by Martha Hix
At present, nothing was right in the government. And with the French obstructing free trade—
“Alejandra? May I seat you, please?” At her nod, Erasmo helped her into a chair at the small round table. “We have much to discuss, amiga,” he murmured.
“We have much to discuss,” Don Valentin Sandoval interjected with no signs that he had heard Erasmo.
The closed door rattled as a waiter knocked before entering. High above his shoulder, he carried a linen-covered tray. “Buenos dias,” he said and set his burden on a table by the wall. He poured coffee from a battered pot into tall, stemmed glasses, then did the same with a pot of hot milk.
Whistling a tune that had overtones resembling “La Marseillaise”, the fresh-faced young man—he couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen—flourished a linen-covered plate from his tray.
He pulled up the covering. “May I interest you in chocolate eclairs?”
Alejandra blanched, as did her table mates. Despite the warm day, the air took a sudden chill.
“French pastries!” squawked the octogenarian. “Take them away!”
“But they are very tasty.”
“Felix, have you lost your mind?” Erasmo glared at the waiter. “We don’t eat French food. Not with the Gauls cutting our supply lines and customs revenues.”
“Ah, Señor de Guzman, where is your sense of humor?” He replaced the offensive pastries on his tray. “Back in the kitchen we find much mirth in it. Ochoa the chef has even come up with words to a song. It goes like—”
“Felix! There is a lady present.” Erasmo pointed at the young man. “Watch what you say.”
Giving a nonchalant shrug, Felix said, “The words are not offensive to any Mexicana or Mexicano, I assure you. It goes like this, The day the Gloire arrives here, is the day the Gloire will be sunk.‘” He terminated the verse. “Granted, she is here smelling up our harbor, but that’s not the point. This siege started over no more than a chocolate eclair, so why not mock the French with their foolish ‘pastry’ claims?”
“Foolish pastry claims?” Alejandra repeated, unable to keep mum. “No one should count them as trivial. The French don’t, be assured.”
“You’re not much more than a niño, Felix.” Eyeing him, Erasmo took a sip of his coffee. “Are you fully aware of what precipitated the French aggression?”
“What did you say?” the don asked, leaning closer. Erasmo did not repeat his question, which sent the Yucatecan into a sulk.
Felix answered Erasmo’s query. “I don’t know a lot about the politics of what happened, but I do know it had something to do with some Frenchman’s bakery in the capital getting sacked.”
Alejandra had been in England at the time of the incident, but she was well aware of the happenings. It all started ten years ago, and seven years into the chaos following Spain granting Mexican independence.
A squad of Mexican soldiers had descended on the pastelería. Caught up in what turned out to be a crude fiesta, they gobbled down their eclairs. The situation turned ugly when the proprietor presented the bill. The soldiers not only refused to pay, they destroyed the bake shop.
“It started with that,” she said as Don Valentin coughed into a linen handkerchief, “but the whole thing got more serious right away.”
Erasmo nodded. “His demands were a rallying cry to other ex-patriots living in our country. Thousands of them came forth, demanding money for insults.”
Felix had a pensive look to his face. “Well, I don’t know about the others, but I think that baker deserved a settlement. That’s what the Federalists are working for, you understand. Fair treatment for everyone.”
Erasmo and Alejandra exchanged covert yet knowing looks. Since he had introduced her to Don Valentin—this was the first time she had been in company with Federalists other than Erasmo—would he also mention to the waiter that she was likewise aligned? He didn’t.
He responded to Felix’s comment. “The other claims got out of hand. One after another after another, until there were thousands of claimants, they came forth and demanded money from the government. They complained of forced loans and lack of police protection. And of things such as looted property and false imprisonment.”
Leaning a hip against the side table, Felix crossed his arms. “If they were victimized like that other hombre, who could blame them?”
Alejandra smoothed the skirt of her black dress, and spoke up. “Most of their claims are of the nuisance variety . . . if not absolute falsehoods. As for those who have legitimate claims, they have suffered no more than any Mexican has. We’ve all been touched by revolution and strife. And a bankrupt treasury.” The last part was the result of war and Centralist corruption, but she wouldn’t make mention of that.
