Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  They would have found them earlier, but for the delay of running across Manzanal ’s calvocade - which Julian had recognized for what it was, and ordered taken. Now, the Santanista trail was cold. But the general direction the guerillas had taken could be estimated fairly easily, and it was only a matter of time before their spoor was cut again.

  Julian sent alternating halves of his men out in different directions, searching for signs, while the others rested in the rare friendly villages, or in thrown-together camps.

  Christina and Penny did their best to make each stop as pleasant as possible for the men while at the same time keeping a cautious distance from them. It wasn’t always easy. With increasing frequency, one or more of them would sit close to the women during supper and after, smoking and drinking. And talking.

  It seemed these semi-outlaws had a desire to explain their killer-motives to shocked feminine ears, particularly in light of Christina’s background. They came to tell her tale after tale of true-life horrors, stories of murder and plunder that caused the terrible tales of Manzanal’s men to fade in comparison. Most of these guerilla fighters had seen these atrocities firsthand, or even been a part of them.

  A fair-haired American had spent three years in a Mexico City jail after being captured on the ill-fated Santa Fe expedition, and his body bore numerous scars to testify to his treatment during incarcerations. The German had fought Mexicans during their second invasion of Texas in 1842 and had witnessed the results of their raiding and pillaging of every farm and ranch the army happened to pass. A young Frenchman, Rene St. Just, had watched the slaughter of his entire family by Santanista guerilla raiders four years before.

  They all had stories, each more outrageous than the first. Spoken into the quiet evening, voices flat and calm or choked with anger . . . but with sincerity backing every word. These men lived with the memory of tragedy and with hatred every day, and if it had made them into outlaws of a kind, they didn’t notice or mind. Their remembrances were justification enough for the job Julian Torrance had brought them together to do.

  Penny was horrified by these stories and ready to offer immediate sympathy to men whom she now saw in a different light. Christina found herself even more deeply affected. She began questioning the integrity of Santa Anna, and even of her own country - whose honor and chivalry she couldn’t help but hold now in extreme doubt.

  Was it true that Santa Anna, whom she knew as a showy but always and elegant man, was capable of needless murder and brutality? Was he really the ruinous monster these Texans believed him to be, or was it all some bizarre mistake? Were the horrible actions taken by him against Texas for its rebelliousness necessary - or were they inhuman and overwhelmingly cruel, forcing Texans to fight even more fiercely for their own survival? Had Santa Anna driven Texas into the arms of the United States by his own harshness?

  Julian Torrance sat still long enough one night to answer some of her questions.

  They were grouped around a small campfire hidden within a hollow, which was also where they would sleep. The supper of fried rabbit, beans and tortillas that Penny and Christina had cooked had been consumed, and many of the men had already gone off with their bedrolls. The evening was cool, as usual, and Christina sat tending the fire, a scarlet-patterned Indian blanket draped around her shoulders while Penny lay down nearby. Only Young Rene St. Just and two other insomniacs remained awake and talking.

  Torrance came to the fire with his coffee cup. He rarely joined in on the after-dinner discussions his men enjoyed in the presence of the ladies; preferring instead to stalk the camp perimeters, confer privately with his classified officers, or write messages until dropping down somewhere for a few hours of sleep. But this night he stayed.

  It might have had to do with the beseeching look on the Señora’s obviously suffering face. Or perhaps curiosity about why the strained look was there. For whatever reason, he hunkered down Indian-style beside her, poured himself the last of the strong coffee, and managed to address her without any obvious sarcasm in voice or expression.

  She took the opening he offered her and demanded answers to a stream of upsetting questions concerning the whys and wherefores of this war. Just how she expected him to give an account that was both factorial and unbiased, considering his prejudices, she didn’t know. Somehow, he, of all people, would tell her the truth.

