By winter of 1838 the traditional power of the Lower River had been smashed and Gomez and his Upper River ruled in the capital. The leaders of the Lower River had promised their support, but they could not stand to see the gradual spread of Gomez’s power. They could not fight it openly for fear Amado would invoke the Expulsion Law against Biscara. Thus the only course left was passive resistance.
They withdrew from the capital completely. They kept up a pretense of support, yet managed to withhold it in a dozen insidious ways. There was nothing Amado could pin down as evidence that Biscara was acting in bad faith. But by the spring of 1839 there were signs that the strategy was succeeding. Mexico City had become aware that the aristocrats in Santa Fe were not in support of Amado’s regime. Amado began to squirm under the pressure that brought from the capital. His treasury was empty. But when he came to the Lower River for loans all the rich ones seemed to have no liquid assets.
It came to a head in April. Teresa had just finished breakfast one morning when Pepita came to her chambers and told her that Don Biscara sought an audience. It was a complete surprise, since Biscara had made a point of never visiting her sala nor recognizing her in any way. However, she received him in the private room behind the main salon. The place had changed remarkably. Teresa had put down a floor of black and white tile. In place of the grayed pine table that had once stood in the center was a huge, marble-topped table with clawed legs of black walnut, shipped in from St. Louis. The windows were paned with opaque glass now and there were a dozen handsome chairs, their upholstered red plush matching the heavy velvet hangings that completely covered the wall.
Teresa too had changed in these last months. From a ragged peona with a gypsy beauty, she had become a stunning woman, poised and confident. Perhaps the clothes were part of it. She had been responsible for introducing the gown into Santa Fe. Rarely now was she seen in the traditional camisa and black skirts of her people. Today she wore a rich cream taffeta with a pattern of rosebuds on the bodice. It left her shoulders bare and clung tightly to the ripe curves of her hips; her red hair was worn high in an ivory comb and diamond earrings sparkled against the golden flesh of her neck. She was sitting at the table, the inevitable cigarrito held in tiny golden tongs, as Pepita ushered Don Biscara in. The maid closed the door softly and Teresa was alone with him.
Neither spoke for a moment. This was the first time they had met alone since that day so long ago when she had escaped from him. She knew the power he still wielded, had an accurate gauge of the threat he constituted to her. Yet there was no trace of fear in her. She faced him across the table with a calm confidence in her own strength.
He did not try to hide the hatred smoldering in his black eyes. He stood in the center of the room, lean and haughty, typical of the Santa Fe aristocrat—contemptuous of the peasants who served him, wallowing in class privileges that approached the divine right of kings. It was his misfortune that at the time of his birth his family had been traveling in Spain. Though they had returned to their home in Santa Fe when Biscara was four, it had left the stigma upon him. He was a gachupín, a native-born Spaniard, and had been suffering for it ever since.
At last Teresa smiled enigmatically. “Something desperate must have happened, Don Tomas, to bring you here.”
“Something stupid!” His tone was vicious. He was controlling wrath with obvious effort. Cords fluttered in his lean hands as they closed into fists, and he said, “Amado has asked me for a loan of thirty thousand pesos.”
“And didn’t get it—as usual.”
“He said this was the last time. He threatened the Expulsion Law if I refused. You know none of us have that much hard cash since the revolution. What could I do? He’s already ordered my arrest. The dragoons may be at my house now.”
She tried to hide how it shook her. She and Gomez had jockeyed from the beginning to prevent just such a thing. She looked at the tip of her cigarette, fighting to keep her voice calm.
“I find it ironic that you should come to me for help.”
“I come to you as a last resort, but not for help.” Biscara’s agitation would not allow him to remain still. He paced the room, goatee bobbing spitefully as he spoke. “If he goes through with this you’ll be ruined along with him. If you have the influence over Amado that Gomez claims, you’d better do something quick.”
“It’s this passive resistance of yours that has driven him to such extremes. If you’d give us the support you promised—”
“I’ll make no deals!”
“I’m not asking something for nothing,” she said. “Let’s begin with the refusal of your people to provide officer material for the dragoons. It’s lowered the morale of the army dangerously. If you’ll send six of your finest young men to the Colegio Militar this winter, Amado might consider giving you back a seat or two in the Assembly—”
“I’ll bargain no more with that pig. I’ve humiliated myself for the last time, Teresa.”
