Stronger Than Passion

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Sharron Gayle Beach 2012

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Mexico

August, 1846

Michael Brett was completely unaware of the trap until his horse carried him right into it, and he saw the afternoon sun’s rays glinting off the gun barrels hidden high in the rocks before him.

He hesitated for a paralyzed second, unsure whether to back out of the narrow arroyo and run like hell - or to spur his horse and ride through the gunfire, hoping the ambushers were poor shots.

This was bandit country, the little-used trail he traveled perfect for low-profile riders; such as the many thieves that plagued Mexico, and himself. Yet he knew Mexico well enough to be unshaken by the frequent little surprises such as this; particularly in uneasy times like these, with American troops invading the country from Texas, and the populace either angry, or hysterical, or uncertain . . . or all three. Any fool, particularly a Yanqui traveling alone, should be expecting trouble.

With a convincing Comanche yell, he stuck his spurs into his horse’s sides and the gelding bounded forward, pounding the hard ground with its hooves. As he rode he fired his pistol, hoping to startle the bandits into missing him when they shot their guns.

And shoot they did. The guns the bandits used were old muskets, probably military issue at one time, and, he hoped, inaccurate. Michael made it halfway through the canyon without a scratch, three-fourths of the way through, only the rocks and the dirt around him struck, his horse barely nicked by a ricochet . . . and then, just as he reached the open countryside beyond the canyon walls, he was hit. The ball thudded into his chest or his shoulder, he couldn’t tell which - or care, at that point. He had to keep moving. He spurred the horse again and they were off across an expanse of flatland towards higher ground, and he didn’t look back to see if anyone was in pursuit. He figured they would be, having expended this much effort on the attack, and assuming he had taken at least one shot. Which, unfortunately, he had.

It was late in the night, the moon slivered high over the tree tops, the ground below the tired horse made hazardous by unseen rocks and underbrush. Brett figured he was still headed in the direction of Jalapa, a town large enough that it just might take him in if he claimed British neutrality, and his original destination anyway. Whether he would actually get there was anyone’s guess. He had eluded the bandits, but the wound had weakened him, perhaps fatally. Brett was alone and it was cold in these high altitudes, even in August -
and he was still, despite his own bandaging, losing blood. He was barely able to sit his horse. And the fatigued horse was barely able to continue.

Yet frustration kept him conscious, the frustration of knowing he had a job to do that was vital. A job only he could do. Santa Anna kept him going, the man whom he hated. Or rather, it was Santa Anna’s letters, the ones the general wrote to the lady at the hacienda near Jalapa . . . the letters that Brett had to know about. President Polk of the United States had charged him to know.

His body felt empty and light, drained of everything except the tingling that sporadically afflicted his limbs. He leaned sideways in the saddle, then jerked himself upright - he must remember to grip his horse. He laughed aloud, thinking suddenly how funny it was that he had almost fallen off his horse. Hadn’t he ridden to the hunt since he was six years old? Wasn’t he the one who had goaded his own brother, Robert, into taking a jump that had ended up crippling the young man, just to prove who was the better horseman? If he fell off now, would he be crippled, too?

He thought that was very funny. His laughter was the only human-made sound in the night, although a distant animal yowled in response. But sharp pain from the wound stopped his laughter, turning it to coughing, instead.

The horse plodded on, climbing the steepening hills, occasionally stopping and having to be prodded to move again. The night air began to smell of fruit, and fruit trees . . . and perhaps water, because the horse quickened its step. The horse moved into a clearing of some kind, with another grove of trees just ahead. And buildings; dark and lifeless.

He had probably emerged on somebody’s estate, Brett concluded with effort. Some great landowner who had no love for Gringos, even if they did speak with a vaguely British accent and were called Lord in other parts of the world. Would they shoot him if they found him here - shoot him for an American? Well, he was an American now, wasn’t he? No. He was a Texan, he had been for years. But Texas was now part of the United States. So what did that make him?

Dead, if he didn’t exert himself to move on. But his legs didn’t seem to be able to urge the horse forward anymore. The dim night grew darker suddenly, except for a vivid sprinkle of lights which emerged and faded somewhere, and he felt himself tilting again. He slid off the horse and hit the ground, landing on cold grass. He tried to rise, but it was no use - he was going to stay.

