Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  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.

  There had been no shouts of recognition this time I This time the West’s Napoleon had foiled his would-be captors.

  So what if General Arista had been captured? He deserved it, since he had disobeyed orders. Cannons boomed from the distance. Ah ha! The fighting had begun. So what if many lives might be lost in this French raid? Antonio didn’t give a damn about soldiers—beyond what they could offer in battle!—and he knew any fatalities could be turned to his own benefit.

  “I am a lucky man!” he shouted, throwing his arms wide.

  A woman—a hag, to be sure—shuffled out of a doorway. She carried a pail of slop. Her ugly old eyes widened and her mouth dropped when she got a gander at the unclothed man. Shouting a string of outraged curses, she threw the pail’s contents at him. Her aim was as poor as she was repulsive.

  He turned his head to wink at her, then repeated, “I am a lucky man.”

  “You are naked,” she shouted back, trying to shoo a girl-child back into their hovel. “Naked and unappealing.”

  “I am very appealing, señora,” he said, his eyes running up and down the girl’s nubile form. Well, this was neither the time nor the place for erotic antics. “Señora, I am your savior!”

  “Sí, and I am as beautiful as the sisters Toussaint.” She shook her head in disgust. “You couldn’t save yourself if your life depended on it.”

  “You are attractive, señora. But you are wrong about my abilities—I am General Santa Anna.”

  “Certainly, Señor, and I am a sister Toussaint.” She laughed. “You are not the general. Even if you were, I would still try to throw slop in your face.”

  Nothing could spoil his good cheer. He bowed to her. “Your opinion will change. Soon you will hail me.”

  “Away with you, silly mullet, before I have you trussed and led away to the Insane Hospital.”

  Chuckling, he waved to the hag, and returned to his skipping. The people would love him again. They would! He just knew it. Soon they would return him to the presidency. For the rest of his life, he intended to live in the splendor he merited.

  His glee lasted less than thirty more seconds.

  Reece bit back a grin as Antonio charged naked into the anteroom of the barracks that was empty of people, save for one trussed Anglo soldier-of-fortune. Rushing forward to untie the bindings that crisscrossed his favorite colonel’s arms and chest, Antonio unknotted the gag.

  “Montgomery, where are the guards?”

  Reece, wearing a uniform befitting his rank, spit a nasty taste from his mouth before tossing the ropes on an easily reached table. “They left. Said something about having bigger fish to fry,” he explained truthfully. The two guards had run when the French task force had arrived, sparing Reece and his cousin the chore of killing them.

  “Where is the prisoner LaTouche?”

  “His buddies sprang him. Not more than ten minutes ago.”

  Antonio scowled. “And you allowed that?”

  Reece lifted a shoulder at the incredulous tone. “What could I do? They roused me from sleep”—a sheepish look crossed the Mexican’s face at Reece’s explanation—“and all I saw were knives at my throat. If I’d martyred myself, they still would’ve gotten the stripling.”

  Whipping around, Antonio stomped to the cell where LaTouche had been held. A hand on his hip, he said, “Well, what difference does it make now? LaTouche’s stories were nothing beyond false, anyway. All that blather about Baudin giving up on his blood money.” He ground his teeth and glanced around the barracks. “Well, what does it matter?”

  Again he faced Reece. “Where is your man, the peasant Zecatl?”

  “At Casa Montgomery, I suppose. He’s to meet me at six this morning.”

  “Six has come and gone.”

  Reece settled into a chair. “I’m willing to wait till he gets here.”

  “If he does. What good is a servant when he neglects his duties?” Antonio’s frown deepened as he waved a hand of dismissal. “No matter, no matter. Listen, Colonel, we’ve got trouble. We can’t depend on Arista’s men, they’re too far away. The general himself may well not be able to assist us. I imagine he’s in French hands by now. As you can no doubt hear, we are being attacked.”

  “I wondered what those sounds were,” was Reece’s facetious comment.

  By dawn Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was dressed in huipils belonging to an absent barracks guard, and was astride a purloined steed, riding through the besieged city of Vera Cruz, trying to gather his scattered plans and schemes.

  Cannons boomed from the harbor; the stench of gunpowder mingled with the last vestiges of fog. People, soldiers, and civilians alike, scattered and screamed through the streets as shells exploded around them.

  Reece Montgomery astride his stallion Rayo, Pepe Zecatl riding a cavalry mare, followed General Santa Anna at a respectable distance.

  Ignoring the little figure atop the white steed, a man ran toward Reece. “Our great leaders Santa Anna and Arista are missing,” he yelled over the roar of war. “But our men are fighting, nonetheless! ¡Viva Mexico!”

  A French marine darted from a doorway and squeezed off a shot of gunfire.

  “Awgh!” The informer arched his back, throwing his arms wide as he pitched to a mud puddle.

  His rifle aimed at the marine, Antonio retaliated. The Frenchman fell dead.

  Pepe Zecatl slowed his mount. His wrists crossed over the saddlehorn, he shook his head and spoke to his sickened employer. “All of this for the want of less than a million pesos. Why doesn’t the government pay off the French so that we can get on with the business of living?”

  “Good question, Pepe.”

  “What is the price of life, señor?” Not waiting for a reply, Pepe commented, “War, it is crazy.”

&n
bsp; “Sí,” Reece replied laconically. “It’s absurd. A farce. The foolish result of foolish men.” Just as Baudin had said.

  It was then that Reece saw her.

  Bereft of her sling, Alejandra, her hair and skirts flying, ran across the smoke-filled plaza. She stumbled. Breaking rank, Reece headed his mount in her direction. He rode alongside her, leaned down and, fearing unnecessarily that he might fall from the saddle, he scooped her up. He would not allow her to be the next victim of war.

  She fought him.

  It took all of his strength to place her, face down and derriere up, between himself and the pommel.

  “Traitor! Bastard!” She reared her head, twisting to the right and drawing back her arm to elbow him.

  Reins in one hand, he caught her upper arm with the other. “Dammit, be still.”

  “When hell freezes over.”

  Pepe cast his gaze to the battle of the sexes, lost his pallor of the aggrieved, and shouted, “¡Vítor!”

  Despite the battle and destruction and death all around them, Alejandra’s movements were doing powerful things to Reece’s groin. Actually, it hurt like hell. But . . . To see her, to feel her, to inhale the sweet scent of her, to listen to the sound of her voice—even though it was raised in outrage—he was carried away from the war waged by men.

  This was a purely man-woman battle.

  He was aware of Antonio, ahead of him, turning and stopping. “Colonel Montgomery! Put down that woman,” Antonio shouted, amusement in his voice. “We have a battle to join!”

  That he did, have a battle to wage. His palm curved over the swell of her rear. “Fancy meeting you here, mi corazón. Can we be friends?”

  “Oooh 1”

  Like a mustang, she bucked. Her elbow struck his jaw, her punch mighty. Pain exploded like grapeshot from a warship. He felt his right boot leave its stirrup as he keeled to the left. Her foot came up to strike his arm; he dropped the reins. At the same moment, a bullet exploded in front of his mount. The stallion reared. Reece lost his hold.