The Royal City of the Holy Faith of Saint Francis. A pretentious name for the squalid cluster of flat-roofed adobe buildings sprawled in a valley like a bowl, seven thousand feet above sea level and completely surrounded by three vast mountain ranges. In this summer of 1837 Santa Fe was already an old town. Founded in 1608, it had been the seat of a Spanish province that stretched from the Pacific to the Mississippi, from Mexico to the Canadian Territories—a vast domain inhabited by sixty villages of peaceful Pueblos and ravaged by the endless warfare carried on by the Apaches and Navajos. Through the centuries the streets of the town had been the crooked, narrow avenues for high conquest, cavalier adventure, and bloody rebellion.
This was the town reached by the insurgents on August 9, 1837. They camped on the outskirts with the bulk of their forces and the people of Santa Fe cowered in expectation of a saqueo—a plundering of the city. Governor Carbajal had escaped the battle of Black Mesa, accompanied by a handful of trusted friends. But the Indians had followed his trail and captured him at a house south of Santa Fe. They cut off his head and brought it back to the plaza with his lifeless body. For hours the square was filled with yelling, chanting fiends, carrying the head back and forth on their lances, celebrating their first victory over the people of Spanish blood in centuries. Villapando joined the frenzied ritual of triumph, tearing the striped vest and broadcloth dolman off Carbajal’s corpse and putting them on his own naked body. Amado and Gomez and the rest of the Mexicans of the insurgent army remained uneasily outside of town. They could not control the Pueblos; they were outnumbered by the Indians and were afraid to interfere with the orgy of revenge for fear the Pueblos would turn on them. Finally, however, as if the barbaric display had satisfied their need of vengeance, the Indians quieted down and drifted back to their camp outside Santa Fe.
It was then that the Mexicans in the rebel army took official possession of the capital. They made a triumphal entry, with Amado and Gomez and his landholders leading on their prancing horses. Lupe and Teresa rode into town in the same cart that had brought them all the way from Taos. It was parked in the plaza while the leaders of the army repaired to the parish church to offer thanks for victory.
A dense crowd seethed back and forth across the ancient plaza. Most of them were already celebrating the victory, drinking heavily, shouting and singing. A dance had begun in front of La Fonda, and the squeaky fiddle music mingled with the other babble.
Lupe’s husband elbowed his way through the crowd to the cart. “I’ve been talking with Alberto Maynez,” Santos said. “He manages the inn here. He tells me Don Biscara had to flee town to escape the Pueblos. But he has his men out hunting for you. They heard you were with the rebels.”
It was like the touch of a cold wind. Despite herself, Teresa looked about her in the crowd. She had known the chance she was taking when she defied Biscara. She knew what had happened to other peons who did the same thing. This was a feudal land, living by ancient customs, where the patron could play God without interference. Suddenly, catching sight of a face in the crowd, she stiffened. It was Iguala, Biscara’s manservant. Lupe saw him too and made a moaning sound.
“They have come to kill you, I know they have. Take us home, Santos, take us home.”
Santos put a hand on the big Spanish pistol in his waistband, telling Teresa, “You will be safe among us, chiquita.”
Iguala had caught sight of Teresa now. His glittering eyes were fixed on her face. But he had seen Santos too, and made no move toward the cart. Then, across the square from Iguala, Teresa saw the narrow, reptile face of Garcia. Lupe clutched Teresa’s arm.
“Come back to Taos. You can’t stay here.”
The fear seeped out of Teresa before the cold core of her old resolve, and she shook her head slowly, eyes still on Iguala. She knew she would not be safe from Biscara in Taos. This had proved it to her. Though Biscara was a gachupín—a man of the hated pure Spanish blood—and had fled Santa Fe to escape the vengeance of the Pueblos, he still had powerful friends in Rio Abajo. It was problematical whether he would be expelled after things had quieted down.
It was all or nothing now. In order to retain her safety she had to stay with the revolutionists. As they stood or fell, so she won or lost.
Iguala and Garcia remained in the crowd, making no move toward her, till Amado and Gomez and the other leaders emerged from the parish church, crossing to the Palace of the Governors. A man circulated through the crowd, telling the women that Gomez had asked for some servants to cook and care for the officials who would be residing in the Palace. Teresa eagerly joined the others who were going, knowing that inside the walls she would be safe from Biscara’s men.
