Savannah Heat (37 page)

“What do we do now?” Silver said softly, tightly gripping the reins.

“Not much we can do.” Cookie moved his little bay horse closer. “Leastwise not yet You just stay calm. Either one of us gets a chance, he makes a break for it.”

“I would not try that, senor,” said a pleasant voice in English from behind them. They reined their horses around to face him.

“Who the devil are you?” Silver demanded, noting the man with brown hair, hazel eyes, and European features who was dressed in the uniform of an officer in the Mexican Army.

“I am Capitán Paulo Carrillo, at your service, Senorita Jones.”

Silver hid her surprise at the use of her name. “What right do you have to accost three innocent people? Why are you blocking our way?”

“I am sorry for the inconvenience, senorita. But you must all come with me.”

“Where to?” Cookie’s hand tightened on the reins, and the little horse danced nervously beneath him.

“You will be taken to my commanding officer at Rancho de los Cocodrilos, where a portion of my troops are headed.”

So they wouldn’t all be attacking Morgan
, Silver thought. “What have we done to deserve this treatment?”

“Is it not enough that you are foreigners in my country? That your ship brings weapons to the
rebels? We know all about you, Dama de Luz I am sure General Hernandez will enjoy meeting you. When you sailed from Campeche aboard the
Savannah
, I had despaired of the pleasure. Fortunately your journey inland has remedied that.”

“Your spies are very efficient. But how did you get so far ahead of your troops?”

“I lead an advance party. We watched your journey upstream with great fascination. Even now a portion of our troops are blocking the mouth of the river, ending any chance of your ship’s escape.”

Silver’s heart sank. Were all of them doomed to capture?

“Why don’t you let the lady go?” Cookie put in. “She’s just a woman. She’ll do you no harm.”

“Who are you?” the captain demanded.

“You mean your spies don’t already know?” Silver snapped.

“I’m Grandison Aimes, ship’s cook and damned proud of it.”

Captain Carrillo just smiled. “Senor Aimes, do not take me for a fool. The woman rides with you to warn your major of our attack. She is no less a threat than you are.”

He turned to one of his men and said something in Spanish. The small dark man removed a length of braided rope from his saddle horn, walked to Cookie’s side, and securely tied his hands behind his back. Silver’s wrists were bound in front of her.

“
¡Vamanos!
” the captain shouted as soon as the man had finished. One of the soldiers took their horses’ reins and led the animals behind the others into the forest-jungle Silver wondered how far back the rest of the troops were—and when they would catch up with Morgan.

* * *

“Mexican troops, Colonel!” Hamilton Riley galloped up beside Buckland. Morgan rode a few feet away. “Centralist troops to be sure.”

“Good God!” Buckland gasped.

“How many?” Morgan asked. “Which way are they coming?”

“Looks to be more than two hundred. They’re coming from the southwest, most of them mounted. They’ll be on us in no time at all.”

“We’ve got to pull back.” Buckland glanced nervously toward the rear.

“Pull back to where?” Morgan snapped. “What we’ve got to do is get these munitions through. Ham, you take Jacques and Senorita Méndez and the rest of the mounted men. Pick men to ride my horse and the colonel’s, then take that wagon and get the hell out of here.”

“Are you mad?” Buckland’s eyes looked huge beneath the brim of his plumed felt hat. “We can’t hold off two hundred men with this handful of troops.”

“We’ve got no choice. Those weapons have got to reach the rest of the Texians and the balance of the Federalist forces. They’re our only hope of getting those men out of prison. Besides, most of our men are afoot. We can’t outrun them.”

“But—but—”

“Colonel?” Ham pressed, urging his superior’s approval.

“We’ll take cover near that rocky promontory,” Morgan continued when Buckland didn’t answer. The hill was little more than a granite rise among tangled weeds and thorny yucca. “We’ve got plenty of ammunition. We can keep them pinned down for hours, give Lieutenant Riley a chance to get clear.”

Buckland still looked uncertain.

“There isn’t much time, Colonel.” Ham’s horse shifted nervously beneath him.

“Maybe you should go with them, Colonel,” Morgan said—anything to get the damnable man to agree.

