Juan didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Where did you get that horse?”
“A federal officer traded him,” said Antonio.
“For that mule.” Angel nodded toward Moses whose sly expression gave the impression he had a scheme to pick their pockets.
“A mule?” Juan looked skeptical, and who could blame him? Rico trading Grullo for a mule? Not likely. “Was the officer’s name Federico Martín?”
“It was,” said Angel. “He rode with us for a time.”
“If you’ve harmed him, I will kill you, here and now.”
“We intended to hang him,” said Angel. “But he pleaded so pathetically for his life we let him go.”
Juan knew that Rico would never plead for his life. He may not have recognized Angel, but he knew when he was being needled. He addressed his question to Antonio. “Where is he now?”
“The last time we saw him he was heading for the capital to find the Englishwoman.”
“On the mule,” added Angel.
“I’ll buy Captain Martín’s horse from you.”
“You can’t afford him,” said Angel.
“I will give you two cases of cartridges and my sorrel.”
Angel remembered Juan’s reputation at Tres Marías. The soldiers said he could obtain hard-to-find supplies in a hurry. The impossible ones took a little longer. She pulled Antonio and José aside for a conference.
The major’s big sorrel gelding could not compare with Grullo, but he was a cavalry officer’s mount and better than average. They had shot a lot of bullets at el gobierno’s fleeing army. They all agreed that they needed the ammunition. José made the deciding argument. “God has sent us this gift. We cannot refuse it.”
Angel turned to Juan. “Show us what you have.”
He led them to a stone building and slipped the guards some money. Inside, wooden crates of weapons and ammunition were stacked to the ceiling with narrow aisles among them. Angel had never seen so much ammunition.
Juan pried the lid off a crate in the rear. Inside nestled seven-by-fifty-seven Mauser cartridges loaded into stripper clips.
“How many rounds?” asked Angel.
“Five rounds in a clip, a hundred and sixty clips per box.”
As a child Angel had avoided school, but she had learned addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division by counting out ammunition to share among her eighty men. Not all of them carried Mausers, but even so, this would only give each of them about four clips, or twenty cartridges.
“Not enough.”
“Three crates.”
“Not enough.”
Antonio started to say something, but José elbowed him and he closed his mouth.
“We can’t chance two trips.” Juan looked exasperated. Maybe he had expected the rustics to be an easier sell. “There are three of you. That’s one crate each.”
“You can carry the fourth box.”
“Oh, no.” Juan backed away as if to dissociate himself from them here and now. “I’ve taken a big risk already.”
“Ahoga en poco agua. He drowns in little water,” Angel muttered as she turned on her heel and headed for the door.
She had come to the conclusion that he would let her leave when he called her back.
“Three crates and a box of thirty-caliber centerfires for your Winchester.”
“How many rounds in a box?”
“Two hundred. I’ll bring them to your camp tonight.”
Angela calculated. Nine of her men carried the same 1894-model Winchester. One box meant only twenty cartridges for her and each of them. “Two boxes of centerfires.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Good, day, Major.” She continued toward the door.
“Bueno, pués. It’s a deal.”
Angel, Antonio, and José carried the crates back to their camp. Juan came at dusk to deliver the sorrel gelding and the Winchester cartridges, which were disguised in a feed sack.
Saying good-bye to Grullo was more difficult than Angel had expected. She would not likely have the chance to ride such a horse ever again. As Juan started to lead him away, Angel asked one more question.
“Do you know General Miguel Sanchez?”
“He commands artillery for General Villa in Sonora.” Juan stared at her. “Do I know you, Lieutenant?”
“No sir.” Angel saluted.
As Juan left with the stallion, she muttered, “You don’t know me at all.”
The women’s dresses hung on them in more shreds than the average, but their shawls were what caught Angel’s attention. One was made of the usual blue cotton. The rest were of frayed and faded black wool. They all wore them pulled forward to hide their faces. The one in blue was obviously with child.
The thirteen women had arrived with the men from Coahuila, but they did not act like soldaderas. They huddled around a cookfire near the Carranzista campsite, but they did not flirt with the men. The soldiers, in turn, left them alone, which was also unusual.
Angel filled a pot with beans, picked up a stack of tortillas, and walked over for a closer look. When she approached, the women recoiled and covered their faces completely.
“I brought food, little mothers.” A better look at the black shawls revealed who they were. Or had been. “Are you the holy sisters from the convent?”
“Yes.” The oldest one spoke for them. “We will return there tomorrow.”
“I’m Lieutenant Angel.” Angel took off her hat and shook out her hair. “Mother Merced gave us shelter when el gobierno was trying to kill us.”
“Angela?” The woman in the blue shawl let it drop onto her shoulders. “My daughter, Angela?”
“¡Mamá!”
Petra Sanchez stood up, though her watermelon belly made it difficult. Angel threw her arms around her. She did not ask where her mother had been or what had happened to her. If Petra Sanchez chose to tell her, she would listen, but she would not ask. Not ever.
Petra pushed the hair out of her daughter’s eyes. It was a familiar gesture that Angel had missed more than she had realized. The nuns moved over to make room for both of them. Angel took her mother’s hand in both of hers. It felt smaller than she remembered it.
