Cinco De Mayo, the Novel: A Saga of Courage and Defiance

By Don Miles and Jan Michael Vincent Sy

During Mexicos War of Reform in 1860, Conservative Gen. Miguel Miramn and his army was responsible for some heinous crimes, many of them against innocent citizens. After the war, he escaped from Mexico aboard a French naval vessel as the war ended. Now, Miramn is about to return with his French backers.

Many Mexican residents seek revenge against Miramn for what he did to their families. Thirty-two-year-old Alonso Torres is one of them. His father, Major Eugenio Torres, was killed in a massacre, and Alonso vows to avenge his fathers death. Alonso has joined the mission of General Zaragoza as an undercover operative and works with Fernando Vargas and his sons to either capture or kill Miramn.

Paloma Vargas is unaware that her familys stagecoach business is the cover for a Mexican spy network. The only girl in the family, she becomes suspicious when her four brothers mount up and leave town with Torres. Paloma follows them and finds herself suddenly committed as a guerilla fighter. She becomes a force to be reckoned with, and the colonel who heads the French contre-gurilla forces is outraged when he learns the person causing him major problems is a woman. He orders his men to find out who she is and to capture or kill her at any cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466941908

Book preview

CINCO DE MAYO, 

 THE NOVEL

A Saga of Courage and Defiance

SKU-000584225_TEXT.pdf

DON MILES

Illustrations by Jan Michael Vincent Sy

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© Copyright 2012 Don Miles.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4189-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4191-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4190-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012910078

Trafford rev. 08/22/2012

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Dedication

In fond, admiring and thankful memory of my wife, Minerva,

and in gratitude to my daughter, Juliette, and my son,

Richard, for their love and support all these years

About the Spanish

If it’s been a while since you took that Spanish course, or you’re not sure of some words or expressions like arrieros, callejón, novios, tertulias or atole, we’ve set up a glossary on the author’s website,

www.DonMiles.com.

Battle of Puebla

On May 5, 2012, we staged the first of what we hope will be an annual historic battle reenactment commemorating Cinco de Mayo in the U.S. To follow our progress as we plan future reenactments in Austin,

Texas, be sure to check out CincodeMayo.me. If you’d like to

become a reenactor, take a look at

BattleofPuebla.com.

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CHAPTER ONE

PORT OF VERACRUZ, MEXICO – APRIL 14, 1861 – 1:00 P.M.

The sun was high overhead in downtown Veracruz. A little girl, perhaps five or six years old, moved carefully along the row of whitewashed limestone walls lining the main thoroughfare, carrying her stack of freshly-made tortillas and trying to step only in the six to eight inches of shadow so as to avoid burning her bare feet on the blistering stone pavement. It was only April, but the good people in the Port of Veracruz generally closed their shops for siesta year-´round at this hour and the streets were all but deserted. Even the marimba bands that played outside the restaurants at the Portales were silent.

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Veracruz, Mexico

At the southern end of town, about a half mile inland from the beach along the eastern bank of the Río Moreno, a reclusive rider slowly made his way on horseback toward the stableyard of the leading local transportation company. Thirty-two year old Alonso Torres had been recruited for this undercover mission by his old boyhood friend, General Ignacio Zaragoza. He and Zaragoza had both been born at the fort in Goliad, Texas, back when it was still part of Mexico and their fathers were army captains in the 1830’s.

During the closing days of the three-year War of the Reform in 1860, Alonso’s father, nearing retirement, had been killed along with dozens of unarmed officers and clerical workers in a massacre at their government offices in Mexico City. Conservative General Miguel Miramón, who had ordered the killings, then escaped Mexico aboard a French naval vessel as the war ended. Now, Miramón was about to return with his French backers. Alonso had joined General Zaragoza’s personal staff as an undercover agent, hoping to bring Miramón to justice and to avenge the death of his father, Major Eugenio Torres.

