Ana Martin

by J. L. Jarvis

  Ana tried to stay busy, which was not difficult to do with Jaime to take care of. She wanted to talk to Eduardo, but he was so busy. She would just have to wait for Carlos to return. They could decide then what to do. Since no one knew, they could go back to how things were before, or at least she tried to tell herself that they could go back. Ana knew she could not.

  That night, Eduardo spoke to the people. More were joining their ranks every day, and Eduardo kept them looking forward with passion that burned inside him to a time when their people would be free from the corruption of the Díaz regime. Ana loved watching and listening to him. How he filled people’s hearts with his noble ideas. All around her they cried, “Land and Liberty!” It was a terrible thrill.

  The men rode back into camp. Ana watched for Carlos. A hand touched her shoulder. She whirled around into Carlos’s arms. He held her in his solid embrace.

  They first looked in on Jaime, who was sleeping. Carlos tucked the blanket about him and gave him a kiss. There was music and dancing, but Carlos led her past it to their tent. Carlos pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her neck as his hands and his lips made her want to forget.

  “We’re not married.”

  Chapter 15

  In the night, they rode down from the mountains to converge on Torreón with other troops of revolutionists. Ten thousand in all came on foot and on horseback from haciendas, factories and mines throughout Northern Mexico. They surrounded the city. Carlos sent his most experienced men to set charges to cut off rail access. Others worked in pairs to cut wires so the city had no way to communicate beyond its own borders.

  By daybreak they were stationed in various outposts surrounding the city. In darkness, they advanced. Ana rode beside Carlos in front of his men. Quiet chuckles and nervous discussion drifted up to their ears until Eduardo rode back to silence the troops. They were close.

  “Surprise is our ally. Don’t ruin it now.”

  Carlos surveyed the terrain. He gave a nod. “Over there, that’s our cover if we must retreat. Otherwise, we all meet at la Casa del Cerro.”

  The first shot sounded too soon. More shots followed in rapid succession. Carlos led his men on, riding hard. Ana rode hard to keep up, but she lagged behind. Flashes of light from the city lit the darkness as explosive pops cut into the night. Carlos fired toward the city and called out to Ana.

  “Come, Ana! Faster! This way!”

  She was following him when her horse’s legs buckled beneath her. Ana landed beside the mare and lay still. Her mouth was open, but no air would come in. Was she hit? Her horse panted beside her. Her arms were warm and wet. It was blood from her horse. Ana took in a small breath and another, and reached out to her horse, which lay dying beside her. Close behind, two horses collided and overturned a wagon loaded with ammunition and dynamite. Carlos shouted an order. Voices and shots soared about, but the sounds drifted into the distance while each breath commanded such effort. It was so dark and peaceful that she wanted to rest, but a strong arm gripped her waist and pulled her up.

  “Let’s go, mi amor. Hold on to me.”

  Ana obeyed, weakly grasping the arm that was pulling her into the saddle behind him. Carlos wrapped both Ana’s arms about his waist. They had to take cover. He aimed a pistol at Ana’s horse and fired, then he pulled the reins in the other direction. They rode fast. Ana clung. She drew strength as she leaned on his back. It was strong. His muscles worked, flexing and sweating, to get them to safety.

  “Hold on tighter, Ana. Don’t let go.” He said it sternly; she had to obey. He gripped her hands, which stretched limply around him.

  Through a desert now filled with the sounds of canon blasts, rifles and dynamite guns, they rode as fast as she ever had ridden. She opened her eyes and saw the top of the sun peeking over the horizon. Ana tightened her grasp.

  “Good girl. That’s it.”

  They took cover in an old stone building, the remains of a ranch now abandoned, like so many others that had been swallowed up by a neighboring hacienda. Now it sheltered a growing number of fighters. Some two dozen revolutionists fought from inside and around the brick structure. A few men lay wounded and were cared for by their compañeros.

  “Are you all right?” Carlos gripped Ana’s shoulders and peered into her eyes.