  “What is it really that you wish to know, Señora? Whether Mexico has right behind her as she attempts to regain her far-distant lands, which - incidentally - she cannot govern . . . or whether Texas and its people are in the right as they fight for choice? That’s a purely personal thing, Señora, an opinion. If you lived in Texas, you would want your government nearby so it could take an interest in you, and provide services like schools and law courts. Certainly you would want it to do more than take your taxes and then sit back and rely on you to cultivate land and fight Indians and deal with criminals and education. But, on the other hand, if you lived in or around Mexico City . . . you would consider it your country’s duty to keep its holidays, no matter how far away, and to put down any rebellion that might arise. That is the way you feel, isn’t it?” Torrance’s gaze was sharp yet non-threatening. He held her within his attention, ignoring the others present who tried to follow his meaning.

  His words surrounded her; she gave in to them, concerned only with speaking the truth. “Of course. Although I haven’t lived in Mexico a long time, it is now my country . . . and I would not be happy were Mexico to simply give up a land so valuable as Texas, especially to America.”

  “Yet, Santa Anna did give Texas away. By treaty. To govern herself. Then he tried to take her back, by force. He raped the land in the meantime.”

  “I know, I have heard.” Her arching brows were drawn forward in confusion at the complexity of the thing. “But I am sure he never meant for America to have her!”

  “No, I am sure he did not.” Julian’s voice was soft, as were the dark eyes which rested on her with unusual feeling. He almost loved her, now, as she wrestled with the moral problems of this ambiguous land-grab war. He certainly admired her for using her brains, and for reasoning, instead of accepting what she was and what she was supposed to think. How beautiful she looked to him, with the reflections of her intense thinking shifting colors in her eyes! She was suffering, true, but she was learning and changing. How rare to find the mere ability in a woman like her . . . she had surprised him. And he delighted in surprise; such an impossible emotion these days.

  “Why doesn’t Texas remain independent, then, and neutral between Mexico and America?”

  “Mexico would gobble her up. Or England, or even France; there has been talk of that, too. Texas was debt-ridden, and incapable of sustaining a large army, before annexation to the United States. Any determined country could have had her. Why not America, since many prominent Texas citizens were once Americans anyway, and have always wanted annexation? Besides . . .” he added quietly, “America is a democracy, not a dictatorship.”

  Her head tilted sharply upward. “Santa Anna is no dictator!”

  “No? I disagree, niña.”

  She was too angry to notice the endearment. “He doesn’t even want to be called President! He is a general, nothing more.”

  “Does a general dictate a country’s policy? Does a general possess the power to single-handedly begin or end a war, raise millions in silver, and spend it as he wishes?”

  “He is a popular general,” Christina said lamely.

  “So was Napoleon. Do you comprehend me?”

  She was silent for a moment. “He is what the people of Mexico want. A strong personality. They respect that.”

  “Unchecked, a strong man can be dangerous.”

  Like you, she thought to as she stared at his unsettling face. Like Michael. Aloud she said, “Dangerous to traitors.”

  “To anyone or anything which gets in the way of personal glory. Santa Anna would not put up with a challenge to his power from any direction. It is a
character flaw.”

  “You do not know him personally, do you? He does not want to rule Mexico, he has said so quite often!”

  “Then why was he exiled to Havana? Someone in your own government believed him to be dangerous.”

  “I didn’t say he had no power, only that he - Dios!” she gave up the argument, raising a hand to rub her forehead where a headache was forming.

  Julian watched her, waiting quietly and somewhat tensely for her to speak. When she continued, it was in a low, restless tone. “Are they true - the stories I hear, about the killings, and the burning of property, and the - ”

  “Yes.”

  The word was flat and unemotional. She saw the cold implacability of his face, and believed him. I cannot condone that, Señor Torrance,” she whispered. “I am very sorry for you, and for Miguel - and everyone else in this land.”

  She stood to go to her bedroll. She would be unable to sleep, but was incapable of sitting still any longer in conversation with this man to whom she had displayed her wavering loyalties. She turned away.