Almost anyone peeking out from the shuttered balcony windows of the whitewashed limestone houses could tell that the traveler was not one of the locals. His saddlebags, clothing, and his dry, weathered complexion identified him as a vaquero, most likely from the cattle country of northern Mexico. He wore boots and the new popular denim pants from California known as Levi’s. They were good for working around horses and cattle, but not all that suitable for a tropical climate. Like many others who had approached the Hermanos Vargas stables, he looked like just another cowpoke searching for work as a stagecoach driver. That’s the way he wanted it; it was his cover.

Flies buzzed in the oven-like heat of mid-day, and the stifling tropical humidity was thick with the aroma of horses and leather. Vultures, a permanent fixture on the rooftops of the low-lying white buildings, looked upon the surrounding landscape as though they owned it. Alonso tied his horse to a hitching rack at the side of the large mansion and circled around to the front, where he mounted the steps toward the main door.

The door opened abruptly. No, señor. Go around the back! commanded a stern-looking woman who appeared to be the lady of the house. If you’re looking for work, go and talk to someone out at the stables. She pointed back toward where Alonso had just left his horse. This entrance is only for the family and invited guests. The door slammed shut.

Phew! Was it something I said? Alonso asked himself. "No, I didn’t get to say a word! Maybe it’s the way I’m dressed. Oh, well, . . . He headed toward the stables. ¡Hola! he called out. Is anybody here?"

I guess I’m the responsible party, said a young woman. She looked about eighteen years of age, striding across the dusty yard in cowboy boots and a pair of Levi’s. What can I do for you, señor?

She must work with the horses, he thought, eyeing the clothing. I’m Alonso Torres, he said, extending a handshake, and you are…

Paloma Vargas. Mucho gusto. I’m Fernando’s daughter. She had a warm, friendly smile.

Oh, how nice to meet you, señorita. Is your father here?

No, he’s in Medellín for the afternoon.

Alonso had been introduced to Paloma’s father and two older brothers a few months earlier when they visited his army camp to set up the undercover arrangement, but this was his first time in Veracruz. He wasn’t sure if this girl or the other family members had been told of the military connection.

What about your brothers Berto and Esteban, then? I must ask them some questions.

Two young men approached. Sargento? said one of them, extending a hand. I’m Juan, he said, and this is Raúl. We’re the ‘younger’ brothers. We’ve been expecting you. Our father told us that if you showed up this early to invite you for a swim with Berto and Esteban. They took some horses over to the river a while ago. Our father will be back by this evening. He’s sorry for the delay, but something came up.

Your horse looks like he could use a rest, said Raúl. Why don’t you just leave him here with some water and we’ll take that Dearborn carriage over there. I’ll just go and tell Mamá that we’re leaving.

Alonso didn’t have much choice. It was either go with them or stay here and endure the heat, not to mention another possible confrontation with that woman he was sure was their mamá. He unsaddled his horse, tied it near the watering trough, and climbed into the carriage. It would be dark by the time he took care of business with their father, Fernando Vargas, so he’d have to find someplace to sleep and ride back to camp in the morning. This was not the quick and easy trip he had in mind when the general first ordered him to come here.

Things quickly became even more perplexing when Juan and Raúl mounted their own horses as Paloma hopped into the driver’s seat of the Dearborn and took the reins. She had just emerged from the house wearing a skirt and blouse, with sandals instead of those cowboy boots. These people are full of surprises, Alonso thought.

With a very slight flick of Paloma’s wrist, the horse eased the carriage forward and headed along the hard-packed sandy street to the south.

Alonso could feel goose-bumps of curiosity breaking out. How did you do that? he asked.

Do what?

Start the horse without giving any commands.

Oh, explained Paloma. This kind of horse is very carefully trained. You don’t find them on farms and ranches, and you would never use them to pull a stagecoach or freight wagon. This one’s my favorite. His name is Relámpago.

After all these years of riding the range, Alonso had thought up until now that he knew everything there was to know about horses. Yet here was this young girl—and her horse—behaving in a way that he had never seen before.

