Mexican Fire

by Martha Hix

  Pierre Toussaint of Jalapa had been generous. Sir Richard and his co-negotiator, General Guadalupe Victoria, had been able to offer partial payment on the debt. Charles Baudin agreed to this under conditions. French ex-patriots would be allowed to return to Mexico, their properties restored intact; each and every one of their claims against the Mexican government was to be retired; King Louis Philippe would be compensated for his costs in the war; and all of this was to be done on a regular and timely basis.

  If Mexico balked at, or stalled on, so much as one condition, the wrath of both France and Sir Richard Pakenham’s mother country, England, would land on the Mexican nation. It would be full-scale war.

  Neither Reece nor Alejandra doubted Baudin’s threat. Yet he noted a mysterious look in her eyes, an expression of satisfaction.

  Before he could question her on it, Maribel said, “Unfortunately, His Excellency the President is unaware of most of the agreement. He believes the capitulation is total.”

  Reece, nonetheless, got a chuckle. When Alejandra and Maribel both asked what amused him, he replied, “François leaving Mexico without gaining his coveted scepter and crown.”

  “God has been merciful,” Alejandra said, smiling.

  Maribel, a gangly and homely female approaching her twentieth birthday, shuffled her feet and laced her hands. “Their leaving could mean trouble for Tejas.”

  “Perhaps–” Cathedral bells drowned out the rest of Reece’s words, but that was for the best. Until he sorted through all the implications of what Texas could win or lose by this latest development, keeping his own counsel was the best course. After the last bell pealed, he took both ladies by the arm and said, “Let’s return to the palace. Antonio is expecting us for his celebration dinner.”

  Peace and merriment reigned at the dinner prepared for a score of El Presidente’s top officers and their ladies. At least until after-dinner libations had been served, jubilation reigned. Then the atmosphere turned quiet.

  El Presidente toyed with his brandy snifter. “Companions in arms,” he said, his eyes lifting to scan down the long table, “it pleases me, knowing the Guerra de los Pasteles has come to an end, and the French are vanquished from our shores.”

  A chorus of “¡Vítor!” went round the table.

  Smiling magnanimously, Santa Anna made a gesture to bring quiet. “Enough, enough, kind supporters. We must now move on as a country–as a noble and mighty country. Greatness is part show, you must understand. We must demonstrate to the world that we are rich and strong.”

  Rich and strong? It was all Reece could do not to shake his head in amazement.

  El Presidente sat straighter in his chair. “I have been thinking of ways to show our grandeur and stability. Thus, I feel we should first dispense with the copper cuartilla–it is too easily counterfeited. And I believe we must improve our beautiful capital. The Parian section is a disgrace; it must be demolished to make way for a modern marketplace. We would benefit from a new theater, grand and glorious, too. Furthermore, it is time for a railroad to be built, linking our capital with the coast at Vera Cruz. Speaking of that city, with free trade open to us again, we need to replace the customs house there.”

  All of that sounded well and good. Mexico did need each and every one of its President’s suggestions, but . . . Reece picked up his snifter, swirled the contents, and waited for the other shoe to drop. The wait was incredibly short.

  “Of course, the theater should be named after me,” El Presidente said, and Alejandra and Maribel, seated opposite at the table, glanced at each other. “And it would be fitting to erect a statue in honor of my great sacrifice on that portentous day of last December fifth. You, my trusted friends, were with me, standing at my side, in Vera Cruz, when I faced down the French marines.”

  What? As Reece recalled it, he and Pepe had been with him. At the rear until the French were in retreat.

  Antonio sighed dramatically. “With pride I lost my leg in service to my country. I suffer greatly from my wound, I do not have to tell you. My people, from Oaxaca to the great northwest, admire the valiancy in which I struggled for life and beat death to become their–your!–leader for a second time.” Tears poured down his cheeks. “That is why . . . why . . .” His voice broke.

  Maribel’s father, General Velasquez, clapped with enthusiasm. But a pregnant silence passed before the other diners joined him, their displays lacking Velasquez’s vigor.