  She looked back at him and tried hard to answer. Her whole world had slowed down until every move, every word, took forever. “My head,” was all that came out.

  A tender look crossed his face. He laid her down and touched her shoulder, and got up. He strode across the room and looked out through the door. He cursed when he saw nearly all of their dynamite and ammunition sitting out in the open, beside the overturned wagon. Ana looked over to him and began to recall the events of the last several minutes.

  A few crates had been salvaged. Men brought them in by the armload and stacked them by the door. As Ana’s thoughts cleared, it occurred to her that he would not have left the ammunition behind if he had not had her to tend to. Perhaps he was right, after all. She felt out of place now. Yet what sort of person feels at ease being shot at while trying to kill others first?

  Ana had her wind back and her head was clearing. She got up, steadied herself, then went outside to Carlos. He had pulled a few men aside to make plans to retrieve the ammunition. It would take several trips to carry by hand what had been on the cart. They decided get what they needed for now. After dark, they would get what was left. Ana went out to see if she could help. Carlos set down a crate of ammunition and went back for more. She watched him from the corner of the building. There was a lull in the shooting. What drew her attention she would not ever know, but she looked. From the city, a bullet tumbled through the air, not soaring straight, but tracing an irregular spiral toward Carlos. The whole world had slowed down as she tried to reach out. She lunged at Carlos and threw him off balance. He staggered forward and fell. Something hard hit the back of her head. She was falling, then someone was dragging her, lifting her, setting her down.

  “Ana?”

  She could hear, but she was too far away to answer. Dark, gentle sounds drifted over her, carrying voices of felled men and women.

  The activity around the overturned cart had drawn fire. “Come back, Ana,” Carlos ordered. He cradled her head in his arms, her silk hair matted and sticky against his rolled up sleeves and bare arms.

  Her eyes flickered open.

  He was over her, asking her, “What were you doing?” He held her and whispered her name.

  “A rock—” Ana winced. “—hit me.”

  “A rock? No, a bullet.”

  Ana’s head hurt too much to think quickly or clearly. She began to protest, but gave in as Carlos wrapped his bandana around her forehead.

  “It’s grazed your head. My God, you could have been killed.”

  She tried to sit up.

  “You’re still bleeding,” he said, holding her down.

  Her head throbbed as she surrendered herself to his arms. Gently he stroked her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead, and blowing her moist forehead to cool it.

  “That feels good,” Ana whispered. She looked up, but the light hurt her eyes, so she closed them and smiled.

  His hard features softened. “My mother used to do that on hot summer days when I was a boy.” The tender look passed. His eyes darkened. “Ana? How did you know?”

  “I don’t know. I just happened to look, and I knew it was coming for you.”

  “Don’t take my bullets.”

  “But you could have been killed.”

  “I could live with that—”

  “No, you couldn’t,” said Ana. Her mouth twitched at the corners in an effort to smile, but she winced, and that hurt even more.

  “Oh, I see. Making jokes now? You can’t be too hurt.” He grinned until her eyes closed. His expression grew dark, as he said softly, “Don’t do that again, mi amor.”

  Ana slept.

  She awoke in a haze of twilight. Shadowed figu
res brought in wooden crates and set them against the wall near their rifles, which leaned near the door in case they were needed. From time to time Carlos directed the men in a low, steady voice. Ana pulled herself up to a sitting position. She carefully leaned back against the wall to stave off knife stabs of pain that would not ease up. Despite her great care, the gentle touch of her head to the wall sent new pain shooting through her. For several minutes she thought about standing, but never found the courage.

  “You woke up,” Carlos said as he knelt down beside her.

  “My mistake.” Rather than move her head, she rolled her eyes up to meet his.

  He smiled. “Drink some of this.” Carlos handed her a bottle.

  Ana eyed it with suspicion.

  “It’s Tequila. I found a crate on the wagon. It’s the last. All the others were broken.” Carlos held it out to her, then added, “Although it seems a shame to waste it on a headache.”

