in Reece's mind. Of Alejandra when she had called him an enemy to all things Mexican. Suddenly, crazily, Reece wished to see triumph in her eyes, put there by an Eagle and Serpent victory over the fleur-de-lis.

He figured he must have eaten something disagreeable.

Doing an about-face, he ran his fingers across his mouth. “General Arista has left Mexico City with a thousand trained troops. And General Santa Anna has removed to a safe house in Vera Cruz to await reinforcements. He's determined that, despite Commandante Rincón's capitulation, no French marines will come ashore.”

Baudin took a thought-filled sip of Bordeaux. “I should raze the city now, while it is near-deserted, and get it over with. Before any more blood is shed.”

With Mexican casualties numbering in the many hundreds from last week's hostilities, and with the French ones counted on less than two hands, Reece took this as a measure of compassion on Baudin's part. “What are you really after, Admiral?”

“Just the monies owed.”

“Au contraire.”
His shoulders drawn indignantly, the prince pounded a finger at his prematurely beribboned chest. “I intend to be emperor!”

The urge to say “shut up and go to your corner” was a force to be reckoned with, yet Reece had the prudence to marshal his impulses. He did, however, point out, “Your Highness, Mexico is a country in turmoil. The last emperor lost his life trying to keep his throne. Would you want that for yourself?”

Those insolent eyes squinted. “Need I remind you, Monsieur Montgomery, that you are talking down to French royalty? I am, of course, quite aware that the price of empire is intrigue and treachery.”

Those were strong words coming from a boy who played at being a naval man. And Reece would bet his boots that ole François here had been well out of the line of fire when the guns of San Juan de Ulúa had fired. “Yes, I suppose you would know all about the price of wearing a crown, what with your man Louis XVI losing his head and all.”

François of Joinville swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Well, let's do get back to the battle before us.” He tried to hide his croak. “Admiral, a division should be ordered to go forth and arrest General Santa Anna.”

“Actually, I've ordered three divisions to the city. We debark before dawn.” Baudin turned to Reece. “You'd best return to land, Montgomery. Before General Santa Anna misses you.”

A plan formed in Reece's mind, one of a personal nature. “How about a few diversionary tactics, admiral?”

“What do you have in mind?”

Reece told him. “. . . and I'll need the loan of my cousin LaTouche.”

“Fair enough.”

Twenty minutes later, under the cover of night that had fallen, Reece descended the ratline to his skiff. Jacques LaTouche followed him.

At a quarter past four in the morning on the fifth of December, three columns of French expeditionary marines put ashore in fog-clogged Vera Cruz. One flanked the rampart fort of Concepción, another Fort Santiago; both forces secured their intended mark. The last phalanx, led by a scared yet determined Orleanian prince running on “I'll show that reprehensible commoner Montgomery what I'm made of,” broke the central city gates.

In an obscure house on an obscure street, Prince François and his party found the hideout of Antonio López de Santa Anna, once-and-present general of the Mexican Army.

François and his men followed a series of piercing snores. On a second-floor cot they encountered a recumbent little figure, gray at the temples and wearing less than a fig leaf.

A servant, to be sure.

Having been schooled in languages, the prince shook the diminutive man and said in Spanish, “Out of bed, son of a worm. The king's son has business with you!”

Spindly legs below a slight paunch hit the floor. Shoulders drooped. Shaking hands and a crooked knee covered private parts. “Señores, I know nothing. I am a nobody. Do not hurt me,” he added, squeaking.

“Where is Santa Anna?” demanded the prince, pompous as his father, astute as a village idiot.

The meek Mexican pointed to the right. “He sleeps two doors away.”

With the zeal of Frenchmen storming the Bastille, François's company rushed the room.

The Mexican streaked downstairs.

The prince waiting until the coast was clear, his men kicked down the door that led to Santa Anna. Wood particles and dust flying, they charged into the room.

A Mexican man, noble even in his nightshirt, stood with bayonets fixed on him.
“Viva Mexico,”
he said in a clear voice.

With an imperial sweep of his hand, François of Joinville bowed to the captured. “In the name of Louis Philippe, King of the Gauls,” he said, straightening, “I am here to send you to France. You, General Santa Anna, are in dire need of a Paris education!”

“What? I'm not Santa Anna.”

“What?” It was then that François of Joinville recalled Montgomery's detailed description of the Napoleon of the West. He uttered a foul word, then, “Who are you?”

“General Mariano Arista.”

By misfortune, he had arrived the previous evening from Mexico City, having left his soldiers well away from the city so that he could obtain orders from his commander, the good general Santa Anna—who had been furious that all those fresh troops were making fiesta while he needed to be making war.

Santa Anna got his revenge, François figured.

Mariano Arista was led away.

 

 

Outside the obscure
casa,
with morning air embracing his olive skin as only a crisp, befogged morning can clasp the naked, Santa Anna skipped through the streets of Vera Cruz and made his way toward a safe haven, one where his good man Montgomery was standing watch over the Frenchman he captured last night.

Enraptured with his ploy, Santa Anna could have cared less about Froggies. In Tejas, at San Jacinto, he had tried artful dodging such as this, but his men gave him away. “¡El Presidente! ¡El Presidente!” they had shouted when General Sam Houston's men herded the polite and simple peasant, dressed in the blue pajamas of a foot soldier, into the Tejano filibusters's prisoner-of-war camp along Buffalo Bayou at San Jacinto.

If not for his dear and true friend Montgomery, Antonio would have lost his life in that evil place. Montgomery—now there was a man to have on one's side. Antonio couldn't wait to tell his trusted colonel about this last development: how he had slipped from French clutches.