Don’t you have to use a whip or say something?

No, the animal responds to very slight changes in pressure on the reins. It has what we call a ‘sweet mouth,’ and if you shout or use a whip—or jerk harshly on the reins—the bridle will injure the inside of the mouth. We only use this type of horse to carry rich people and dignitaries in our most elegant carriages.

Then I must be a dignitary, because I’m certainly not rich! said Alonso. They both laughed.

Is it the heat and humidity, or is this girl starting to have some effect on me? thought Alonso. As Paloma turned her head to talk with him, he couldn’t help but look into those soft, expressive dark eyes. Her silky, raven black hair fell seductively across her shoulders. Her smooth, unblemished skin was a rich, glowing honey color. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and with that charming, radiant smile he could tell why she didn’t need either one. General Zaragoza had not told him to expect anything like this.

Relámpago took the Dearborn southward along what soon became a sandy trail through scrub vegetation, leaving behind the whitewashed limestone structures which, from a distance, looked like rows of tombstones.

I heard my brothers call you ‘Sargento’ back at the stables. Are you really a sergeant? asked Paloma.

So much for my cover! thought Alonso, as he tried to deflect her question with another one: Why? Do I look like one?

Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone, she said with a reassuring grin. We had plenty of army people around here during the War of the Reform a few years ago. If anybody outside the family asks about it, we’re supposed to pretend that we don’t know anything.

Change the subject, Alonso thought to himself.

So you’re the only girl in the family?

That’s right, but I should have left to start a family of my own long ago. My mother kept saying it wasn’t safe all during the war, and now this, . . .

This what? Is something going on that I don’t know about?

The conservatives, Alonso. She turned her head and looked directly at him. She was not smiling. They’re running all over Europe, trying to find somebody to send us a king. They want him to come here and straighten us all out, so they can hide behind him and get themselves back into power. Then what?

Relámpago snorted.

Alonso was trying to gather his thoughts. The girl was probably trying to get him to talk about why he was here. He remembered what the general had said: Answer all the questions with other questions.

But have you seen any conservative troops getting ready for another war? he asked. He was expecting her to just say no.

I’ve met some French military officers who get off ships and want to do business with us, she said. They’re really nice.

Really nice? he echoed. French officers? he thought. Nobody told me about that!

Yes, they’re real gentlemen, she said. My parents are always telling me to be nice to them because they’re good customers and they treat us with respect. Her long, sleek black hair fluttered as a breeze came in off the gulf.

Of course they do! replied Alonso. Where else would they go for horses and mules?

Paloma braced her richly-tanned legs against the driver’s wooden footboard. Her layered cotton skirt had shifted from near her ankles upward to her knees as she maneuvered Relámpago in the direction of Medellín.

No, it’s not just that, Sargento—or I mean Alonso. To be honest with you, I find some of them rather attractive. Well, not just attractive but very—how can I say it—‘professional.’ They’re here because they’re being paid to do a job. I know that, but in the process they also manage to be very well-mannered—even charming.

Alonso pulled on the wrists of his long-sleeved shirt. My God! he thought. The French are preparing to invade us, and she thinks they’re charming! He had spent many years working cattle as a vaquero, and women had always been a mystery to him.

So then what’s the problem? he asked. He ran his fingers through his hair.

The problem? said Paloma. The problem is the conservatives and all those guerilla fighters coming out of the woods from every direction. We fought a war against them for three years. Now, they want to start all over again. When are we ever going to be safe?

Brilliant yellow cactus flowers bloomed atop the low-lying nopales as Relámpago adjusted his pace to the now softer sand beneath. Alonso was intrigued by this new distinction between the French—who really had not invaded yet—and the conservatives who were mostly in hiding but trying to promote just such an invasion. He hadn’t really thought about it before.

So you’re saying they’re not all just ‘the enemy?’