  He let her go, not responding to her murmured “good night.” But his eyes followed her into the shadows, and he ignored the loud spats of comments and queries which erupted from the three men who had witnessed the exchange.

  Her apology meant nothing. She was a Santanista with a guilty conscience.

  Yet, he had enjoyed watching her labor beneath the weighty issues of responsibility and blame. He had been pleased to enlighten her about Santa Anna’s reprehensible true nature, and hopefully torture her tender conscience a little more.

  And, for some unaccountable reason, Julian found himself desiring her, right now. He wanted the use of that body whose mind struggled along so valiantly.

  He thought of her lying only a few feet away, stretched out and staring into the night with her thoughts all jumbled and uncomfortable. He imagined the pain of her sudden distrust of Santa Anna and her familiar Mexican world. He thought of the whiteness of her body. He wondered how many times Michael had taken it.

  He came smoothly to his feet, calculating how long it would take him to ride south to the nearest town in which he could buy a woman. Several hours hard riding; too long. He would have to immerse himself in the stream, a half-mile away.

  He stalked out of the firelight and vanished into the darkness.

  One man watched him go and said caustically. “The captain never has been a sociable man.”

  Chapter 17

  Impossible, now, to think that only a week ago she had passed her days in an apathetic, depressed haze, and her nights in self-pitying dreams.

  There was so much for her to do now, and so much to think about. Where, for instance, was she to acquire the freshly-baked tortillas necessary for every meal? How was she to prepare the rangy, lean game meat that one or the other of the men would provide every other day? What might she ask after supper that would start a conversation broad enough to encompass any or all of the subjects she was interested in; including as many hints about present location that could be discerned?

  They seemed to be riding in broad circles, because for all the hard days of travel, the same scenery of scrub brush, barrancas and occasional trees never much varied. They even passed through the same villages once or twice. She assumed that Torrance and his guerrillas were looking for something. But what? Mexican soldiers, or possibly even Michael Brett?

  No one would tell her anything concerning the business of the troop, or even dare to speculate on how long she and Penny might remain with them. But Christina noticed a certain shifting in the men’s attitudes; a kind of cold-eyed anticipation that warned of pending action.

  Then, on the seventh night after the women had joined the unit, Torrance held a quiet conference with all of his men, ladies excluded. Christina and Penny were awakened early the next morning, well before dawn; and instructed to prepare a cold breakfast, and then pack their horses. They would be leaving the main body of the troop here, and going in a different direction, with only Rene for company.

  Christina felt a sickening jolt at the idea of leaving the men, realizing for the first time what an odd security their familiar numbers brought her. Penny even clutched at Christina’s arm in dismay. But neither of them voiced their fears aloud, because it was Captain Torrance who was giving them orders, and who stood staring at them sardonically. Both women would rather face death than admit any cowardly weakness to him.

  Christina did ask why there were being sent off, and when they would return. But he only laughed - an incongruous thing for him to do - and said they wouldn’t have long to miss him. The troop had a job to complete, and it shouldn’t take more than a day or so. Possibly even less. In the meantime, they should obey Rene and remember he was well-armed and had orders to keep them near him on pain of his own death. He had chosen Rene to guard them for the specific reason that he was young and handsome, and surely their sympathetic feminine hearts would be unable to stand knowing he would be killed, if they ran off.

  There was no moon and no campfire, and Torrance was barely visible in the chill darkness. But Christina heard the evil satisfaction in his voice when he related his quite correct reasoning. He knew they would never try to escape Rene; knew it well enough to even explain to them why. He was a wicked devil, that much was certain, to derive so much pleasure out of outwitting them. Christina wondered if he weren’t keeping them alive merely out of a desire for amusement. If it weren’t that he ignored their existence most of the time, she might almost believe it!