  “This isn’t just any headache, I promise,” she said, bringing the bottle to her lips.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink liquor.”

  “Only when I’ve been shot,” wheezed Ana, as she lowered the bottle. She lifted the bottle and took a longer swallow.

  “That’s enough for now,” said Carlos, intercepting the bottle.

  “It’s not helping.”

  “Give it a minute or two.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer until she could lean on his shoulder. She settled there, in his arms.

  It was quiet in the city, behind the barricades of stone blocks and bricks that lay stacked in the entrances. All spring, rebel bandits had brought the region to its knees, interrupting rail shipments until mines and factories were forced to close. Businesses that were able to remain open only did so on shortened schedules, their output reduced. As more workers lost their jobs, the revolution grew stronger. Food was scarce. There was unrest in the streets. Torreón was the federal government’s last major stronghold in the region. If the people could take Torreón, they might bring down Díaz.

  “What happens now?” asked Ana.

  “We wait. We’ve cut them off. No trains, telegrams or telephone calls can go in or out. So, for now, we wait.”

  Ana sighed.

  “What is it?” asked Carlos.

  “Eduardo.”

  “He’ll be fine. He knows what to do. When it’s safer, we’ll meet up where we planned.”

  Ana nodded. She closed her eyes and inhaled gently. “On nights like this I would walk on the beach with my father. The air was so warm and so moist I could taste the sea.”

  “We’ll go to the seashore together someday.” Carlos closed his hand around hers, and she took it and held it. They watched the night sky until Ana drifted to sleep.

  She awoke as Carlos eased her from his shoulder to the ground. “It’s a messenger. Go back to sleep.” He got up.

  The soldier in the doorway took a quick drink from his cantina. “General Madero has appointed Jesús Agustín Castro as our leader.”

  “Oh, really? And where is he—this leader?” asked Carlos.

  “On the other side of the city.” The messenger unfolded a map he had pulled from a pocket beneath crisscrossed rows of ammunition wrapped around his short wiry body. They walked outside but the moon was not bright enough. The man lit a match. Carlos took his arm and pulled him away from the stacked ammunition.

  “What’s this?” he asked Carlos.

  “Ammunition, enough for our men.”

  “The General may need it.”

  Carlos glared from behind his dark eyes.

  The young man met his stare. “The General is here,” he said, pointing to the map. “Ugalde is here, and Contreras over here.” He lit another match. “There are several other large camps positioned at these entrances to the city. And you are here,” the man said, pointing.

  “Yes, that much I knew,” said Carlos.

  The match went out. They spoke in the shadows.

  “Your orders are to remain here and wait.”

  “Until when?” Carlos asked.

  “Before dawn. We attack before dawn.”

  The messenger mounted his horse and rode onto the next camp.

  Ana woke to the same thirst she had fallen asleep with. Footsteps stopped beside her. “I’m awake,” she said softly as she squinted and opened her eyes.

  “How’s your head, soldadera?”

  “Fine.”

  “Go to sleep then, my love.” He nestled close behind her and held her waist to the curve of his body. He was warm.

  The rhythmic breathing and snores of the men clashed with the steady throb in her head. She sat up. “I need to go.”

  “For a walk?”

  Ana gave him a narrow-eyed look.

  Carlos helped her up and they tiptoed past sleeping bodies out into the night. Carlos led Ana away from the building and the sounds of men sleeping.

  “Wait here,” Ana told him.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Ana gripped his hand and patted his chest, and set off for the other side of a tree.

  When she returned, Carlos started back for the building.

  “Not yet,” Ana said.

  They sat down. It was quiet. The shooting was over, for now.

  “Tomorrow—” said Carlos.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. But Ana could not see the frown that went with it. What she saw was thick velvet darkness specked with starlight. She hooked her arm into his and lay her head on his shoulder. Like the sea, the night sky looked immense and deceptively simple.

