“When I was with General Santa Anna,” Amado said, “it was his custom to hold back a few chosen members, watching from some vantage point where he could direct the fighting and thus insure victory.”
Gomez looked him full in the face. A cynical smile touched his lips and he chuckled huskily. “General, you are a man after my own heart. I was just going to suggest that a man of my years would probably do more harm than good in a charge.”
They both laughed in Machiavellian comradeship. It brought a glow of confidence to Amado. This bunch of disaffected landholders was the most cohesive group in the whole heterogeneous rabble. Their support could well be the deciding factor as to the ultimate leadership. If Amado could swing Gomez’s favor this way….
“We will move to the flank,” Amado said. “When the bugler blows the charge, we will find high ground from which to direct the troops.”
As they edged their animals toward the flank of the cantering riders, Amado heard a snicker from his side. It was his foster-brother, like a humpbacked dwarf on his scrawny burro, his cadaverous face twisted into moronic grimace.
“In Santa Cruz it is said that the toll of the bell is not for the dead, but to remind us that we too may die tomorrow,” he giggled.
“Silence, stupid one!” Amado swept his arm up as if for a blow and Innocent cringed.
The sun was up as they rounded the end of the mesa and saw the enemy spread out before them. Governor Carbajal’s scouts had already made contact with the rebel infantry and the whole government force was faced toward Villapando with their backs toward Amado’s cavalry. Amado unsheathed Perea’s saber and raised it dramatically.
“Bugler—the diguello.”
The blast of Santa Anna’s infamous no-quarter call beat brazenly against the thin morning air. It was drowned in the wild shout of the mounted men and the squeals of their horses and the sudden thunder of hoofs. Amado reined his horse aside to join Gomez. But Innocent got in his way. Before he could force the scrawny burro out of the way the first ranks flooded around him. It excited his horse and the beast bolted. Amado tried to wheel, to turn. But the horse was running away with him; he was hemmed in on all sides by charging cavalry and their wild rush was carrying him along like a chip on the crest of a wave.
The excitement of the charge was contagious. Amado forgot his efforts to stop his horse, to pull aside, forgot his sly prudence, his old caution. He began to shout with the rest of them, spurring his horse till it was the first in line, holding his saber up like a general should.
He saw figures ahead turning, raising rifles. Far on the left flank a squad of uniformed regulars appeared, all turning at once under a command. The ragged figures in the center parted before a rush of mounted dragoons, a dozen at most, who halted in file.
Then the firing began. The first volley came from the dragoons, like the crackling of dry sticks. A horse screamed beside Amado and went down, throwing its rider. On the other side a man slid off without a sound.
“Fire,” bawled Amado. “Fire—”
The crash of guns from his own ranks deafened him. It was a terrifying sound, like the earth coming to pieces. It shocked him and filled him with a furious sort of frenzy he did not understand. He saw Carbajal’s men falling like wheat before a scythe. The Santo Domingans were distinguished by their bolsos—shell-trimmed bands that crossed their chests diagonally. Amado saw them breaking in a mass and scattering all along the line.
The dragoon officer rode back and forth through the ranks, trying to beat them back into the line with the flat of his sword. But it was no use. The stench of blood and powder and the screams of falling horses and wounded men and the sight of their enemy breaking all turned Amado’s frenzy into an exaltation. He had never known it could be like this. He was a god, like Santa Anna, a giant among men, almost upon them now, riding down upon them, standing in his stirrups and screaming like a berserk.
“Run, you pendejos! Run, you bastards! I’ve come for your heads; I’ll have them on my own sword. We’ll spit you on our lanzas like pigs at the slaughter—”
With shocking abruptness they met the enemy; like the ocean topping a sea wall they struck the broken pieces of the first line, flowing through them and over them. Amado saw a dozen Santo Domingo Indians go down beneath charging hoofs. A dragoon loomed up before him, cutting with a saber.