Don Valentin waved a crabbed finger. “That’s right, young man. We have no money to pay those Froggies. Even if we wanted to. Which we don’t, of course.”
Felix nodded. “Let them eat—What was it their la reina Maria said? Oh. Let them eat cake.”
No one corrected the misquote.
Alejandra didn’t hold such a blasé opinion as Felix. King Louis Philippe of France meant to collect the supposed debt now embracing the million peso mark.
And he would go to any lengths to do it.
Thus, French frigates had been menacing the waters of Veracruz for several months, and lately Charles Baudin, the one-armed and fearsome rear admiral of Louis Philippe’s navy, had arrived with more warships as well as with the king’s third son.
Five years ago, upon her presentation to the French court, Alejandra had met the foppish young prince and knew him to be aggressive. What did he think to accomplish by being a part of the fighting fleet? She shuddered. If the Gauls were to prevail in battle, wouldn’t it be convenient, their having an ambitious young prince ready to claim Chapultepec Palace?
She was only vaguely aware of Felix refilling the coffee glasses and of his exit from the room, so caught up was she in the thought of Mexico becoming an empire again. While she was strongly against the Centralist government, Alejandra was more adamantly opposed to any possible invasion by foreign forces intent on stealing Mexico for empire purposes.
She stirred her coffee, then took a meditative sip. Before Miguel died, she couldn’t have cared less about politics. As a girl she had been as untamed as the jungles of Veracruz, as wild as the chipichipi rains that tormented her hometown of Jalapa. Much to her parents’ dismay, Alejandra had ridden bareback and hell-bent, laughing at life and loving every minute of it. Time after time, Papa had thrown his arms wide to lament in his peculiar mixture of French and Spanish. “Sacrebleu, Mamacita, what will we do about un garçon manqué?”
Mamacita had had a solution, and not just for the family tomboy. She shipped Alejandra and her equally bratty sister off to Europe for “smoothing out.” With Mercedes the lesson had backfired, for the elder Toussaint sister had become more wild and untamed. Alejandra had returned with reserve, ready to be united in an arranged marriage to the wealthy young heir to the Sierra name and fortune. As a bride Alejandra had wanted nothing more than her husband’s devotion and a houseful of children. As a widow she wanted justice for her country.
She placed her glass on the table. Glancing from Don Valentin to Erasmo, she said, “I suppose this meeting has a purpose. What would it be?”
The two men eyed each other. In a gesture unlike his usual confidence, Erasmo swallowed nervously; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he studied the wooden table. Don Valentin rubbed his wrinkled mouth. Their hesitation distressed Alejandra. She had the urge not to press the subject, to say adios and be gone.
If you’re going to live in a man’s world, she told herself, be as bold as a man. “Speak up. One of you.”
The older of the two cleared his throat, then blurted, “You must help us rid Mexico of General Santa Anna.”
The mere mention of that despot’s name twisted her stomach into knots. Santa Anna. General Antonio López de Santa Anna Perez de Leb
ron. Former president and dictator of Mexico. Some styled him the Napoleon of the West, a name generated by Santa Anna himself. No longer was he called that. Like his Corsican counterpart, Santa Anna had met his Waterloo.
For him that place had been San Jacinto, an obscure region in the southeastern Texas, or Tejas as the Mexicans knew it. There, in April 1836 and six weeks after the Alamo and Goliad fiascos to the west, General Sam Houston’s small, ragtag army surprised and finally defeated the Mexican forces.
Before his downfall, nonetheless, Santa Anna had dug his Centralist claws into the flesh of many—including that of Alejandra’s young husband. Miguel Sierra, infantry colonel on attack against the Alamo, may have been struck by rebel guns, but in her heart Alejandra believed he died from the tactical errors and bloodthirsty excesses of his own commander.
A man without honor or principles.