Santos and Lupe accompanied her across the square. Teresa looked back once, to see Iguala standing against the wall of La Fonda, watching her with those fixed and glittering eyes. Then the black shadow of the portal swallowed her, and she was inside the Palace of the Governors.
This ancient structure was probably the most fabulous building north of Mexico City. For over two centuries it had sprawled like a sullen watchman on the north side of the plaza. Its windows were narrow and secretive slots in adobe walls four feet thick—walls burned by the sun and beaten by the wind till they were tawny-gray as weathered buckskin. At either end were the two frowning towers, with the military chapel in one, the dungeon in the other. Along the front of the building for over three hundred feet ran the inevitable portal—a covered arcade whose roof was supported by time-silvered pine posts planted twelve feet apart. Behind them, in the dim rooms that had been the seat of so many intrigues, were the two curiosities unique to all of New Mexico—the glass in the windows and the festoons of Apache ears strung on the wall. Teresa had heard of these ears, trophies gathered by the governors in retaliation for the myriad scalps taken by the Indians. They were the first thing she saw upon entering the Palace—repugnant, bizarre, somehow symbolizing the end of the whole nightmarish trail that had led her here. Teresa was only one of a dozen forgotten women who crowded curiously about the half-open door of the council chamber as the leaders of the revolt gathered to elect their first officers. She knew that Amado had made himself popular by his deeds of the last few days. Yet the mass of the insurgents were still Pueblos, and he was not one of them. Perhaps this was what swayed Gomez to give his support to Villapando. And when the election was over, Villapando was governor.
After hours of haggling over details, the meeting broke up. Amado was first out. He was tired and haggard looking, the dust of open country still caked in a silvery film on his broad face. The folded-down tops of his jack boots rustled against his calves and his spurs jingled mutedly as he pushed his way through the gawking crowd of women and retainers. This had been a day of defeat for him, and he showed it. She went after him.
“Nicolas, did you make arrangements—?”
He waved irritably. “Don’t bother me now. I did what I could. I suggested to Villapando that we needed someone to manage the servants. He didn’t say yes or no. I suppose that means you can stay.”
He tramped out the door and into the patio at the rear. She stopped by the door. Behind her she heard a new babble as more men came from the council room. She turned to see Villapando, halted by the door. Beneath the striped vest and dolman his legs were like stanchions of sculptured bronze. It seemed to underline the travesty of these savages in this building. For just a moment, as he stood among the jabbering group, he turned his eyes toward her.
Then he swung his broad shoulders and disappeared back into the council chamber. But the look remained, like a tingling pressure against her body. He had taken her all in—her breasts, her belly, her thighs—and it made her feel as naked as the first woman on earth.
* * * *
As soon as they were established in the Palace, Amado sent for his wife at his ranch at Lemitar and Gomez brought his wife from Taos. Doña Beatriz Gomez arrived first, wheeling into the walled compound behind the Palace in a black coach with the armorial cipher of her house on its dust-spattered doors. From its dusky, plush-seated interior stepped a voluptuous woman in her early twenties. Her rebozo was of flame-colored crepe de Chine with a fringe so long it swished at her ankles. As was traditional with the women of Santa Fe, when in public, this vivid shawl was arranged over her head and shoulders and drawn across her face so that only her eyes were visible.
“Your husband is busy in the assembly,” Teresa told Doña. “He told me to make you comfortable.”
The woman nodded without speaking and Teresa led the way to the quarters opening off the patio. The officers of the garrison also lived in the huge compound behind the Palace. One of them was lounging at the well—Captain Emilio Uvalde of the militia—a lean, dark-faced man with a reckless smile and brooding lips that gave him a way with women. As they passed he smiled crookedly at Doña Beatriz. The woman met his gaze for just a moment, but Teresa saw her eyes grow wide and bold with a sudden unveiled need.
And in that single look Teresa understood some of the frustration she had seen in Gomez.
They entered the rooms Gomez had been using. The woman stopped within the door, glancing around the room. The ceiling was supported by smoke-blackened beams, between which were laid a herringbone pattern of small round sticks, painted alternately red and yellow. The floor was carpeted with rough jerga and the whitewash they called yeso was peeling off cracked mud walls like a white scum. For a moment Teresa thought the woman would show disdain, or anger. But neither came. She dropped her shawl from her face with a resigned sigh and walked listlessly across the room.
“Your husband says it is the only building in the province with glass windows,” Teresa said.
“How nice,” Doña Beatriz said.