Look at it this way, said Paloma. The Frenchmen just need some horses and wagons. They don’t need to constantly prove that they’re better than we are. They approach us very politely on a businesslike basis. On the other hand, the conservatives come swaggering in with all the arrogance they can muster. They treat us like animals. One gets tired of such patronizing and hostility. Do you understand?

Oh, I certainly do. He was hesitating now. He could open up and tell Paloma how the conservatives killed his father, but—no—his orders were to maintain some degree of anonymity.

They talk to us as though we were imbeciles, said Paloma. Totally illiterate. If you don’t look like you’re a descendant of some Spaniard, you’re worth nothing in their eyes. She turned her attention away from the horse and stared earnestly over her shoulder at Alonso. The French are not like that at all,—at least not their officers.

The sun shone relentlessly on the surrounding sand, and there was not the slightest hint of a breeze despite their view of the waves lapping up on the beach just a stone’s throw away. Juan and Raúl followed at a short distance on their horses, engaged in conversation with each other.

So your dream is to marry a French officer and live happily ever after? he asked.

Not exactly, Alonso. Ever since I was a little girl my mother has had me greeting all of these foreigners at the docks in English, French and German. She has this dream that someday I’ll marry a rich European—or even a gringo.

Well, that’s how mothers are, señorita.

Please,—just call me Paloma.

All right, Paloma—but tell me one thing, said Alonso. What did the conservatives ever do to hurt you—I mean you personally?

They kidnapped my mother’s parents and took away their hacienda.

Why? What were your grandparents doing?

Just running a small ranch and coffee plantation, Alonso, answered Paloma. But you know how the conservatives are. They think that someone whose skin is a bit darker than theirs should not be owning a hacienda.

And you think that’s why they were kidnapped?

We can only guess why. We do know that some of Miramón’s men raided their place outside of Limoncito, up toward Córdoba, and drove everyone off the property. When the people of Limoncito saw my grandparents being taken through town as prisoners, they sent someone here to Veracruz to get help. By then, of course, it was too late.

So what happened to them?

We don’t know. It’s been almost five years, now, and we’ve heard absolutely nothing. I’m sure you know that Miramón is putting together another army to back up the French. We just hope that General Zaragoza can stop him before he causes any more trouble.

Relámpago snorted and quickened his pace a bit. He had traveled this way before, and it was easy to tell that he sensed a refreshing dip in some cool water was waiting for him just ahead.

Alonso was fighting his own battle of restraint. He wanted to share his views about Miramón and the conservatives, but how much was this girl supposed to know? Besides, military matters were not usually something one talked about with women. He’d better hold his tongue until he knew exactly what the rules were.

RÍO JAMAPA, MEDELLÍN CROSSING – APRIL 14, 1861 – 2:00 P.M.

Berto Vargas stood knee-deep in the invigorating water of the Jamapa River. He was cradling the nuzzle of a fine chestnut gelding in the crook of one arm while rapidly dipping a brush in the water and sweeping it down the animal’s side. This horse, and the other seven that were tethered to nearby trees, were the finest that Hermanos Vargas owned.

Grandpa César Vargas had built the business in the 1830’s and 1840’s, catering to the elite carriage trade. While his sons later expanded into hotels, stagecoaches and long-distance freight hauling, they never neglected this lucrative part of the enterprise. Most of the passengers disembarking from foreign ships would find themselves signed-up with Hermanos Vargas for the journey to Mexico City within a few days.

Floating lazily in deeper water, Berto’s brother Esteban gazed at the azure sky overhead and savored some hard-earned moments of relaxation. Steamers from such places as New Orleans, Tampico and Havana arrived almost daily at the Port of Veracruz. The horses that the brothers were grooming here at the river would be well-rested and ready to take arriving passengers to their hotels.

The really hard work would come in about three or four days when several large ships from Europe would arrive. Even now, merchants from Mexico City were coming in to Veracruz to arrange for their imported goods to be carried inland. All four of Paloma’s brothers would be among the several dozen drivers needed for the next caravan.

