Stronger Than Passion

by Sharron Gayle Beach

  *

  Generals and politicians, thought Michael Brett sourly, could disrupt the course of a smooth war.

  If only they could trust each other; or, in the general’s case at least, follow orders. However, the lack of trust and the injured vanity and the stubbornness amongst the commanders of this particular war might just prove enough to give the enemy side an edge.

  Brett had gone to Camargo, by the Rio Grande, and was now with General Winfield Scott; the man appointed by President Polk to take charge of the Vera Cruz expedition which was intended to go all the way to Mexico City, and win the war. Polk had picked Scott to lead this major offensive because he did not like Zachary Taylor, currently somewhere in Mexico that he was not supposed to be. But Polk also did not care much for Scott, either, and had tried to have him displaced as leader before he even reached Mexico.

  Scott knew this, of course; and was understandably angry with the President. And they were both mad at Taylor, who had been ordered to meet Scott at Camargo, to turn over many of his troops to the new senior general for his own use - but who had never shown up. Taylor had taken his own advice over that of his superiors, and was presently occupying the town of Victoria . . . which had no strategic importance at all, according to Scott, and was a violation of orders, besides.

  Michael Brett was forced to digest all of this, in his role as discretionary aide to both generals and direct functionary of Polk’s. It was his duty to assist whichever of the generals he deemed most needed his expertise on the terrain or the culture, while writing daily or weekly reports to Polk, via Lowndes. He would rather be in a calvary unit. Or, better yet, a guerilla troop.

  At least, he supposed, as he cooled his heels outside the General’s headquarters, waiting to be received - at least he was free and under neither Scott nor Taylor’s command. This caused both generals to dislike him, but he could deal with a little hostility in return for the freedom to move and act as he pleased. And also to advise, without fear of reprisal.

  Not that all of his advice was taken, or even considered. His big tactical recommendations - to Taylor, to work with Scott, willingly sharing his men, for greater efficiency; and to Scott, not to demand so many of Taylor’s seasoned troops, lest he leave the general too weak; were ignored. But his smaller-scale advice was frequently accepted and acted on.

  Now he was about to tell General Scott that no way was he accompanying him by boat from Tampico to Vera Cruz. The journey, and the initial landing at the Island of Los Lobos, and the eventual occupation of the town, would take up far too much time. Time much better spent with General Taylor or General Wool engaging Santa Anna’s reported twenty-five thousand men in a direct fight, whenever it came. Or first - time much better spent in reconnoitering Vera Cruz and its surroundings, and escorting Christina de Sainz to her home.

  General Scott could do without him, until he was actually needed - when the general began to march inland. He would rejoin the general then. In the meantime, Christina, then Zachary Taylor and eventually Julian Torrance were expecting him.

  The general’s door opened, and one of his aides gestured Brett in. He strolled inside ready to tell the general goodbye, and be on his way.

  Chapter 22

  Michael returned to Dos Rios a few days after Christmas, tired and in an inexplicably bad mood but impatient to begin the complicated trip into Mexico, if make it he must. He might’ve called the whole impulsive thing off had it not been for Christina’s quiet, but nonetheless real anticipation, and pleasure - for once - with him. He had seen it in her eyes when she had greeted him, and he could not force himself, despite his better judgment, to disappoint her.

  But Julian had some plans in which he wanted to be involved, and it was hard to pass on them while he took a jaunt of many hundreds of miles into hostile territory to deliver a woman whom he would’ve preferred to keep safely at Dos Rios to her home - which would soon be directly in the line of the war. He felt himself to be a fool, and since Christina had turned him into one he was not happily disposed with her.