He thought again of the letters, of the idea that Santa Anna might have discussed his plans for a counter-invasion of the United States in them. He remembered the single intercepted letter, the one in which Santa Anna regretted he could not make a certain Señora Empress of the U.S., because he was already married . . . the one in which he had referred to others. Where were these letters? Was he near them now? He had to get them to Julian, to Lowndes . . .

He had to sleep. Michael Brett slid gently into unconsciousness as the Mexican sky slowly lightened to dawn.

Washington, D.C.

The letter trembled in President James K. Polk’s hand; the only visible sign of his fatigue, or anger, or both.

The gentleman who sat watching Polk remained silent. It was not the first time he had observed the President perusing this missive since its interception several weeks ago, and would probably not be the last: its mystery remained. Outside, the pink petals of a flowering tree drifted idly past the windows, torn loose in a summer gust - in sheer and innocent contrast to the intrigue and politics about to be discussed in the interior of the White House.

Finally, Polk put the letter down on his desk-top and looked up.

“Mr. Lowndes, in view of the fact that your agent is now in Mexico investigating the implications of this piece of paper - kindly clarify them once again. I confess to a certain anxiety regarding this project. I’m sure that you are aware of the difficulties I’m having with my Cabinet, and with Congress itself, over this war ... I cannot afford a misstep in my dealings with Santa Anna.”

Geoffrey Lowndes cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, Sir, a misstep may have already occurred in our allowing Santa Anna to leave his exile in Cuba and return home to Mexico through our blockade. Particularly in light of this letter - which is, of course, written to a lady we suspect to be Santa Anna’s former mistress. If, as Santa Anna hints in the letter, he actually does plan to lead Mexico’s armies in an invasion of the United States, then it would have been better to have left him to rot in Havana.”

“Santa Anna is well known for exaggeration and conceit,” Polk said. “If this letter turns out to be no more than that, and your man gets caught red-handed disturbing the peace of Santa Anna’s mistress, then the resulting scandal might not only jeopardize any dealings with Mexico but damage my standing here, as well.”

“I am still convinced that Mr. Brett will discreetly handle any situation that might arise. You are aware that he has ably assisted our interests before, particularly in matters concerning the annexation of Texas. And I believe he made a favorable impression on you before he was dispatched to Mexico.”

The President nodded, then steepled his hands before him and looked away.
He had only met Brett once, in this same out-of-the-way room, three weeks ago. The man had struck him then as being extremely resolute in purpose, his light eyes in a dark, aggressive face holding a firm contempt of Santa Anna that seemed deeply rooted. Brett had stated boldly that Santa Anna would never seek to sway the Mexican Congress to accept the annexation of Texas to America, as he had promised Polk, because waging war would be his roadblock to power in Mexico. Perhaps, Polk thought bitterly, Brett was right, and Santa Anna had duped him. But then, what did he know of Brett? Lowndes had mentioned the man was a Lord in England; yet he called himself a Texan. Polk couldn’t help but wonder about the motivations of a man who would risk his safety voluntarily, with little to gain, for a country not his own.

However, it was far too late now for any doubts. He had only called this meeting with Lowndes, his aide on certain secret matters, for his own reassurance.

He looked at the younger man. “I hope, Geoffrey, that your confidence in Brett is justified. The course of this war may well rest on his actions.”

The young woman who sat before the delicately-carved French writing desk should have been busy with the papers cluttering its inlaid top. Unaccustomed to idleness, she nevertheless found herself staring absently out the window, over a tumbled garden of roses, the color red predominating; and across other low-lying shrubs to the mysterious heights of the Sierra Madrés mountains.

Mexico City lay just beyond those peaks, she mused, her proudly-boned face tilted, as if she were listening to fading strains of music playing from the gilt ballrooms of the capital. Perhaps it was time, she thought, to ease her self-imposed duties to the hacienda, and end her lonely seclusion of two years.

Perhaps she would attend the grand reception given by Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, which she had been invited to only this morning.

She fingered the thick engraved invitation, thinking it would be amusing to see him again, to dance again. Her full bottom lip curved upwards in a secret smile as memories of her crowded former life rushed in, with all the winsome charm of the past.

Abruptly, the serenity of the cool morning sanctuary as broken. Urgent, unaccountable tapping sounded on the study door. Christina de Sainz y Sequenza Cabra, startled out of her unusual reverie, replaced the invitation she had been unconsciously holding on her desk, and twisted in her chair.