Think fast! An orange whizzed through the air and thumped against Esteban’s chest, dropping into the water. Paloma jumped down from the driver’s seat of the Dearborn carriage, lifting her embroidered mesh-like Jarocha blouse over her head and tossing it aside, dropping her sandals and stepping quickly out of her skirt and petticoat as she ran toward the water, wearing only her chiffon camisole top and some thin, frilly drawers. Alonso watched with disbelief as she and her two older brothers began cavorting with wild and playful abandon.

She’s already forgotten about me, Alonso thought. He stepped out of the carriage and walked toward the river bank.

Oh, my God! Alonso! I’m sorry! Paloma shouted as she crawled through the shallow water to the bank. Here are Berto and Esteban. You wanted to talk with them, right? she asked, pulling her wet hair back from her face. Younger brothers Juan and Raúl, who had arrived behind the carriage, had just dismounted and were tying their horses. Older brothers Berto and Esteban, clearly embarrassed, were now treading water in their gauzy, long-john style undergarments.

Please forgive our little sister, Sargento, yelled Raúl, the youngest. We never know when she’s going to act crazy like this. He and Juan were already stripping down to their underwear to join those already in the water.

See? What did I tell you? said Paloma with a loud giggle to Alonso. I’m older than two of them and they still call me the ‘little sister.’ Suddenly a pair of arms grabbed her from behind. ¡Ay! she screamed as Berto dunked her back into the water.

"Alonso! I’m sorry for this disgraceful reception, said Berto with a wide grin as he stepped out of the water. Did you want to see us about something?"

Actually, I did. General Zaragoza sent me to meet with your father, but I understand he won’t be back ‘til nightfall, Alonso replied. But I feel foolish as the only one who’s all buttoned-up in this stifling heat. We can talk later. Do you mind if I join you?

He was already pulling off his boots.

Our water is your water, Alonso! laughed Esteban as he bounced the orange off Paloma’s back. Paloma shrieked and dove back into the water. She knew how to get even, and the chase was underway. They were jumping and diving and scooping handfuls of water into each other’s faces for the first few minutes. Then, it turned into a game in which Berto and Esteban—the two older brothers—were teamed-up with Alonso in trying to keep the orange away from Paloma, Juan and Raúl.

Berto held the orange high over his head, preparing to throw it to Alonso or Esteban.

¡A la una! Paloma shouted to younger brothers Juan and Raúl. The two of them swam toward Berto and Esteban. ¡A las dos! she yelled, her eyes on Alonso as she anticipated Berto’s throw. "¡A las TRES!" she shrieked happily as Berto’s arm whipped forward.

Diving quickly, she tackled a very surprised Alonso Torres around the waist as the orange went flying overhead. Reflexively, Alonso found himself reaching out and hugging her in order to stay afloat. Their legs tangled. Both of them tread water while Juan retrieved the orange.

Now Juan’s team had the upper hand. As he threw the orange overhead to Paloma, Alonso dived and grabbed her by the ankle, rapidly working his hands up her leg as he tried to pull her underwater and fetch the battered sphere of citrus.

¡Ay! she screamed, signaling for only the fraction of a second that she may have thought he had more in mind than just the orange.

Oh, I’m so sorry! Alonso pleaded. Please forgive me. I had no intention…

No, that’s all right. Forget it, Sargento. It’s just a game, Paloma quickly assured him as she appeared to regain her composure. It registered with Alonso that she had just called him Sargento, and he was beginning to wonder what was really on her mind.

He watched her carefully as they ate their almuerzo, a meal of tortillas, beans and fruit, while they were all drying off in the shade of some small trees clustered along the river bank. Paloma’s natural smile and sunny, outgoing disposition seemed to conceal what she might really be thinking.

Alonso talked business with Berto and Esteban as they rode side-by-side on the trip back to town. He listened as the two older brothers filled him in on ship arrivals and activities in the port, and he reciprocated with details about General Miramón’s efforts to put together a new army. He also shared with them some information about the Mexican preparations for a possible invasion. They outlined for him what role the Hermanos Vargas operation had played the last time around, during the War of the Reform.