Amado blocked the blow, wheeling his horse to hack at the man. He saw his sword bite into the blue uniform and the dragoon fell out of the saddle. The battle had broken into little fights all about him now. Most of the arms were singleshot pieces and all had been discharged. The fighting was hand-to-hand, with every man for himself.
As Amado fought to get his rearing horse under control, he saw a Santo Domingan pull one of Gomez’s ricos from the saddle, knifing him as he came down. An Indian from Nambe rode in behind the Santo Domingan, running him through with a lance.
One of the dismounted dragoons came staggering out of the smoke, reloading a pistol. He saw the Nambe Indian and shot him out of the saddle. An instant later Amado and two others charged into the dragoon, knocking him flat and trampling him.
The remaining dragoons had reformed and were trying to hack a path through the rebels and reach their retreating infantry. They appeared out of the clouds of thinning smoke, hacking right and left with their bloody sabers, a dozen men who had survived only by discipline and desperation. And they were riding directly at Amado.
For the first time he felt fear. The shocking excitement flowed out of him and he suddenly had nothing but the impulse to run. He put the off-rein against his horse’s neck with such force that it spun like a top. The violent wheeling motion spilled Amado from the saddle. He hit with stunning force, losing his sword.
Dazedly he rolled over. He saw that a flood of his own cavalry had surrounded the dragoons. In the cloud of dust and powder, he had a dim impression of kicking horses, upraised sabers, falling men. The dragoons were completely overwhelmed.
As Amado gained his feet however, one of their number broke through. It was their colonel, streaming blood down his face. His charge took him directly at Amado and he raised his sword to strike as he went by. In the same instant Innocent, on his hairy burro, ran out of the choking dust, charging into the officer’s horse and throwing himself bodily at the man. It took the officer out of his saddle and they hit the ground tangled together. Innocent was first out of the tangle and he still had his knife. He came to one knee above the man, raising the blade.
“Innocent,” bawled Amado. The half-wit looked around, blinking stupidly. Amado strode toward them. He stooped to pick up the officer’s sword. Amado saw now that the man was Colonel Chavez. With the flat of the blade Amado nudged Innocent away from the fallen man. Colonel Chavez sat up, groaning, dazed.
“In the name of peace and justice and the insurrection, you are my prisoner, senor,” Amado said.
Colonel Chavez wiped blood from his face. His voice was ironic. “It is a pleasure to be taken by a man of such courage, señor.”
The battle was gone from about Amado now. In the distance, hidden by the settling dust and the shredding billows of powder smoke, he could still hear the shouting and clashing of sabers. But it was dying down. Gomez appeared from the direction of the mesa, his black horse picking its way daintily through the fallen bodies. He pulled up beside Amado, coughing in the smoke.
“You surprised me, señor. I thought you meant to join the general staff.”
“Then you mistook me,” Amado said. “A leader’s place is at the head of his troops.”
Gomez frowned at him, suspicion in his dissolute eyes. Then, grudgingly, he began to chuckle. “You are truly a man of destiny, General.”
Villapando came at a gallop through the smoke and the carnage, pulling to a halt on his prancing, frothing pinto. He had lost his lance and a fresh scalp hung on his belt, smearing blood all
over his thighs.
“The dogs have fled,” he panted. “There couldn’t have been over a hundred and fifty of them.” He peered closely at Amado. “Did you know that?”
“How could I?” Amado said. He nodded at his captive, still sitting dazedly on the ground. “You know Colonel Chavez. He is the senior officer of the presidial companies at Santa Fe.”
“Quite a feather in your cap,” Villapando said. “If you wish I will spread the word to your army myself.”
Amado felt the muscles of his face grow stiff at the man’s sarcasm. But he ignored it, turning to Gomez.
“We cannot stop here. We march to the capital at once.”