He had halted by the window, a lean, dark-suited figure with flaming eyes. Whatever else he was, Biscara had a courage as fine and tempered as a Toledo blade. He was a man with his back to the wall and she saw that she could push him no farther. If this situation was to be saved it had to be done through Amado. She was about to answer when there was a loud hubbub of voices in the outer hall. The door was thrust open and Governor Amado marched pompously in, shoving the protesting Pepita aside with one thick arm. He glared at Biscara, then Teresa.
“I’ve hunted all over town for this man. Are you dealing with traitors now?”
His face was ruddy and perspiring with anger. Teresa saw the blue coats of the dragoons in the hall outside. It made her realize the true danger of the situation. When she had sought to influence Amado before she had usually been given more time, had been able to see him alone, to set the stage. But now she saw that there would be no playing for time. Whatever she did had to be done now. He was like a child in his rages—unreasonable, blind, explosive—and if he wasn’t halted he would pull them all down. She could not afford to stall or intrigue now. It had to be direct, jarring.
“Nicolas,” she said. “Don Biscara has offered us a way out of our dilemma. Would you still expel him if you could get twice as much money elsewhere?”
It checked Amado momentarily. He looked in surprise at Biscara, then in suspicion at Teresa. Don Gomez had moved in from the hall behind Amado. He was the Secretary of the Assembly now, resplendent in embroidered jacket, blue velvet trousers, and shiny mitaja leggings. He had undoubtedly been trying to restrain Amado, for his brow was beaded with perspiration and he sent Teresa a harried, helpless glance.
“Where can I get more money?” Amado said. “The people aren’t paying half the taxes I levied.”
“What about the American traders on the Santa Fe Trail?” she asked.
She saw Gomez give her a surprised glance. Teresa and he had discussed this before, but he had vetoed the move. Much of Gomez’s financial strength in the Upper River came from his contacts among the American traders and he feared they would remove their support if he antagonized them.
Amado made a disgusted sound. “They’re already overtaxed.”
Gomez nodded. “They wouldn’t pay more. We couldn’t risk losing the trade on the trail. It’s one of our biggest assets—”
“Bribón,” swore Amado. “Is not my own opinion enough?”
Gomez flushed, turned away. Teresa leaned back in her chair, grinding out the stub of her smoke. “The trail trade is one of the quickest ways to get rich. The Americans wouldn’t give it up because of a rise in custom duties. They estimate that a hundred and thirty wagons will come over the trail this year. What would that mean if we added a derecho of five hundred dollars a wagon?”
Biscara looked at her wonderingly, quickly added it up. “Sixty-five thousand dollars.”
Gomez wheeled, a hint of panic in his face. “It will cut down the trade. Taos will be the first to suffer—”
Teresa saw a way to divert Amado’s anger from Biscara. “Must you always think of your selfish interests?” she asked Gomez. “There is more to this country than the Upper River.”
“Keep out of this, Gomez,” Amado said. “I’m tired of your drunken conspiracies.”
Pouting like a child, he walked to the window, staring out. Teresa saw Gomez look at her with a pale fury in his sagging face. He was caught between two fires. He knew the danger of expelling Biscara, yet was unwilling to sacrifice any of his own strength to maintain the status quo. This was the constant problem in maintaining such a precarious balance of power. Things had happened too fast today. Somebody had to be thrown to the wolves, and Gomez was in the weakest position. Couldn’t he see there was nothing else she could do?
Even though Biscara knew their weakness, Teresa hated to admit it with him in the room. Yet, with Amado now in doubt, she knew she had to lay her cards on the table.
“If you expel Don Biscara the whole Lower River will rise against you, Nicolas. You’ll never be able to hold things together without them. When Mexico City hears that they’ll send a new governor up here with troops to back him.”
Now that some of his rage had been diverted and dispelled, Amado could appreciate her logic. They were things she had tried to hammer into him before. She saw Gomez start to protest again, then check himself, fearful of turning Amado’s wrath more fully on him. The governor was scowling and pulling at his lip. Teresa had used his vanity before, his ego. But he had greed, too, and now she played on that.
“This way you get twice the money you asked of Biscara—and save your neck in the bargain.”
She saw it reach him, saw a shine come to his eyes. His massive head finally swung to Biscara.