Alonso was making all the right gestures and facial expressions, so Berto and Esteban never suspected that he wasn’t giving them his undivided attention. He could not understand why thoughts of their sister possessed his mind. He found himself fighting back an inner voice which kept telling him, She’s too young for you!

Visions of Paloma’s captivating smile, the wet camisole top molded against her body, those smooth, pretty feet and sun-caressed legs tumbled through his mind. He was aware that a lot of Mexican girls have a gift of youth, where—after they turn fifteen—they only seem to age physically at about one-half to one-third the rate for everyone else. For a satisfying moment, the reaction crossing his mind was, My God! She’s strikingly beautiful!

Then he caught himself. He was on a mission, and that had to come before everything else. No, he resolved, I’d better stop thinking about this. I’ve got a job to do, and she could become a serious distraction.

Are you all right, Alonso? asked Berto. You look a little bit tired or worried about something.

No, no, answered Alonso. I’m fine. It’s nothing. He was struggling to re-focus on his current assignment and its successful completion.

VARGAS RESIDENCE, VERACRUZ – APRIL 14, 1861 – 7:00 P.M.

A slight breeze was blowing off the Gulf of Mexico, gently swaying the palm trees as the evening shadows grew longer. Paloma unhitched Relámpago from the Dearborn and led him to a stall as Alonso and her brothers took care of the other horses.

As she climbed the steps toward the front entrance, Paloma could see her mother standing rigidly in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Mamá straightened her shoulders and clamped her hands onto her hips. Buenas noches, hija. ¿Como estás? The tone of her greeting contained a strong suggestion of reproach. Without waiting for a response, she demanded, What have you been doing?

Raising her chin, Paloma assumed all the dignity she could muster. I went swimming with my brothers, Mamá. And I took them their almuerzo, like I always do.

Señora Francisca Vargas made a dismissive gesture with her hand. And you gave that soldier a ride in your carriage, didn’t you? Don’t tell me ‘no.’ His horse was tied here the whole time.

After driving passengers from their ships to hotels all these years, why do I suddenly need permission to transport someone who has important business with Berto and Esteban? Mamá, I’m not a little child anymore.

Important business. Hah! The words were loaded with the sound of ridicule. Your hair is wet and your underclothes are wet. You took off your blouse and skirt and went swimming with a stranger. Then, you have the nerve to come back into this house wearing pants. What kind of proper señorita ever does that? Tell me! That’s shameful!

Paloma’s eyes met her mother’s glare without flinching. She shrugged her shoulders in mock resignation. "That’s the problem, Mamá. You don’t just want me to be a proper señorita. You want me to become a proper old spinster!"

Paloma could feel her patience wearing thin as Mamá began to speak very softly, as though dealing with a temperamental child. After all I’ve done for you, you treat me with such disrespect? Wait until you have children of your own, she muttered in a condescending tone, and you’ll understand what I’m going through. She let out a long, audible breath and fell silent, playing the role of the martyr. As always, Paloma thought.

Mamá looked as though she were weighing some kind of punishment.

Paloma strongly suspected that Mamá was baiting her, trying to get her to lose her temper so that the rebuke and the punishment could be even stronger. How old must I be before this stops? she thought. Pride forced a thin smile to her lips. She wasn’t going to play the game with another tearful apology this time.

Mamá, I’m not your little quinceañera anymore. I am twenty-six years old, Mamá. Twenty-six! If I’m not old enough to decide who can ride in that Dearborn—especially when my brothers are accompanying me—then I won’t be old enough to drive all those people from ships to hotels for you, either.

But those are good, cultured people: businessmen, military officers, diplomats…

And all Europeans, Mamá. You’re saying that Mexicans are not good enough? Is that what you’re saying, Mamá? What’s wrong with Mexicans?

"But a soldier? ¡Ay, hija!"

