by Jeff Long
"He begs your indulgence, sir. Would you kindly share with him the status of his army?"
There was no reason to hide the numbers. Houston said what he knew, that the Mexicans had lost as many or more men as were now in captivity. Santa Anna looked proud, even redeemed. The figures suggested a great sustained defense by his men.
"And the president asks, how many casualties did we sustain in storming their position?"
"What are we up to now, Mr. Bryan?" Houston said. "Nine dead?"
"I don't know, General."
Houston set his jaw. "Ten. Tell him, ten."
Santa Anna was a professional soldier in a country wracked with revolution. He had probably been in more battles than all of Houston's army put together. He was experienced enough to recognize a massacre. Again his small, square face washed with feelings. He flushed with anger. Yes, thought Houston. Rage at us. Make us ashamed. But that wasn't it.
"The general hopes that you reserve no contempt toward the Mexican people for this disgrace. His reinforcements were raw recruits. They were still learning courage."
Houston recoiled. Hundreds of men had been killed in the caudillo's name, and all he could think to do was accuse the dead of cowardice? Suddenly Houston suspected Santa Anna might harbor the darkness they accused him of.
"The general notices your leg wound," Bryan said to Houston. "It looks very serious to him. But he has no doubt you will recover. He said great men are prone to injury. The leaders of nations get brought down by scratches and bee stings, not war injuries like this."
Houston was disappointed. He'd expected something more intelligent than flattery from Santa Anna. There was another burst of Spanish, and Bryan's eyes widened. He translated. "The general adds that, at this moment, he would give his fortune for a wound like yours. He would gladly sacrifice his right leg to the peace and prosperity of Mexico. For such a wound, he would give all Texas."
Houston was quiet. "He said that?" he whispered.
Bryan was astounded, too. "All Texas," he repeated.
But before they could explore that opening any further,
Almonte appeared. Pushed and pulled through the mob, he arrived with a very sour look on his face. Houston couldn't say if the sourness had more to do with being manhandled or with seeing his cowardly president. It struck Houston that the Mexican army might very well have been more freighted with intrigues and plotting than his own. Certainly, Almonte's greeting to his supreme commander was less than enthusiastic. He bowed in his destroyed uniform. In turn Santa Anna indicated a space—on the ground—where he wished Almonte to sit.
"General Houston," Almonte said, then sat. He was a squat copper-colored man with black eyes and a pleasing smile. He wore what was left of his uniform with splendid indifference, like an actor who has finished yet another performance.
"Serior Almonte," Houston greeted him. "Excuse me, but I don't know your rank."
"Oh, that." Almonte dismissed it with a snap of his fingers.
"I'm sorry to see you in such circumstances," Houston said. "You've come a long way to reach such hard times."
He recalled encountering Almonte on a wooded trail in eastern Texas. They had kept their conversation safely away from matters of Texas, instead discussing a recent novel, Frankenstein. Houston had found it decadent and a waste of time. Almonte had called it political, a novel for the New World.
"General Houston," Almonte said. "With all due respect, it was my intention to express those same sentiments to you."
The Mexican referred to Houston's overall situation. This tattered prisoner didn't think himself defeated at all. To the contrary, Almonte was actually offering his condolences in advance for what he saw as Houston's inevitable defeat by the rest of the Mexican army. It wasn't an insult, simply a prediction, and one offered straight to his face in the heart of the American camp. Houston laughed, delighting in the man's courage. The bald soldier bringing more coffee glanced up, startled by the laughter, and spilled half the cup on his hand. Almonte smiled wider. They understood one another.
"Well here we are," Houston said. "In a revolution. In a new day. A new Texas."
"Revolution," Almonte repeated slowly. "Let me give you a warning, General. We were born in revolution, too, just like you Americans. Maybe you know this, maybe you don't, but it seems that everywhere we Mexicans turn anymore there are no
more landmarks, no more dreams. There is just the land, just the people. I had always thought that revolution would be like the sun rising. But for Mexico revolution has brought darkness."
