by John Jakes
“Then let me have her!”
Amanda tried to sit up. She was too weak and dizzy. She fell back, her black silk dress tangled around her legs. She’d thought Cordoba possessed some small degree of honor. Like Santa Anna’s generosity, that honor had been revealed as a sham. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard him pressing his request.
“I promise you I’ll work her till she drops, Excellency. I lost my serving woman on the march from Saltillo. Telele killed her—the fever from bad water. So if you’ll put her in my keeping, I’ll teach her to respect Centralist authority—”
Several of the officers muttered about Cordoba’s proposal—whether for or against it, Amanda couldn’t be sure. Finally, she heard Santa Anna shout for silence. The voices cut off abruptly. The dictator sounded amused again.
“Very well, Major, you may have her. See that she fully enjoys the perquisites of her new station—and that she comes to regret her refusal of my clemency. But mark this—!”
He struck the desk again. The sound was loud as a shot.
“Under no circumstances is the offer to be repeated. By you or any other officer. She will not go free now or ever. Of course, if she finds the work of a camp woman too difficult—if she should sicken and die—that’s your affair. No questions will be asked.”
The room seemed cloaked in darkness. Amanda let it sweep into her mind, blotting out Santa Anna’s soft, satisfied chuckle.
v
A fly buzzed. There was a sensation of intense heat.
She opened her eyes.
Above her, she saw an expanse of light. After a moment she realized she was lying on hard ground, gazing up at the sloping side of an officer’s marquee, one of dozens that dotted the flat land and the hillsides around Bexar. The sun was broiling down on the other side of the canvas, lighting it to brilliance.
She still ached from the punishing Cordoba had given her. Slowly, she rolled her head to the side and saw a mussed cot. A rickety table. A washstand holding a razor case, brushes, a dented copper basin—
Then, in the periphery of her vision, she noticed boots. Boots marked with dried blood and dirt. One of the boots was resting on a small wooden box. Hands were drawing a cloth back and forth across the stained leather—
She turned her head a bit more. Cordoba took his foot off the box, dropped the cloth. He stood staring down at her, his uniform blouse unbuttoned. Black hair curled above a sweat-grayed singlet.
The inside of the marquee was broiling. She drew in a breath of the unpleasant air. It was ripe with the smells of horse droppings, the burning dead, male sweat. Cordoba continued to watch, his expression a blank.
She gathered her strength, attempted to sit up. The effort pierced her side with a pain that made her wince and cry out softly.
“You stupid, intemperate woman!” Cordoba exclaimed, grabbing her wrists and pulling her to her feet.
As soon as she was upright, he let go. She sat down hard on the cot, gasping.
Rage still colored the major’s cheeks. But it was a different kind of rage than he’d displayed in front of the general. Puzzlingly different—
Cordoba strode forward. Outside, several mounted men clattered by, laughing and joking in Spanish. She raised her hand to strike him. Cordoba caught her wrist, pushed her arm down.
“Listen to me! I have very little time before I must attend that wretched review—”
The officer’s fingers were hard, like a vise. Behind the mild countenance that had turned so hateful in the Musquiz house, there was unsuspected strength—a strength he exerted to keep her immobilized on the cot as he said, “Do you know that you nearly got yourself sentenced to a firing squad? Or worse?”
“Let me go, goddamn you!”
“No! Not until you hear me out! You made His Excellency furious. He was ready to order you shot—or to turn you over to those dragoons Colonel Fialpa mentioned. In the latter case, a hundred men would have taken you. Then you’d have been thrown to the soldaderas. To die—if you were lucky.”
She laughed at him, a raw, raging sound. “Don’t start telling me how generous you are, Major!”
“I had to mistreat you, don’t you understand that? I knew of no other way to get you out of there!”
“You’re telling me what you did was—was a sham?”
“Yes! Completely!”
“Well, it was too damned realistic!”
“For that, I am truly sorry. It was the only way—” He loosened his grip. “If you promise not to run, I’ll release you.”