Juan and Raúl were riding right behind me as we took him over to speak with Berto and Esteban, Mamá, and you act as though I’m asking to marry the man!

That’s enough! No more of this disrespect. You will not be joining us for merienda tonight. Go to your room.

Suppressing a sob as she left, Paloma began to contemplate some drastic changes.

VARGAS CARRIAGE HOUSE, VERACRUZ

– APRIL 14, 1861 – 7:30 P.M.

Alonso sat looking up at the high roof beams of the large barn-like structure, watching a hornet as it bobbed along the ceiling seeking a way to escape. He wished that he could escape, too, but that was out of the question. Fernando’s meeting was taking place in the wheelwright area, where stagecoaches and freight wagons were repaired. This probably had been a nice carriage house when the original owners lived in the mansion nearby, but now it was a dusky, unswept cavern with spiderwebs in the corners, small piles of debris scattered here and there, and the tools and accessories of a repair shop situated on pegs and shelves around the walls.

The six other men gathered on an assortment of small benches and stools included Fernando and his four sons, plus two employees who had been introduced to Alonso earlier, Alejandro Cepeda and Enrique Castello. Alejandro was the chief blacksmith and wheelwright for all of the Vargas operations between here and Mexico City, while Enrique was in charge of all the animal hostlers and wranglers. He was a veterinarian. They were all seated around a large wooden table that was filled with gouges and burn marks. Alonso guessed that it had seen better days at the center of someone’s kitchen.

Now, as for your assignment, Sergeant, ah, . . .

Torres, sir. Alonso Torres. General Zaragoza said that I should report to you as though I were applying for the job of a driver.

Driver? said Fernando, raising his eyebrows. Is that what he said?

Yes, sir.

No, Alonso, replied Fernando. I’m afraid we can’t do that. There was a vague hint of disapproval in his voice. We have more than a hundred drivers, and they handle everything from horses to mules and oxen. Not only would we have to train you for several months about what you must do at each of sixty way-stations, hotels and freight depots, but we could never be sure when the army’s going to need you for another assignment. What we’re going to tell everyone is that you’re a part of Esteban’s security force, and that we hired you for your excellent marksmanship.

Alonso looked across at Esteban, who nodded affirmatively.

Well, then, said Alonso, feeling some disappointment. Do I understand correctly that I am to act as a liaison between Hermanos Vargas and General Zaragoza’s headquarters?

Not quite. Let me tell you how we’re set up here, Alonso. Fernando appeared to be weighing his words as he took a long puff on his Havana cigar. No one outside this room is to know what I am about to tell you. You may check with General Zaragoza to corroborate any of this if you wish. Agreed?

Alonso ran his hand through his hair. Sí, Señor.

I hold the rank of colonel in General Zaragoza’s army, said Fernando. I’ve been working with him for many years, now, so I don’t need a liaison, but thanks for your offer.

The words seemed courteous enough, but the tone sounded a bit patronizing. Alonso had a sinking feeling.

Berto and Esteban were lieutenants during the War of the Reform, said Fernando. I’m pleased to announce that—effective immediately—they’ve been promoted to captains.

Both brothers acknowledged the news with nods and quiet smiles.

Juan and Raúl were too young to be involved last time, but because of all they know and what they can do for us now, they will travel to General Zaragoza’s headquarters in a few days to be installed as lieutenants. You will have the honor of escorting them.

Thank you, sir. I congratulate the new lieutenants, said Alonso, but if I’m not in charge of liaison, would it be fair to say that since I’m on General Zaragoza’s personal staff that I’m responsible for conveying and explaining his orders?

"No, but thank you for clarifying this right now, Sergeant. When you’re with General Zaragoza, you’ll be what he wants you to be. When you’re with us, you’ll be what we want you to be. What we’re trying to do is stay in business, no matter who’s running the country. To do that, we must give every appearance of remaining as neutral as we can. Understood?"

Sí, Señor.

Do you have any questions?

