Aztec Fire

by Gary Jennings

  The “port” of Veracruz was the waterway between the fortress island and a pier jutting out from the city. The bay was too shallow for ships to reach the pier, so passengers and freight were taken ashore on rowboats. But before that happened, we had to pass inspection from both customs and the Inquisition.

  A port customs official that came aboard told the passengers and crew that a hundred people a week died during the summer.

  “We drove a herd of cattle through the streets each afternoon,” the port customs official said, “so the cattle could clean the air by breathing in the deadly fumes.”

  A priest who came with the customs official validated Luis’s position about God and the miasma: “When God says it’s time to go, you go, and neither vinegar nor cows will save you.”

  The customs officer didn’t contradict the priest. I didn’t blame him—the priest was from the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

  Luis muttered something foul under his breath at the sight of the Inquisitor. We were told on board that the liberals in Spain had outlawed the Inquisition.

  “The colony has a head of its own but no brain,” Luis said.

  I kept quiet—trying to look dull and subservient and fade into the background—rather than call attention to myself, something that neither of us needed.

  I happily played the role of Luis’s servant.

  Purchasing false papers in Lisbon, we traveled unchallenged—with no questions asked about the blood taint on my race. My name now was Joaquin Ramirez.

  Now, both the government official and church representative went over the names on the passenger list, comparing the names to those on their own records. I wondered if our real names were on the list … or had we been reported lost at sea en route to Manila? The latter was most likely.

  I watched as the Inquisitor removed a written play from the baggage of a passenger and questioned the man about it. The play was by an Englishman named Shakespeare. The Inquisitor had never heard of the playwright—nor had I—and seized it because it was written by an Englishman.

  After passing inspection and giving a “gift” to the customs official and a “donation” to the Church, the notorious mordida, Luis and I and other passengers were rowed ashore and deposited on the pier.

  Standing on the pier and staring at the building ahead, the pier appeared more able to handle el norte storms than the town itself. The jetty was made of stone cemented by mortar and was partly paved with flat pieces of iron.

  “The iron’s from the ballast of a ship,” the chief oarsman told us as he threw our baggage up. “The captain left the ballast behind in order to take aboard more silver from the mint at Mexico City. The silver was for the government in Madrid, but it ended up in a pirate’s chest.”

  As we walked toward the main square, we were surprised to find the houses were not entirely constructed of wood. A passenger walking with us said, “The buildings are made of a coral mortar. The same is used for the roofs and pavement. They manufacture it from stony coral reefs called madrepores.” The man waved his hand vaguely at the distance. “Few trees grow in the hot zone. Mostly just mosquitoes, miasma, snakes, spiders, rats, sand, and that bastardo el norte.”

  Despite the unusual building material, the shape of the houses was familiar: Two and three stories with flat roofs, they were enclosed by tall Spanish-style walls. Balconylike galleries with wrought-iron facades overhung interior courtyards.

  The houses framed narrow rows along broad, straight streets. The housefronts looked like long straight rows of tombstones lined up horizontally in a cemetery.

  “What is that smell?” Luis growled, holding his nose.

  It turned out to be the blue-green, bubbling sludge running through the gutters.

  “Wait till it gets really hot and that sewage boils up over the curbs,” our fellow passenger said.

  “The stink in this godforsaken city,” Luis groaned, “would knock a zopilote off a meat wagon!”

  “Not really,” the man said. He pointed at the big vultures swaddling along the streets—hundreds of them. “The zopilotes and the street dogs thrive on it.” A dog was alongside two vultures chewing on the dead carcass of another dog. “The dogs and zopilotes keep the streets clean. Without them, the stink would be even more unbearable.”

  A vulture flew over my head, leaving a wake of stink as it passed. I knew my Aztec forebears believed vultures sacred, but they must not have smelled the buzzards of Veracruz.

  NINETY-THREE

  LUIS AND I checked into an inn and were given small rooms furnished with a benchlike bedstead, a single sheet, and nothing else. The slates of the window shutters kept out rain but not the mosquitoes and street noise.

