Mexican Fire Read Free Page B

General Santa Anna.”
    The mere mention of that despot’s name twisted her stomach into knots. Santa Anna. General Antonio López de Santa Anna Perez de Lebron. Former president and dictator of Mexico. Some styled him the Napoleon of the West, a name generated by Santa Anna himself. No longer was he called that. Like his Corsican counterpart, Santa Anna had met his Waterloo.
    For him that place had been San Jacinto, an obscure region in the southeastern Texas, or Tejas as the Mexicans knew it. There, in April 1836 and six weeks after the Alamo and Goliad fiascos to the west, General Sam Houston’s small, ragtag army surprised and finally defeated the Mexican forces.
    Before his downfall, nonetheless, Santa Anna had dug his Centralist claws into the flesh of many—including that of Alejandra’s young husband. Miguel Sierra, infantry colonel on attack against the Alamo, may have been struck by rebel guns, but in her heart Alejandra believed he died from the tactical errors and bloodthirsty excesses of his own commander.
    A man without honor or principles.
    Santa Anna was that. After his shameful victory at the Alamo and the annihilations of the Goliad rebels, after his ignominious defeat at San Jacinto, in the aftermath of giving Tejas away to the Anglo filibusters, he undertook a strange odyssey, traveling far and wide in search of a country that would sanctify his actions in Tejas. His search was unsuccessful. Several months ago Santa Anna had returned under cover of night to the country he disgraced in more ways than Alejandra could count on her fingers and toes.
    â€œAmiga?”
    Erasmo’s gently spoken word pulled her back to the present. “Why rid Mexico of Santa Anna?” she asked, fastening her hazel gaze to the brown of his. “President Bustamante, in his only action I’ve approved of, has decreed he stay exiled at Manga de Clavo.”
    â€œWhich is right outside our city,” the don reminded.
    â€œYes, Santa Anna’s estate is near Vera Cruz, but with the French in our puerto, he should be the least of our problems.”
    Don Valentin coughed again, and Alejandra handed him a glass of water. “Would you like to take a rest?”
    He shook his head. “No. This meeting is too important.”
    â€œTrue.” Erasmo got back to the business at hand. “Alas, our fallen president will use the blockade to his best advantage. Already he’s sent word: his services are available. He yearns to defend San Juan de Ulúa. By driving Admiral Baudin from these waters, he figures to ride a wave of popularity all the way to Mexico City.”
    She almost laughed “That will never happen. Mexico won’t give that cretin another try.”
    â€œComplacency is folly,” Erasmo said. “Our defeated leader is a man of high charisma, and his offer could be taken as one of a savior by many of our people. Some are still loyal to him.”
    She quivered with revulsion, thinking of Mexican vulnerability to enemies from abroad and from within.
    â€œAmiga, the French have presented him with the opportunity he’s been waiting for.”
    Was it only a moment ago she had thought the most dangerous threat to Mexico was France?
    Odd, how matters could change in the blink of an eye. Suddenly it all was too much for her. She would have welcomed her bed, its covers pulled over her eyes.
    Coward!
    She leaned toward the wheezing Don Valentin. “The people might be duped into returning Santa Anna to power.”
    â€œExactly,” he replied.
    â€œUnless we stop him, amiga.”
    Don Valentin nodded. Composed now, he said, “Doña Alejandra, you are the key. You’re the most beautiful woman in Veracruz . . . and you’ve come to a certain party’s attention. We want you to play on his weakness.”
    Alejandra overlooked the expansive praise. “I’m insulted you would ask.” She glared at both of them, then shored up