Mexican Fire (15 page)

Santa Anna wasn't dead. Not yet.

They had carried him to the village of Pozitos, an army stronghold far removed from the carnage of Vera Cruz, and physicians were working on him. The general's screams filled the barracks, echoed in Reece's ears as he sat outside the makeshift surgical theater. “Let him live,” he prayed.

“Why? He is a blight on the soul of Mexico,” General Diego Morales said, and Reece realized his prayer had been spoken.

“What's the matter? I thought you were Antonio's man.”

“I fight for my country, not for that
bastardo.”
The young general, a creole from Taxco, stood pencil-straight. “Never accuse me of being a bootlicker such as yourself.”

“I'm loyal to my convictions, and make no apologies.”

Morales's lip quivered with disgust. “Your convictions will mean nothing, not when that tyrant dies. And he will. His doctors aren't fit to butcher chickens. The only surgeon within hundreds of miles who's worthy of the profession lies in his grave. Only Joaquin Navarro could save your precious Santa Anna.”

Joaquin Navarro. Alejandra's
cuñado.
Alejandra. Closing his eyes, Reece folded his arms across his chest and leaned his head back against the wall. He ached to see her, but he realized that if Antonio died, and that was a high probability, he would never see her again, for his plans must change. With Antonio dead, Reece would desert from the Mexican Army . . . to storm the heavily fortified dungeons of Mexico.

And probably get himself killed in the process.

But what were his other choices?

A door creaked open. Footsteps came near him. “Colonel Montgomery,” a man said, “the general calls for you.”

Reece opened his eyes to observe the blood-splattered doctor. “Will he live?”

“Probably not through the night,” was the answer accompanied by a shake of the head. “And even if he survives till tomorrow, infection will kill him.”

Reece rose to stand. “Well, I shall tell him goodbye.”

The strangest feeling came over him. A feeling of loss. During all the long months and years of their acquaintance, while he had gritted his teeth and played ardent comrade to the villain of Texas, Reece had hated him. He had swallowed gallons of bile as they drank and caroused and gambled, or talked or joked or shared philosophies—Reece's, of course, of the mostly fabricated variety. In his mind, each and every one of Antonio's faults and misdeeds had telescoped to grand proportions. But as Reece walked toward the dying man, he realized a few things. Antonio had given him friendship without condition. How many times in a lifetime did that happen to a person?

Already he grieved for the rogue.

Two weeks had passed since the second battle of
La Guerra de los Pasteles
—the Pastry War. And to Alejandra, each of those lonely weeks had been pure agony. So many things preyed on her heart and mind.

Presently she stood hugging her arms in the
sala grande
of her Campos de Palmas home. Afternoon waned. Wind whistled through the room; her home, despite its grandeur, was typical of the tropics and hadn't been built to accommodate the infrequent northers. Weather, however, was the least of her problems.

Erasmo still languished in jail. Unfairly accused, Alejandra felt by now, after hearing his story. The trial was set for January. In the meantime, nothing more could be done for her friend and ally.

From upstairs she heard a cough. The consumptive Don Valentin Sandoval reposed in a second-floor bedroom. Of course her concerns were for him, just as they were for the people of her coffee plantation. Lately she had devoted herself to making Christmas as special for the workers as possible, to giving normalcy to those upset by recent warfare and chaos. Her immediate concern, however, had nothing to do with Campos de Palmas. This particular problem was habited in black, had blue eyes, blond hair and was perched, petulant, on the horsehair sofa.

Never one to mourn too long, Mercedes picked a cuticle. “Did you know the Vera Cruz
posada
has been moved to Pozitos this year?” She rushed on with, “Here is is Christmastide, and we're missing tonight's dance.”

Alejandra stared in disbelief and despair. “You pine for a dance? You're in mourning, Mercedes Navarro.”

“I'm still in the bloom of youth.”

“Your husband is barely cold in his grave. And your paramour awaits trial for his murder. Plus . . . your own father has just deserted to the French.”
Papa, how could you?
“How can you think of dancing?”

“Really, Dulce, you take life much too seriously.”

There was no use arguing. Alejandra accepted certain things about herself. She did take life seriously. But who in their right mind wouldn't? Two weeks ago and to his wife's and younger daughter's horror, Papa had joined a wealth of his nationality who left the shores of Mexico. The others had been expelled by the Centralist government. Not so Pierre Toussaint.

He had rowed out to the
Néréide
to offer his services, shouting
“Vive la France!”
as parting words to counter Mamacita's heated objections. Alejandra was heartbroken at his abandonment. She figured he did not love her. Well, she knew he did feel strongly toward his wife and daughters, but unfortunately his love of country was stronger than his love of family.

She hoped he was happy. But how could he be? Unless he was a war-monger, and she doubted that of her beloved Papa.

Yet France hadn't relinquished the fight. Papa's new home, the flagship, along with the majority of the king's fleet, still menaced the waters of Veracruz. While the phalanx led by François of Joinville had been pushed from the city, they had dismantled all Mexican cannons before leaving.

And two other regiments were occupying Concepción and Santiago. Thus, Mexico's victory had not been clear.

Further, Santa Anna—damn him!—had tricked the grim reaper.

From his invalid's cot at his estate, he preyed on the gullible Mexican people by using his precarious health and his handicap to its best advantage. No more than a day after his injury, he had sympathy-seeking broadsides distributed which told of his imminent demise. Time having proved his immortality, he had begun to behave as if the loss of a leg was the ultimate sacrifice for his country. Giving up a limb was no frivolity, true, but Santa Anna had ordered the sainted limb removed to Doña Ines Garcia Santa Anna's chapel on the grounds of Hacienda Manga de Clavo. Where it lay in state.