  Ordering a bottle of brandy, Luis joined a card game in the public room below, while I took a walk. I was happy to be back in the colony with my feet on dry land. Though it was already past summer, the day was still warm with the hot-wet sultry feel of the tropics.

  The marketplace sold goods out of small stalls, set on the ground on blankets. Most of the people selling fruits, vegetables, meat, fowl, and fish were peons. Few cuts of meat were offered—ratty-looking strips hung from poles, drying without salt. The fruits and vegetables were also stringy. As one would expect, however, fresh fish of all kinds abounded.

  A town of sixteen thousand people, the main square reflected the plaza mayors in the colony’s other cities: government buildings with the governor’s palace on one side and the main cathedral on the other. Most of the walkways around the square were roofed to shelter them from rain and sun. Shade trees lined the plaza’s walkways where passersby casually smoked, talked, and strolled.

  I walked past the main buildings, including the cathedral. As I approached the governor’s palace, I was tempted to ask the guard at the entrance whether Juan Rios and his amigo “Count Luis” were on the viceroy’s list of desperados wanted for capital crimes, but I continued on my way instead.

  With the heat and mosquitoes pressing in on me, I decided that I should leave Veracruz as quickly as possible—and find Maria.

  I would not rest until I found her.

  Or found out what happened to her.

  If Madero or anyone else had harmed her, I would hunt them down and kill them.

  In the most barbaric manner of my ancestors.

  I bought a big broad-shouldered roan, two pistolas whose flintlock firing mechanisms I would upgrade, a knife with a thirteen-inch blade and a brass haft that I sheathed on my hip, a machete, water bags, blankets, a sack of tortillas, dried meat and fish—enough to last several days—and a proper change of clothing. I would be crossing a sandy desert and a steaming swamp along those coastal plains. Still I did not want to look like a beggar when I reached the Plaza Mayor in the capital.

  I hid the pistols under my clothes since indios were not allowed to possess them and slung the machete just behind me on the horse.

  Keeping the gunpowder dry in the humid climate would be a struggle. I knew from my days with Felix that not only was Veracruz’s humidity bad for gunpowder, but ships sold their defective gunpowder to the city’s unsuspecting merchants. I’d done my best to inspect it, but you never really knew until you test-fired it.

  I would not put on new clothes until I left the city. I still needed to dress as humbly as a peon.

  During the weeks on the ship, I had created a walking-cane pistol that would fool any attacker with fatal consequences, and I left this for the Marquis de Bargas—otherwise known as Luis—the Swindler and Seducer of Wealthy Widows and the Prince of Devil Cards.

  Sí, Luis was no longer a count but had given himself a promotion almost as soon as we hit land. A marquis was just below a duke. I hoped he would not aspire to the latter title. The colony did not contain even a single duke and the sudden appearance of one would cause a stir.

  His choice of Bargas for his dukedom was appropriate—he said it was a town in central Spain where he once had been jailed for drunkenness and debauchery.

  The next m
orning before dawn I awoke Luis and the puta sleeping with him to bid him good-bye. He was having a rare run of luck and had found a beautiful woman—not yet a widow—to pay for his tarot readings. He assured me he would meet me in the capital or find me on the China Road when his luck ran out.

  I told him we would meet in hell as soon as both our luck ran out.

  I was making my way down the hallway when a Spaniard dressed in merchant garb hit me with his traveling bag to make room for himself. He didn’t say anything … just swatted me as he would a dog that got in his way. His wife, who followed behind him, glared at me and I hurried away.

  I had unconsciously gone for the gun under my light coat.

  A sultan had treated me as a prince among men, and I had survived cannibals, pirates, and war. I sailed the biggest, broadest sea on earth, and circled the entire planet … and a low-class gachupine who couldn’t afford a personal servant felt privileged to step on my pride.