“Very well. I’ll give it a try. But if it fails, there will be nothing between you and exile.”
* * * *
Don Biscara left before the others, by the entrance that opened into Burro Alley. In a sense he had won today. He had blocked Teresa’s attempt to force a compromise, had made her reveal weaknesses he had only speculated upon before. But he took little pleasure from it. For he realized what he had missed by withdrawing so completely from the politics of Santa Fe. He had heard rumors of Teresa’s growing influence. But he had never dreamed it had gone so far. The Assembly was apparently little more than a front for the conferences held in that sumptuous room.
Most of the important decisions of the new government must have been made there, guided by Teresa’s complex maneuvering, her power over Amado. She had uncanny knowledge of the man. He was no dolt; he was shrewd enough in his own right, and a woman depending upon her body or her feminine wiles alone would have lost her grip on him long ago. It took a remarkable skill to maintain such a constant influence over him—a delicate gauging of his moods and tempers of the moment, an unceasing manipulation (now subtle, now obvious) of his vanities, his pride, his fears, his appetites and weaknesses.
But Biscara had not been unaware of the other undercurrents in the room. He knew that Gomez’s veil of bored cynicism had always hidden a vague frustration which seemed to underline the man’s whole life. His rise from peasant to landholder had not given him what he wanted. He had lost identity with his own people and was still not accepted by the gente fina. It was a subtle, insidious kind of isolation that could corrode a man. His marriage had not helped any. An old man, a young wife, a familiar story. Biscara had seen him on the streets with Doña Beatriz, and had seen the helpless look in the man’s eyes. Apparently Gomez’s recent rise in politics was as hollow a triumph as everything else. He was caught between Teresa and Amado, and they had bled the power from him till he was merely a figurehead, a front for their maneuvers in the Assembly. This afternoon Biscara had seen the flames of humiliation added to the old coals of frustration. He wondered how much longer Gomez would stand it.
He waited on San Francisco Street till the man came out the front door, alone. Then he joined him, offering his copper flask of tobacco, his bundle of cornhusks. They rolled smokes together as they walked toward the plaza, and Biscara murmured, “When Villapando was installed as governor, it was whispered that you were the real power in the Palace. It is a pity to see a woman usurp the throne.”
Gomez would not look up from his cigarette. His voice was thin and trembling. “She is a bitch.”
Biscara realized he had gauged Gomez right. Teresa was not the only one who understood men.
“It is sad,” Biscara said, “to see one as capable as you losing the governor’s favor.” He blew out smoke, looking at the ruddy Jemez Mountains rimming the town. “I have always thought that should the people of the Upper River and the Lower River unite, they would make the strongest single faction in the department.”
Gomez looked up at him, sneering, “Do you forget that you are supporting the governor now?”
Biscara smiled. “A matter of policy, Don Augustín. Is it not a shame to have our province ruled by an illegitimate Apache and a power-mad half-breed woman?”
Gomez licked his lips. His hands shook as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. “I am tired of conspiracies.”
“This is not a conspiracy. It is a crusade. Perhaps we are not in a position to do anything now. But sooner or later our chance will come. We should have a man on the inside then. I’m sure you could regain favor if you stopped opposing Amado and forgot your jealousy of Teresa, if you bowed and scraped and licked your chops like the servile dog Amado wishes. And when our time came, we would be standing shoulder to shoulder, you and I, leading the gente fina of the province back into the Palace.”
Gomez’s eyes lifted. “The gente fina?”
“Of course. I was asking Don Escudero only the other day why you never paid a call to any of us.”
Gomez moistened his lips. “I was never invited, señor.”
Biscara looked surprised. “And we thought it was pride. We thought the Upper River had become so powerful in Santa Fe that you chose to ignore us.”
Gomez shook his head. “You are mistaken, completely mistaken—”
Biscara clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we must take steps to rectify such a tragic misunderstanding. There will be a baile at my hacienda on the fourteenth. Some of the biggest men in Rio Abajo will be there. Would you and Doña Beatriz do us the honor?”
A flush crept through Gomez’s veined jowls and clear to the roots of his hair. The glazed frustration left his eyes and they began to shine. He inclined his head.
“It would be our greatest pleasure, señor.”
Biscara looked beyond him at Teresa Cavan’s sala. He was smiling balefully to himself.