Alejandra viewed such action as morbid.

Beyond his bid for sympathy, a cornucopia of lies had spilled from his mouth. Santa Anna claimed himself the victor in the events of December fifth.

Amazingly, his ploys were working. Mexico resounded with the happy voices of her duped people. “Hail the hero of Vera Cruz!” “Hail our martyred general!” “Long live Santa Anna!”

He had risen from the ashes of his shame in losing Tejas.

Damn him.

The only thing good to come out of his comeback was that his old foe, President Bustamante, had countered a move on the presidential palace by naming three Federalists to his Cabinet. Alas, the Centralists had risen against them. The Federalist ministers had lasted three days, but at least Anastacio Bustamante knew his days as president were numbered. Who would replace him?

Shuddering at the presidential options, Alejandra turned her attention to her sister. An oh-so-innocent expression brightened the blonde's face.

“Have you heard from your friend Señor Montgomery?”

Her color rising, Alejandra turned away to fiddle with a vase. She had tried not to think about him. Had tried. “He isn't my friend.”

“All right. Have you heard anything from your lover?” Mercedes inspected the mangled cuticle. “From the look on your face every time I mention him, I can't imagine your relationship being anything but intimate.” She reached for a cup of coffee that sat on a low table in front of the sofa. “Such a handsome man. So virile.”

“Shut up, Mercie.”

With that, Alejandra exited the grand salon and stomped upstairs to her room. Yet she couldn't blank her mind. Yes, Reece had tried to see her, but she had had him turned away.

By now she was somewhat comfortable with her decision to keep the untrustworthy Reece at bay. She had no reason to question her decision. There were his obvious faults. Plus, the story which circulated through the state was too improbable. Reece allowing himself to be overtaken by French troops set on freeing some lowly sailor? Something smelled foul.

She slammed the door to her bedchamber. Halfway to her bed, she heard voices from the front lawn. Voices lifted in song and accompanied by guitars. The shutters pushed open, a blast of north wind stinging her face, she stared down at the serenaders.

Three musicians wore sombreros, boleros, and close-fitting breeches. Another man stood in front of them, his arms filled with flowers. Reece Montgomery wore the garb of a pirate.

He looked up at her window. “Come to the
posada
in Pozitos with me,” he called. “Let's celebrate Christmas.”

All of a sudden, her heart tripped and she felt
alive!
She yearned to dash downstairs and into his arms. What was wrong with her? Alejandra yanked the shutters closed. Why, though, did she experience such a low and empty feeling?

“Since my sister has seen fit not to accompany you, Señor,” an operatically lifted voice from the lower floor rang out, “would you be offended by a replacement such as I?”

“Not at all, beautiful lady!” His voice probably carried to the Canary Islands.

Alejandra's mouth dropped. They wouldn't dare. Would they? Knowing her sister and being well-enough acquainted with Reece, she decided they would. Jealousy reared. If she had gone with her instincts, she would soon be rotting in jail alongside Erasmo, for she was on the verge of murder.

Plumbing the depths of her spirit, she dragged up a noble cause. Her sister would bring further disgrace on the family—as if Papa wasn't enough!—by showing herself in public.

Not feeling as sanctimonious as her cause would suggest, Alejandra decided to stop scandal before it went further, thus saving Mercedes from herself. By the time she descended the stairs, her plans were foiled.

The revelers were on their way to the dance.

Her arms crossed over her bosom, Alejandra watched a carriage roll out of sight. All her problems came tumbling around her shoulders. Tears filled her eyes. Why couldn't at least one thing go right?

Propping up her flagged spirit, she straightened. She wasn't going to allow anything to get the better of her. There were some things she had no control over, but the revelers situation wasn't among them.

 

 

She was angry, Reece knew. But seeing Alejandra was a gust of fresh air after weeks of standing vigil over an invalid's bedside. Antonio's pleas for attention had proved tiring and frustrating. Tiring in the long hours devoted, frustrating in purpose.

Though Reece was growing to respect the general, he itched to further his search for Garth. Antonio was gaining physical strength and political importance; it wouldn't be long before he could make his move on the presidency. Reece would carry on as assigned by the Texan government.

He turned his attention back to the moment, to the
posada.
To Alejandra. She wore a peasant blouse and a full skirt accentuating her small waist. A shawl draped her shoulders. The hair that had looked so lovely spread across his pillow was parted in the middle and fashioned into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Gold hoops dangled from her ears. Alejandra's gypsy-like beauty arrested his breath.

He stood at the edge of a makeshift dance floor in the hall which had served earlier as a military barracks. Tonight it was awash with candle-holding celebrants, mostly soldiers and their women, a sprinkling of civilians among them. They went through the symbolic routine of Mary and Joseph at the inn, and they were making their way upstairs to “seek shelter”. Within the space of a few seconds, the area was deserted save for Reece and Alejandra. He took a step toward her.

She stomped over to him, indignation boiling in her eyes. “Where is my sister?”

“On her way to Hacienda del Noche, I should imagine.”

“You should imagine? What have you done with her? Why isn't she with you?”

“I thought you'd be pleased she isn't.”

Alejandra's furious expression turned to one of suspicion. “What is going on?”

Subterfuge, as far as Reece was concerned, should be employed to a bare minimum. “We worked together to flush the little dove from her nest,” he answered honestly.