Santa Anna was that. After his shameful victory at the Alamo and the annihilations of the Goliad rebels, after his ignominious defeat at San Jacinto, in the aftermath of giving Tejas away to the Anglo filibusters, he undertook a strange odyssey, traveling far and wide in search of a country that would sanctify his actions in Tejas. His search was unsuccessful. Several months ago Santa Anna had returned under cover of night to the country he disgraced in more ways than Alejandra could count on her fingers and toes.
“Amiga?”
Erasmo’s gently spoken word pulled her back to the present. “Why rid Mexico of Santa Anna?” she asked, fastening her hazel gaze to the brown of his. “President Bustamante, in his only action I’ve approved of, has decreed he stay exiled at Manga de Clavo.”
“Which is right outside our city,” the don reminded.
“Yes, Santa Anna’s estate is near Vera Cruz, but with the French in our puerto, he should be the least of our problems.”
Don Valentin coughed again, and Alejandra handed him a glass of water. “Would you like to take a rest?”
He shook his head. “No. This meeting is too important.”
“True.” Erasmo got back to the business at hand. “Alas, our fallen president will use the blockade to his best advantage. Already he’s sent word: his services are available. He yearns to defend San Juan de Ulúa. By driving Admiral Baudin from these waters, he figures to ride a wave of popularity all the way to Mexico City.”
She almost laughed “That will never happen. Mexico won’t give that cretin another try.”
“Complacency is folly,” Erasmo said. “Our defeated leader is a man of high charisma, and his offer could be taken as one of a savior by many of our people. Some are still loyal to him.”
She quivered with revulsion, thinking of Mexican vulnerability to enemies from abroad and from within.
“Amiga, the French have presented him with the opportunity he’s been waiting for.”
Was it only a moment ago she had thought the most dangerous threat to Mexico was France?
Odd, how matters could change in the blink of an eye. Suddenly it all was too much for her. She would have welcomed her bed, its covers pulled over her eyes.
Coward!
She leaned toward the wheezing Don Valentin. “The people might be duped into returning Santa Anna to power.”
“Exactly,” he replied.
“Unless we stop him, amiga.”
Don Valentin nodded. Composed now, he said, “Doña Alejandra, you are the key. You’re the most beautiful woman in Veracruz . . . and you’ve come to a certain party’s attention. We want you to play on his weakness.”
Alejandra overlooked the expansive praise. “I’m insulted you would ask.” She glared at both of them, then shored up her dignity to present facts to free herself from commitment. “Besides, I’m much too old for the general. Twenty-two. And I’m a widow, certainly no virgin. Santa Anna prefers females of the nubile variety.”
Erasmo colored. The Yucatecan, having no problem comprehending, choked on his coffee.
“We don’t mean you should offer yourself to Santa Anna,” Erasmo amended, indignation in his tone.
Too often she rushed to conclusions, and a blush heated her face at this one. “What . . . what do you mean, ’Rasmo?”
“Until the French can be paid, or repulsed from these shores, Santa Anna must be stalled from entering San Juan de Ulúa.” Erasmo rubbed his lips. “There’s an American adventurer, a man called Reece Montgomery. We think he’ll help us stall Santa Anna.”
She rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “For curiosity’s sake, and for no other reason, I’d like to know how you figure I would fit into this intrigue.”
“We need him as a spy and we’ll pay him to be one. You’ll convince him.”
“No, gracias.” .
Erasmo patted his hand in the air, chest level. “Would you allow me to finish before saying no?” He rushed on. “Under mysterious circumstances Montgomery aligned himself with Santa Anna. The circumstances were strange, but his motives are not. Montgomery can be bought. He went like this”—he snapped his fingers—“to Santa Anna’s payroll. Among the army being collected, we know there is no man as corruptible as Señor Reece Montgomery. So . . . we intend to raise his salary.”
She laughed. “The nuns from the Insane Hospital should pull you to their bosoms. Surely this Montgomery you speak of won’t fall for some harebrained scheme.”
“We think differently,” Erasmo replied. “He holds an allegiance to money, nothing else. Yet he, like Santa Anna, has a weakness for ladies. To his credit, though, Montgomery favors women to girls.”
