Daughter of Fortune (45 page)

After a long period of waiting, Diego sat up. He
touched Maria’s face with his fingertips. “We may grow old yet,
querida mia.
Do you think you could love an old man?”

“I would like to have the chance.”

They sat together until the girls woke up. Maria
took them to the patio where they washed their hands and faces in
the remaining puddle of water. Back in the chapel she unplaited
their braids and with her fingers, combed through their hair until
it met her satisfaction, then rebraided their hair.

“There, you look better. Come see what I have for
you.” She handed them the slippers from the dead girls. Luz’s fit
snugly, but Catarina’s were too large.

“Erlinda would say that I will grow,” said Catarina,
tugging at the rawhide thongs and tying them twice around her
ankles. “I can keep them on.”

In the deepening shadows of approaching evening,
they ate the other loaves of bread and the few beans and
tomatoes.

The four of them sat close to each other until night
fell on the hacienda. When the shadows were dark across the chapel,
Diego got to his feet. He leaned against the bench for a brief
moment, then straightened and reached for the bow and arrows that
leaned against the wall. He slung the bow across his shoulder and
handed the quiver of arrows to Maria. She gave him the dagger.

Diego turned to Catarina. “I do not think I can
carry you this time, sister. Hang onto my belt and follow me.
Maria, can you carry Luz?”

She picked up the child, who clung to her and put
her face into Maria’s neck again. Maria kissed her. They followed
Diego and Catarina into the silent hall, picking their way through
the bodies and debris. Catarina sobbed out loud, but she did not
let go of her brother.

They hurried through the kitchen and out into the
clean air. Diego wiped Catarina’s face and held her close for a
moment.

“Was it like that ... at home?” she asked.

“It was. But we are still alive, Catarina. Mama
wanted it that way, and we must fight to stay alive for her.”

They left the shelter of the hacienda’s walls and
crossed the cornfield. “And now we will go to Santa Fe, my
sisters,” Diego said, holding tight to Catarina’s hand.

Luz clapped her hands. “And will we stay with the
Castellanos again?” she asked, dancing as Maria set her down.

Diego glanced at Maria, then back at his sister. “I
pray we will, Luz. You pray, too.”

They followed the river to the small stream that
branched off toward Santa Fe. The mountains were dark in the
moonlight and a small breeze played through the
piñons
.
Maria shivered in the cold. Diego stopped and tried to take off his
doublet.

“Here, Maria. I can take this off one side if you
can help me with the other.”

She pulled off his doublet and put it on. His
homespun shirt was torn and rust-colored now from all the blood he
had shed. It was the reddish-brown of the earth around them.

“I felt sure I would get another argument from you,”
he said.

“Not this time,
mi caballero muy elegante
,”
she replied. “I am too cold to argue.”

They walked the remaining two leagues to Santa Fe,
Maria carrying Luz, Catarina keeping up with her brother. The
eastern rim of the elevation encircling Santa Fe was dotted with
hundreds of campfires that looked like fireflies winking in a
placid summer sky. Beyond the specks of light the sky was a dull
glow.

The
villa
of Santa Fe was on fire.

“It is as I feared,” Diego said quietly. “Are we the
only Spaniards alive in New Mexico?”

Maria’s mouth was so dry she could not speak. The
same glow she had seen from the grove of trees after the raid on
the caravan now lit the sky, only this time it was greater, and
turned the night into early dawn.

“A week ago, I would have said nothing like this
could happen,” said Diego, “but now I do not know.”

The glow deepened as they approached town. To avoid
the Indians on the hills, they turned west and then south again,
skirting the burning village and coming at it from Analco, the old
Mexican Indian district that Maria had first seen so many months
ago. They walked in the protective shelter of the cottonwoods as
long as they could, then struck out across the cultivated fields,
through the high corn. The chapel of San Miguel was a flaming ruin.
As they came closer, the roof fell in with a roar, spraying sparks
into the night sky.

Maria stood still in shocked amazement, letting Luz
down to the ground. “Diego, is it all gone? All of it?” She turned
her face into his chest and his fingers were heavy on her hair.