  I was a man, not a worm. I made myself a promise as I continued on my way to the stable to retrieve my horse. I would never again play the role of peon. And I would kill any man who treated me as such.

  NINETY-FOUR

  A TWENTY-LEAGUE JOURNEY took one from the coastal dunes and sandy plains of Veracruz to Jalapa in the mountains—typically a three- or four-day trip—and it was not usually made alone. The sand and swamp region had many hazards—snakes, fever, and the black vomito were among the most notorious. On the narrow twisting mountain road, dangers mounted, particularly where the most treacherous of animals of all lurked … the two-legged variety—starving rebels and brutal bandidos.

  Most travelers didn’t make the journey on horseback, either, but sitting in a litter strung with poles between two mules. Since long mule trains left the city every few days, travelers frequently attached themselves to them. Coaches were sometimes used as well, but one could not rely upon the road being cleared of fallen rock or not washed away by one of the sudden torrential cloudbursts for which the area was famous.

  I didn’t want to be slowed down by a mule train and wasn’t in any mood for company.

  The rude Spaniard had enraged me—a rage I feared that might reveal itself at the wrong time. I knew I had to keep my temper—I was on a mission to find Maria. And talk in a pulquería had confirmed something I had already suspected: Colonel Madero still headed the viceroy’s secret police. And he still bore the reputation of El Toro, a relentless bull who continually tore at the soft underbelly of his prey.

  I left the city at first light. On the road I passed a band of travelers from the ship, who had hired muleteers to take them up the mountain on litters, with their servants walking alongside. I hurried ahead of them, eating in the saddle and stopping only to quickly change out of my peon clothes. I was anxious not to beat them to Jalapa, but to traverse this hellish terrain.

  The tierra caliente along the east coast was monotonous—sand and swampy lagoons. I rode for an hour across desert sands along the seashore before I even saw scrawny vegetation. The only “life” I saw was dead—the skeletons of horses and mules, baked where they fell.

  A little over a league out of the city I crossed a bridge over the Vera Aqua and headed inland through more coastal desert, through suffocating heat and blinding dust whipped up by a hot wind. I put my head down, hiding from the sun under my hat and saved my water for my horse, determined to cross this dead land as soon as possible.

  NINETY-FIVE

  VEGETATION STARTED IN the foothills leading up the mountains, as did signs of civilization—an occasional small village of a dozen or so huts, indio women with long black hair and half-naked children watching from the doorways.

  I camped out rather than staying at an inn—in truth, the “inns” were little more than stables in which people slept on the ground with their animals. I wasn’t that desperate to have a roof over my head.

  As I rode, I practiced shooting, getting used to the guns and when necessary making small adjustments. My assessment of the gunpowder was correct—misfires were frequent. Amateur powder-makers had failed to properly recorn, remix, and revitalize, and I had neither the ingredients nor the corning equipment to reconstitute it correctly.

  A furious rush of water thundered down a deep ravine under the long Puente del Rey—the King’s Bridge. The bridge and ravine were bordered on each side by high sheer cliffs. The Crown had mounted cannonry atop that cliff and royal militia sentries shouldering muskets walked along the cliff-top on each side of the cannons.

  Before the militia had retaken the bridge, the guerrilla leader, Guadalupe Victoria, had often held the bridge and financed his forces with the “toll” he collected from travelers and mule trains.

  I climbed down to bathe in the clean fresh waters.

  At this point, the road to Jalapa improved and became wide enough and smooth enough to easily accommodate carriages.

  I soon approached a smaller mate to the King’s Bridge—Puente del Reina, the Queen’s Bridge. The Queen’s was not as important as the King’s and not protected by the army. As I neared it, I heard the sound of weapons firing in the distance and galloped my horse around a bend to get a better look at the road ahead.

  A carriage on the bridge was being attacked by five bandidos—two on my end of the bridge and three on the other. The man closest to me was behind the carriage. His partner stood in front of the carriage mules, pointing his pistol at the driver who sat in the carriage box with his hands in the air. The carriage guard was facedown.

