Allegiance

  They spent one night camped at tiny San Miguel del Vado, then the caravan took two more days to cross the hills to the capital. Amy couldn't have been more excited about arriving at a sprawling metropolis. The Royal City of the Holy Faith of St. Francis of Assisi, better known as Santa Fe, consisted of a group of white-washed adobe buildings surrounded by farmland broken up into small tracts. Naked children and women in skimpy clothing gathered to watch the progression. Men stopped work in the cornfields to watch.

  The teamsters formed their usual wagon corral in the central plaza and turned the draft animals loose inside. Irrigation ditches, which laced the cornfields, gardens, and pastures, also flowed through the plaza and provided water for the stock. The oxen and mules shouldered one another aside to drink their fill.

  Around the four sides of the plaza, a long wide portico connected all the buildings. Dark-skinned women in red skirts sat in its shade amid their piles of eggs, onions, cakes of soap, and goat cheese. Live chickens with their feet trussed kept their beady eyes on the moving crowd, squawking occasionally for help. Tethered lambs and pigs added their protests to the din. Smoking braziers, holding simmering pots and griddles, filled the air with the spicy smells of chili sauce, frijoles, and fresh-baked corn cakes, flat and round.

  When Amy stepped down from the carriage, accompanied by the Lorenzo women, she prayed she would never be trapped again for so long in such a box.

  "Oh, no. Not him.” Felicité shrank a little, staring at an important-looking military officer who had exited the largest building and was advancing on them.

  "Who is he?” Amy picked up on her friend's apprehension and made it her own.

  "General Armijo,” Felicité murmured. “He is Collector of Customs. Only the governor himself is more powerful.” She stopped speaking as he approached and came to a halt before them.

  "Señorita Lorenzo, I am delighted you have returned home. And you, Doña Maruja."

  The man's heavy frame looked impressive in the red uniform set off with golden epaulets, a plumed chako hat, polished boots, white gloves, and a pair of ornately engraved flintlock pistols stuck into his snowy white sash. A sword in its metal scabbard jutted from his waist. He gazed at Felicité with an avaricious look in his eye.

  Felicité seemed to recover her poise as she presented Amy.

  General Armijo welcomed her to Mexico, his heavy-lidded eyes making a head to toe appraisal. His manner seemed engaging, but there was a hard glint in his eye. Amy sensed a certain ruthlessness under the surface charm. Had the caravan's arrival brought him to the scene or was it the alcalde's daughter he was most interested in?

  Felicité took out her fan and put it to vigorous use, giving away her nervousness. “You have come all the way from Bernalillo to greet us, General? How gracious you are."

  "Your arrival is reason enough, cara mía, but it is also my duty. There has been much flagrant smuggling of goods into the country. I must inspect the wagons."

  Without thinking, Amy blurted, “When do you plan to start your inspection?” Belatedly, she realized he probably didn't speak her language. What was worse, he was about to discover that she understood his very well.

  He blinked his sleepy eyes at her like a desert tortoise.

  Felicité translated Amy's question into Spanish for him.

  His smile, too, was that of a cold-blooded reptile. “First thing in the morning, Señorita."

  Panic drained the blood from her head. The mission was in jeopardy! What if the muskets were found? She would be arrested as a smuggler. Amy scanned the dusty plaza, looking for Jeb and Tyler. The gathering crowd made her search nearly impossible.

  The presidial troops were highly visible in their white and sky-blue uniforms. Four small cannons guarded the entrances to the impregnable square at the corners. It occurred to Amy with a little jolt that the defensible plaza could easily be turned into a trap.

  After Felicité led the conversation to another topic, Amy waited for a lull before making her excuses and departing.

  She finally found her brother's camp across the plaza. “Jeb, there's trouble. They're planning an inspection of the wagons tomorrow morning."

  "I know. They aren't usually this punctual about it.” Jeb reached into the back of the wagon and hauled out a sack of grain to feed his animals, something he always did before making camp.

  "What shall we do? Where's Tyler?"

  He jerked his head toward one of the wagons. “Inside."

