by John Jakes
Cordoba stared at her for a moment. “Don’t be too sure.”
Furious, she gathered her skirt in both hands and walked on. In an instant, her eyes were dry.
She’d show him how strong she was. She’d show them all.
ii
The prisoners were taken to the spacious, airy house of Bexar’s second-ranking political official, jefe Don Ramon Musquiz. Servants carried Angelina Dickinson to a bedroom while the others—Amanda, Susannah and the two blacks—were led to the don’s comfortable office overlooking an ornamental garden.
Susannah grew distraught when she wasn’t permitted to accompany her daughter. But Cordoba assured her the child was not seriously hurt. After absenting himself briefly, he returned to say that Santa Anna’s personal doctor had already been summoned to dress the little girl’s wound.
Susannah’s dirty, bedraggled appearance showed Amanda what she herself must look like. She sank into a chair, her attention caught by the paper-littered desk. She had been in Musquiz’s office before. She recognized a number of articles that didn’t belong there: an ornate silver tea service, a liquor decanter with a fat silver stopper, a silver spittoon.
A sandaled servant, an elderly Mexican, entered with a tray. On the tray were cups, a wine bottle and a plate of hardtack. The servant knew Amanda. But, like Don Francisco, he thought it prudent not to acknowledge the fact. He concentrated on putting the tray on the desk without disturbing the papers.
Avoiding Amanda’s eyes, the old man addressed Cordoba. “His Excellency is inspecting the mission. He will return shortly. He ordered that the prisoners were to be given refreshments.”
“How kind of him,” Susannah said in a bitter voice. “Is it our last meal?”
“Very good, thank you,” Cordoba said to the servant. As the old man left quietly, Amanda rose and walked to the younger woman.
“A little wine might make you feel better, Susannah.”
“Nothing will make me feel better.” Almeron Dickinson’s widow clenched her hands. “Nothing. Nothing.”
Major Cordoba acted embarrassed. The four soldiers who had accompanied him into the office appeared to be engrossed by el jefe’s fig tree just outside.
Amanda realized she was incredibly hungry. She saw no reason to refrain from eating the enemy’s food. She picked up the plate and walked to the two blacks to serve them.
Sam took a piece of hardtack. Joe shook his head, still looking utterly miserable. Amanda returned to the desk. She poured half a cup of wine, drank it, then picked up two pieces of hardtack and sat down again.
The office was cool and still. With an annoyed expression, Cordoba began wiping the buttons of his uniform with his cuff. He polished off some of the dirt, but not enough, apparently, to satisfy himself. He kept frowning.
Amanda finished the first piece of hardtack. She was raising the second to her lips when she remembered something. Cordoba saw her wry, sad smile, gave her a quizzical look.
She held up the hardtack, explaining, “Jim Bowie said there’d be an attack sooner than we expected. He heard that the bakeries in the border towns were working night and day, making this. He said only an army would require that much hardtack.”
“If you had that kind of advance warning, señora, why were there not more men in the mission?”
“Travis thought Jim was crazy. He said your army would never march in the winter. Not until the grass grew and the horses could forage. Jim told him we were fighting Mexicans, not Comanches. Travis laughed it off. If he’d listened to Jim, he might have sent for reinforcements sooner—”
She stopped, following Cordoba’s tense glance toward the corridor. Boots clicked out there. She heard men speaking. Then one of the soldiers in the office pointed toward the garden wall.
“They’ve started burning them.” Amanda looked. A black plume of smoke was climbing into the sky. Her hand closed, crumbling the hardtack—
A party of several officers and one civilian appeared at the far end of the hall. One of the men was noticeably taller than the others. He was perhaps forty years old, and not bad looking. His uniform overflowed with silver frogging, buttons, epaulettes.
Moving briskly, the man led the others toward the office doorway. Just as he entered, he touched his middle, belched, then winced. Amanda’s last question about the man’s identity vanished. Santa Anna was known to suffer perpetual dysentery.
