The Furies (8 page)

“Perfectly, Excellency.” The secretary bowed and hurried out.

Santa Anna turned next to a suave officer who was appraising Amanda’s figure with insolent directness.

“Colonel Almonte!”

The officer jerked to attention. “Excellency?”

“I believe we should arrange a victory review in the plaza before the day’s over. I will give a short oration. See to it, please. Make certain all the town officials are present.”

Almonte saluted, pivoted smartly and left the room.

The general returned his attention to his captives, studying them with an affable expression. The past few seconds had already confirmed what Amanda had heard about the dictator’s enormous vanity. And she knew too much about his rapid shifts in allegiance on his climb to power to be lulled by his smile.

Santa Anna slipped into the chair behind the desk. He opened a drawer and took out a gold snuff box. A charnel stench drifted in from the garden. The Texan dead, burning—

From the box Santa Anna removed a pinch of white powder. He placed the powder in one nostril and inhaled. Then he handed the box to another of the officers.

“Ask Dr. Reyes to refill that for me.” As the officer hurried out, Santa Anna smiled even more broadly at the two women and the blacks. “It has been an eventful twenty-four hours. A bit of opium powder is marvelous for relieving tiredness, I find.”

None of the prisoners offered a comment. Frowning, Santa Anna said to Cordoba, “You will identify these people, please.”

One by one, Cordoba supplied the names of the four, beginning with the blacks and ending with Susannah.

“Señora Dickinson is not fluent in our language, Excellency. But Señora de la Gura can translate.”

“De la Gura,” Santa Anna repeated. “That isn’t an Anglo name.”

“My husband was Spanish.”

“Spanish—
Excellency
,” one of the officers said, taking a step forward.

Santa Anna waved him back, trying to soften Amanda’s frostiness with another smile. “Spanish—do you mean Mexican?”

“I mean what I said. My husband was born in New Orleans.”

“He was an American citizen, then?”

“After the Purchase, yes.”

Santa Anna frowned at the obvious pride in Amanda’s voice. He tented his fingers, scrutinized her in silence, finally said, “It’s fortunate for you that I chose not to divide the survivors simply by consulting a list. With that name, you might have been lost and forgotten among the Mexican women Major Cordoba found in the mission.”

His eyes were much less friendly now. But Amanda refused to turn away from the intimidating stare. The general abruptly switched back to cordiality. “There is an excellent establishment in Bexar bearing the name Gura, I recall.”

“The hotel I own,” Amanda said.

“The hotel you
formerly
owned. It has been taken over as a billet for my senior staff. That should not be a great loss, however. You could have lost your life. So I presume you will be suitably thankful when I permit you—all of you—to leave Bexar unharmed.”

Sam gasped loudly. Susannah looked at Amanda, who told her, “He says we aren’t to be killed.”

“Angelina too?”

“I presume so.” She repeated the question for Santa Anna.

“Of course, of course! I looked in on the child just before I stepped in here. A delightful creature. Lovely! Reyes, my personal physician, assured me she would be fit to travel within a day or two.”

Again Amanda translated. Susannah looked blank. “Travel? Travel where?”

“She wants to know where we’re supposed to go,” Amanda said.

“Why, back to your own people!” Santa Anna said, speaking to Susannah in Spanish. “I thought briefly of sending you to Mexico City, as proof of our victory. But I’ve concluded it would be more useful for you to go to Gonzales. I’ll send an escort—my own orderly, Benjamin. He was an Anglo—although a slave—before he joined my service. When you’re once again among your own—”

“What do you mean, her own?” Amanda fumed. “Her husband died at the mission. Murdered by your men!”

Santa Anna sat forward suddenly, losing his relaxed manner. “Murder is a very ugly word, señora.”

“But it fits.”

“No. Those who died were casualties of war. By their traitorous behavior, they arranged their own executions. It was no doing of mine.”

Amanda laughed then, so loudly and contemptuously that the officer who had reproved her before drew his sword.

Standing by Susannah’s chair, Cordoba tried to warn Amanda with his eyes. She ignored it. “No doing of yours? Who raised the no-quarter flag from the church, may I ask? Who gave the command for the playing of the
deguello?
”

“God, what hypocrites you Anglos are!” Santa Anna snarled. “You cavil at the harshness of war while your white brethren in the United States—and here in Texas until I put a stop to it!—trade in human flesh without a qualm of conscience. Blood of Jesus, woman, don’t prattle to me about inhumanity!”