  She climbed up and stuck her head through a gap in the canvas. Tyler sat hunched over a large piece of paper draped across the top of a barrel. He held a ruler in one hand and a quill pen in the other.

  "Tyler?” She climbed inside and closed the flaps behind her. Under the midday sun, the canvas glowed like a bank of lamps. “If there's an inspection, won't they discover the space under the floor boards?"

  He glanced up from his work. “I hope not."

  "What are you doing?” She leaned forward and identified a crude map of the plaza and the buildings enclosing it. The governor's palacio, a long one-story building, formed the north side of the square. Behind it lay the soldiers’ barracks and large parade ground.

  "Preparing a report already? You didn't waste time."

  Tyler drew a broken line around the area. “The presidio is in bad repair—the walls are caving in all around. The governor's quarters are here, complete with the commissariat, public offices, a granary, a warehouse, the customs house, and the guardhouse. Near the west corner is the jailhouse."

  "How did you find all this out so quickly?"

  "I've been working on it for awhile. Jeb's been here before, remember? Raul filled us in with more information."

  Amy studied the map, then parted the canvas just far enough to look out and compare it to the real thing. The outer perimeter of the presidio had once been a continuous row of buildings, obviously, but most had been reduced to piles of rubble. In some places complete sections were missing. Under the barred window of the jailhouse, a woman huddled forlornly with a black shawl over her head, possibly grieving over the incarceration of a loved one.

  Cold prickles walked up Amy's spine; Papa would have said someone was walking over his grave. “What do you plan to do now?"

  "I want to locate a spokesperson for the liberales—if there are any. I have to get rid of these muskets as soon as possible."

  "I'm pretty certain Alizar would know some rebels."

  "I don't trust him."

  "But Tyler! He hates the government, both here and in Mexico City. He would make a perfect connection. If he doesn't plan to organize a rebellion himself, he could at least point us in the right direction.” When Tyler showed no sign of relenting, she gave an exasperated sigh. “I'm wondering how much of what you feel is distrust, and how much is ill-will because Alizar likes me."

  He raised one eyebrow. “You think I'm jealous?"

  "What am I supposed to think? Your attitude is unreasonable."

  "Perhaps so, but I'm firm on one point: you will not tell him about the muskets.” He glared at her as if daring her to oppose him further. His eyes were the color of deep water, matching his temperament: powerful, like the Mississippi River, a constant force, surging always in one direction.

  "All right, but I think you're making a mistake."

  Jeb opened the tailgate and climbed in, then turned to give Rosa a hand up. “Folks, we need to have a pow-wow."

  Tyler hastily rolled up his map. “What have you got in mind?"

  Jeb and Rosa, their progress blocked by cargo, leaned against a barrel with their elbows folded on the top, smiling like cats caught in the cream. They exchanged glances.

  "We figured out what to do with the muskets.” Jeb paused to work his chewing tobacco around in his cheek until Amy wanted to kick him to get him started talking again.

  "What, Jeb? Tell us,” she urged.

  "Raul says he knows about a cave in the mountains where they'd be safe for a century, if you want to hide ‘em. He
once found a suit of armor there stashed by the conquistadors—"

  "Wait a minute!” Tyler glanced uneasily at Rosa. “Jeb, you didn't tell Raul about the mission, did you?"

  Jeb exhaled forcibly, showing his impatience. “What I told him was that we had two hundred muskets we wanted to hand over to any band of rebels plottin’ against the governor. Ain't that correct?"

  Tyler squeezed his eyes shut as though fighting the pain of a bad toothache. Maybe a mouthful of aching teeth.

  "What's wrong with that?” Jeb glared at him. “I told you before: the Orlandos are rebels. They might not understand what the liberales' stand for, exactly. They ain't part of an army with generals and all, but they know who's siding against the government."

  "Rosa.” Amy switched to Spanish. “One of your relatives might talk to someone they shouldn't."

  "No.” Rosa shook her head, then replied in her own language, “No one will know. Only me, Raul, and my Tío Domingo. We will hide the weapons until you want them. Until you say what to do."

  Impressed with the girl's earnestness and sincerity, Amy decided she meant what she said. But how trustworthy were her menfolk?