She debated, finally sighed and nodded. “All right—though I still don’t quite believe what you’re saying.”
He let go.
“God—” She massaged her belly. “You hurt me.”
He shrugged. “A trifle.”
“You call broken ribs a trifle?”
“Compared to the ministrations of the dragoons, yes.
Besides, I don’t believe any of your ribs are broken. While you were unconscious, I looked at—that is, ah—I examined—never mind! Take my word, you’ll survive.”
He stood back, rubbing his reddened cheek. It was beginning to show a sweaty growth of beard. As the red faded, he said, “Let’s get down to the issue, Señora de la Gura. It’s quite simple, really. You can stay with me and I’ll treat you decently—with a few public demonstrations of cruelty to impress my fellow officers, naturally. Or I can turn you back to Santa Anna and you can take your chances. You lost your opportunity for freedom when you provoked His Excellency. So I trust you understand the choice is no longer liberty or the lack of it, but whether you want to live with me or die with someone else.”
Wearily, Amanda gazed at him. She saw an emotion in his eyes that almost made her laugh out loud. He looked as earnest and hopeful as a small boy. She didn’t laugh because she couldn’t quite bring herself to humiliate him. After pondering his offer a while, she said, “I realize you’re trying to help me, Major. But I’d feel like a traitor staying with you.”
“A traitor to whom?”
“To my own people.”
“Ah!” He gestured sharply. “Better to be alive—with hope—than dead with none. His Excellency predicts total victory soon, but I am not so certain. Especially now that you Anglos are fighting for a country you have declared to be your own.”
“I’m not fighting for anything, Major. I’m a prisoner.”
“There is always the chance you could be rescued.”
“Highly unlikely, I think. I just don’t understand your concern for my welfare. What kind of man are you?”
“A man whose soldadera died, and who needs—”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“What else can I tell you?” he exclaimed, his skin growing pink again. “My life is commonplace—quite un-extraordinary. I’m a professional soldier with a duty to perform—and with little fondness for the style of my commander.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. You don’t like Santa Anna?”
Still flushed, he sat down on the small box. It creaked under his weight but, staring at his hands, he seemed not to notice.
“That is understating the case, señora.” After a cautious glance at the tent entrance, he went on, “His Excellency demands the best for himself. The tastiest food. The choicest wine. Snowy linen, polished silver—my God, the man has a passion for silver such as I’ve never seen before—!”
Fascinated, Amanda watched the major growing angry again.
“You may be sure His Excellency was comfortable on the long march from Saltillo. He slept under fur robes, with a brazier burning in his marquee, when the blizzards struck the hills of Coahuila and the men had no tents and no fires. He pretended not to see the wretched Mayans from the Yucatan battalion lying like bundles of rags at the roadside—dying because they couldn’t withstand the northern cold. We were short of provisions from the beginning, so His Excellency cut rations to half—for everyone except himself. Can you imagine how I liked ordering my men
to fall out and search for their suppers? Search? They ate mesquite nuts—have you ever tasted them?”
“Yes. Bitter.”
“Compared to our usual fare, they were a banquet, I can assure you! We lost men by the hundreds—both from desertion and—you’ll forgive me—diarrhea. In his haste to mete out punishment, His Excellency also overlooked the small matter of providing enough doctors, medicines and ambulance wagons—but of course he made sure his personal physician was always close by! My God, you wouldn’t believe the chicanery the man condones! You can imagine how our wounded need blankets and bedding today. But every stitch in Bexar has been appropriated by His Excellency’s brother-in-law, Colonel Dromundo. It’s available—to any hurt or dying man who can pay Dromundo’s price—”
Glumly, Cordoba shook his head. “They would slit my throat if I said any of this in public. But His Excellency General Santa Anna is fighting for his personal power, not for Mexico.”
“Then why do you obey him?”