Santa Anna’s slashing gesture stunned Amanda to silence. Before she could accuse him of taking refuge behind an issue entirely unrelated to the battle, he barked at Cordoba, “You will please assume the duties of translator, Major. I dislike this woman’s contentious attitude. Especially since I have generously decided to permit the noncombatants to go free.”

Seething, Amanda exclaimed, “You’ll forgive me, Your Excellency, but I’m suspicious of this sudden outpouring of compassion—”

“Excellency—” The officer who had drawn his sword stormed around the desk. “I suggest that kindness is wasted on this American slut.”

“Kindness
and
rational argument, it seems.”

“Then let my dragoons have her.”

Santa Anna pursed his lips. “A possibility. A distinct possibility—”

“If you’re going to kill me, do it and be done!” Amanda raged. “I’ve had enough of Mexican mercy for one morn—”

“Amanda!”
Susannah Dickinson cried. “For God’s sake be civil to him! I don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re going to make everything worse. Almeron’s dead. Angelina’s hurt—” Suddenly she began to weep.

“I want to live. I want to get out of this place.
I want to live—
”

Amanda held back an angry remark. She had no right to endanger Almeron Dickinson’s widow or the blacks because of her own hostility.

Presently the color that had rushed to Santa Anna’s cheeks faded. He rose, moving out from behind the desk. “What did she say, Major? I caught a little of it, but not everything.”

Cordoba repeated the sense of Susannah’s plea. Santa Anna nodded, said to Susannah, “I am glad you show some appreciation of the realities of the situation, señora—” He paused, allowing Cordoba time to translate. “Your people were foolish to oppose the Centralist regime. I trust that when you leave Bexar—supplied with food, blankets and money—you will lose no time in communicating to your fellow Texans that resistance is futile. I am more determined than ever to see the rebellion crushed now that the so-called Council at Washington has taken its ill-advised step—”

Cordoba cleared his throat. “I don’t believe any of those in the mission knew about the declaration, Excellency.”

“Ah, yes, you’re probably right.” He turned toward the blacks, his tone caustic. “You are now citizens of the independent Republic of Texas. Not free citizens, of course. I’m sure freedom will be reserved for those with white skins.”

The slaves gaped. Amanda asked, “When did it happen?”

“The declaration? Just four days ago. Señor Burnet has been named president, and Señor Houston is general of the army—if there is one.”

Amanda was speechless again. The news was both sad and surprising. The sadness came from realizing that none of the men who had died at the Alamo had known they were fighting for a newly independent country.

“I find Houston’s appointment particularly amusing,” Santa Anna said. “The poor sot the Indians call Big Drunk commanding a few farmers and storekeepers as ill-trained as he is—”

Amanda managed to speak. “Sixty years ago, another army just like that won a war for independence—”

“True, señora. But I shall not make the same mistakes the British king did—nor be so gentlemanly to those I oppose.” He stalked toward the blacks. “When you rejoin your people, tell them their so-called republic will be gone in three months. Tell them what you saw here. Tell them what they can expect if they continue to fight—” The deep voice grew louder. “That is the only price I’ll extract for your freedom—that you spread my message. Resistance will be crushed without pity. The sensible course is immediate surrender.”

Cordoba finished translating for Susannah. She stared at Santa Anna, then slowly bowed her head.

The general glanced to the blacks again. Their uneasy eyes showed him they understood what he wanted—and, like Susannah, agreed to it. Santa Anna smiled with genuine pleasure. The word of his military might would be spread through the little Texas settlements, to demoralize the government that had emerged at last from the wrangling and factionalism prevalent for months at Washington-on-the-Brazos.

Santa Anna approached Amanda. “And you, señora? If you are set free, will you tell your people that surrender is the only way to avoid annihilation?”

“That’s the last thing I’ll do—Excellency. I will tell them how you ordered a massacre—”

“Don’t!”
Susannah cried, understanding Amanda’s fierce expression all too clearly. “He’s only asking us to report the truth. We can’t win against them—why do you want to pretend we can?”