"I blame false prophets for much of your anguish," Houston said. He looked at Santa Anna to see if the leader of Mexico was following any of this exchange. Santa Anna was looking at his fingernails.
"We believed in a man," Almonte shrugged. "We followed him to Texas. He told us he was the lord of men. He told us to do things and we did them. We believed in him even when he was wrong, because we did not trust ourselves to know what was right."
"There are burdens to empire," Houston said.
"Perhaps," Almonte said. "But my general is a bloody man. For every one of you Americans who has died, this man has killed a hundred of his own people over the years. After the rebellion in Zacatecas last year, blood ran in the gutters. Almost two thousand of my people . . ." Almonte flipped his hand over and shook his head sadly.
"You're a curious fellow," Three-Legged Willie leered at Almonte. "It sounds like you just asked us to do your dirty work for you. We could take care of a whole lot of your problems with one bullet."
Again Almonte shrugged. He neither confirmed nor denied it.
"But how's this for an idea," Willie said. "How about we kill you instead and send this boy home and let him run your country into the ground." Willie laid one affectionate hand on Santa Anna's shoulder. Santa Anna glanced up and smiled robustly. "If he's as bad a president as he is a general, we could own Mexico City inside of ten years."
"You could do that," Almonte said.
"You can't do that," one of the soldiers in the crowd shouted out. "You can't let Santy Any free. Not after what he done at the Alamo."
"Remember the Alamo," someone brayed.
Santa Anna needed no translation to understand. His eyes showed that he knew what was brewing and it frightened him. But suddenly he caught sight of his own sword on Forbes's hip and his face changed. His fear turned to catlike curiosity. He
leaned toward Almonte and spoke into his ear. Houston watched. Almonte whispered back to his commander, pointing at Forbes.
Forbes saw their attention. Resting one palm on the sword hilt, he lifted his whiskery chin and fixed the two prisoners with an indignant glare. Santa Anna asked another question, his finger aimed at the red-haired American, and Almonte nodded, then dipped closer and went on whispering. The American colonel had a reputation among the Mexicans, too, it seemed. Forbes licked his lips nervously, finally looking off in another direction.
When Almonte spoke it was loud enough for others to hear. "The general compliments the great army of the north," he said. "He compliments you for burning all of Texas to the ground. He said you must desire this golden land very much. Above all, he compliments your leaders. He says that only great leaders would have had the nerve to sacrifice two hundred men at the Alamo and another six hundred at Goliad. He says Travis and Fannin were truly military geniuses. He said that, before, he thought such men were common thieves. But now he knows better. He said you are great caudillos —military dictators— maybe greater than himself."
Almonte finished with a deep lungful of the fetid air and smiled with remarkable white teeth. He seemed highly pleased with his commander, or with himself. It amounted to a death wish.
In that instant Houston came close to loving his enemy.
The Mexican's insult was breathtaking. For all to hear, this thin doomed man in red slippers had just charged Houston and his colonels with presiding over every horror that had taken place in Texas. And there was no way to deny it shor
t of admitting they had failed as rulers. Few in the mob understood that Santa Anna had just laid his curse upon them. Indeed Houston heard several mouthing to themselves snatches of the translation, enchanted by their enemy's praise of them. But Houston's colonels heard it for what it was.
"We stand accused of being miniature conquistadors with dreams of Mexican gold stuck in our skulls?" Willie was laughing at his comrades, goading them on. It was clear what outcome he wanted. "But gentlemen, if we are caudillos in whiteface, then it makes our grand war of Texan independence nothing more
than an act of petty conquest. In fact, Colonel Sherman, it makes you and your patriots into mercenary hirelings. That doesn't have such a pretty sound."
"Kill him," Sherman said.
"I'll skin him," Jimmie Curtis shouted from the crowd.
Almonte watched the proceedings with grim amusement. A look of alarm was spreading across Santa Anna's face, and Houston suddenly wondered if perhaps Almonte had put his own twist on the translation.