Cordoba snapped to attention, saluted. “These are the prisoners, Excellency.”
General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna nodded. “Very good. Take your ease, Major.”
But Cordoba remained rigid. The general turned to the civilian member of the group, a willowy fellow carrying a sheet of foolscap.
“Read me the first line again, Ramon.”
The secretary cleared his throat. “ ‘Victory belongs to the army, which at this very moment, eight o’clock a.m., achieved a complete triumph that will render its memory imperishable—’ ”
Santa Anna touched the paper. “Amend that. A complete and glorious triumph.” The secretary’s head bobbed. “Have it inscribed and return it to me for signature. I want it dispatched to the minister of war in Mexico City by noon, understand?”
“Perfectly, Excellency.” The secretary bowed and hurried out.
Santa Anna turned next to a suave officer who was appraising Amanda’s figure with insolent directness.
“Colonel Almonte!”
The officer jerked to attention. “Excellency?”
“I believe we should arrange a victory review in the plaza before the day’s over. I will give a short oration. See to it, please. Make certain all the town officials are present.”
Almonte saluted, pivoted smartly and left the room.
The general returned his attention to his captives, studying them with an affable expression. The past few seconds had already confirmed what Amanda had heard about the dictator’s enormous vanity. And she knew too much about his rapid shifts in allegiance on his climb to power to be lulled by his smile.
iii
Santa Anna slipped into the chair behind the desk. He opened a drawer and took out a gold snuff box. A charnel stench drifted in from the garden. The Texan dead, burning—
From the box Santa Anna removed a pinch of white powder. He placed the powder in one nostril and inhaled. Then he handed the box to another of the officers.
“Ask Dr. Reyes to refill that for me.” As the officer hurried out, Santa Anna smiled even more broadly at the two women and the blacks. “It has been an eventful twenty-four hours. A bit of opium powder is marvelous for relieving tiredness, I find.”
None of the prisoners offered a comment. Frowning, Santa Anna said to Cordoba, “You will identify these people, please.”
One by one, Cordoba supplied the names of the four, beginning with the blacks and ending with Susannah.
“Señora Dickinson is not fluent in our language, Excellency. But Señora de la Gura can translate.”
“De la Gura,” Santa Anna repeated. “That isn’t an Anglo name.”
“My husband was Spanish.”
“Spanish—Excellency,” one of the officers said, taking a step forward.
Santa Anna waved him back, trying to soften Amanda’s frostiness with another smile. “Spanish—do you mean Mexican?”
“I mean what I said. My husband was born in New Orleans.”
“He was an American citizen, then?”
“After the Purchase, yes.”
Santa Anna frowned at the obvious pride in Amanda’s voice. He tented his fingers, scrutinized her in silence, finally said, “It’s fortunate for you that I chose not to divide the survivors simply by consulting a list. With that name, you might have been lost and forgotten among the Mexican women Major Cordoba found in the mission.”
His eyes were much less friendly now. But Amanda refused to turn away from the intimidating stare. The general abruptly switched back to cordiality. “There is an excellent establishment in Bexar bearing the name Gura, I r
ecall.”
“The hotel I own,” Amanda said.
“The hotel you formerly owned. It has been taken over as a billet for my senior staff. That should not be a great loss, however. You could have lost your life. So I presume you will be suitably thankful when I permit you—all of you—to leave Bexar unharmed.”
Sam gasped loudly. Susannah looked at Amanda, who told her, “He says we aren’t to be killed.”
“Angelina too?”
“I presume so.” She repeated the question for Santa Anna.
“Of course, of course! I looked in on the child just before I stepped in here. A delightful creature. Lovely! Reyes, my personal physician, assured me she would be fit to travel within a day or two.”
Again Amanda translated. Susannah looked blank. “Travel? Travel where?”
“She wants to know where we’re supposed to go,” Amanda said.