From one of her bags she got a guaje, filled with tobacco, a package of hojas, and a flint and steel. Skillful as a man, she tapped a measure of tobacco into the cornhusk hoja, rolled it, licked it, struck a spark with her flint and steel, and lit the cigarrito. Then she produced a pair of tenazitas de oro—the little golden tongs in which these privileged women held their cigarettes to keep the tobacco from staining their fingers. She saw Teresa watching her and offered the tobacco and hojas. Teresa accepted with thanks, and in a minute both women were smoking.
“It will not be so bad,” Teresa said. “I understand there is to be a baile tonight in the plaza to celebrate the new governor.”
Doña Beatriz’s eyes started to glow; then the light died out. “I will ask my husband,” she said.
“He’ll be busy. They have been spending every night with that assembly. We could go anyway.”
The woman looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“Why not? Who would stop us?”
Doña Beatriz smiled, a little sadly. “I talked like that—once.”
There was the military clatter of boots on the hard ground of the patio, and Gomez’s sharp voice: “Beatriz, they tell me you are here.”
From boredom and listlessness she went into a stiff, almost painful expectancy, like a puppy waiting to greet its master and not knowing whether it would meet anger or humor. She nodded at the door and Teresa moved to open it.
“Here, señor,” she said.
Gomez strode in the door. His eyes were red-rimmed with weariness, his face deeply lined. He glanced at Teresa, went to Doña Beatriz, took her elbows, kissed her on the forehead.
“We quit only for a bite to eat,” he said. “You brought my velvet calzones?”
“Yes, señor.”
“Extra shirts?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He glanced around the room. “You are comfortable? Anything you want?”
“Nothing.”
Gomez moved to one of the colchones and sat down, leaning back against the wall, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Ah, these meetings. Battles. Nothing but battles. That Villapando is a stupid fool.”
Doña Beatriz knelt before him and started pulling off his boots. “Perhaps a cool, wet cloth for your face? And some wine?”
He nodded and Teresa stepped to the door, clapping her hands for one of the servants in the patio. She gave the orders to the woman. Doña Beatriz was helping Gomez off with his jacket.
“Maybe it would help to relax tonight. Teresa says there is to be a baile.”
He shook his head. “Too much work.”
“But there will be dancing, and music—”
“I said no.”
Doña Beatriz pouted like a sullen child. Gomez had not opened his eyes; he leaned his head back against the wall, rubbing tiredly at his face. The servant came with a basin of water and a bottle of wine.
“Call me if you wish anything,” Teresa said.
Doña Beatriz nodded, without looking at her. Teresa left. It was like stepping from a prison. She took a deep breath of the air outside. She knew pity for Doña Beatriz, a little contempt. Hers was not the cruelty and pain Teresa had known. But still it was poignantly typical of the subjugation the women of this land endured.
The rich one, as a young girl, was subject to the iron-bound discipline of a father. She was held in Turkish seclusion, prevented from meeting all but the sons of the finest families, courted under the watchful eye of her parents or a duenna. When the time came for marriage the parents made the choice and saw to all arrangements. If the girl had not yet met the man who was to be her husband it was of no consequence. Often bride and groom did not see each other till the day of their wedding.
After that she was imprisoned within the thick walls of another house, subject to every whim of another man—growing as docile and beaten and resigned as Doña Beatriz under the insidious fetters of custom and tradition. If the man was kind and thoughtful she was lucky, and her cross was not so heavy. But often he was restless, brought up in a culture where a man was expected to roam, even after marriage. And if he sought sweets at other doors, the wife had little recourse.
The thought of it, the picture Doña Beatriz had made, filled Teresa with a fierce resurgence of her old rebellion. She would never bow her head again. She would have the tenazitas de oro in which to hold her cigarritos and diamond earrings dripping from her ears like icicles and a Spanish shawl two hundred years old with fringe so long it swished at her ankles. But she would never bow her head.
She was still sitting in the shade of the willow by the servants’ quarters when Gomez came from his rooms. He saw her and walked tiredly across the hot patio. A harried look clung furtively to the corners of his squinted eyes. An aging man trying to keep a restless young wife on the leash, and wondering, always wondering. He stopped beside her. The flesh about his lips was tinged with gray.
“You will let the other servants care for Doña Beatriz. You are a bad influence on her.”
Teresa smiled tauntingly. “Are you afraid of me?”