  Then he did something unexpected. He reached out to smooth back Christina’s tousled hair, caressing her in the same way he had that first night. But this time, his touch held more affection that mockery. And then he bent down and grazed her parted lips with his own, lightly and carefully. As though he had been doing it for years. As though he had no idea how thoroughly shocked she was by the gesture.

  He was probably grinning as he pulled back, delighted with her surprise; it was too dark to tell. But all he said was, “Adios, Señora. Be a good guerillera and don’t give Rene any trouble.”

  There was movement in the night, and he was gone.

  *

  The Mestizo village Rene led them to was a two-hour ride east. The French boy was morose and untalkative during the first half of the trip; apparently he resented being designated babysitter, and missing out on what his friends were doing. But during their picnic-breakfast his mood improved, and by the time they reached San Andres, he was chatting to the women in his normally engaging way.

  However, he did take his job of their protection seriously. His brown eyes scanned the empty land they rode, peering through the acres of dry bush and running along the tops of the occasional barrancas.

  When they reached San Andres, they found a village consisting of the usual poor collection of huts nestled by the half-dry banks of a stream. This village was large enough to boast an adobe church, a small cantina, and even an open-air marketplace. The town played host to any wandering vaquero who might be passing by; two gaudily-dressed Mexican cowboys lounged, smoking, in the shade of a tree outside the cantina, staring as Rene led his light-skinned charges past.

  Other people paused as well to watch the rarity of European-dressed ladies traversing the town square, mounted on delicately-stepping horses. These were mainly reboza-draped women, a few children, and a handful of elderly men. Rene remembered his manners and inclined his head to everyone they passed, prompting shy waves and giggles from the younger women.

  He led them to a little adobe house tucked away in the shadow of the church. The Padré emerged outside to greet them, smiling, hot in the dark robes of his office. He hurried them inside the relative coolness of his clean home.

  Rene took the horses around the house to the lean-to which sheltered the Padré’s donkey. Father Marco, as he introduced himself, was prepared to be an amiable host to the ladies whom his amigo Señor Torrance had entrusted to his care. He fed them; or, rather, his Indian servant fed them;
he offered them wine; and, when Rene joined them, he settled down in his locally-carved chair for a comfortable gossip before siesta.

  Rene and Padré Marco appeared to be old acquaintances, and lost no time before embroiling themselves in a conversation rendered nearly indecipherable by their use of pet names and arch phrases. Christina attempted to follow it - out of politeness at first, then out of interest, as both Julian and Santa Anna’s names were used frequently. All she really understood was that Father Marco was concerned for the souls of all of his countrymen, Santa Anna included . . . but he was particularly worried about Julian Torrance, whom he had known from childhood when the boy was brought to the Mission of San Antonio De Bexar for school, and had taught. He was worried about the devil inside of Torrance. The good Padré even crossed himself as he spoke of it.

  Rene was unconcerned about devils; Santa Anna upset him more. He questioned the Father about his latest news, leading Christina to wonder what kind of Padré this man was, to be so well informed in such a small town. But it seemed Father Marco was a traveling man, serving a flock spaced out over many miles, which almost - but not quite - explained how he knew the American Army had departed Monterey and pushed on to Saltillo, the important town at a chief pass through the Sierra Madrés; and overtaken it without opposition. Santa Anna was still at San Luis Potosi; gathering more men and more money - he had not stirred to defend Saltillo. This had taken place only a few days ago.

  “Oh,” Rene said, not letting on whether he had already heard. But then he added, with a glance at Christina, “That explains why we have not yet crossed the path of our Captain’s cousin, Michael Brett.”

  The Padré nodded, also looking over at Christina. She was finding it mystifying. But, before she could ask for any clarification, Rene had changed the subject to horses, and whether there were any good ones in the neighborhood to either buy, or steal.

  Their talking continued for another two hours, until Father Marco declared it was time for a siesta. He would retire to the church, where he had a room to rest in. The ladies would remain in his home, making it their own. Rene could do as he wished.