For a moment, Amanda wavered. Susannah might be right—

For most of her adult life, she had put survival foremost on her list of priorities. Was she foolish to change those priorities now?

No, she decided, thinking of Crockett’s slashed body. Of the boy in the blanket shot down in the sacristy. Of Bowie’s bayoneted corpse.
No
—

She couldn’t scorn Susannah or the two slaves for their desire to live. She knew Susannah probably believed the Texans could never hold out against the Mexican army. Amanda wasn’t sure they could either. But in spite of that, the price Santa Anna was asking for survival was higher than she wanted to pay.

Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “Take the general’s offer, Susannah. I can’t. If I go to Gonzales”—there was a catch in her throat; her stomach churned as the smell of the burning bodies worsened—“if I go there, I’ll tell everyone His Excellency deserves to be shown exactly the same mercy he showed at the Alamo. I’ll tell them it’s better to die for an American republic than surrender to a Mexican killer—”

Santa Anna was livid. “I do not speak English well, señora. But I understand a little of it. You will regret what you have just said.” He lost control.
“By God, you will!”

He pounded a fist on the desk, overturning the creamer of the tea service. Thick droplets fell from the edge of the desk, striking the inlaid floor with a loud
plop-plop.

The officer who had mentioned turning Amanda over to the dragoons started to repeat the suggestion. Before he’d spoken half a sentence, she was struck just under her left breast—viciously—by a man’s fist.

She spun, raising her arms to protect herself. With shock and disbelief, she saw the contorted face of her attacker.

It was Cordoba.

“You’ve said enough, you ignorant whore!” Cordoba yelled, drawing his hand back to hit her again.

Susannah Dickinson tried to rush to Amanda’s assistance. Two of the enlisted men seized her and wrenched her back as Cordoba slammed his fist into Amanda’s stomach, then flung her to the floor.

The room darkened, distorted. She pressed her hands against the wood, trying to rise—trying to comprehend the inexplicable change that had come over the major.

He was flushed, breathing hard as he bent his leg backward at the knee, then kicked her in the belly.

Amanda cried out. The room began to swing back and forth. Cordoba’s voice sounded faint but furious.

“Let me take her and discipline her, Excellency.”

“Better she be shot outright,” another of the officers said.

Cordoba again: “No, no, Colonel—if you please! I’ll see that she suffers for her insolence. Much more than she’d suffer if you killed her.”

Santa Anna: “I find your request a bit unusual, Major. You said nothing during her outbursts—”

“My astonishment—my anger—robbed me of suitable words, Excellency.”

“Nor are you known for your temper—”

“Except when my commander is insulted, Excellency.”

“Well, that’s the proper attitude, certainly.”

“Then let me have her!”

Amanda tried to sit up. She was too weak and dizzy. She fell back, her black silk dress tangled around her legs. She’d thought Cordoba possessed some small degree of honor. Like Santa Anna’s generosity, that honor had been revealed as a sham. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard him pressing his request.

“I promise you I’ll work her till she drops, Excellency. I lost my serving woman on the march from Saltillo.
Telele
killed her—the fever from bad water. So if you’ll put her in my keeping, I’ll teach her to respect Centralist authority—”

Several of the officers muttered about Cordoba’s proposal—whether for or against it, Amanda couldn’t be sure. Finally, she heard Santa Anna shout for silence. The voices cut off abruptly. The dictator sounded amused again.

“Very well, Major, you may have her. See that she fully enjoys the perquisites of her new station—and that she comes to regret her refusal of my clemency. But mark this—!”

He struck the desk again. The sound was loud as a shot.

“Under
no
circumstances is the offer to be repeated. By you or any other officer. She will not go free now or ever. Of course, if she finds the work of a camp woman too difficult—if she should sicken and die—that’s your affair. No questions will be asked.”

The room seemed cloaked in darkness. Amanda let it sweep into her mind, blotting out Santa Anna’s soft, satisfied chuckle.

A fly buzzed. There was a sensation of intense heat.

She opened her eyes.

Above her, she saw an expanse of light. After a moment she realized she was lying on hard ground, gazing up at the sloping side of an officer’s marquee, one of dozens that dotted the flat land and the hillsides around Bexar. The sun was broiling down on the other side of the canvas, lighting it to brilliance.