Yes, just one, said Alonso. He was becoming apprehensive now. You said earlier that no one outside this room was to know about the ‘military’ aspects…

And? Fernando was scowling, with two fingers on his forehead as he took another puff on his cigar.

Several people called me ‘Sargento’ as I arrived this afternoon, and one of them was your daughter. How much is she supposed to know about all of this?

Alonso could almost feel the temperature drop a few degrees as Fernando stood and glared at everyone in the room.

That will stop immediately, he said. No one—and I mean absolutely no one—will use any language whatsoever implying anything ‘military’ about what we do here, he commanded. I’ll deal with my daughter. He took a long puff on his cigar and then turned, nodding to Enrique and Alejandro. The meeting was over.

Even for a seasoned vaquero like himself, Alonso thought, the mattress on the bed in the bunkhouse was painfully thin. Then again, maybe it was his disillusionment with the way the day had unfolded that was keeping him awake.

He just couldn’t visualize how any of this would bring him closer to his goal of capturing or killing General Miramón.

Certainly, he was not feeling as confident as earlier in the day when he rode into town. Not only, he pondered, am I not in charge of anything, but I’m not a driver or even a liaison. I’m none of the things Zaragoza sent me here to be.

On top of that, Alonso thought, this Señor Vargas claims that he’s a colonel, that all of his sons are officers, and he makes it clear that I’m to stay away from his daughter. What else can go wrong?

He had no idea.

At the opposite end of the walled Vargas compound, a good night’s sleep was also proving to be elusive for Paloma. She lay on top of the sheets, trying to catch whatever faint wisp of air might meander in from her balcony. She looked out into the darkness, reflecting on the day’s events.

Her mind was still fuming with resentful thoughts about the confrontation with her mother. How could Mamá dare to send a grown adult to her room as though dealing with a child? The harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. Her mother was trying to live through her, forcing her to do and to be all the things Mamá could never achieve.

I’m just a prisoner in this house, she thought, and things will stay that way until I either become a spinster or do something to gain my independence!

As she turned on her side and tried to fall asleep, her ruminations filtered back to early afternoon and the swimming incident at the river. She could still feel the grip of Alonso’s hands on her leg. As the image focused itself in her memory, she could feel the brief hug as they both struggled to keep their heads above water. Earlier, she had dismissed the groping and the hugging as just innocent exuberance during the game. After all, she had grown up as the only girl with four brothers and was accustomed to a lot of give-and-take with males.

Now, in her drifting reverie, she found herself fantasizing about what it might be like if Alonso were to kiss her. How would his arms feel, wrapped lovingly around her? She could imagine the sensation of sliding her hands and fingers gently over his broad shoulders.

Starting tomorrow, Paloma thought, she would try to learn as much as possible about Alonso and to see where that might lead. In the end, her day of reckoning with Mamá could not be postponed forever.

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CHAPTER TWO

PUEBLA – MAY 15, 1861 – 7:00 P.M.

Few Mexican cities could be considered as faithfully Catholic and as Spanish in their features as Puebla. This most pious municipality had more than sixty churches, and as many as half of the young girls in town would rather enter one of the thirteen convents than get married. The magnificent cathedral had one of the tallest spires in all of Mexico, and the prosperous and highly-polished citizenry were proud of their conservative way of life.

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Looking Over Puebla

The silhouettes of cathedral spires stood out against the fading dusk as white-gloved coachmen drove their carriages through the carved iron archway and past the tall shrubs lining the curved driveway to the Gaspar Ortiz mansion just east of town. The occasion was ostensibly to celebrate the saint’s day for Gaspar’s wife, Señora Isidra Ortiz, but a number of surprises awaited in a hidden agenda. Colorful lighting emitted from almost every door and window as the luxuriously-clad partygoers alighted from their coaches.

Strolling bands of mariachis wove their way among the guests on the lawn and in the nearby jardín.

These were the wealthiest people in Puebla, the oldest families who had been very comfortable under the rule of Spain some forty years earlier. Señor Gaspar himself offered his arm to