“Because, for better or worse, he is Mexico—at the moment. Don’t make any mistake, señora. Despite my dislike of him, I’ll honor my promise. You won’t go free. And if you try to escape, I won’t stand in the way of your punishment. Beyond that, I guarantee you good treatment. My wants are minimal. Decent meals. Clean laundry. My boots polished—I hate a dirty uniform. It’s unprofessional.”
Amanda thought it over. She was still undecided when Cordoba jumped up. “Believe me, señora, I’m offering you a better bargain than you’d get from most in this encampment!”
He was probably right. And becoming a camp follower was no worse than some of the other things she’d done to stay alive.
“All right, Major,” she said. “I accept.”
He clapped his hands, delighted as a child. “Wonderful! Now the first thing you must learn is how to say my first name correctly—”
“Major.”
“What is it?”
“There’s one subject you overlooked.”
“Yes?”
She patted the cot.
He turned red again. “I make no demands there, señora. Clean smallclothes and a hot meal at night will satisfy me.”
“Then you’re one of a kind.”
He shrugged, almost scarlet. “I am what I am.”
“Don’t you like women?”
He looked at her steadily.
“Some women.”
She honestly didn’t know what to make of Cordoba. At the moment, he resembled a shy boy more than a man. At least he didn’t frighten her any longer, and to be free of fear even for a little while was welcome.
He cleared his throat. “Uh—señora—my name—”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry. Tell me what it is.”
“It is Luis.”
“Luis,” she repeated.
“Good, that’s just right—”
Still flushed, he pulled out a cheap pocket watch, then began buttoning his uniform blouse hastily.
“I don’t think you’ll find me too unpleasant. I am not a violent man. I am a narrow one, I regret to say. All my adult life has been spent in the army. I’ve had no time for other pursuits—nor any interest in them. But you know something? The older I grow—the more I see of the politicians who direct any army—the more I wonder whether I should have done something else with my life. Campaigning’s no pleasure under a man like His Excellency.”
As he finished dressing, he added in an apologetic way, “I trust you won’t attempt to escape while I’m gone.”
“No, I won’t.” She stretched; wriggled her shoulders, thankful that the aches were lessening.
“You’ll have many an opportunity in the weeks ahead. You won’t be guarded, or even watched very much—”
“Major, you saved my life.”
He waved. A shade too quickly, she thought. “For purely practical purposes, I assure you.”
“Even so, I owe you something for that. And I made a bargain. I’ll live up to it.”
“I do think I should station a corporal’s guard outside for a few days. For the sake of appearance—”
“Go ahead if you want. I’m going to lie down for a little. Then I’ll tidy up the bed, and try to find some branches to sweep this place out.”
“Please, señora—just rest. You have seen horrible sights today. There is no need to busy yourself so soon.”
“Yes, there is,” she said softly. “If I work, maybe I’ll forget what I saw.”
His eyes met hers, large and melancholy.
“Do you honestly think that’s possible, señora?”
“No. But God forgive me, I wish it were.”
“So do I.”
They stood a moment longer, staring at one another.
Then Luis Cordoba snatched up his shako and batted dust off the pompom. After a last look at the bedraggled woman in the center of the sunlit marquee, he touched respectful fingers to his brow and went out.
Chapter IV
The Camp Follower
i
THE ARMY MOVED EASTWARD, and Amanda with it. Cordoba brought her word of terrified Texans fleeing ahead of the Mexican force. The major said Sam Houston himself had ordered the retreat, fearing more slaughter of the kind that had taken place at the Alamo. Susannah Dickinson and the two blacks had evidently reached Gonzales with an account of the massacre.
The weather was rainy and miserable. Trudging in mud beside the wagon carrying Major Cordoba’s marquee and equipment, Amanda saw frequent signs that the spirit of resistance had been broken. Homesteads, abandoned and torched, billowed black clouds into the gray sky. Herds of cattle broke the horizon line and trembled the earth, set free as their owners piled belongings on muleback, left their small ranches and hurried east.