  His lips touched her forehead.

  Ana said, “Are you ever afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But you look so sure.”

  “I am sure. But that doesn’t mean there’s no fear.”

  Ana said, “I’ve never seen you look afraid.”

  “I was afraid when I saw you’d been shot.”

  She was moved.

  “Don’t look so surprised. You’re my wife.”

  “Not really.”

  Carlos turned to her. “I meant my vows. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t care who the priest was. Our vows were to God.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Ana.

  “Let me show you how sure.” He kissed her and crushed her into his arms.

  She pulled back. “I feel dizzy.”

  “I have that effect.”

  “It’s my head.”

  Carlos exhaled deeply. “I need to let you rest.”

  “No.” She held onto his shirt collar and hid her face in his shoulder. “We don’t know what might happen tomorrow.”

  Carlos hushed her and drew her close.

  Ana whispered, “I need to remember you in me tonight.”

  Carlos took off his shirt and rolled it up as a pillow to cushion her head. He was careful and tender. Ana nearly cried out from the thrill of his touch and then nearly cried from the love she might lose. When they lay intertwined, and the memory filled her soul like a mist, Ana knew she was ready to die. But she would never be ready to lose him.

  Dawn was near. A dozen soldiers crouched outside the stone block and brick barricades protecting the city. A dozen more faced them on the other side. Some were on foot, others waited on horseback. Carlos left Blancita at their makeshift infirmary. He could not fight with Ana in the saddle behind him and he would not send her in on foot and not be there beside her.

  He turned back to check on Ana.

  She looked him straight in the eye and gave him a nod.

  Approval lit his eyes. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said softly.

  “Most women are.”

  The horizon was washed in a pale gray-yellow.

  Ana watched Carlos look with sharp eyes
all about, and she knew he was uneasy. Day was coming and still no signal to begin. It was almost too late.

  Gunfire broke out on the far side of the city. Carlos signaled his men to light the fuses. The barricades blew.

  They all ran, lit some dynamite sticks and lobbed them over the rubble and around corners. Carlos led his men in the charge, but it soon turned to chaos. Federal soldiers fired from the roof and from second story windows. One shot hit the wall, missing Carlos. Carlos spotted the soldier and fired. The Federal fired one wild shot as he fell. Ana turned from the sight of the dead soldier falling. Something else caught her eye. Something moved in the storefront window beside them. In the glass she could see the reflection. A soldier was hiding, poised to shoot as they passed. Ana fired through the glass, missing him, but the shattering glass cut his face. He grabbed it and cried out, while his rifle hung loosely from his arm. Blood trickled over his hand as he lifted and aimed. The dull sheen of gunmetal sent fear rushing through Ana, but she focused her eyes on her target and squeezed. He moved as if underwater. His head jerked back slowly, his chin pointed up. His rifle bobbed. Another shot popped back his shoulder and caused him to pivot. As if in some distorted ballet, he floated to the street and lay panting as though awaiting applause. He stopped breathing.

  “Ana!”

  Time and noises came back to her. Carlos tugged at her arm. She glanced back at the dead soldier and life sped back to normal. Carlos pulled her arm, and they ran, shooting soldiers or anyone else who fired at them. Down the street they ran. People ran. There was screaming and shooting. They darted from doorway to doorway, ducking and crawling when they had to. From tree to overturned cart, they advanced. A shot. Another soldier. Squeeze the trigger and run. She gave herself orders. Keep moving. But there was no order. People ran in the streets. Some were shot. And the sounds were a sea, with wave after wave of shattering power.

  They crouched in an alley and pantedas the gunfire dwindled. The peace was electric, broken now and then with the staccato of guns. From other parts of the city, gunfire popped here and there, until it was quiet enough for the cries and the moans of the wounded to ring like muted funeral knells. The Federales were leaving. Rebel fighters emerged and banded together. When it was over, they stood side-by-side and watched the Federales march from the city.