Stronger Than Passion (48 page)

And finding and killing Michael Brett would be one of Ramirez’s primary tasks.

*

The weeks passed too swiftly during the summer of 1847, a heated blur of anticipation and fear and wild rumor. The citizens of Mexico City were at once frightened, and bold; desperate for peace, and clamoring for military action, swaying each day as another frenzied spate of innuendo passed from house to house.

The Americans remained at Puebla for several weeks, resting and reinforcing their troops. They were even secretly working for peace; President Polk had sent out from Washington a special representative to join the army and make overtures for truce to the Mexican government, by way of the neutral British Embassy. It was whispered that President Santa Anna might even consider a peace if a sufficiently large bribe were attached to the treaty. But when a political enemy of Santa Anna’s, General Gabriel Valencia, arrived at the capital with the veteran army of the North, the peace proposals were forgotten in a wave of military optimism, fueled by the rivalry between Valencia and Santa Anna. The American army, therefore, continued to prepare for its march to the capital.

Luis had considered evacuating his daughter and Christina into the country and broached the matter to them, although for reasons of his own he had already decided against it. But the ladies refused to go. The countryside wasn’t any safer than Mexico City, battle or no battle. And hadn’t Luis hired those crude ruffians to protect them when war came? They both preferred to take their chances in town.

Besides, Christina wasn’t feeling at all well these days. The idea of a day-long journey over rough roads, through bandit and guerilla-infested land, to Luis’s desolate hacienda, revolted her. She intended to remain where she was and spend her days resting in her cool bedroom, or sitting in the shade of the garden. She seldom ever had a desire to ride anymore. The uneven motion of the horse sickened her.

It seemed that the despondency following Julian’s death, her visit to Michael, and her tense daily encounters with Luis were taken its toll on her body. She lost weight, finding herself too frequently nauseated to eat. She was often dizzy and faint due to lack of exercise. She grew irritable and remorseful, by turns, taking out these emotions on Penny and even on Luis, who grew concerned; he sent for a doctor to examine her. She ordered the doctor away - the man had come during one of her difficult moods.

But by August the seventh, personal concerns gave way in the Arredondo casa - and, indeed, in every household in Mexico City - to a much larger worry. The Yanquis were again in motion. The gringo army, swelled by an unguessed-at number of men newly arrived by ship from Vera Cruz, was on the move. And marching directly toward Mexico City.

*

Michael Brett was filling his days as competently as he knew how. He took upon himself the responsibility of reorganizing Julian’s shattered guerilla troop; appointing Jack Eastman its new Captain, though without any real authority to do so. Still, the wounded and revenge-bent remains of the unit accepted his judgment. Once the shock of the ambush and the deaths of Julian and the other two men had been gotten over, the troop was anxious to get to work again. Specifically, they wanted to raid Luis Arredondo’s God-forsaken silver mine. Michael’s heart was with them in that. He helped Eastman do a little recruiting, and a lot of planning, and he brought General Worth in on the details. The raid was scheduled to coincide with the army offensive in Mexico City.

He also sent Renata on her way back to her tribe, despite her demands to be a part of the raid, with instructions to stay there and take a husband. He hoped that now, at last, she would take his advice. The death of Julian had curbed her plans to be treated as white; she was all-Indian now in her grief and her thirst for revenge.

In the meantime, he was busy scouting Santa Anna’s progress on reassembling his army - a task of which the Mexican was phenomenally good. Santa Anna now commanded nearly twenty thousand troops again, with a complement of ninety guns. Not bad for a man who had, only a few months before, been left with basically nothing.

Scott’s army was outnumbered - consisting of less than eleven thousand men of fighting ability. With these men, he planned to assault and conquer the Mexican capital, a city of 200,000 inhabitants, encircled and protected by mountains, marshes and lakes, fortified hills, and, of course, Santa Anna. It would not be an easy task.