  Taking a linen napkin to his face, El Presidente blew his nose. “Well, as I was saying, the country deserves to have a memorial commemorating my profound sacrifice. I have consulted my heart, and have come up with the answer. The casket bearing my leg shall be enshrined here in Mexico City so that pilgrims and natives alike may pay homage.”

  Eyes glazed now, Antonio didn’t notice the looks that were passing back and forth between the dinner guests. Reece noted Alejandra’s expression: round-eyed amazement. All around was dead quiet. Even Velasquez seemed taken aback.

  Antonio’s chest swelled. “An honor guard from Manga de Clavo will escort mi pierna to its final place of honor.”

  “He’s lost his mind,” Alejandra whispered to Reece, and he widened his eyes in agreement. Maribel appeared on the verge of throwing up her con-sommé.

  “Of course, there shall be a military funeral as soon as mourners from far and wide can congregate.” The president pushed to stand unsteadily. “No world leader, be he prince or king or president, will wish to be absent.”

  Old Three-Quarters–as some had been given to calling El Presidente of late–forced Reece into a struggle: to chew the inside of his cheek or let loose pent-up sentiments. Reece lost the battle. He went into a gale of laughter.

  Alejandra stomped his toe to quiet him. Trying to check himself, Reece feigned a coughing attack. El Presidente, however, found no amusement in the ridicule. “Explain yourself, Colonel Montgomery!”

  Reece cleared his throat, pushed back his chair and stood military straight. “You see, Your Excellency, I have a particularly ticklish inner thigh,” he lied in a voice as grave and rocked with emotion as any proper pilgrim might be at paying homage, “and the esteemed Doña Alejandra–” he turned to pat her head “–must have been so moved by your oratory that she thrashed her hand to an improper place.”

  Caught up in the performance worthy of Santa Anna’s proposed theater, she covered her lips with her fingers. “Indeed, I was moved. I’ve never heard such, and I, well . . .”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Reece said. “We know you must have been driven to such fervor by your want of fitting words . . . to describe how moved you are by El Presidente’s cleverness.”

  “How clever you are, Colonel.” Her fingers went together in mock supplication. “I do have a problem with my hands sometimes. They seem to do the strangest things.”

  Her fingers darted to pinch him in the most unmentionable of places. He howled, then bent double. Everyone else at the table found interminable mirth in his pain . . . including El Presidente. When Antonio ceased laughing, he said, “Colonel, you and your lady have put on such an excellent presentation, I will forgive you–this time!–for making sport of me.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

  Reece may have expressed empty gratitude, but he knew he had made a terrible blunder, especially when Cruz Velasquez hunched his shoulders, leaned across the table and said, “Sometimes I doubt your integrity, Colonel. And you, my president, my gran señor–” his head swiveled to the table’s end “–should take heed that such mockery denotes malignant effrontery.”

  Antonio honed in on Reece. It was obvious he looked at him in a new light. “If I discover you treacherous, Colonel, I shall personally castrate you.”

  Reece wasn’t terrified. The day he couldn’t defend himself against the crippled Little General . . . Concern did get to him, though. His days as right-hand man to the once and present President of Mexico were numbered, and he couldn’t leave without tying all the loose ends of his situ
ation. And Alejandra’s.

  After dinner, Reece and Alejandra rendezvoused in her room. Frisco demanded a few minutes of attention, then the poodle curled up in his bed, which gave the lovers an opportunity: they laughed at Mexico’s Little General and his preposterous plans, then made love around the glow of three dozen tall beeswax candles. When the lights weren’t much higher than a nub, Reece lay naked with his arms around her equally naked form, and considered the options for getting them both out of the capital in two whole pieces. Trouble was, there were a lot of mitigating factors.

  Alejandra moved her head to look into his eyes and surprise him that she wasn’t asleep, as she usually was after their lovemaking. “Reece,” she said, her voice serious, “do you think Santa Anna will make good on his promises? The constructive ones, that is.”