Buckland stiffened. “You heard the major. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” With a smart salute, Ham spun his mount and thundered away. In minutes the men and munitions wagon were readied and rolling down the rocky overgrown trail. They would pull back a little, skirt the area, then make their way to the rendezvous point.

Jacques rode up with Teresa. “You are certain that this is the only way?” he asked Morgan.

“Just get Brendan out of that hellhole.”

“If it can be done, I will do it.”

Morgan extended a hand. “I know you will.”

Jacques grasped it firmly. “Take care,
mon ami.
”

“
Vaya con Dios.
” Teresa forced a smile, but her face looked drawn and pale.

“Go with God, my friends.” Morgan turned and strode toward the men who were busy building fortifications near the top of the hill. The dense cover would help them, but there wasn’t a man among them who wasn’t aware that sooner or later their position would be overrun.

“What the hell?” Morgan stopped at the sight of Ram’s broad back, bent over as he dug a small depression in which to settle himself for the assault. He had tossed his shirt aside, exposing smooth dark skin that rippled with muscle and glistened with perspiration.

“I thought you could use the help.” Ram emptied a shovelful of dirt.

“You had a horse. You should have ridden with the others.”

He shrugged his brawny shoulders. “Another man rides in my place. Besides, I was tired of those old faces.”

Morgan smiled tiredly. “Thanks.”

Uncrating long wooden boxes that held Hawken muzzle-loading rifles, another that held powder, shot, and wad, Morgan and the men readied themselves to do battle. Within the hour the Mexican forces arrived, and the shooting began.

As Morgan had hoped, their position made it hard to tell how many Texians were fighting, and the slight rise in terrain provided another small advantage. For hours shots rang out, men reloaded their rifles, and more shots pierced the air. Morgan’s shirt, damp with sweat and stained with dirt, clung to his back and shoulders. Bare to the waist, Ram fought doggedly in only his breeches and boots.

“How much longer do you think they will wait?” Ram asked.

“Not much. Eventually they’ll discover there’s fewer of us than they thought. As soon as they’re sure, they’ll come.”

And so they did.

Wearing their fancy red and white uniforms, tall plumed hats, and shiny black knee-high boots, they screamed for blood, firing their rifles at anything that moved, their long bayonets gleaming wickedly in front of them, thrusting death into those who fell to their bullets.

“Good God!” Buckland shouted, “there are hundreds of them. We haven’t got a chance!”

Closer to 150, Morgan guessed, still far too many for his roughly three dozen men. In minutes the
Mexicans would overrun the hill. Of all the deaths he had envisioned, this wasn’t one of them.

Morgan fired his rifle, the blast echoing among the others. As he swung the long-barreled weapon up to reload, the muzzle flashed silver in the sunlight.

Silver. He pictured her face and for the first time in his thirty years of living considered his mortality. He didn’t want to die. Not now. Not when he had something so precious to live for.

He tipped up the powder horn that hung over one wide shoulder. So much woman, he thought. More than he deserved. Pouring a small amount of powder down the barrel, he dropped in the ball, rammed the wad home, and set the cap. Why had he waited until now to realize what he’d been given? Taking careful aim, he fired, bringing a scream of pain from a Mexican soldier, followed by a bright red blossom of blood on the man’s broad chest.

Morgan reloaded. He would die here today—it was almost certain now. He wondered if Silver would miss him. If she had come to care for him as much as he cared for her.

He wondered if she loved him.

Morgan thrust the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and took deadly aim. She was so damned beautiful, he thought as he squeezed the trigger, bringing another Mexican down. So damned caring and good. Beside him, a young marine aimed and fired, and another enemy fell.

Morgan reloaded and aimed his smoking rifle.
Silver!
his mind screamed just before he pulled the trigger. He could see her face in the eye of his mind, smiling down at him as they lay together in his wide bed, her pale hair teasing his shoulder, making him want her again.

He remembered her laughter, the soft, sweet
sound of her voice. He remembered the feel of her skin against his hand, the full, lush curve of her breast. He remembered the way her eyes grew dark with passion, then gentle and loving when they had finished.

At least in death the pain of missing her would end.