The dried blood on his shirt was scratchy against
her face. She circled his waist with her arms, unwilling to move
another step, more afraid now than she had been during the
early-morning rampage at Las Invernadas. There was no belonging
here. There was only death.

The four stood close together watching the flames of
San Miguel, listening to the crackling of the fire in the church,
breathing the smoky smell that had been in their nostrils for days.
Suddenly Diego pushed Maria away and stalked some distance from
them. He stood with his head cocked to one side, his weight on one
leg in a gesture so reminiscent of Cristóbal that Maria turned
away.

“Listen!” he commanded.

They listened, hearing at first only the flames that
fed on neighboring huts, and the crashing of heavy timbers inside
the church. Then she heard it, arquebus fire and the boom of a
small cannon. It could only be one of the cannons that adorned the
entrance to the governor’s palace as a showpiece in better
days.

Diego returned to the little group, leading them
into the shelter of the cornfield again and out of the reflected
glow of San Miguel. “Maria, we are not alone,” he said, and his
voice was full of enormous relief.

He looked toward the eastern elevation that
surrounded the burning
villa.
“It appears that most of the
Pueblos are camping north of the city. We have not seen anyone in
Analco.”

“Yes?” said Maria, waiting for him to continue. They
were sitting in a cornfield, Indians were everywhere, dawn was
coming, and they would be discovered when the sun rose, but still
she relied on Diego to save them.

“As I see it, Maria, we have two choices.”

She smiled again, feeling a sudden reassurance far
out of proportion to their situation.

“We either leave Santa Fe now and strike out for the
lower river kingdom around Ysleta, or we stay here and try to get
into the governor’s palace, never an easy task, as I recall, even
under the best of conditions. But I fear that things are no better
in Rio Abajo. Besides, I do not think any of us would get much
beyond a league or two. We really have no choice.”

So it was to be the governor’s palace.

“How?” Maria asked.

“I think the situation calls for one bold move.
Por Dios,
Maria, you had better do as I say this time! Let
us get as close as we can to the palace while it is still dark. If
the Indians have been at their mischief all night, they will tire
with the dawn. You take the dagger, Maria, and put the quiver on my
shoulder. Ah, this is well. Girls, be silent as mice, I beg
you.”

They followed the cornfield down to the ditch
running by the side of the road, feeling the heat from San Miguel
on their bodies as they walked, bare and exposed in the light of
the flames. As they strode along, Diego reached behind him for an
arrow and nocked it to the bowstring. Maria tightened her grip on
his dagger.

When they reached the row of burned huts beyond San
Miguel, Diego ducked inside the first intact doorway, pulling his
sisters after him. Maria followed, stumbling over the charred door
frame. Diego crossed swiftly to the gaping window hole facing east
and peered out. He stood there, silent and alert, for what seemed
an interminable time. Then he turned away from the window, and with
a finger to his lips, led the way out of the ruined adobe house.
They sidled slowly along the outside wall of the ruin, toward the
governor’s palace.

The arquebus fire was louder now, but less frequent,
just an occasional accent to the crackle of the fires all around
them. For one sickening moment Maria feared that the garrison was
being overwhelmed, the riflemen at their posts dying slowly one by
one.

In the smoldering street before the plaza, two
white-painted Pueblos in loincloths with scalps dangling from their
waists stood carelessly at ease, gazing toward the plaza, hands on
hips. In a sudden motion, Diego raised his bow to shoulder level,
pulled back steadily on the bowstring, and sent an arrow deep into
the back of one of them. The other whirled around, but Diego had
already fitted another arrow to the bow and let it fly. The arrow
penetrated the Pueblo’s throat, the feathered end of the shaft
protruding in front.

The girls flattened themselves against the side of a
still-burning house while Diego motioned to Maria. “Here! Help me
pull them into the shadows! We need their weapons.”

She ran forward and grasped one of the dead bodies
under the arms, tugging him toward the house where the girls hid.
Luz shrieked in fright. Diego dropped his Indian and slapped her
with the back of his hand. Luz drew farther into the shadows, her
hand to her face, her eyes wide with shock. Catarina grabbed her
little sister around the waist and held her tight.