  She was eager to begin this trip, and did not balk at the harsh pace he planned for them from the start. They would travel to Port La Vaca on Matagorda Bay, a journey of only a few days, where he hoped to find a steamer willing - for money or by virtue of the identification papers he carried - to haul them down the coast of Mexico. The American blockade should be no hindrance to his intentions, but as soon as they were landed - somewhere near to Vera Cruz - the danger would begin. He hoped to safely deliver Christina, do a little reconnoitering for Scott, then rendezvous with Julian somewhere in Mexico. Speed would be a critical factor. If they were delayed for too long, Scott and his troops would be bringing the war to Vera Cruz and reaching Jalapa might prove impossible.

  Christina, thanks to her own will and the fussing of Antoinette, was well enough to undertake the journey. Her wound had healed, the soreness was minimal, and she had been riding daily to build up her strength. And although she felt she would miss Dos Rios when she left, she was as anxious to get started as Michael. It would be only to easy to remain in this placid ranch for a long while, with occasional visits from Michael or Julian to look forward to. It would be too easy to drift idly, with no responsibilities, while the killing and the war took place elsewhere. Michael was right; she had seen enough of death. If her own people were not threatened, she might do anything within her power to avoid violence for the rest of her life.

  Michael and Christina between them harried the rest of their party into readiness. It was to be small; only Penny and two ranch hands, one of them a former Mexican, would accompany them to Mexico. Michael was bringing the men along to hunt and to provide more protection. Although he had surprised Christina, on the morning of their departure, with a gun for her own use.

  “I understand that you know how this works. Keep it in your saddlebag, and don’t aim it at anything you don’t want to kill.”

  She accepted the gun, not reacting to his sarcasm. It was to be a task that tried her patience excessively in the days to come.

  They traveled through torrential rains nearly the entire way to the coast, sleeping in make-shift shelters out of doors when there was no village on their route. Michael allowed them few lengthy rests. He seemed to be pushing them against some schedule only he knew of, and his few comments to Christina - or any of them - relayed his impatience.

  Nor did his mood improve when the party finally reached Port La Vaca. Christina would have liked a day of resting, complete with two or three hot baths, while Michael made arrangements for a ship. However, a small steamer was in port, laying in supplies to take to the Americans garrisoning the Mexican town of Tuxpan. That Michael was able to bully the Captain into taking them all aboard did not surprise Christina in the least.

  She was also not surprised by his avoidance of her on the ship. During the days it took them to reach Tuxpan he scarcely spoke to her, even at dinner; and when he did his words were either sardonic or indifferent or clipped. He seemed to have made up his mind to be rid of her as soon as possible and would spare no time for courtesy; although, in truth, he never had. Yet, as the coast of Mexico sometimes glimpsed off the ship’s bow became more of a promise than an illusion, Christina began to wish he would speak to her. Now that their ambivalent association was about to end, she felt some need to qualify it - to understand it, at least. Michael Brett, her tormentor, her lover, had galvanized her life in ways inexpressible and bewildering, and now that they were about to part forever she wanted to make sense of it. But Michael remained a forbidding figure and she did not approach him.

  Penny was in a dejected state of mind and made no attempt to conceal it. She would miss Dos Rios, and repeated this so often that Christina finally spoke to her sharply.

  Penny’s regrets only made Christina realize more succinctly her own.

  If only, Christina thought as she stood alone one afternoon on the deck of the steamer, watching the shores of Mexico drift by in the distance, if only she could reac
h some compromise with Michael so that they might be friends. After all, if the war did come to Jalapa - and gossip swore that it would - she might stand in need of American friends if she were to protect her hacienda. Or was that a disloyal thought? She no longer knew. Her loyalties, her hopes, her desires - all were confused now. That was her legacy from Michael Brett.

  Her home, now so close, seemed more unreal than her memories of Dos Rios. Yet she belonged there. That was irrefutable. And Luis Arredondo . . . did she belong with him, now? Or was that option firmly closed? Yes, she believed it was. She could never marry Luis, and she would never let Michael Brett know.

  And they could never be friends, she and Michael. Enemies; but not friends.