  “He wants to be remembered as a great man. Unfortunately for him, his ‘greatness’ will be overshadowed by his dementia.”

  “Remembered? Who cares how he’ll be perceived by future generations? The important thing is, what about now?”

  Reece brushed his lips against her temple. “I’d say my work for Texas is finished.”

  She wiggled around to place her palm on his chest, then rest her chin on a hand. “What do you mean, your work is finished?”

  “Antonio will be so busy with his grand plans that the people of Mexico–and elsewhere–have nothing to fear from him. Whatever the case, he won’t rise against Texas.”

  “Don’t forget, you’re speaking of a war-monger, not some ardent humanitarian.”

  “He’s a practical-minded warrior, Alejandra. He knows when he can go no further. Already he’s begun to accept, well, that he has reached his limits. He’s too vain to let Mexico go to war again without him in the vicinity to capture any possible glory, and his handicap forestalls leading an Army.”

  “I think you’re wrong, Reece. He will be furious over the Vera Cruz treaty, then he’ll spoil for renewed war.”

  Reece shook his head. “I think you are wrong. He’ll reconcile himself to the fact he doesn’t have the money, or the means to get it, for armed aggression.”

  “I believe you, but . . .” She sniggered. “The people will see Santa Anna for a fool when he stands and cries at his own funeral.” Serenity then eased across her lovely face. “He will do what I set out to accomplish: show himself as unbalanced. Mexico will have had enough of him.”

  “Exactly.”

  Her fingers moved across the back of Reece’s hand, tightening. “My work is finished.”

  Reece went still. What did she desire, now that her heart was free?

  Alejandra chewed on her lip for a moment. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you all day, since I don’t want to keep anything from you, but the opportunity was never right.”

  “Go on.”

  “It has to do with paying off the French. I–I had a part in it. You see, Papa and I financed the partial payment. I sold Campos de Palmas to contribute to the peace fund.”

  Had he heard her right? She had disposed of her precious plantation? She, ardent Medicana, sacrificed for France’s benefit? Well, she had said so. Reece grinned, his smile as big as the Lone Star republic. “You’re one helluva woman,” he growled in English. “Good God, you’re one helluva woman.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  He had to mull that reply. Why would he be pleased that she’d sold out for the sake of France? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she sold out for the sake of freedom . . . freedom to pursue another life. Like with him.

  He intended to find out.

  With a matter of this magnitude, though, it was better to slip into it, like easing into a tub of hot water. “You got any plans, now that you’re homeless?”

  “I might. Do you have any ideas?”

  That was a tease in her inflection, and Reece approved of it. It had infinite possibilities. “Texas is a nice place. I think you’d find it to your tastes. Maybe.”

  “Do you think I could start another coffee plantation there?”

  “No, but you might take to living on a cattle ranch. ”

  “Oooh.” She screwed up her face. “Cows smell.”

  “Like gold in the bank.” He edged his hand to the rise of her breast. “A rancher could take pretty good care of his woman, provided her expectations weren’t too high.” He paused. “Now, I myself, have a start on money set aside. It’s not much, just ten thousand greenbacks in a New Orleans bank. Texas owes me a nice spread of land, and cattle are to be had for the rounding up . . . so I could use that money to build a house and put a few nice things in it for a woman.”

  She wasn’t moving a muscle, yet her hazel eyes were shining. “Reece, are you trying to tell me something? Or perhaps to ask me something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oooh, you exasperating man!” She leapt to straddle him. “Damn you, Reece Montgomery, will I be forced into the Mercedes approach?”

  “Mercedes approach?”

  “Yes, you culo, you burro, you monkey! Are you forcing me to ask for your big old hand in marriage?”

  Well, he hadn’t figured his proposal would be turned on him, but Reece wasn’t a soul to look a gift horse in the mouth. Schooling his facial muscles, he donned an innocent look. And answered her question. “Yes.”

