Stronger Than Passion (49 page)

It wasn’t as though she weren’t sympathetic to the panic of her fellow citizens. Yet she knew, as they didn’t, that the American army would not bayonet them all in their beds. And besides, the Mexican government was responsible for this war, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t Santa Anna and the others like him left Texas alone in the beginning . . . instead of forcing their superior army on the frontiersmen who had resisted them, crushing them so spitefully that America had annexed Texas and pledged to its defense? Now Mexico had a real war, and it was coming home to roost. The inevitability of it seemed obvious to Christina, as she reclined on a French fauteuil placed near a window in her bedroom, hoping her stomach would keep down the chicken she had eaten a few minutes earlier, and trying not to think of the fighting that was taking place a few miles away . . . so close she could hear the cannonading. If only the Americans would win swiftly, and decisively. Or else frighten Santa Anna into surrendering! If it would only happen soon, with as little bloodshed as possible, so that the war would be over and she could leave this place - where she was virtually, and of her own free will, imprisoned! How odd it seemed that she should think of the Americans as liberators, rather than invaders. And how peculiar that she should suspect Luis Arredondo, who had once been her dearest friend, of not intending to honor his promise of letting her go if she wished.

She had no real evidence on which to base her fears; perhaps she was imaging things, after all. Yet, Luis had begun to speak of a forthcoming trip to the country on which she was included, and when she informed him that she would retire to her hacienda after the war, he had replied that they would discuss it later. And he still referred to the idea of their marriage, despite her reminders to the contrary. He had also begun to stare at her, when he visited her in her room, in a way that was disrespectful and disturbing, almost calculating - as if he were keeping secrets from her. And no matter how she attempted to ignore or dismiss these annoyances, she was unable to forget them. They had begun to loom in her mind as large as any fears she had ever had.

Yet, she was too weak now to do anything about them. Once - only a couple of months ago, in fact - she would have packed her clothes and left, taking Penny with her. She would have gone to another family of her acquaintance, or to a convent, or even attempted to reach Jalapa. But now she so ill, and the American army was only nine or ten miles away . . . this was no time to move! She could only concentrate on getting well, so that when the fighting was over, she would be ready to go. And she should prepare, secretly, to leave without Luis’s knowledge.

Perhaps she needed a weapon. A gun, preferably, but even a knife would be better than nothing!

She called to Penny, who was in her dressing room searching for the right ribbon to mend a dress. Penny, with her craft mind and her distrust of Luis, would manage to procure some kind of weapon. Or at worst, she could take a message to the British Embassy, to John Locklyn . . . who would probably be delighted to loan her a gun . . .

But John Locklyn, and every staff member of the embassy, was busy the day that Penny attempted to reach him. It was August the twenty-first, and yesterday the American army had won two bloody battles which had driven Santa Anna inside the city to the National Palace in despair, with no other option than to propose a truce. The Americans were camped outside the city gates; halted and willing to make peace if Santa Anna and the Mexican Congress proved cooperative. The British Embassy had been asked, as before, to mediate the truce. Every official was working frantically on reports of yesterday’s action, and on speculations about whether England should play a firmer role in the conflict, now that it seemed America was definitely winning . . .

Penny pilfered the kitchen and presented Christina with a small, easily hidden knife, telling her that it would not do much good, but might serve to frighten one of the mercenaries away should one of them lose his head and accost her. Christina thought grimly that she was not afraid of being accosted; she was terrified of being forced into the countryside with Luis, and of remaining there until she lost her freedom forever by marrying him! One little knife was not likely to stop Luis’s plans, but perhaps it could slow them down a bit, until -

Until what? She wondered frequently as days of negotiations between Mexico’s representatives and America’s commissioners drug on without any definite resolution except a temporary truce.

Her nerves began to wear even as her illness retreated a little. She was able to eat better now, the nausea occurring less often. And she was regaining some of her physical strength. Yet, when she mentioned an outing to Luis, he deterred it - preferring, he said, that she continue to confine herself to the house. And when she attempted to leave the garden by an outer gate and walk alone - the first time she had been off the grounds in weeks - one of Luis’s patrolling guards had stopped her. When she told Luis of the incident, he insisted that his man had acted correctly, and for her own good. The streets were extremely dangerous these days; he would not allow her, nor any other lady beneath his protection, to venture out into them. Yet, even though that edict pertained as well to Luis’s wrathful daughter and her duenna, Christina still sensed that it was directed toward her. Luis, for some reason, did not wish her to have any contact with the world outside his home. Her suspicions grew stronger every day, even if his real intentions remained unfathomable.

But what was she to do? Threaten Luis with a kitchen knife should he try to force her into his carriage, and out of Mexico City?

The thought of it was ridiculous and undignified. Perhaps before, when she was in Texas and behaving nearly as uncivilized as her surroundings, challenging a man with a knife and seemed a reasonable thing to do. But here in Mexico City it was impossible to forget that she was a lady, and Luis Arredondo a gentleman. And a lady did not brandish knives.

But neither did a gentleman insist on marriage when a lady said no. And a gentleman did not try to take that lady anywhere that she had not wished to go.

It was only natural, she supposed, that her thoughts began to stray toward Michael Brett with a longing so intense that it grew painful. He had warned her about Luis, and she had refused to listen. Where was he now? She wondered as she peered out her window, as though he might appear in the garden below. Was he outside the gates, with the rest of the American army, waiting? Or had he been hurt, or even killed, in the fighting? Santa Anna had boasted the deaths of hundreds of Yanquis; was he one of them?

She knew that she had no right nor reason to think of him. He had made it plain that he hated her because Julian was dead, whether or not she had been even remotely to blame. And perhaps this hatred was partly justified, from his point of view; after all, she had been engaged to marry Julian’s killer. Michael would never forgive her for that. So why, then, did she continue to wish that she would meet him again . . . if only to satisfy herself that he was still alive.