He did not answer her smile. “I know what you are doing, Teresa. I know what you were doing up in Taos. Amado did not become a general by himself. Do you think his protection will be enough?”
“It would be,” she murmured, “if he was governor.”
She saw Gomez’s eyes flutter with surprise. But it was not a new thought to her. She had seen the way Villapando looked at her, had seen Amado’s popularity waning—had caught other warning signals of the increasing precariousness of her position. The possibility of Amado as governor had started as a vague idea—probably long before they reached the Palace. But now it was a definite hope, another opportunity to be grasped in her constant struggle.
“I think you’re already fed up with Villapando,” she told Gomez. “You chose to speak through him in the beginning because you knew he could draw the Indians to your cause. But you never thought they’d take over so completely. Villapando is sincere, honest, but no politician. He will not make the deal you wish with Don Biscara.”
Again that flutter of surprise. “How did you know?”
“The servants talk. I know most of what goes on in the council chambers. You know we’ll need the support of the rich ones in Rio Abajo if we’re to survive. The Indians and the peons hate Don Biscara because he is a gachupin. You hate him because he looks down upon you. Yet you know he must be cultivated as the only link between your present government and the ricos of the Lower River.”
His lips compressed, and a sardonic twinkle came to his eyes. “And I thought I was the politician,” he said.
“Perhaps you want a reconciliation with the central government, too.”
“Of course,” he said. He turned, locking his hands behind him, and began to pace agitatedly. “From the beginning I knew we could not break away from Mexico. Texas or the United States would gobble us up immediately. The most we can hope for is to make Mexico City treat us as an equal instead of a slave. Give us a governor from our own people, adequate protection from the Indians, give us some satisfaction for our other complaints.”
“You know you can’t be governor,” she said. “The rebels wouldn’t overthrow one aristocrat and put another in. They want a man of the people. But you let the wrong man be put in your place. Villapando is too ignorant to be a good governor, too stubborn to let others make him a good governor. What you need is a man who can be molded.”
“Amado?” He smiled wryly. “And then you would be safe, wouldn’t you? Protected by the supreme power in the country.”
She smiled. “We would both gain what we wish, Don Augustín.”
He pursed his lips, eyes cynical. “You are like an eagle who means to fly despite its cage, Teresa. You are as deadly as you are beautiful. A man would be a fool to link himself with you.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward the Palace. At the door, however, he halted a moment. He looked over his shoulder at her and there was a puzzled frown on his face. Then he wheeled impatiently and disappeared inside.
At the same time she saw Amado crossing toward her from the barracks. He had seen her talking with Gomez and did not care for it. He stopped before her, scowling, pulling at his chin.
“What are you concocting now, querida?”
She smiled bewitchingly. “Don Augustín and I were plotting to make you governor.”
The vertical grooves dug into his brow. “Don’t joke.”
“Who’s laughing? You know what a mess Villapando is making. The Mexicans are disgusted with him. Gomez thought the time ripe for a man of your talents.”
His brows rose and some of the surliness left his face. She had touched his ego again. But such a bold concept took time to adjust to. She knew what an opportunist he was, knew he must have dreamed of some day attaining such a high office. Yet to be presented with the possibility so abruptly was a little frightening.
“Look how quick you became a general,” she prompted. “Isn’t this the next logical step?”
His eyes began to glow with the old covetous light. But as always the questions, the doubts, the apprehensions came to harry him. She saw them cloud the light from his eyes.
“How can it be? Try to overthrow Villapando and the Pueblos would turn on us.”
“What if we had more Mexicans on our side?” she said. “A real army. Would you declare a counter-revolution and accept the governorship?”
He studied her a long time. Finally a smile pinched his carnal lips at the corner. He began to chuckle softly.
“Teresa, mi vida, when will you cease to amaze me.”
He looked at her a moment longer, still chuckling. Then he turned and walked thoughtfully to the Palace. She knew what kind of a seed she had planted. In such a sly, Machiavellian mind it would not take long to blossom.
But something had been planted in her mind too. A growing understanding of the possibilities unfolding before her. All along she had sensed that what had happened with Biscara was merely a culmination, a turning point. Yet the things driving her went deeper than the simple need to escape him. She had sensed it before—she saw it clearly now. In the shape of things to come she saw a chance of freedom, of independence that far transcended any fear of Biscara. These were the needs that went to the root of her and that would have driven her whether Biscara threatened her or not.