9
The Royal City of the Holy Faith of Saint Francis. A pretentious name for the squalid cluster of flat-roofed adobe buildings sprawled in a valley like a bowl, seven thousand feet above sea level and completely surrounded by three vast mountain ranges. In this summer of 1837 Santa Fe was already an old town. Founded in 1608, it had been the seat of a Spanish province that stretched from the Pacific to the Mississippi, from Mexico to the Canadian Territories—a vast domain inhabited by sixty villages of peaceful Pueblos and ravaged by the endless warfare carried on by the Apaches and Navajos. Through the centuries the streets of the town had been the crooked, narrow avenues for high conquest, cavalier adventure, and bloody rebellion.
This was the town reached by the insurgents on August 9, 1837. They camped on the outskirts with the bulk of their forces and the people of Santa Fe cowered in expectation of a saqueo—a plundering of the city. Governor Carbajal had escaped the battle of Black Mesa, accompanied by a handful of trusted friends. But the Indians had followed his trail and captured him at a house south of Santa Fe. They cut off his head and brought it back to the plaza with his lifeless body. For hours the square was filled with yelling, chanting fiends, carrying the head back and forth on their lances, celebrating their first victory over the people of Spanish blood in centuries. Villapando joined the frenzied ritual of triumph, tearing the striped vest and broadcloth dolman off Carbajal’s corpse and putting them on his own naked body. Amado and Gomez and the rest of the Mexicans of the insurgent army remained uneasily outside of town. They could not control the Pueblos; they were outnumbered by the Indians and were afraid to interfere with the orgy of revenge for fear the Pueblos would turn on them. Finally, however, as if the barbaric display had satisfied their need of vengeance, the Indians quieted down and drifted back to their camp outside Santa Fe.
It was then that the Mexicans in the rebel army took official possession of the capital. They made a triumphal entry, with Amado and Gomez and his landholders leading on their prancing horses. Lupe and Teresa rode into town in the same cart that had brought them all the way from Taos. It was parked in the plaza while the leaders of the army repaired to the parish church to offer thanks for victory.
A dense crowd seethed back and forth across the ancient plaza. Most of them were already celebrating the victory, drinking heavily, shouting and singing. A dance had begun in front of La Fonda, and the squeaky fiddle music mingled with the other babble.
Lupe’s husband elbowed his way through the crowd to the cart. “I’ve been talking with Alberto Maynez,” Santos said. “He manages the inn here. He tells me Don Biscara had to flee town to escape the Pueblos. But he has his men out hunting for you. They heard you were with the rebels.”
It was like the touch of a cold wind. Despite herself, Teresa looked about her in the crowd. She had known the chance she was taking when she defied Biscara. She knew what had happened to other peons who did the same thing. This was a feudal land, living by ancient customs, where the patron could play God without interference. Suddenly, catching sight of a face in the crowd, she stiffened. It was Iguala, Biscara’s manservant. Lupe saw him too and made a moaning sound.
“They have come to kill you, I know they have. Take us home, Santos, take us home.”
Santos put a hand on the big Spanish pistol in his waistband, telling Teresa, “You will be safe among us, chiquita.”
Iguala had caught sight of Teresa now. His glittering eyes were fixed on her face. But he had seen Santos too, and made no move toward the cart. Then, across the square from Iguala, Teresa saw the narrow, reptile face of Garcia. Lupe clutched Teresa’s arm.
“Come back to Taos. You can’t stay here.”
The fear seeped out of Teresa before the cold core of her old resolve, and she shook her head slowly, eyes still on Iguala. She knew she would not be safe from Biscara in Taos. This had proved it to her. Though Biscara was a gachupín—a man of the hated pure Spanish blood—and had fled Santa Fe to escape the vengeance of the Pueblos, he still had powerful friends in Rio Abajo. It was problematical whether he would be expelled after things had quieted down.
It was all or nothing now. In order to retain her safety she had to stay with the revolutionists. As they stood or fell, so she won or lost.
Iguala and Garcia remained in the crowd, making no move toward her, till Amado and Gomez and the other leaders emerged from the parish church, crossing to the Palace of the Governors. A man circulated through the crowd, telling the women that Gomez had asked for some servants to cook and care for the officials who would be residing in the Palace. Teresa eagerly joined the others who were going, knowing that inside the walls she would be safe from Biscara’s men.