Michael attached himself to General Worth’s division for the march and the assault. His intention was to join the regular army insofar as its goals coincided with his plans, which were simple: smash through the enemy line and gain entrance to Mexico City. From there, he would detach from the troops and head for the house of Luis Arredondo, where he intended to add to the
Mexican mortality rate by one. After his business was accomplished, he would be free to rejoin Worth’s men, who would probably be fighting in the city streets.

With any luck, the city would be captured, and it would mean the end of the war. Santa Anna would surrender - and he and Mexico would never be in a position to threaten Texas again. Luis Arredondo would be dead. Michael Brett could go home to Dos Rios. The ranch would be completely his, and he would work it alone.

Yet, these satisfactory plans seemed unalluring. As he lay in his solitary tent at night in the countryside near Puebla, staring out the open flap into the darkness, often he replayed the events of his life as though it were already over, and the future had nothing to do with him.

He reviewed his class-restricted childhood in England, which culminated in his brother’s accident and the unshakable contempt of his parents. He remembered the bitterness which finally drove him out of England, to Texas, to live with his uncle’s family, and the kindness with which they treated him. He thought of Julian, and his eventual tight bond with the equally savage and confused young man he had been. He re-lived the rage that they both had felt at Bradley Torrance’s execution, and their fierce fighting against the Mexicans, and then their need to leave war-torn Texas and travel . . . until it was time to return and build a life of ranching, mining, and plotting against their old enemies. Then his life had taken its dark, ironic slide, and the remembering of it became more difficult and emotions more compelling. War was declared with Mexico. Christina de Sainz nursed him when he was gun-shot and managed to affect him worse than any bullet, becoming entwined in everything he did from then on, good and bad; up to and including Julian’s death, which seemed to be the last act in a melodramatic play.

Was an encore really necessary? Would he be content to retire to Dos Rios alone, after the war, continuing as though Julian had never been a part of it . . . or even Christina? Or should he change scenes altogether, return to England, and make peace with Robert before Robert died, too?

These thoughts involved him nearly every night, holding him until the tiredness of the harsh days overcame them and he slept. But sun up always arrived too soon; and the pattern of his days and nights continued unbroken for the duration of the weeks of preparation it took until the army was at least ready to move.

Michael rode ahead of the army in a self-appointed position of scout. Although General Scott did not particularly like him, due to his direct connection with the President with whom the general constantly feuded, he had no authority to order Michael into a regular army division, where he would have preferred him to be. Michael set his own schedule and Scott be damned. He considered it more important to venture ahead on his own and report what he saw than to ride sequestered within the body of regulars, where his talents of observation and native language would be wasted. Besides, he enjoyed exerting his independence within the army, especially to Scott. And he had no desire, these days, to ride close to anyone. He preferred to be alone.

Of course, solitude had its drawbacks. One of which happened to be idle thought. And with hours and days of slow, wary travel in front of him before the real action began, his present enemy was his own mind - which proved to be just as uncontrollable in the daytime as it was at night.

It wasn’t regret over Julian or worries about the difficult fighting ahead that disturbed him as he meandered in a round-about way toward Mexico City. It was Christina. For some reason he had started thinking about her, and he couldn’t seem to stop.

He had told himself that he was through with her. She was on the side of the enemy, had always been; and a few nights in his bed - however agreeable - were not going to change that. Besides, she had selected Arredondo for a husband, who was nearly tantamount to Santa Anna himself. In fact, he was almost worse! Michael Brett of Dos Rios, Texas, would do well to steer clear of Christina de Sainz for the rest of his life.

If it were possible, and he was beginning to wonder. It would help if he could forget the powder-soft feel of her body. Or the smell of her, or the taste. Or her direct, tension-filled gaze, when she wanted him, but hated herself for it at the same time . . . and would surrender anyway.