The village of Gonzales was still smoldering when Santa Anna rode in at the head of his host. Amanda walked wide-eyed through the dirt streets, listening to the talk of the soldaderas. Houston had insisted on burning Gonzales so there would be no shelter for Santa Anna’s troops, the woman said.
But a few rickety buildings survived. In the doorway of one, an old blind woman, an American, listened to the clatter of the army passing, clutched a mangy white cat to her breast and wept.
Amanda was some distance down the street when she heard a shot. She looked back. The doorway was empty. One of the soldaderas, surrounded by laughing friends, was waving a pistol—
“General Urrea has taken Colonel Fannin at Goliad,” Cordoba told her two days after Palm Sunday. Amanda already felt bad enough without hearing that. Her period had come. She was miserable from the stickiness and chafing of the rags tied beneath her dress.
“Fannin was the one who should have come to the aid of the mission, wasn’t he?”
Amanda nodded in a dull way.
“They say he had four hundred men when he was captured. Palm Sunday morning, they all thought they were being paroled. A detachment of Urrea’s troops took them to a woods near the village. Urrea had other men hidden among the trees. Fannin and his four hundred were shot to death.” There was no satisfaction in Cordoba’s voice when he said it.
Amanda lost track of the days. Rain fell intermittently, sometimes a shower, sometimes a torrent. The drenched plains took on a wearying sameness. The Texans were still reported in wild flight. Santa Anna was in high spirits, confident he’d catch the rebel leaders before they reached the sanctuary of American soil beyond the Sabine.
March became April, but Amanda was hardly aware of it. Constant bad news only compounded the weariness produced by the hard routine of the march.
She rose before dawn every day, stiff from sleeping on blankets laid at the foot of Cordoba’s cot. Her first chore was to go outside to the communal cook fire, jostle a place among the other camp followers and begin brewing the major’s coffee.
At first she had been crowded away from the fire. Taunted with obscene remarks. Even threatened. A couple of incidents in which she’d used her nails, her teeth and her fists to defend herself put an end to t
he harassment. The other soldaderas never spoke to her directly. But they allowed her room to work.
After breakfast, she was expected to help Cordoba’s orderly strike the marquee and pack it for transportation in the baggage wagon. All day she followed the wagon on foot, breaking the routine occasionally by dropping back to the wagons of the civilian sutlers.
With money Cordoba had given her, she bargained for food. She refused the tainted meat always offered first, and demanded fresh. She swore and gestured and haggled until the inflated price came down to a satisfactory level. Here, at least, her experience on a farm and at the hotel made her the equal of most of the other women—and superior to some. Quite a few of the soldaderas were young girls, unlettered and ignorant of the fact that the sutlers routinely tried to sell spoiled food at ten times its worth.
She did get a rest every afternoon. War or no war, the Mexicans demanded a siesta. But as soon as the army camped for the night, work began again.
She prepared the major’s evening meal. And whenever there was a stream nearby, she carried his laundry there, washing it with yellow soap that left her hands raw. She slapped the clothes damp dry on stones, Indian fashion.
Illness was still rampant in the army. So once a week, she insisted on plunging the major’s wash into a kettle of boiling water. She boiled his drinking water as well. Although these unusual procedures elicited more laughter from the camp women, Cordoba remained healthy while many of his fellow officers succumbed to dysentery.
She spent a considerable amount of time polishing boots and uniform buttons. Cordoba was almost fanatic about a neat appearance—a reaction, she suspected, to the sloth and disorder prevalent in the camp. Cordoba’s gleaming leather and metal were an expression of his outrage—and one of the few aspects of a chaotic world that he could control absolutely.
There was one part of the soldaderas’ routine in which Amanda refused to participate, though. Every night, the women worked together to dig open trenches. Whenever they had to relieve themselves, they squatted over the trenches like so many hens, chatting amiably with their skirts hiked above their waists and their bottoms clearly in view.