“See if he has a weapon,” Diego hissed at Maria. She
turned the Indian over and pulled a long knife from his scalp
string. Her hand brushed against the bloody hair, but she did not
hesitate.

“Hand it to me,” Diego ordered. He stuck it in his
belt and took out another arrow, wincing as he reached behind his
shoulder with his bandaged arm. Maria looked at his arm anxiously,
but there was no fresh blood on the bandage.

The arquebus fire dropped off, then stopped. They
hastened around the last corner before the plaza and stood gaping
at the sight before them.

The east end of the governor’s palace was on fire
and the smoke billowed across the plaza, enveloping it in a
haze-like fog as if from a riverbank. Hundreds of lndians, stripped
and painted for war, stood in the plaza, looking like the damned in
one of the lower levels of hell. Diego crossed himself and muttered
a Hail Mary, his voice a subdued whisper.

Many of the Indians sat on the ground. Some already
slept, leaning against each other. Others were silent, watchful,
their eyes on the burning palace, on the men and women inside,
beating at the flames with Indian rugs. The multicolored weavings
were a spot of brightness in the smoky, stinking haze.

She turned to speak to Diego, to plead with him to
abandon the idea and take their chances in the desert, but he
hushed her.

“We cannot turn back. It is too late,” he said.
“This is what we will do.” He looked into her eyes. His hands were
bloody from the dead Indian, and he wiped them on his shirt, still
holding her gaze. “Take the girls and walk along the rim of the
plaza, keeping in the shadows. I am going the other way. ”

Maria tried to protest. “Be still!” Diego ordered.
“Now listen to me for once, my love, and do as I say.” He grabbed
her shoulder and shook her. “I will start shouting. When I do, you
run straight for the gates. Do you understand?”

Tears streamed down Maria’s face. He shook her
again, his voice compelling. “I must have your word, Maria. The sky
is light enough. Someone inside will see you. Wave your arms and
yell as you approach the gates. Now, will you? Will you?” He shook
her again.

“I cannot leave you, Diego.”

He backed away and pulled her hands from his chest.
“You have to,” he said. Tears filled his eyes and he brushed them
away. “Just remember me,
querida.
Now go.”

He pushed her away from him and she stumbled back
against Luz. Without another look at Diego, she turned, wiped her
eyes on her chemise and took each girl by the hand, pulling them
along the edge of the smoke-filled plaza.

The Indians stood as if made of stone, hands to
their weapons, eyes on the burning palace. The smell of death rose
from their bodies, each man wearing the scalp of his former master.
Maria swallowed and hurried through the diminishing shadows with
the children. She couldn’t trust herself to look back for Diego,
but she held Luz and Catarina in a death grip. The girls raced
along beside her. Catarina’s eyes were wide with terror, but Luz’s
face was vacant of all expression, as if she were somewhere
else.

They were almost to the far side of the plaza when
Maria was jerked around by a hand gripping her arm. Without a word,
she let go of the girls and yanked the knife out of her waistband,
cutting deep into the arm that held her. When the Indian let go in
surprise, she plunged the knife into his heart, gagging at the
putrefaction that rose from his scalp-decked body. The Indian
grabbed her in death’s reflex and pulled her to the ground on top
of him. She jerked out the knife and plunged it in again and again,
sobbing deep in her throat. The Indian went limp suddenly and
bloody froth poured from his mouth.

Maria leaped to her feet, dropping the knife, and
clutched Catarina’s hand, her grip slippery. Luz had collapsed in a
heap. Maria yanked her upright.

Then she heard Diego. With the ferocious cry of the
conquistadores,
he screamed “Santiago!” at the top of his
lungs from the far side of the plaza.

The three of them pounded toward the burning
governor’s palace. The Indians had turned their attention to Diego.
She saw him out of the corner of her eye, his back to a wall,
shooting arrow after arrow.

They ran until they reached the smoldering portal.
The wooden flooring was slippery with blood and burned in places.
They fell once in a tangled heap, but they scrambled up and kept
running toward the barred entrance gates.