Savannah Heat (38 page)

The rest of the men followed suit, and the Mexicans cautiously approached. Their leader, a grim-faced man with graying hair, ordered them bound, and they were marched away without so much as a word.

Where they were headed and what would be their fate once they got there, Morgan couldn’t say. For the moment he didn’t care. He knew only that he still lived. That he had someone that he loved to return to. And that somehow he had to survive.

“What have you done to Cookie!” Silver stood in the doorway of the elegant dining room in the great hacienda—Rancho del los Cocodrilos—land of the crocodiles.

Seated at the head of the long wooden table, Capitán Paulo Carrillo came to his feet and flashed a welcoming smile “Your friend has joined the others in the prison. I assure you he is unharmed.”

They had been separated the moment they had reached the hacienda, Cookie marched away at gunpoint, Silver brought inside and locked in one of the spacious bedchambers. She’d been given food and clean clothing—a bright yellow skirt and an embroidered white peasant blouse that left her shoulders bare, and a pair of flat leather sandals. She’d been allowed to bathe and wash her hair and generally treated like a guest instead of a prisoner.

It only made her feel worse

Carrillo pulled out a carved wooden chair, one of twelve that hugged the long wooden table beneath the heavy wrought-iron chandelier. “Please, Senorita Jones.” He indicated she should have a seat.

“What do you want with me? Why have I been kept locked up for two days without a single word?”

Carrillo arched a light brown eyebrow. “You have been mistreated?”

“You know I have not.”

“Please …” Again he indicated her chair. “Our food is growing cold.” The table gleamed with sparkling cut crystal and expensive porcelain. Heavy carved silverware glittered beside each plate, and pink hibiscus arranged in a lovely crystal bowl formed a fragrant centerpiece.

“What do you want with me?” Silver repeated, still not moving from the doorway.

“I?” he asked pleasantly. “I want nothing but your company. It is General Hernandez who commands your presence.”

“Where is he?”

“Not here as of yet, I’m afraid. He will arrive sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest you enjoy his generous hospitality.”

Silver studied the table, the steaming platters of chicken and beef, the hot tortillas and mounds of squash, and thought of those in the prison not far away. The smell of the food made the bile rise up in her throat.

“I wish only to join my friends.” With that she turned and walked away, returning to the sparsely furnished bedchamber she occupied down the hall.

She sank down on the low wooden bed, her fingers moving absently across the bright red woolen blanket. Cookie suffered in prison, along with Morgan’s brother and half the Texas troops. Had Jordy and the crew of the
Savannah
also been taken prisoner? Were they on their way here to join the others? And what about Morgan? By now he could be lying dead
in the jungle, his body left to rot among the steaming vegetation.

No!
Silver refused to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. She needed her strength; she wouldn’t let her courage be destroyed by her worry for Morgan. He’d be all right, she told herself firmly. He had to be. And until she knew differently, she would be strong.

Strong for herself. Strong for Morgan.

The grueling march to Rancho del los Cocodrilos nearly broke them. Two days of heat and bugs, little food and less water, and a pace few strong men could endure. Both Morgan and Ram pulled litters that carried injured soldiers, as did a few of the others. The Centralist leader never approached them. But his men did.

One long-legged soldier carried a leather romal, a short braided quirt that was used to discipline the horses. With great enthusiasm, the slicing leather thongs came down on the backs of the tardy, shredding the fabric of their shirts, biting into flesh, and leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Morgan felt the lash no less than the others, his pace beginning to slow as his burden grew heavier. Time and again he suffered the heavy blow of a fist or boot, wielded by a name-calling
soldado
. Still, they trudged on.

By the afternoon of the second day their goal lay in sight—Rancho de los Cocodrilos. It was a harsh, flat piece of land, dotted with the dark green spikes of the sisal plant. In the distance to the south the land grew more humid, more dense, and even less hospitable.

“
¡Vamanos!
” one of the soldiers called out, bringing his romal down with heavy force against the lead prisoner, sending the small man sprawling into the
dirt. The Texian soldier beside him helped him back on his feet, and the men marched on.

As they neared the great hacienda, Morgan saw a two-story adobe structure with an arched portico out front. Through the arches he could just make out the massive carved wooden doors, the fountain that bubbled pleasantly, ignorant of the death and destruction around it.

“Leave the injured to the others,” the long-legged soldier told him, then repeated the words to Ram. One of the men shoved Colonel Buckland forward, and another bound their arms behind them. The three of them were marched toward the hacienda. The rest of the troops changed direction, skirted the house, and marched farther east.

“Why do you think they have separated us from the others?” Ram asked.

“
¡Silencio!
” one of the guards warned. “You will have your chance to talk soon enough.” He roughly shoved them forward. They bypassed the main house and marched toward the stable some distance to the rear. Made of adobe, cool and dark inside, the structure smelled of horses and grain. Half a dozen soldiers milled around the interior, some standing, others squatting on their haunches. The tallest moved forward at their entrance.

He grinned, exposing slightly pointed, wolfish-looking teeth, visible even in the dimness of the barn. “I am Sergeant Renaldo Ruiz,” he said in Spanish. “I am in charge of your interrogation.”

“What did he say?” Buckland asked.

“
¡Silencio!
” Ruiz demanded. “From now on you will speak only when spoken to. Then I expect you to answer the questions we ask. If you do not …” He pointed upward, where ropes hung suspended from
the rafters. Morgan’s stomach turned over. “Take the others outside. We will start with this one.”