  The steamer docked at Tuxpan, a Mexican coastal town now bursting with rowdy Americans. Tuxpan by steamer was close to Vera Cruz - still held by Mexico, and hostile; but no American steamer could put into Vera Cruz. Michael was able to hire a small vessel, however, to take them to within fifty miles of Vera Cruz and land them in unfriendly territory. They must make their way inland then to Vera Cruz and Jalapa.

  They embarked again only one day after arriving in Tuxpan. Two days later, they were left at dusk on a shadowy, deserted coast smelling of flowers and fruits. Familiar smells, to Christina - she began to believe she was almost home.

  The difficult part of the journey now lay ahead.

  Michael had ordered that they all dress in Mexican fashion, and had acquired garments in Tuxpan for their use. Christina and Penny wore the ankle-length skirts, low-necked blouses and rebozas of the local women; the men dressed in serapes and wide-brimmed hats. That first night, Christina, Penny and Thomas made camp near the beach while Michael and Ernesto disappeared to scout for horses.

  They returned two hours after dawn with three horses and a donkey. Michael only shrugged when Christina glared at him. Two of them would have to double up, and she was not surprised when Michael suggested that Penny take the donkey - it was lower to the ground anyway, she would like that - and Christina ride with him.

  “Sorry, Señora, but extra horses are hard to come by around here. I’ll try to find you your own mount when we get closer to Vera Cruz. Meanwhile, you’ll just have to sit with me for a time.”

  She half suspected him of doing it on purpose. But then she remembered his deliberate avoidance of her these past days, and decided that he probably didn’t care for their close proximity any more than she did.

  Those first hours on the horse were uncomfortable for them both. Christina, seated before Michael, tried not to lean into him, but holding herself stiff against the sway of he horse proved painful. And although he made no effort, at first, to encourage her to relax against him, in the end his arms were steadying her so often that he gave up and pulled her closer. His voice in her ear told her to stop trying so damned hard not to touch him or he’d make her walk.

  “Why don’t you walk, and give me the horse,” she’d hissed back, but he only tightened his arms and told her to be quiet.

  Penny on her little donkey was talking to Ernesto and noticed none of this exchange, but Christina was aware of her maid’s arch satisfaction with the current traveling arrangements and wished she were not. It was time for Penny to give up her hopes for a permanent liaison between her mistress and Michael, and realize that he would soon be leaving them for good.

  Although reality was almost difficult for Christina to accept while Michael was so close. Damn him for not buying or stealing enough horses! Didn’t he know that it was impossible for her to distance her mind from him in preparation for their separation when his body was so near? When she was forced to nestle against his warm chest, and was held in casual possessiveness by his arms? When the sun warmed her to drowsiness, and the movement of the horse echoed other rhythms, from other times?

  As the day wore on Christina could feel her frustrations mount. She couldn’t wait to escape from him, to get off the horse that was keeping them together in mockery when so soon they would part forever. Memories crowded in on her, taunting her in a vivid sensuality of what was past, of Michael and her own half-love. Had she ever loved him, or had desire made her think so? And could she really live without him?

  They seldom spoke, the tension in them both being too strong for words. Then Michael ordered the others not to talk either. English would carry along the dirt paths they followed much further than Spanish, and there were villages hidden all around them.

  They passed few people until Michael sought a village to sleep in when it grew dark. He didn’t fear the simple peasants; it was the soldiers they would meet on the road to Jalapa that were the real danger. For the most part, the peasants should accept his story that they were traveling to Vera Cruz to a wedding celebration of his “wife’s” sister. Penny, the only one of them who knew little Spanish, was instructed not to talk at all and to keep her red hair covered by the reboza.

  Ernesto engaged rooms for them in the posada of a village within half a day’s ride of Vera Cruz. Christina, only too pleased to get off Michael’s horse in this village reminiscent of so many others she had seen, went to her and Penny’s room without a backward glance at Michael. She determined to have a bath, to eat and to sleep without ever leaving the room and seeing him. By tomorrow, perhaps she would have her own horse to ride.