"But what does he mean by this?" Colonel Wharton demanded. He was genuinely bewildered. "Doesn't he realize we hold the power of life and death over his head?"
Houston didn't answer the obvious, that they intended to kill Santa Anna anyway.
Now Private Lamar stepped forward. He faced the crowd and held up his hands for quiet.
"Lamar," Houston growled. But Lamar turned his back to the general.
"We have snapped the back of the heathen," Lamar spoke to the crowd. He was a little hesitant, not quite used to leading a coup. But he bulled on. "We have defeated tyranny and brought liberty and acquired a country for our own. Now, as free men, we must define ourselves."
The men listened, mostly because they knew he was going to give them what they wanted. Houston's colonels were nodding their heads.
Lamar pointed at the ground beneath his feet. "We cast a shadow," he said. "We walk in the glory of the light. But we cast a darkness, every one of us. And it is up to every man to say what part of us is the light and what part the darkness. And that's what we must do today. Determine what is right from what is wrong. Determine what is just. Because justice is honor."
"I'll yank his heart out," Jimmie Curtis howled from the crowd.
"Give us honor," someone yelled. "That's what we want. Give us the bastard."
Somebody fired a musket into the sky, then more men did, too. Lamar looked uneasy. He blinked and looked over at the officers. Even lying down, Houston felt rocked by the crowd's hatred and savagery. / give them to you, Houston thought to Lamar.
"That's it, then," Burleson said.
Now Mosely Baker and some of the men lifted Santa Anna by the elbows. They herded him up against Houston's oak tree. The mob thickened, recommending its various methods—rope, gun, or blade. Colonel Forbes drew the sword with the jeweled eagle hilt from its sheath and it looked as if Santa Anna were going to die on his own steel.
The Mexican's moment of bravado had elapsed. His shoulders folded in like a flower in wilt and he bleated for Almonte. But Almonte had stepped back and was looking away. To Houston's disgust, so was Lamar. Having triggered the killing, they were suddenly too polite for it.
The rabble closed tighter. Their ranks thickened. The stink of dead men's clothing mixed with the sweat and horse and dung smell. Their bloodlust had no bottom to it and Houston hated them for it. Once they finished with Santa Anna, Houston knew they would work their way into his officers, then all the rest of the prisoners. The killing would go on for days.
Houston reared up onto his elbows. The pain nearly drove him back against the tree root. But he'd resided among these barbarians as long as he could stand it. Now, even if it killed him, he had to get away. He was almost wild to be separate from them. If he died twenty feet away, at least it would be twenty feet traveled against their tide.
The mob crowded around and past him, jockeying for a view of the treeside execution. Houston battled their legs and feet and hips. He shoved at them like they were dumb cattle. He slugged at the meat on them, but they scarcely noticed.
Somehow he hoicked himself around onto his knees, then managed to get his good foot planted. Pulling against the thick tree root, he rose up.
A soldier bumped him. He rocked off balance and touched down upon his wounded ankle. Bones grated. The shock started to crumple him, but with an ungainly hop he kept himself upright. He roared at them. It wasn't a word or a thought, just a noise to clean his mind.
Men and boys fell back from him, alarmed by the sight of this giant shaggy beast. He was feverish, swollen with insect bites. Even hunched with pain and faintness, he was taller than the crowd. He cranked his head to the left and a long string of drool whipped across his beard and cheek.
The mob stilled. A space cleared around Houston and he teetered in its center. They stared at him, frightened by his madness. Over their heads he could see Santa Anna pinned against the tree by a dozen hands, but still alive, unharmed. The sword gleamed in Forbes's fist.
Houston twisted to the other side. The camp had frozen. His shirt hung open and he saw the skin of his belly pale against his square brown hand. His hair rattled like a mane, heavy with grease and blood. Houston straightened his back and pushed the hair from his eyes. For a moment it seemed to him that he towered over the entire world. From such a height it seemed he could see down into their very souls. He could see himself in them.