“You look thin, child.”
“I am well, Mother. Many of our men are here with me—Plinio, Antonio, and the others.”
“And your father?”
“He’s with Villa’s army. When General Zapata’s forces have taken Cuernavaca I will come for you at the convent. We can go north to find him.”
“No, my daughter.” Petra Sanchez put her other hand on her swollen belly, as if to protect it. “I will stay with the nuns.”
Angel imagined how her father would react when he saw that his wife was carrying another man’s child. Staying with Mother Merced and the Carmelites was probably the best plan.
“Will Mother Merced let the child stay?” she asked.
Petra’s voice was barely audible. “All of us are with child.”
Angel returned to her own camp long enough to retrieve her mat and blanket. She also took a trenching shovel and the largest tarpaulin. When her men protested, she only glared at them. Antonio insisted on hobbling along on his homemade crutches to help her erect a lean-to for the nuns. Angel dug a ditch around it to keep out water from the night’s rain. By doubling up on the mats, all the nuns could fit under the shelter.
For a long time Angel lay on her side with her head cradled in the crook of her elbow and listened to her mother’s quiet breathing.
55
Gifts by Coincidence
Dictionaries define despair as the absence of hope.
Grace had known sorrow in her life, but she probably never had used the word “despair” in a sentence. Even when she learned that General Rubio had issued an execution order for Rico she had had the consolation of hope.
Now despair engulfed her. It stung her eyes like bees. It echoed in her skull like the tolling of funeral bells. It turned breath to hot tar in he
r lungs.
The tough, fist-sized muscle that was her heart ached from wrestling with it. Despair seeped into her bones and replaced them the way minerals transformed logs into stone. Like petrified wood, she looked the same, but the news of Rico’s death had fundamentally and forever changed her.
The hard rain turned to a drizzle then stopped. The waning moon ventured out from behind the clouds. Water glittered like diamonds in the banana trees in the courtyard. Distant rifle fire started up again.
Grace heard singing, in English. And it was headed her way.
I may die out on the ocean,
Or be shot in a gambling house brawl;
But if you follow to the end of my story,
You’ll find a blond was the cause of it all.
Lyda sat bolt upright on her mat like a newly revived Lazarus with places to go. “Gracie, Annie, wake up. Jake’s come back.”
Everyone slept in their clothes these days. Lyda tried to straighten out hers as she ran, barefoot, toward the front gates. Annie pelted along behind her.
“Be careful,” Grace called after them. “The paving stones are slippery.”
The sound of her own voice startled her into stirring. She followed slowly on legs that felt as if she had borrowed them from an invalid.
Lyda and Annie heaved the oak beam out of its iron brackets and pushed open the heavy doors. The moonlit rectangle framed four pack mules and Jake on horse back. He ducked so the crown of his Stetson cleared the door frame and rode inside leading the mules.
He dismounted, picked Annie and Lyda up in turn, and whirled them each around. For once he dismissed decorum. He kissed Lyda long and longingly before he set her down. She surveyed the empty street outside the Colonial’s gates.
“Did you come alone?”
“Yes, darlin’. One uprising. One Ranger.” He saw Grace and touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Mornin’, Miz Knight.”
“Good to see you, Mr. McGuire.” The demands of courtesy returned Grace to the here and now, at least for the time being. Blessed are the amenities, she thought. They grease the wheels of life.
Odd to think that commonplace civilities could revive Grace when sympathy couldn’t. But then, Jake didn’t know that condolences were on the agenda. Food topped his list.
“I could eat a plate of horse shoes smothered in María’s green chili sauce.”
“We have beer,” said Annie. “The Hoffmans brought it.”
“Beer sounds mighty fine.”
Annie ran to fetch it. Socrates arrived with his pistol and machete in hand. Jake handed him the lines for the horse and mules and he led the animals away.
“Is beer all you have?” asked Jake.
“No,” said Lyda. “We have bananas, too.”
Jake nodded toward the drag mule’s hindquarters sashaying down the corridor toward the rear courtyard. “That critter carries a load of vittles. We can have some for breakfast, but we’ll need the rest on the trail.”
“What trail?” asked Lyda. “The rebels control the road to Tres Marías.”
Jake turned to Grace. “I thought maybe you could make a deal with Zapata’s apostates, Miz Knight. Seein’ as how you’re chummy with Lieutenant Angel’s crowd.”
Lyda saw distress flare in her friend’s eyes. “Angel’s mob hanged Rico Martín.”
Jake took off his hat and bowed to Grace. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Cap’n Martín was the best sort of fella, true-blue and four square.”
Here come the condolences, Grace thought. She took cover behind amenities.
“How did you get through, Mr. McGuire?”
“I came from Toluca, west of Em Cee. The Toluca road ain’t as infested with hooligans yet. On the way here I met a lot of people heading north on it. Looks like your whole town is skedaddling. Come sunup we’ll pack your possibles on the mules.”
“I’m not leaving,” said Grace.
“With all due respect, ma’am, you might as well come along peaceable-like. I will hog-tie you and throw you onto the back of a mule if need be.”
