Authors: Shirl Henke
“Good. My men know what to do,” Fortune replied, levering open the breech of his Henry and checking its load. Snapping it shut, he turned to Mercedes. “Get Rosario and take her to the kitchen. Stay with Angelina, behind the stone hearth. Whatever you do, stay out of sight.”
“I know how to fire a gun, Lucero. I've faced soldiers on my own before. I had to,” she retorted, angry at his clipped dismissal.
“Well, you no longer have to—do as I say. Think of the child if not yourself,” he snarled impatiently.
The reminder of Rosario stilled her angry retort. She nodded but did take the shotgun with her.
Fortune had arranged a contingency plan with his men in the event that marauders of either side menaced Gran Sangre. The massive square adobe building had four-foot-thick walls. Although the windows facing the inner courtyard were large and low, those to the outside were high and narrow, good rifle ports. Like most of the great
hacienda
s in the north, it had been constructed as a natural fortress.
By the time he reached the courtyard, all the men were in position atop the roof and in the gateways. When he was in Hermosillo hiring new vaqueros, he was also able to procure some contraband weapons with which to arm them. The new Sharps breech-loading carbines were secured from an enterprising group of
contre-guerrillas
who had stolen the American weapons in route to General Escobedo's army in Chihuahua.
He quickly crossed the courtyard to where Hilario and his young companion, Gregorio, were waiting by the main gateway facing the road. Although only eighteen, the boy had a levelheaded assurance about him that struck a chord of recognition in Fortune, who had been a seasoned veteran of several campaigns by that age. He had not asked Gregorio Sanchez for which side he had ridden because he did not care. His only concern was that Sanchez was loyal to Gran Sangre now. And Hilario, whom he knew to be a lifelong Alvarado retainer, had vouched for the youth.
Gregorio was peering out at the trail where a plume of dust rose as the column of soldiers approached, his expression intent as he plied the spyglass. “They are Juaristas,
patrón
. Around twenty of them, traveling fast.” He handed the glass to Fortune.
Nicholas studied the column, recognizing the insignia of the Republic of Mexico that the officer was wearing. “They're not well armed. I doubt they'll want to make a fight of it. I wonder what the devil they're up to?”
“Perhaps the French chase them?” Hilario speculated.
Nicholas shrugged. “Not very likely. Wrong direction. They're headed toward Sinaloa, but there's only one way to find out.” He watched as the lieutenant signaled his men to halt down by the bank of the river, where it snaked nearest the house. He noted they were careful not to trample Mercedes’ fields. Most of the corn and other crops had been harvested now, but should she see any damage inflicted, she would probably open up with that shotgun, he thought with grim humor.
The lieutenant was a small, thin man with almost delicate features offset by a heavy straight mustache. He rode up to the front gate, flanked by two of his men. After assessing the three armed men with a practiced eye, he dismounted. “Good day,” he said, smiling broadly. “I am Lieutenant Bolivar Montoya, Army of the Republic of Mexico.”
“Don Lucero Alvarado,
patrón
of Gran Sangre, a
hacienda
lately fallen on evil times,” Nicholas replied.
“Who among us in these times has not found them evil, Don Lucero? My men and I mean you no harm. We are on our way to join with General Diaz in the south. Our horses are drinking from the river but my men could use fresh water from your well, if that is possible?”
Montoya was the soul of courtesy, if that was all indeed he “could use.” Fortune observed the man's uniform, scarcely up to French standards of spit and polish but a real uniform nonetheless. He had the bearing of a career soldier and his men were uniformed, albeit poorly. They were not banditti, but that did not mean they would be adverse to appropriating any loose livestock, food or other materials for the republic. “Your men are welcome to water but you will understand my reluctance to admit twenty armed men to the interior of my courtyard, Lieutenant Montoya?”
The mustache lifted in a genial smile. “But of course, I understand.” He shrugged. “It will scarcely be the first time we have drunk muddy water with our horses and been grateful for it.”
“There's no need,” Fortune said. “My men will draw buckets and bring them outside the compound for your soldiers to fill their canteens. We have little in provisions left but if you need cornmeal or beans, we could let you have some.”
“You are most gracious, Don Lucero. We could most certainly use extra rations,” the lieutenant replied as Nicholas indicated the officer should follow him into the courtyard and have a seat.
After giving terse instructions to Gregorio to have the houseboys haul water and fetch some sacks of corn and beans, he said to his guest, “Angelina will bring us some coffee, although I must apologize that it is cut with chicory.”
“It does not matter, for we have tasted no coffee in weeks. Few of the
hacendados
have been so hospitable,” he said dryly. “Are you a supporter of President Juarez then?”
Nicholas shrugged, then grinned frankly. “I support the side that wins.”
Lieutenant Montoya laughed, then his narrow face grew earnest and his black eyes glowed with conviction. “If that is so, I strongly advise you to stand behind the republic. I've just come from El Paso del Norte where I met Don Benito. A very great man.”
“So I've heard,” Nicholas replied thoughtfully, as they sipped the coffee Angelina brought from the kitchen. Over the years he had heard stories of Juarez from friend and foe alike. The more time he spent in Mexico, the more he had acquired a grudging respect for the integrity and stubbornness of the little Indian from Oaxaca. Juarez was a country lawyer with an utter lack of self-aggrandizement. When he had arrived in Mexico City to assume his legal role as president of the republic, Juarez had worn a plain wool suit and ridden in a small black carriage without fanfare. It was a startling contrast to the extravagant pomp and lavishly gilded lifestyle of the emperor and his court, and that contrast was not at all favorable to the puppets the French had placed on the throne. Montoya's next words immediately caught Fortune's attention.