He would be better off, also, if he could ignore the uneasy idea of Arredondo being mad at her for riding out to see him that time. What would Arredondo do to her if he suspected she might
be sympathetic over Julian Torrance’s death? What if he ever discovered how close - physically and emotionally - she had been to Julian’s guerilla band? What if he ever found out the whole truth about her time in Texas? Would he hurt her?

Michael remembered the bruises he had seen on the girls that Arredondo “employed.” Yes. It was possible that Arredondo might at some time or other hurt Christina. It would probably depend on the amount of control she allowed him. Or on just how mad he got.

It had been weeks now since Julian was killed and she had sought him out. He assumed that she was fine; otherwise Locklyn would have heard something, and passed it along to him.

He remembered his ugly threat that day of holding her hostage. In retrospect, he should have done it - and never ransomed her. Maybe by keeping her near him he could have decided one and for all what to do about her. And he would have kept her from Arredondo!

It was too late now. But maybe he would see her when he fought his way inside Mexico City . . . after he had killed her fiancé! Provided she would consent to speak to him, civilly, of course, and not come after him with a weapon. Although in that case, he could always take her prisoner, couldn’t he? If he wanted to . . .

With these distracting thoughts, maybe it wasn’t strange at all that he made it up the northern mountain flank of Ixtaccihuatl, crossed the pass and found himself staring down into the beautiful valley of Mexico in under three days. The army would take at least one day more to catch up.

He squinted toward the west, where Mexico City lay, about twenty miles away. Between where he stood and the capital of Mexico was a defensive chain of marshes and lakes, crossable only by Mexican-patrolled causeways. General Scott had a plan to approach the city, of course; Michael hoped that it would work. Otherwise, Santa Anna’s twenty thousand troops would cut them all to pieces on the wetland that shone so magnificently in the sun . . . lovely and potentially lethal, and full of pride. Like a certain ladys he knew of, who was down there, somewhere. Was she frightened of the coming battle for her town? Or was she carelessly confident of her own safety - perhaps suspecting that her present home had been placed off limits to American soldiers, as, indeed, it had . . . and waiting for the one American who would be sure to break his own rules and enter it?

The verdant scenery told him nothing.

He decided to make a discreet camp for the night. And when the moon, rose, slip down the road, as far as he could, into the valley. Santa Anna’s men were down there, too; probably close to where he stood, right now. He needed to mark their position before any of Scott’s generals and troops marched past this point.

He walked his horse to the left, seeking a hidden perch to turn into a solitary camp. As the sun dropped low behind him, lights and fires began to appear below in the huge valley, beckoning him with the mystery of their origins. He should hurry if he was to cover much ground before dawn.

Christina grew to despise the vulgar men Luis had hired to protect them. Insolent and sarcastic, the six men and their capitan, the overly sincere Ramirez, lounged about the house all day, smoking and drinking, sometimes gambling, and sometimes chasing the female servants. Even Penny was not immune to their foul-smelling grabs; it was only her loud and violent protests that forced them to release her. Christina protested to Luis about their disreputable behavior, but he only laughed and said that she was not to worry about them. These men were ill-bred, but when the American army came, she would be glad enough of their protection! The seven of them would be more than efficient at deflecting any looters, American or Mexican, from the house.

Christina secluded herself even more within the Casa Arredondo, in order to avoid the mercenaries, Luis, and the casual visitor. She wished to see no one. Her torpid illness had yet to dissipate - sometimes even the smell of the spicy Mexican food she was often served made her wretch, until she was only able to eat a little bread and drink a glass of fruit juice. Her head ached enough to make her dizzy; even her back began to hurt. But Luis ceased to pressure her about seeing a doctor or even about coming downstairs to sit with him, as she used to. He was distracted by events over which he had no control - namely, the coming battle for Mexico City, now that the proposed peace treaty was turned down. The hours of Luis’s days were consumed by meetings with other worried civic leaders, making plans and proposals that were at once frantic and useless, since the ultimate responsibility for the fighting and the protection of the townspeople lay with Santa Anna and no one else. Christina remained strangely unmoved.