At last, with his heartbeat sluicing rivers through his veins and the sunlight ricocheting from his eyes, Houston met their dumb gawks and perplexity. There was only one thing to do really.
He winked at them. For some reason it worked. They backed away, as if he'd breathed flames. Finally a word came to mind. It seemed like a word men usually shouted. But when he spoke, it came out as a tiny question.
"Honor?" he said.
Then the blood squeezed from his head. His wings melted. He began to fall. But even as he crashed to earth and a hundred hands reached out to catch him, Houston saw Santa Anna stand away from the tree. For the moment he was spared. For the moment Houston had won.
Chapter Fourteen
Houston opened his eyes to find the night lit white. The camp was an inferno. Whole trees had been chopped down and toppled into their bonfires. Flames licked so high the stars died. The heat was astounding. A greasy sheen of sweat coated Houston's naked chest and belly and he felt roasted whole. White ash covered the bandages on his leg, the same ash that layered the mules and saddles and leaves. The leaves had shriveled. Men walked around panting.
The army was afraid of their field of ghosts. Houston knew it instinctively. But if they meant to blot out the night, it was going to take whole forests, whole towns, even all of Texas in flame. Because just above their cup of fire and sparks and exploding wood, the darkness hung like a vast animal, waiting.
"General?" Tad had returned. He was squatting by Houston's head. A dusting of ash powdered his thick black curls like fine snow. Two or three live cinders twinkled on top of his hair. The boy looked old and hoary, but also, with the bits of fire on his head, he looked strangely celestial.
"Why?" Houston rasped. Why have you returned to me?
"I brung you water," Tad answered. He held out a gourd. Behind the boy, other soldiers—mostly Fannin's survivors, but with some new faces thrown in—hunkered or lay catnapping in the dirt, ready to protect him or do his bidding or simply watch him sleep. He wondered what had occasioned this royal guard, then hoped they weren't just his burial detail.
Houston accepted the heavy gourd in both hands and
tipped the hole over his mouth, dousing his thirst. He let the trickle soak his hair and swept it across his hot chest where it steamed in streaks. He murmured thanks.
Bryan appeared from among Houston's guardians. His round forehead glowed in the firelight. "The men have been praying for you," he said.
Houston didn't believe that for a minute. "I see the leg is still on," he grunted.
The intense light skewed the camp's l
ines and shadows, casting a fabulous scene. Their beards and long hair flickered like liquid silver and every eye gleamed white as ivory. The weaponry had a golden solidness to it and the men seemed taller somehow. Soldiers moved through the hot vapors like slow statuary. Miraculously the air stood clean of mosquitoes.
"Who kilt the Mexican woman?" a distant voice called out. The men were still at their penny game of penance and blame. Houston waited for the chorus. But the hue and cry had evolved. They had added some variations.
"Who stole the sword?" another faraway voice asked.
"Who hid in the grass?" a third hollered.
And closer: "Who took them scalps? Who took them ears?"
"Who plundered the dead?"
As before a chorus of shouts pronounced Colonel Forbes's name.
Houston went cold. He stared at the darkness poised over their light. They were confessing their sins, the entire army. They didn't know that they were confessing, of course. Colonel Forbes made a fine scapegoat and they were primitive enough to still believe a blood sacrifice was the same as exoneration. But it was a confession. They had sensed evil among themselves. And they were crying out for pardon.
Houston listened to their echoes. Someone took up the cascading interrogation, then another voice. They breathed in the stink of their butchery and breathed out syllables of guilt. Clearly they were haunted. But who was it they were crying to? Who did they think could forgive them?
A molten figure approached through the heat vapors. His silver face became flesh. His armor became blue homespun. It was Burleson. "You're alive," he said to Houston, neither pleased nor disappointed. He was just registering the fact for himself.
"What time is it?" Houston asked. It was a strange thing to ask in the middle of nowhere. It didn't matter and Burleson didn't answer.