Grace believed him. Lyda had shared with her Jake’s rule about relations with the fair sex. It went, “Never bluff when you’re dealing with a woman.”
With a nod of thanks, Jake accepted a pint-sized mug of warm beer from Annie. He glanced at Lyda’s mat and rumpled coverlet. “I’ll bed down here in case trouble comes knocking. I suggest you ladies get some shut-eye. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
Grace started for the stairs, but stopped when she reached the deep shadow at their base. She sat on the bottom step and fought back tears. She was surprised that her heart went on beating and her lungs kept filling with air. If life was determined to go on she needed to consider her options.
She could try to hire men to guard the Colonial in her absence, but she could think of no one trustworthy. She could ask Colonel Rodriguez for protection, but he had more important duties. Or she could refuse to go tomorrow and hold Jake off with her shotgun when he tried to carry out his threat to hog-tie her.
Grace did not believe in the existence of an all-powerful God. She accepted coincidence and randomness as the ruling forces in the universe. God had not caused this war. God had not taken Rico from her. Neither had God sent Jake McGuire, whose snores now echoed along the corridor. Coincidence accounted for the fact that he had arrived to help her and Lyda when they most needed it.
Grace finally admitted to herself that dying in the attempt to protect her hotel would accomplish nothing. Coincidence had sent her the gift of Jake and his mules. She should accept it graciously.
Grace meant to go to her room under the eaves, but her feet carried her to the ballroom instead. She sat on the piano bench and folded back the lid from the keys. She did not have to see them, which was just as well. Darkness and tears made sight impossible.
She played and sang much more slowly, softly, and sadly than either Mr. Gilbert or Mr. Sullivan had intended.
A pallid and thin young man,
A haggard and lank young man,
A greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery,
Foot-in-the-grave young man.
Grace tried to carry on calmly, as if her beloved city weren’t exploding into flames around her. After the fourth artillery salvo from the hill just outside town, she only flinched when the big guns went off. Even so, she found it hard to pack for a journey into uncertainty with the racket of battle growing louder by the hour. What finally caused her to panic was not gunpowder, but a sheet of paper.
She and Lyda sat in her apartment stitching paper pesos into the hems of their riding skirts. While she was at it, Grace made a drawstring bag she could hang inside her skirt to hold her most cherished belongings. Now that existence had narrowed to a dash for life, she was struck by how few possessions really mattered.
She included the deed to the Colonial, the daguerreotype of her parents, and a photograph of Rico in his dress uniform. She always wore the locket he had given her, but she put it in the bag to keep it out of sight. Then she realized that her favorite letter was not with the others in the rosewood box on her bureau. She searched frantically through her drawers, sobbing as she threw clothes on the floor.
Lyda tried to calm her. “Gracie, what are you looking for?”
“The letter.” She looked under the bed and ransacked the sheets and coverlet.
“What letter?”
“This one.” Grace found it under her pillow. She sank to the floor amidst the heap of bed linens and held the paper to her heart. “I thought I had lost it.”
“The maids don’t miss much, and you know how superstitious they are.” Lyda sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “I reckon they noticed that particular letter was important to you and they put it there to make your dreams happy ones. What does it say?”
Grace unfolded it, but she didn’t have to read it. She had memorized the poem that Rico recited whenever he returned from duty. One of his British poets had written it.
Thou
art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.
She got as far as “To live” when a weary bullet wobbled through the open doorway from the balcony. It hit the floor and rolled to a stop at their feet. They both drew their knees up to make themselves as small as possible.
“Shake a leg, ladies,” Jake shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “We have a lot to do before sundown.”
Grace, Lyda, and Annie packed their valises. María and Socrates stowed silver, china, and other valuables in a crawl space hidden under the eaves. Then Socrates filled jugs from the roof cistern.
Jake trimmed the hooves of the mules and horses and made sure the saddle cinches were sound. He assembled medical supplies and sacks of grain. With this many people needing mounts only two of the mules would be available as pack animals. As members of the house hold piled their baggage in the lobby he warned Grace and Lyda that forage for the animals took priority. Most of their belongings would have to stay here.
By afternoon the Zapatistas ringed the city and a shroud of black smoke draped it. Bullets landing in the courtyard forced Jake to tether the two horses and five mules in the corridors. Annie occupied herself shoveling up what they deposited and cutting armloads of grass from the small park outside the back gate. She and Jake bundled the grass as fodder for the journey.
Socrates offered to hide the cantina’s supply of beer, wine, brandy, and champagne, but Grace had a better idea. At twilight, ignoring the distant noise of fighting, she walked outside where indio refugees huddled against the buildings surrounding the zócalo. They were preparing to spend another perilous, rainy night in the open with their meager bundles of worldly goods.
The men pulled the broad brims of their hats down to shield their faces. The women wrapped themselves and their babies in their shawls. Their older children slept curled up between them.
Grace invited them all inside. They followed her in a shabby parade and gathered, stoic, sloe-eyed, and silent, in the candle-lit cantina. They accepted the glasses of spirits with such gentle dignity that Grace wondered how they could have come from the same stock as the men slaughtering each other not far away.
Last Train From Cuernavaca Page 32