She indulged in increasingly desperate fantasies as time passed. Until the temporary truce was off, and America, once more, threatened the capital with its guns - within two miles of the city itself.

The final fighting over possession of Mexico City proved just as brutal as Michael Brett had feared it would be. Yet, the Americans pressed forward fiercely and swiftly, storming the famous Chapultepec Castle in just an hour’s time; taking many valuable prisoners, and learning, as well, about Mexican footholds. It seemed that Chapultepec was home to the boy cadets of the Military College, and many of the young men were killed defending their flag.

The American forces then concentrated on two separate entrances to the city. Both were causeways, and each was well-defended by barricades, Mexican troops and artillery fire. Generals Worth and Quitman were to make the initial advances on these positions, with General Worth responsible for the main attack, leading to the San Cosme gate.

Worth’s men moved forward in the early afternoon, concentrating fire on the Mexican defenders, even while the infantry went to work on boring holes through the walls of the houses that lined the road. The tactics were working. The Mexicans were giving ground, pushed back by the American assault. Santa Anna, it was rumored, was called for in person, but never arrived; and by late afternoon, American troops had breached the city walls and begun to push inside the city itself.

There was fighting in the streets now, and Michael Brett was in the vanguard which pushed the Mexican troops back. Most of the tall houses that loomed on either side had their shutters drawn; from a few, musket barrels peeped out, adding intermittent and dangerous fire from above. The Americans dodged the shooting as best they could and pressed forward. The streets were cleared of everyone but soldiers; the frequent curses and grunts of pain as metal struck flesh was restricted to them. Inside their bolted houses, citizens kept well to the back and waited in fear for the certain looting to begin.

Brett made sure that dozens of Worth’s men had joined him in the street before deciding it was time to break away from the main body, and embark on his own private business. The Yanquis were well on their way now to forcing a surrender of the Mexican army, even if guerilla fighting in the city might go on for days; Scott’s forces should be crashing into the town in several other places by now, hemming the Mexicans into an increasingly smaller field of movement. The battle for the city was almost over. Brett could spare an hour or so for his own revenge.

He veered off into a flower-bedecked alleyway between two great houses, conscious of his glaringly American uniform. Although it wasn’t a correct uniform in any sense of the word - he wore the dark blue, brass-buttoned tunic of a major, crammed into dark, unidentifiable trousers, with his own dusty, English-made boots - still, his cap and sword and extended gun marked him as an obvious target. He glanced around, peering into the lush shrubbery littered with street trash, which was probably the sleeping place of more than one poor homeless Mexican or Indian. Eventually, he found what he had hoped to discover - a filthy, almost colorless serape, large enough to cover his shiny-buttoned chest and the gold braid on his shoulders and high collar. He removed his cap and stuffed it into his waistband. Then he shook at the serape and draped it around him. Hunched over now, and keeping to the bushes, he made his way through the alley and into the next street - ignoring the yelling and the firing behind him, and hoping his compatriots would keep clear of this avenue for a short while. A little farther ahead was the Casa Arredondo, quiet and shuttered and unsuspecting. He preferred that it remain that way for the time being.

As he made his way as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible up the narrow boulevard, graciously appointed with the facades of fine stone or stucco homes and an abundance of blooming vegetation, he sensed hidden eyes of the houses’ inhabitants - and their servants - upon him. No one fired on him, though, and with his uniform covered and his guns and sword hidden by the voluminous serape, he hoped that anyone observing him would take him for a belatedly-fleeing peasant. He spotted one or two of the genuine issue hurrying away into the distance. But even so, as he approached the imposing Casa Arredondo, he moved quickly into the side yard of a neighboring home and headed toward the walled back gardens of both residences. He paused in the lee of an outbuilding, hidden from any direct view.

Brett coolly considered his options. Now that he was here, inside Mexico City, standing within yards of the building that concealed the man whom he had come to hate even more than General Santa Anna, he knew that his thoughts and his plans must be both logical and rational. He had decided to execute Luis Arredondo for his responsibility in the murder of Julian Torrance and Julian’s men; so be it. Now he must carry out the execution as simply and as orderly as possible.

He decided to enter the house from the rear, knowing that he was likely to run into hysterical servants, but assuming he would get by them with little difficulty. He would then either discover Arredondo’s whereabouts by making one of the servants talk; or by waiting for Arredondo to come to him, in search of an answer to the commotion he would cause.

However, once Arredondo was within his sight, his plans ceased. Would he allow the man a fair chance to defend himself? Or would he shoot him down, surprised and possibly unarmed, like the rattlesnake he was? Which sort of death did he owe Julian’s killer - and Christina’s fiancé? A man who had been a great detriment to the American cause by way of supplying Santa Anna with the silver to keep his army functioning, and slaughtering more Yanqui troops?

Brett didn’t know. Perhaps, in the end, it would be Christina who would decide the man’s fate. Maybe he wouldn’t do anything at all except aim his gun at Arredondo until he sent for Christina, and she arrived - and tipped the tables one way or the other!

He checked his guns, one strapped down in a holster, one in his hand. They were ready, and so was he. It seemed he had waited years for this - for the opportunity to take a fatal and definite action, one that could stand in against fate for all of the things fate had done to him, taken away from him, in England and in Texas. Fate was going to pay now, in the person of Luis Arredondo. And then maybe they would be even.

He braced himself to make a run for a door in the wall of Arredondo’s back garden, and through that directly toward his house.

*

Michael Brett knew, ten minutes later, that he had underestimated Luis Arredondo once again. And this time was likely to be his last.