  Amy translated Rosa's words, then added, “I don't think she'll betray us."

  Tyler frowned. “I'm a little surprised at Jeb's initiative. Down on the Cimarron, he didn't show much concern for the success of our project."

  Jeb's look of triumphant vanished. “I've been meanin’ to discuss that with you. I'm sorry about crossin’ you the way I did. I realize now how serious you're takin’ all this. Anyway, I decided I'd better do my part.” He removed his hat and ran his hand through his rusty-colored hair. “Once Rosa and me are hitched, I can keep my eye on her family, if that's what's worryin’ you."

  "I'll tell you what my main worry is,” Tyler said. “And that's having the weapons fall into the wrong hands. Right now, it doesn't appear the troops are too well armed. You said that according to Raul there's less than a hundred of them stationed here at the presidio. Our muskets could make a difference in Mexico's war against Texas. I'd hate to be the one they thank for winning some major battles."

  Rosa must have made some sense of his words, because her eyes flashed. She spoke in English for his benefit. “Not that. I promise."

  "Well, for good or bad, it's done.” Tyler straightened and sighed deeply. “If you think they can keep a secret, Jeb, and cache the muskets safely, I guess that's the best we can do for now."

  Jeb gave him an intent look. “I won't let you down, Ty."

  Tyler hesitated only an instant. “I know you won't."

  Amy peeked outside. “So how do we move them? People are everywhere."

  "Wait ‘til after dark,” Jeb suggested.

  Tyler agreed with a nod. “I'll help work out the details, Jeb, but you'll probably have to carry them out. I'm under suspicion, remember. I should probably leave first thing in the morning for Bent's Fort. The sooner I head back into Indian Territory, the sooner they'll let their guard down."

  The familiar sense of abandonment settled cold around Amy's heart. “Do you have to go so soon?"

  "For one thing, I have to assume the Mexicans have discovered my identity—damn that Shoofly anyway! They might wonder about a U.S. Army officer hanging around Santa Fe very long. For another, I've got to send reports back east with someone I can trust. Jackson and Houston may have messages waiting for me at Bent's Fort already. Meanwhile, keep your ears open and let me know if you find out who the liberales are. If there are any."

  Jeb looked at Amy. “What do you want to do?"

  "Find a place to stay—perhaps I can open a store and sell some of our goods. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of worrying about muskets."

  Rosa glanced over her shoulder through the open canvas. “Felicité comes."

  "Oh! I'll talk to her.” Amy scrambled out of the wagon, hoping the alcalde's daughter wouldn't read guilt in her manner. What would her friend do if she suspected a conspiracy? Would she prove to be disloyal and run tattling to her father?

  "Hola.” Felicité's open expression gave no hint of wariness or doubt. “I want you to meet two friends of mine. I told them about your beautiful gowns, and they want to see them—perhaps to buy."

  The two friends, young women with flawless complexions and large beautiful eyes, studied Amy coolly. Was it natural reserve that kept them from smiling, or was it hostility?

  "I have come, also,” Felicité continued, “to invite you to my house for a party. We will have music and dancing and good food. Many important people will be there, even the governor."

  "I would love to!” Amy smiled knowingly at Felicité. “And will the charming General in all his finery be attending?"

  "Armijo? People indulge him, but he's not really a general. I doubt if he ever made the rank of Colonel. And that uniform is one of his own custom-made outfits—he also has uniforms in blue and tan."

  "Unauthorized rank and uniform? Doesn't anyone object?"

  "It doesn't pay to annoy the man, as everyone knows. Besides, he was governor once for awhile, and now he makes himself indispensable to Pérez."

  "He acts like he's enamored of you."

  "Bah! I will be no man's mistress!” Felicité glanced around. “Where is your brother and that handsome Señor O'Donnell?” Before Amy could answer, her friend hopped up on the tongue of the wagon and peeked inside. “Hola, Señor. I come to invite you to the baile. My father, the alcalde, looks forward to making your acquaintance. Señor Baker, you are invited, too."