“Oh, ’Rasmo, how very kind of you to think of your best friend’s widow,” Alejandra retorted in scathing outrage. “You, a tower of strength in my widow’s grief.”
He took her hand. “I mean no disrespect. All we’re asking is for you to gain Montgomery’s trust. That is all.”
“Why doesn’t some man approach him? Why would you choose me for the deed?”
“What was that?” the grandee asked. She repeated her question and he nodded, “Understand, Doña Alejandra, Montgomery has seen you.”
For some strange reason, Alejandra thought of the foreigner in the marketplace. Could they be one and the same? Preposterous!
Don Valentin went on. “He’s made inquiries about you. Is she married?’ ‘Is she pledged to another?’ Those sorts of questions. If you’re with him, no suspicions will be aroused. After all, your late husband was a martyr to the Santanista cause. Sierra loyalty won’t be questioned. And now that your period of mourning has passed, the general would think it normal if you choose a suitor from his ranks.”
He took a sip of water. “You will meet the Señor, he’ll find you enchanting, you’ll offer him money for his information. When he accepts, which he will, you’ll retreat. It’s as simple as that.”
“You paint a dismal picture,” she said. “The man of easy virtue.”
The Yucatecan nodded. “Yes.”
Already she didn’t like Señor Reece Montgomery. Men without standards were the lowest form of life. To Doña Alejandra Sierra, honor was everything.
“Montgomery spent some time in Tejas,” Erasmo was saying. “He even applied for a land grant.”
“Which qualifies him as a Tejano. Which means you would have me fraternizing with one who faced my husband in battle.”
“No, amiga, Montgomery didn’t do any fighting. He turned up at the San Jacinto battlefield after our surrender, and General Sam Houston called on him to act as interpreter.” Erasmo paused. “As you know, there was a cry to kill Santa Anna in retribution for the Alamo and Goliad. But he gave a signal, the Masonic sign of distress. Montgomery interceded with General Houston.”
“I suppose Señor Montgomery has one point in his favor,” she allowed, watching Don Valentin cup his hand to an ear. “He believes in defending a fellow Freemason.”
“Not so. Montgomery isn’t a Mason. He simply reminded Houston of his pledge to the Order.” Erasmo chuckled. “Later, in Washington, Montgomery and Santa Anna met again.”
&n
bsp; “And the two just struck up a friendship? Seems odd.”
The grandee nodded and took his cupped hand from his ear. “Actually, Señor Montgomery sent him his own distress signal. A letter pleading for help. It seems the señor was charged with crimes against the government of Tejas.”
“Such as?”
“Treason.”
She gasped. “What did he do?”
“Stole some state papers and offered them to the Mexican ambassador,” Erasmo explained. “For compensation, of course.”
Through her shock, she said, “It’s beneath our dignity to consider taking such a person into a confidence.”
“We are desperate, Doña Alejandra.” The lined furrows of Don Valentin Sandoval’s face deepened to gullies. “Señor Montgomery isn’t repugnant, not on the outside. We’ve heard he can be quite charming to the ladies. He’s young, maybe thirty. Attractive, too, if a lady favors the working class. He is tall, his proportions are balanced, and his hair is fair of color. Many of our women seem inclined toward those things, I’ve noticed.”
Affront marked Erasmo’s wide features. “She is interested in neither his charm nor his looks.”
Alejandra was still as a post. Her mind’s eye drew a picture of a long-legged man with hair of sun-shot gold. A stranger by no means of advanced age. The man who had helped the little beggar girl and had called Alejandra by name and title. A frisson skipped down her spine. She couldn’t rid herself of the notion: he might be the odious Montgomery.
Surely not.
If he was, it would explain why he recognized her. “Tell me, ’Rasmo, is he mustachioed?”
“I believe so.”
“Does he speak broken Totonac?”
“He has an ear for languages. Can speak several. He’s least fluent in Totonac.” Erasmo, his brow knitted, studied Alejandra. “Apparently you’ve met him,” he said.
Her heart quickened. “Not exactly.”
Don Valentin spoke up. “Yes or no, Doña Alejandra. Can we count on you?”