  The highwaymen on the far side were rolling a log onto the bridge to keep the carriage from driving off. It was a wasted effort—it hadn’t dawned on them that the carriage wasn’t going anywhere. One of its mules was bleeding from the leg. From a distance the pastern appeared fractured.

  The occupant, an aristocrat by his clothes, jumped out with a pistol and sword—ready to do battle.

  Brave hombre. I couldn’t let road scum kill a man willing to fight five desperadoes rather than throw them his purse or permit himself to be taken for ransom.

  Drawing a pistol, I spurred my horse and let out a war whoop to draw the attention of the robbers away from the man with a sword. With the horse galloping and the reins in my teeth, I drew the second pistol.

  I aimed at the closest man, the only one in a position to get off a good shot at me. He threw himself to the side as I pulled the trigger—it misfired. Ayyo! The best shot in the world and my gun didn’t fire because of the damp gunpowder. I dropped the pistol and pulled my machete. Crouching low in the saddle, I went for the same man because he was the closest. He fired in panic as he rose to his feet. The shot went wild. He turned to run and I rose in the saddle and swung the machete. The blade caught him in the back of the neck.

  His head flopped backward even as his body surged forward.

  I steered the horse to the right side of the carriage to make myself less of a target for the second man near the carriage. As I came along the mules, I rose in the saddle and fired. The bullet stuck the bandido in the chest.

  The driver’s musket was still sheathed in the carriage box. He stared at me openmouthed as I pulled my mount up to the carriage and grabbed the musket. Praying the powder was fresh, I spurred the horse again, charging the three men on the bridge. They had stopped in their tracks. From their stares, I saw they were hesitating—perhaps unsure about their next move—since they did not know if I had backup.

  I helped them make up their minds—I fired and the musket ball found its mark, sending a bandido to his Maker.

  The other two lost their enthusiasm for robbery and murder and fled to their horses.

  Wheeling the horse, I came back to the carriage.

  The man with a sword saluted me with his blade.

  “Señor, I am in the greatest debt any man can be to another—I owe you my life.”

  Staring at the man, I put my hand to my cheek, feeling the scar. It had been a long time since our last meeting.

  Nearly ten years since the day he scarred m
y face and hanged my uncles.

  NINETY-SIX

  COLONEL AGUSTIN ITURBIDE,” he said, introducing himself.

  A colonel of the royal militia. Retired, he told me. Another rich, aristocratic criollo who had nothing to do in his old age but count his money and cattle—including his two-legged cattle.

  He had done well for himself. He was no longer a young militia captain hunting down and punishing rebels after the great Hidalgo insurrection failed. But he looked too young to be retired, no more than in his late thirties. And he was no overfed hacendado growing as fat and lazy as his corn-fed beef. He appeared in excellent physical condition.

  “You are a marvelous shot, amigo.”

  We were in his carriage. My horse had entered the carriage traces, taking the place of his now dead mule.

  I shook my head and lamented the lack of good gunpowder in Veracruz.

  “It’s so hot and wet in Veracruz,” he said, “even people mold and rust. But the two shots you got off, one by pistol, one by musket, found their mark. From a galloping horse. Señor, if I had had a dozen of you in my regiment, the insurrection would have been put down in a year.”

  “It was luck.”

  “No, amigo, one hit was luck, two had to be either a miracle or your expert marksmanship … and I don’t think that God favors me enough to use his precious miracles to save my life.”

  Iturbide was a tall man, about five-foot-ten, with handsome features—dark hair and gray eyes—and a commanding air. He had the same ruddy complexion of a German passenger aboard the ship that brought me back to the colony.

  Furthermore, he was a man who knew he could be gracious and cruel. He said nothing to the driver who had surrendered without a fight—but I saw in his eyes when he looked at the man that when he no longer needed him, the man would be severely punished. The driver’s partner had shown courage—and he was strapped to the top of the coach.