  *

  The door opened just as Penny had helped Christina out of her gown, and she had seated herself on the edge of the bed, clad in her muslin shift, while Penny brushed her hair loose from its braid. Both women turned toward the door in surprise. Somehow, neither of them were.

  “Penny, you can sleep in the room next door. I want to talk to your mistress.”

  “She doesn’t have to leave for you to speak to me.” Christina said.

  “Yes she does. Now.”

  Penny swallowed, glanced guiltily at Christina and laid down the hairbrush. She moved toward Michael and the door.

  “Penny, do not leave this room!”

  “She’s going.” He grabbed Penny by the arm and thrust her though the opening behind him. He closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded, eyes narrowed and fixed on Christina. “I hardly think, love, that we need a chaperone at this stage.”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me.” She stood, pulling her long hair over one shoulder so that it covered the front of her shift. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “No.” He said the word flatly, his eyes still settled on her almost in dislike.

  The fretfulness, the dismayed anticipation that had been with her all day erupted into anger. “Then what the devil is so important? Why can’t you leave me alone? In just a few more days I’ll be home, and you’ll never see me again. I’d like to think of you without hatred . . .”

  “You don’t hate me.”

  “I certainly don’t love you!” Speaking the word love appalled her. She could feel the warmth flood her face and did not want him to see it. She turned away from him, wishing he would leave, hoping and dreading it at the same time. What was she, what had he done to her? She no longer recognized herself or her turbulent feelings, particularly the strange, hollow sorrow that wanted to overtake her. “You can talk to me tomorrow. Please go.”

  But, instead of leaving, he had come up behind her. His arms went around her waist; his lips nuzzled her neck through her hair. She trembled, wanting to resist him, to remind him of who she was and how she expected to be treated. But Dios, his hands were grazing her breasts and she could no longer think.

  She heard him murmur, “We don’t have to talk now. I want you, Chrissie, tonight and every night until we reach Jalapa. I may never see you again then, but I intend to remember you until the day I die. And you’re going to remember me, I promise it, no matter who else has you later.”

  “That’s not fair . . .” the whisper came from her heart, hurting now in vague anticipation of pain to come.

  “I never pretended to be fair.” And he was not fair, as he removed her shift and threw it on the floor. As hi
s calloused hands clutched her possessively, feeling her willingness and her own wanting and manipulating her body until she thought she would scream from the aching. Nor was he fair as he took her, himself still nearly fully clothed, against the side of the bed before he decided to strip and join her in it.

  And he was not being fair as he awoke her throughout the night - only to leave her, smiling crookedly, at sunup to muster the men, while she searched for her shift before Penny came to dress her for the day’s long ride.

  Michael Brett was not a fair man, and Christina knew she would live to regret it.

  *

  The road to Jalapa had lost none of its familiarity. Still crowded with Indians and peasants on foot, farmers in mule-drawn wagons hauling produce, the occasional fine closed-carriage of the aristocracy and the blooded horses of their arrogant sons, it seemed no different from the last time Christina had traversed it in daylight. Except for the increased amount of military couriers who rode without thought for pedestrians or slower traffic, their right-of-way confirmed by the needs of the state.

  Christina’s first sight of the jaunty braid-laden uniforms was disturbing. Santa Anna was at last being thoroughly recalled to her mind, and her own half-buried duties to her country. Now she must consider her actions for the past five months and how best to explain them. Now she must plan for homecoming and its possible repercussions.

  She found that Michael’s eyes were on her frequently as she rode beside him, on the mare he had finally purchased; watching her for some concealed reason of his own. She never glimpsed an open desire in his gaze, but she sensed it was there; a wary, brooding kind of wanting, reluctant but powerful. Why now, when she was trying to put him out of her life,, did he insist on being the whole of it? He had always treated her with something like contempt before. Now he had no time for that, it seemed. He wanted her as often as possible before he let her go.