  She laughed and bent to kiss him. Her lips hovering a half inch above his, her voice husky, she said, “Now that I’ve asked you, what is your answer?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It was a shame Alejandra and Reece couldn’t just marry, then skip arm in arm out of Mexico City. Tonight in the black hours of night would be as good a time as any, but they both agreed too many considerations kept them from leaving immediately. It went without saying that Santa Anna wouldn’t allow his turncoat aide simply to depart, should Reece be found out, and any absence was certain to prove that stance.

  Escape was the only avenue, which was as narrow as an alley in the Parian.

  Making a fist, Reece straightened his elbow on the bed. “Our work may be finished, Alejandra, but Garth isn’t free, and I’m not giving up on him.”

  “The only place he could be is Perote. You’ve scrutinized all the other prisons,” Alejandra said and ran her fingers across Reece’s whitened fist. “Pepe should return soon . . . hopefully with good news.”

  “Let’s hope it’s very soon, and the news is very good.”

  Joyously happy that Reece had accepted her proposal, yet worried about the outcome of that trip to Perote as well as their escape plans, Alejandra alighted from bed and donned a wrapper. “I can’t leave my sister here. And there’s Edward and Chico. And his wet nurse.” She reached into a drawer for a candle, then lit it. Golden light cast Reece’s angular features into sharp, anxiety-filled relief. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she took his hand. “What about Maribel?”

  “Grrrrr.”

  Frisco, having awakened and left his satin-lined box, jumped to place his paws on her thigh as if to say, “What about me?”

  Reece reached for the tail-wagging poodle, and placed him on the sheets. “Don’t worry, pal, we’ll take you with us.” For his comment, he received a lick of approval to the hand. Reece exhaled. “Looks like we’ll need to wait for Pepe.”

  “Surely we’ll meet him along the way.”

  “Too chancy. And he is going with us.”

  “I think we should take the chance of finding Pepe, Reece. We ought to be away from here before this night is through.” Making light, she added, “Especially with this threat to castrate you, my darling. It will be bad enough, putting up with the golden smell of those cows . . . without adding a eunuch to the scenario!”

  In mock horror, Reece came back, “Good God, you’re right.”

  They laughed. But he turned solemn again. “We’d best get our plans together.” Reece got out of bed and reached for his breeches. Lacing them up, he walked to the balcony doors. A big hand pushed the draperies apart, and he opened
the door. She walked to his side. The clip-clop of horse hooves rose from the street surrounding the zócalo as breezes entered the bedchamber.

  “Let’s see here now . . .” Reece scratched the edge of his mustache. “Say we do waylay Pepe, and he says Garth is at Perote. We’ve got to beat for there. But there’s me and you and Pepe. Your sister and her bunch, which adds four. Maribel. Add one highfalutin dog. That makes a party of nine. Not exactly the recipe for an incognito departure from here.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  “How in hell are we going to slip unnoticed to Perote, when we’ve got a convoy accompanying us?”

  “We’ll think of something.” Alejandra hugged her midriff. A quarter minute passed. “Reece, I’ve got an idea. My Tio Humberto will assist us. He helped ’Rasmo, and I know he’ll do whatever Mercedes and I ask. I’m sure he’ll have supplies and whatever we need to get to Vera Cruz.”

  “We can use all the help we can get.” Reece wheeled around and crossed to his discarded shirt. Pushing his arm into a sleeve, he said, “Don’t bother packing, we must travel light. We can’t use your carriage, either; its crest and splendor will draw too much attention. Get dressed. Wear something simple, something you can ride in.”

  Already she had poured from the pitcher and was dipping a cloth into water to freshen herself. Within a short space of time she’d pulled a black riding habit from the wardrobe. Thank God her mother had taught her to sew; Alejandra whipped a cache of money and jewelry into muslin sacks, then basted them to the inside of her clothes.

  “Do you have a gun?” Reece asked. “And do you know how to use it?”

  “Yes, to both. And I’ve a dagger.”

  “I remember . . . You threatened to use it on me.” He winked. “Keep them on your person.”