Santos and Lupe accompanied her across the square. Teresa looked back once, to see Iguala standing against the wall of La Fonda, watching her with those fixed and glittering eyes. Then the black shadow of the portal swallowed her, and she was inside the Palace of the Governors.
This ancient structure was probably the most fabulous building north of Mexico City. For over two centuries it had sprawled like a sullen watchman on the north side of the plaza. Its windows were narrow and secretive slots in adobe walls four feet thick—walls burned by the sun and beaten by the wind till they were tawny-gray as weathered buckskin. At either end were the two frowning towers, with the military chapel in one, the dungeon in the other. Along the front of the building for over three hundred feet ran the inevitable portal—a covered arcade whose roof was supported by time-silvered pine posts planted twelve feet apart. Behind them, in the dim rooms that had been the seat of so many intrigues, were the two curiosities unique to all of New Mexico—the glass in the windows and the festoons of Apache ears strung on the wall. Teresa had heard of these ears, trophies gathered by the governors in retaliation for the myriad scalps taken by the Indians. They were the first thing she saw upon entering the Palace—repugnant, bizarre, somehow symbolizing the end of the whole nightmarish trail that had led her here. Teresa was only one of a dozen forgotten women who crowded curiously about the half-open door of the council chamber as the leaders of the revolt gathered to elect their first officers. She knew that Amado had made himself popular by his deeds of the last few days. Yet the mass of the insurgents were still Pueblos, and he was not one of them. Perhaps this was what swayed Gomez to give his support to Villapando. And when the election was over, Villapando was governor.
After hours of haggling over details, the meeting broke up. Amado was first out. He was tired and haggard looking, the dust of open country still caked in a silvery film on his broad face. The folded-down tops of his jack boots rustled against his calves and his spurs jingled mutedly as he pushed his way through the gawking crowd of women and retainers. This had been a day of defeat for him, and he showed it. She went after him.
“Nicolas, did you make arrangements—?”
He waved irritably. “Don’t bother me now. I did what I could. I suggested to Villapando that we needed someone to manage the servants. He didn’t say yes or no. I suppose that means you can stay.”
He tramped out the door and into the patio at the rear. She stopped by the door. Behind her she heard a new babble as more men came from the council room. She turned to see Villapando, halted by
the door. Beneath the striped vest and dolman his legs were like stanchions of sculptured bronze. It seemed to underline the travesty of these savages in this building. For just a moment, as he stood among the jabbering group, he turned his eyes toward her.
Then he swung his broad shoulders and disappeared back into the council chamber. But the look remained, like a tingling pressure against her body. He had taken her all in—her breasts, her belly, her thighs—and it made her feel as naked as the first woman on earth.
* * * *
As soon as they were established in the Palace, Amado sent for his wife at his ranch at Lemitar and Gomez brought his wife from Taos. Doña Beatriz Gomez arrived first, wheeling into the walled compound behind the Palace in a black coach with the armorial cipher of her house on its dust-spattered doors. From its dusky, plush-seated interior stepped a voluptuous woman in her early twenties. Her rebozo was of flame-colored crepe de Chine with a fringe so long it swished at her ankles. As was traditional with the women of Santa Fe, when in public, this vivid shawl was arranged over her head and shoulders and drawn across her face so that only her eyes were visible.
“Your husband is busy in the assembly,” Teresa told Doña. “He told me to make you comfortable.”
The woman nodded without speaking and Teresa led the way to the quarters opening off the patio. The officers of the garrison also lived in the huge compound behind the Palace. One of them was lounging at the well—Captain Emilio Uvalde of the militia—a lean, dark-faced man with a reckless smile and brooding lips that gave him a way with women. As they passed he smiled crookedly at Doña Beatriz. The woman met his gaze for just a moment, but Teresa saw her eyes grow wide and bold with a sudden unveiled need.
And in that single look Teresa understood some of the frustration she had seen in Gomez.
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