“The president has just held a secret meeting on the border with the North American General Sheridan. The Yankee brought assurances from Washington that now the Southern rebellion has been crushed, the Union will turn its attention to the French invaders on Mexican soil.”
“Noble sentiments,” Fortune replied, “but what is he doing to back them up?”
Montoya's eyes lit up. “Much! The whole arsenal in Baton Rouge has been emptied out. The guns and ammunition are already being distributed among General Escobedo's army in Chihuahua. Within a year we will sweep from the north while General Diaz comes out of Oaxaca in the south. The French—if they are so foolish as to remain—will be caught in a great pincer along with Maximilian's so-called Imperial Mexican army.”
Nicholas rubbed his jaw in consideration. “I've heard rumors in Hermosillo that General Bazaine has received orders from Napoleon to begin a withdrawal. At first I didn't believe it.” He shrugged.
"Believe it," Montoya replied earnestly. "With the United States government supporting us now that their war is over, Juarez cannot lose."
* * * *
Mercedes stormed out of the kitchen no sooner than Lieutenant Montoya's troops had ridden away, saying, “I can't believe you gave our food—
my
cornmeal—to those republican rabble!”
“Best to keep our options open, beloved.” She looked at his thoughtful expression. “You actually think they'll win?” she asked incredulously.
“I'd say the chances are becoming better than even. While you've been isolated here in Sonora, struggling to hold the
hacienda
together, I've ridden from Guerrero to Coahuila and back. I've seen the way the imperials take a state or a town, then can't hold it against the constant guerrilla assaults. These people never give up, Mercedes. They fight with their machetes, hell, with their bare hands if they have to. You of all people should understand that kind of stubbornness.”
She could feel his eyes on her and knew he was also alluding to their own nightly warfare. Fidgeting with her apron pocket, she replied, “You seem to admire them, even after all the times they've wounded you.”
He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips in a mocking salute. “My cross to bear—I seem to most admire the adversaries who wound me deepest.”
She knew again that he did not speak only of the war.
Chapter Eleven
“The day after we rode southeast into Chihuahua, a French patrol arrived at Gran Sangre. Gregorio Sanchez reported to me that Don Lucero directed them west, saying we had headed toward Guaymas. I think you can use him,” Lieutenant Montoya said to the man seated on the opposite side of the crude wooden table.
“Ah, but can we trust him?” His slight figure was clad, as always, in a serviceable black suit and plain white shirt, which contrasted sharply with his swarthy bronze complexion. His face was Indio, with a square stubborn jaw, blunt-featured, homely. There were those who likened it to that of his North American counterpart Abraham Lincoln. President Benito Juarez's expression was impassive as he inhaled his Cuban cigar, a small indulgence he had begun while exiled in New Orleans many years past. His eyes, large liquid black pools, were his most dramatic feature. Right now he fixed them intently on Lieutenant Bolivar Montoya.
“I believe he is sympathetic to our cause. Why else would he misdirect the French?” the lieutenant asked.
“Why indeed?” Juarez echoed. “He may simply have decided to support what he thinks will be the winning side.” He tapped his pencil thoughtfully on the scarred pine table strewn with papers and documents. The men were seated in a small shanty on the outskirts of El Paso del Norte. The humble cabin had been the presidential headquarters for the past year, the last in a succession of rude outposts as the republic's government in exile retreated from the capital, moving ever northward from San Luis Potosí to Durango to central Chihuahua and finally to this isolated border hideaway.
But now the little man of law's stubborn determination was at last being rewarded. The course of the war had finally begun to turn. The relentless tenacity of republican guerrilla tactics had worn down and utterly frustrated General Bazaine's French regulars. Even the barbaric retaliations against the Mexican population by General Marquez had served only to stiffen resistance to the imperial cause. Now at last the president had two armies in the field under Diaz and Escobedo, troops actually equipped with enough guns and ammunition to face the imperials head-on. Soon he would be moving south again as the perimeter of Maximilian's empire continued to shrink.
“We need a man in Sonora, Mr. President,” Montoya said earnestly. “The
hacendados
there are solidly in the imperial camp and far too wealthy and powerful to ignore. A man like Alvarado, master of Gran Sangre, would be a decided asset spying for us.”
“But if his only motivation is expediency, it might not be worth the risk of revealing Gregorio Sanchez and the others to him. The
patrón
still has the power of life and death over every person on his estate,” Juarez reminded gently. “I will consider the matter,” he said, dismissing the young officer with thanks.
“But Nicholas Fortune isn't the
patrón
of Gran Sangre.” Bart McQueen spoke as soon as Montoya had closed the door. He had been sitting in the corner, hidden in shadows. In his line of work, McQueen preferred it that way.
“Tell me everything you know about Fortune.” Juarez took another puff on his cigar and leaned back from the table as the methodical American crossed the room and took Montoya's chair.
“Nicholas Fortune, born sometime around 1836 in New Orleans, mother a stage actress turned prostitute, father...” He shrugged. “Most probably Don Anselmo Alvarado, who was keeping Lottie Fortune in high style around that time.”
“But the don made no attempt to recognize the boy,” the president interjected.
“None. Probably didn't even know of the boy's existence and, doubtless, would not have cared. In any case, by the time Lottie was pregnant, he'd lost interest in her and moved on to the arranged marriage with Sofia Obregón. The boy spent his early years on the New Orleans streets, then a brief period in Texas before joining the Legion.”