“Why, back to your own people!” Santa Anna said, speaking to Susannah in Spanish. “I thought briefly of sending you to Mexico City, as proof of our victory. But I’ve concluded it would be more useful for you to go to Gonzales. I’ll send an escort—my own orderly, Benjamin. He was an Anglo—although a slave—before he joined my service. When you’re once again among your own—”
“What do you mean, her own?” Amanda fumed. “Her husband died at the mission. Murdered by your men!”
Santa Anna sat forward suddenly, losing his relaxed manner. “Murder is a very ugly word, señora.”
“But it fits.”
“No. Those who died were casualties of war. By their traitorous behavior, they arranged their own executions. It was no doing of mine.”
Amanda laughed then, so loudly and contemptuously that the officer who had reproved her before drew his sword.
Standing by Susannah’s chair, Cordoba tried to warn Amanda with his eyes. She ignored it. “No doing of yours? Who raised the no-quarter flag from the church, may I ask? Who gave the command for the playing of the deguello?”
“God, what hypocrites you Anglos are!” Santa Anna snarled. “You cavil at the harshness of war while your white brethren in the United States—and here in Texas until I put a stop to it!—trade in human flesh without a qualm of conscience. Blood of Jesus, woman, don’t prattle to me about inhumanity!”
Santa Anna’s slashing gesture stunned Amanda to silence. Before she could accuse him of taking refuge behind an issue entirely unrelated to the battle, he barked at Cordoba, “You will please assume the duties of translator, Major. I dislike this woman’s contentious attitude. Especially since I have generously decided to permit the noncombatants to go free.”
Seething, Amanda exclaimed, “You’ll forgive me, Your Excellency, but I’m suspicious of this sudden outpouring of compassion—”
“Excellency—” The officer who had drawn his sword stormed around the desk. “I suggest that kindness is wasted on this American slut.”
“Kindness and rational argument, it seems.”
“Then let my dragoons have her.”
Santa Anna pursed his lips. “A possibility. A distinct possibility—”
“If you’re going to kill me, do it and be done!” Amanda raged. “I’ve had enough of Mexican mercy for one morn—”
“Amanda!” Susannah Dickinson cried. “For God’s sake be civil to him! I don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re going to make everything worse. Almeron’s dead. Angelina’s hurt—” Suddenly she began to weep.
“I want to live. I want to get out of this place. I want to live—”
Amanda held back an angry remark. She had no right to endanger Almeron Dickinson’s widow or the blacks because of her own hostility.
Presently the color that had rushed to Santa Anna’s cheeks faded. He rose, moving out from behind the desk. “What did she say, Major? I caught a little of it, but not everything.”
Cordoba repeated the sense of Susannah’s plea. Santa Anna nodded, said to Susannah, “I am glad you show some appreciation of the realities of the situation, señora—” He paused, allowing Cordoba time to translate. “Your people were foolish to oppose the Centralist regime. I trust that when you leave Bexar—supplied with food, blankets and money—you will lose no time in communicating to your fellow Texans that resistance is futile. I am more determined than ever to see the rebellion crushed now that the so-called Council at Washington has taken its ill-advised step—”
Cordoba cleared his throat. “I don’t believe any of those in the mission knew about the declaration, Excellency.”
“Ah, yes, you’re probably right.” He turned toward the blacks, his tone caustic. “You are now citizens of the independent Republic of Texas. Not free citizens, of course. I’m sure freedom will be reserved for those with white skins.”
The slaves gaped. Amanda asked, “When did it happen?”
“The declaration? Just four days ago. Señor Burnet has been named president, and Señor Houston is general of the army—if there is one.”
Amanda was speechless again. The news was both sad and surprising. The sadness came from realizing that none of the men who had died at the Alamo had known they were fighting for a newly independent country.