  Amy realized suddenly that Rosa had been snubbed, and annoyance swept through her. If she hadn't remembered how important it was for her to get information about high officials, she would have been tempted to decline Felicité's invitation.

  Tyler responded to the girl's overtures as a gentleman should, but his faint smile didn't mask the worry in his eyes.

  Chapter 24

  The most tantalizing dish on the banquet table was the bowl of fresh ripe peaches. Amy cradled one of them in her palm, sniffed the fuzzy skin, and sank her teeth into the sweet flesh. As the juice ran down her fingers, she used her handkerchief to sop up the drips so as not to soil her pink gown.

  Felicité's home looked more impressive inside than out. The adobe brick walls, whitewashed with gypsum and hung with lengths of calico fabric, made the most of what light entered the tiny windows. Candles sparkled in numerous candelabras, but the corners remained obscure.

  "Are they not beautiful?” Felicité gestured toward the women guests, several of whom wore dresses they had purchased from Amy that afternoon.

  "Yes. I'm happy they were easy to fit.” Amy was also happy she had collected so many silver and gold coins for her work. It felt good to be successful at something. Especially something she loved doing.

  "Oh, look.” Felicité nudged her. “The governor has arrived. And he brought his concubina with him."

  Albino Pérez entered the hall, accompanied by not only his pretty mistress, but also an entire cortège of minor officials and attendants. He wore a long fur cape over a jacket bordered in silver. Colorful braid and a jaunty cockade decorated his hat. Amy had seldom seen so much finery on one person.

  The man glanced about with an air of detachment, his face set into a permanent expression of disdain. His lips stretched but slightly into brief smiles for certain friends before snapping back into place. Amy disliked him on sight.

  Felicité turned back to the banquet table. “I shall allow my father the pleasure of playing host to him."

  Amy searched the table in vain for eating utensils. “Why doesn't he marry that girl?” She reached into her reticule for her own folding knife to cut up the rest of the peach onto her plate.

  "He cannot; he has a wife in Mexico City."

  "Then he's a pig.” Amy reached for a handful of piñon nuts to top her fruit slices.

  Felicité giggled, then whispered in her ear. “A chivo is what he is. A he-goat. Never repeat that word aloud; it is very bad."


  Amy nearly choked, trying not to laugh.

  Felicité's father, Vicente Lorenzo, led the governor off to the other end of the long room to join Alizar and General Armijo for brandy and cigars. They occupied the few chairs in the room.

  The governor's doxy, left to her own devises, looked forlorn.

  Felicité whispered. “She used to be his housekeeper. How could she sleep with him? A married man!"

  "It's probably not her fault. Hush, Felicité, she'll hear you. Do you plan to carry your plate around all night or put food on it? And do you not use forks or spoons?"

  Felicité showed her how the thin corn cakes doubled as utensils for carrying food to the mouth. At her friend's urging, Amy tasted the soft pungent clabber cheese, and the “dry soup"—a spicy mix of boiled onions, peppers, and shredded mutton which set Amy's mouth on fire. She sampled nearly everything, but found she enjoyed most the melon and squash and corn. How long it had been since she'd eaten anything fresh from the garden!

  Afterward, she followed Felicité to the “women's” end of the room and sat down on one of the thick patterned blankets spread like a carpet over the hard-packed floor. The fact that women ate their meals separately from the men disappointed her. How could she spy on important officials if she never got near them?

  A squeaky fiddle warmed up, two guitars joined in, and the dance got under way. Accompanied by the stringed instruments, two women sang a song so vulgar Amy flushed with embarrassment. Felicité didn't comment, so it must have been acceptable entertainment for this culture.

  Amy kept her eye on the door, watching for Tyler. Jeb had agreed he would sneak the muskets away before attending the festivities, but Tyler's continued presence at the baile was supposed to lull suspicions. A foreign soldier, he reasoned, wouldn't be so apt to get into mischief in a public place in plain view.

  So, where was he?

  Guests kept arriving at the door—short, stocky, brown-skinned—none of them Tyler. The heavy feeling in her gut could mean something had gone wrong. If he didn't show up in the next few minutes, she would go looking.