Morgan watched Ram and the colonel depart. They both looked as haggard as he. Buckland’s shoulders sagged, and his usually spotless uniform, torn and crusted with dirt, hung on his weary frame. Ram’s bare back carried the mark of the lash. Morgan glanced to the soldier called Ruiz, who motioned toward two of his soldiers. With his hands bound behind him, there was little he could do but let them drag him into a waiting chair. His arms were lashed to the back, and Ruiz began his questioning:

“Where is your ship? Where are the rest of your troops? Why have you come here? Where are the guns? When will the troops move against us?”

The barrage seemed unending—each punctuated with a reeling blow more powerful than the last. They knew more about the Texians’ movements than he ever would have guessed. Still, he said nothing. By the end of the session, his lips were split and bloody, his face a mass of bruises, and blood ran freely from a gash on his jaw. The blows to his ribs had surely cracked some of them, and the pain made it difficult to breathe.

“That is enough for now,” the sergeant said. “Bring in the Turk.”

And so it had gone, through an agonizing day and night that had progressed to the point of unconsciousness. Screams were coming from the barn now—Morgan was surprised to discover that they were his own. He hadn’t seen Ram or Buckland, but he knew their torture was the same—unless they had answered the sergeant’s questions.

Time dragged interminably, until every agonizing hour meshed into the next. Morgan blinked awake
with the rising of the sun. He’d been sleeping—no he’d been unconscious. Where was he now? The ache in his arms and shoulders, the agony that sliced the skin from his wrists drew his gaze upward. It was difficult to focus, difficult even to keep his head from lolling against his shoulder, but eventually he saw the peak of the roof, the tiny nests of straw built there by the birds.

His eyes moved lower, to the rope that looped the beam above his head, trailing down to capture his bleeding wrists. Naked to the waist, he swung more than a foot off the ground, his weight supported only by his aching, bloody arms, which were slowly being wrenched from their sockets. His head slumped forward. Never in his life had he prayed for blessed unconsciousness.

Morgan prayed for it now.

“Bring him down.”

They were the last words he remembered, all that registered through the blinding haze of pain until he opened his eyes in the cool interior of the main hacienda. Soldiers supported him, one on each side, the sound of their footsteps echoing down the long many-doored hallway. Oil paintings lined the walls beside flickering candle sconces. He noticed the floors were earthen but swept to a hard-packed sheen. The furniture, massive and dark, appeared to have come from Europe.

The Frenchman who had built the great plantation had expensive taste, Morgan thought fleetingly. General Hernandez had chosen well.

At the end of the hall, one of several, it seemed, someone opened the door to a large book-lined study. Seeing Morgan with the soldiers, the man behind the desk shoved back his chair and came to his feet. When the men let go of Morgan’s arms, he
propped himself against the doorframe for support. The edges of his vision dimmed, and he fought to bring the room back in focus.

“
Buenos dias
, Major Trask,” said the man behind the desk. He was a short man, Morgan saw, with dark eyes and a narrow, heavily waxed mustache. When he motioned for Morgan to take a seat in the chair across from him, Morgan noticed the man’s powerful chest and arms. Fighting to make one foot move in front of the other, he reached the high-backed chair and sank down heavily.

“Who are you?” Morgan asked.

“General Alberto Hernández. And you are Morgan Trask.”

“Where have the others been taken? Bayram Sit and Colonel Buckland?”

“For the present they remain in the
establo
, though they will soon be removed to the prison. Like you, their torture has ended.”

“Why?”

The general shrugged muscular shoulders. “There is little the Turk could tell us that we do not already know, even if he were willing. The colonel was … shall we say, a bit more cooperative.”

“That bastard,” Morgan hissed through his cracked and bloodied lips.

“Some men are cut out for this sort of life; others are not.”

Morgan didn’t answer. His head was throbbing again, and his lack of food and water was making him feel light-headed. “Why have you brought me here?”

“You intrigue me, Major. We have known from the start it was you and not Buckland who truly commanded this effort. His presence was merely a facade—you alone would succeed or fail. You have
failed, Major, but even in failing, you have brought about the deaths of many of my soldiers.”

“That’s what happens in battle,” Morgan said sarcastically, and got a vicious blow to the ribs for his words. His stomach reeled, the bile rose, and grayness swirled around him.

“You are not afraid of dying, Major. That is why I have brought you here.” He motioned to one of his men, who strode across the room to a small door near the corner. “I have a different kind of torture in mind for you.” He turned to the man at the door. “Bring her in.”

Morgan watched the door slowly open. It was hard to concentrate, hard to focus his thoughts. Darkness swirled just inches from his mind, wooing him with its promise of freedom from pain. It was then he saw her, a vision of loveliness, silver-haired and dark-eyed. He knew he had begun to hallucinate, yet he did not want the dream to end.

“Morgan!”

The scream that rent the air forced his eyes to open wider. Unconsciousness receded, and his vision began to clear. Still, he could see her, fighting against the soldier whose arm gripped her waist, her hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders.

“Morgan!” There was agony in the sound of her voice—Silver’s voice—there could be no other.

“Silver,” Morgan whispered as the terrible truth struck home. He prayed to God he was wrong. Silver couldn’t be here. Not now. Not in this hellhole! He tried to gain his feet, but a man’s rough hand pressed him back in the chair.
Stay calm
, he told himself, fighting to gather his strength, pushing back the darkness. He had to help Silver. Panic would gain him nothing.

“What have you done to him?” She demanded,
her voice shaking with outrage. Tears blurred her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “How could you do such a thing?”

“This is war, Senorita Jones. The major was well aware of the consequences when he accepted his assignment.”

Stay calm
, she told herself.
You’ve got to stay in control
. Morgan was hurt—badly, but at least he was alive. It was up to her to help him. “I demand you release him.” It broke her heart to look at him, to see the cruelty he had suffered.