“I find Houston’s appointment particularly amusing,” Santa Anna said. “The poor sot the Indians call Big Drunk commanding a few farmers and storekeepers as ill-trained as he is—”
Amanda managed to speak. “Sixty years ago, another army just like that won a war for independence—”
“True, señora. But I shall not make the same mistakes the British king did—nor be so gentlemanly to those I oppose.” He stalked toward the blacks. “When you rejoin your people, tell them their so-called republic will be gone in three months. Tell them what you saw here. Tell them what they can expect if they continue to fight—” The deep voice grew louder. “That is the only price I’ll extract for your freedom—that you spread my message. Resistance will be crushed without pity. The sensible course is immediate surrender.”
Cordoba finished translating for Susannah. She stared at Santa Anna, then slowly bowed her head.
The general glanced to the blacks again. Their uneasy eyes showed him they understood what he wanted—and, like Susannah, agreed to it. Santa Anna smiled with genuine pleasure. The word of his military might would be spread through the little Texas settlements, to demoralize the government that had emerged at last from the wrangling and factionalism prevalent for months at Washington-on-the-Brazos.
Santa Anna approached Amanda. “And you, señora? If you are set free, will you tell your people that surrender is the only way to avoid annihilation?”
“That’s the last thing I’ll do—Excellency. I will tell them how you ordered a massacre—”
“Don’t!” Susannah cried, understanding Amanda’s fierce expression all too clearly. “He’s only asking us to report the truth. We can’t win against them—why do you want to pretend we can?”
For a moment, Amanda wavered. Susannah might be right—
For most of her adult life, she had put survival foremost on her list of priorities. Was she foolish to change those priorities now?
No, she decided, thinking of Crockett’s slashed body. Of the boy in the blanket shot down in the sacristy. Of Bowie’s bayoneted corpse. No—
She couldn’t scorn Susannah or the two slaves for their desire to live. She knew Susannah probably believed the Texans could never hold out against the Mexican army. Amanda wasn’t sure they could either. But in spite of that, the price Santa Anna was asking for survival was higher than she wanted to pay.
Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “Take the general’s offer, Susannah. I can’t. If I go to Gonzales”—there was a catch in her throat; her stomach churned as the smell of the burning bodies worsened—“if I go there, I’ll tell everyone His Excellency deserves to be shown exactly the same mercy he showed at the Alamo. I’ll tell them it’s better to die for an American republic than surrender to a Mexican killer—”
Santa Anna was livid. “I
do not speak English well, señora. But I understand a little of it. You will regret what you have just said.” He lost control. “By God, you will!”
He pounded a fist on the desk, overturning the creamer of the tea service. Thick droplets fell from the edge of the desk, striking the inlaid floor with a loud plop-plop.
The officer who had mentioned turning Amanda over to the dragoons started to repeat the suggestion. Before he’d spoken half a sentence, she was struck just under her left breast—viciously—by a man’s fist.
She spun, raising her arms to protect herself. With shock and disbelief, she saw the contorted face of her attacker.
It was Cordoba.
iv
“You’ve said enough, you ignorant whore!” Cordoba yelled, drawing his hand back to hit her again.
Susannah Dickinson tried to rush to Amanda’s assistance. Two of the enlisted men seized her and wrenched her back as Cordoba slammed his fist into Amanda’s stomach, then flung her to the floor.
The room darkened, distorted. She pressed her hands against the wood, trying to rise—trying to comprehend the inexplicable change that had come over the major.
He was flushed, breathing hard as he bent his leg backward at the knee, then kicked her in the belly.
Amanda cried out. The room began to swing back and forth. Cordoba’s voice sounded faint but furious.
“Let me take her and discipline her, Excellency.”
“Better she be shot outright,” another of the officers said.
Cordoba again: “No, no, Colonel—if you please! I’ll see that she suffers for her insolence. Much more than she’d suffer if you killed her.”
Santa Anna: “I find your request a bit unusual, Major. You said nothing during her outbursts—”
“My astonishment—my anger—robbed me of suitable words, Excellency.”
“Nor are you known for your temper—”
“Except when my commander is insulted, Excellency.”
“Well, that’s the proper attitude, certainly.”