Reloading, Morgan snapped the rifle to his shoulder and eased back the trigger, feeling the heavy recoil of the gun slamming backward with the explosion. He ached to see her again, to touch her. He ached to make love to her one last time. Maybe he would say the things he’d been holding back, tell her the way he felt.

Maybe he would take the risk.

It occurred to him then that Silver might also be in danger. If the Centralists had known of the plan to attack the prison, they might also know about the
Savannah
. Maybe they would find a way to board her. They’d take Silver and … Morgan swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought. Imagining Silver at the hands of the Mexicans was unbearable. He could not die in peace if he believed there was even the slightest chance.

“God in heaven,” he prayed, “don’t let them hurt her.” It was crazy, he knew. Praying for Silver, safe aboard ship, when he should have been praying for himself. Still, she was all he could think of, her safety more important than his own.
Don’t let her mourn
, he thought.
Let her find someone who will love and protect her
.

A lead ball slammed into the man on his right. The boy slumped forward with a groan, his shirtfront covered with blood. Ram fired with deadly accuracy on his left, one arm bleeding from a bayonet thrust. Another good man who would die here today.

Silver would have liked the Ram. And Morgan didn’t doubt the big Turk would have approved her spirited nature—something he himself had only begun to appreciate.

Ram would have liked Silver Jones.

It was Morgan who loved her.

It took dying for him to admit it.

Half a dozen Centralists broke through the lower defenses, firing, killing, their bayonets glistening with blood. Shouting their triumph, they rushed up the hill; three men raced toward Morgan while the other three stormed the Turk. Morgan fired, killing one, used the butt of his rifle as a bludgeon on another, jerked the third man’s gun from his hands, and thrust the bayonet into his chest. A few feet below him, a dozen more followed in their wake.

No time for regrets, but still Morgan felt them. Sadness for the things he had left unsaid, the joys of Silver’s passion he hadn’t yet unveiled, the children they would never share.

God be with you, Silver
, he thought, recognizing these next few seconds as the last precious moments of his life.
I love you
.

Blue steel flashed in the enemy’s hands. No chance to reload. Morgan leveled the razor-sharp point of his bayonet toward the onrushers. They’d be on him in an instant—time had run out. His last thought fixed on the woman he loved.

“Cease fire!” The words, spoken first in Spanish, then in heavily accented English, echoed across the forest-jungle.

Stunned, Morgan crouched down in his trench. Beside three dead Mexican soldiers, Ram did the same. The volley of bullets trickled to a few scattered bursts. From a few feet above him, he heard Buckland’s shaky command.

“Cease fire!” he ordered in response to the enemy’s words, and the last remaining men stopped shooting. More than a dozen lay dead or wounded on the ground, shrieking in agony or whimpering softly. The rest waited tensely to see what the Centralists would do.

“You are no match for us!” the Mexican officer shouted. “Surrender or you will die.”

Buckland crawled along the ground until he reached Morgan’s trench, then recoiled at the bloody corpse that sprawled in the dust beside him. “What do you think?” he whispered. “We can’t hold them off any longer.”

Morgan released a weary breath. “God only knows what they’ll do to us. But we’ve done all we can for Riley and the others; they’ve got a damned good chance of making it. As for us … we’ll die here for certain if we don’t surrender.”
And I want to live
. “At least we might buy some time.”

“Quite right, Major,” Buckland said with relief.

In truth Morgan had been surprised by the offer. The Texians were soundly defeated, just minutes from total annihilation. And the Centralists were known for their bloodthirsty battles. Most likely the Mexicans would take their weapons, line them up, and shoot them. Unless there was something they wanted.

“As long as we’re breathing,” Morgan said, “there’s always the chance of escape.”

Buckland grabbed Ram’s discarded white shirt, stuck it on the end of Morgan’s empty rifle, hoisted it into the air, and waved it madly.

“Throw down your weapons!” ordered the Centralist. “Come out with your hands in the air.”

“Shall we?” Morgan said with a sardonic twist of his lip. Tossing down his weapon, he climbed to his
feet, thoroughly expecting to feel the bite of a lead ball ripping through his flesh at any moment. He glanced across at Ram, who stood beside him grinning.

“So far, so good,” Ram said.