in an expansive mood as a result of the victory. He might parole you at once.”
Amanda halted in the gateway, turning to gaze back at the dead in the plaza.
“Major, how many men did you lose this morning?”
“Ten for every one of yours—at minimum. By the end of the third charge against the walls, for example, the Tolucca battalion under General Morales had little more than a hundred men remaining. Its original strength was almost eight hundred and fifty.”
“I doubt His Excellency will be in a mood to forgive that kind of loss.”
As if to confirm her fear, Cordoba didn’t answer.
v
The stench of the dead and wounded was even worse outside the Alamo than it had been within. Bodies of Mexican soldiers lay along the base of the wall. Here and there the wreckage of scaling ladders testified to the difficulty of breaching the mission defenses.
Details of men were already moving across the shell-scarred ground, dragging corpses toward the bank of the San Antonio. Overhead, buzzards were gathering.
As she walked, Amanda was conscious of Major Cordoba dropping behind. She didn’t see the frankly admiring way he continued to watch her. She was pondering what might befall her in the next few hours. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than the horror just concluded. Surely—
Something about the light interrupted the thought. She studied the angle of the sun and realized it couldn’t be much later than eight o’clock. The day had hardly begun. Sunday. God’s day. And so many had died—
But His Excellency was wrong if he believed cruelty would destroy the Texans’ will to resist. As Señora Esparza had promised, it would probably have the opposite effect. It did on her.
She turned again, gazing past Cordoba to the mission’s shot-pitted walls. The tricolor and eagle of Centralist Mexico had been raised above the long barracks. Hate welled within Amanda at the sight of the flag flapping in the sun.
Tired as she was, the hate would give her strength, sustain her through whatever might come before this day ended. She wouldn’t grovel in front of the self-styled Napoleon of the West, that much she promised herself.
Shoulders lifting a little, she trudged on toward the river. Her shoes left faint red traces on the hard ground.
Chapter III
The Bargain
i
A MANDA CROSSED THE SAN ANTONIO on one of the plank bridges erected by the Mexicans. It seemed to her that she was returning not to a familiar town but to one that was alien…alien and not a little frightening.
Northward, the low hills were covered with tents and wagon parks. Units of cavalry and infantry were reassembling noisily, raising huge clouds of dust.
Cordoba’s men soon encountered difficulty moving ahead toward the main plaza. The narrow streets of Bexar, so drowsy and pleasant only a few months ago, swarmed with soldiers and poorly dressed Mexican women. Many of the women were dragging children whose clothing was equally dirty and ragged.
The women were hurrying in the opposite direction, toward the mission. Band music drifted from the river now—music celebrating the victory. The women jeered at the captives. Amanda was glad Susannah couldn’t understand Spanish.
Some stones were flung. One struck Señora Esparza. Cordoba drew his sword and ordered his men to close up around the prisoners. After that, the soldaderas —the camp followers—had to content themselves with verbal attacks.
Despite her determination not to succumb to despair, Amanda found her spirits sinking with every step. Her mouth felt parched. Her head hurt. Her arms and legs ached. She wished for the peace and privacy of the tiny walled garden behind the hotel. There, whenever she was lonely or depressed, she had always found solace in simple physical labor. She yearned for the garden now. She imagined the sight of her tomato vines bursting with heavy red fruit in the mellow Texas sunlight. She savored the remembered aroma of strings of onions and yellow and red peppers
Amanda halted in the gateway, turning to gaze back at the dead in the plaza.
“Major, how many men did you lose this morning?”
“Ten for every one of yours—at minimum. By the end of the third charge against the walls, for example, the Tolucca battalion under General Morales had little more than a hundred men remaining. Its original strength was almost eight hundred and fifty.”
“I doubt His Excellency will be in a mood to forgive that kind of loss.”
As if to confirm her fear, Cordoba didn’t answer.
v
The stench of the dead and wounded was even worse outside the Alamo than it had been within. Bodies of Mexican soldiers lay along the base of the wall. Here and there the wreckage of scaling ladders testified to the difficulty of breaching the mission defenses.
Details of men were already moving across the shell-scarred ground, dragging corpses toward the bank of the San Antonio. Overhead, buzzards were gathering.
As she walked, Amanda was conscious of Major Cordoba dropping behind. She didn’t see the frankly admiring way he continued to watch her. She was pondering what might befall her in the next few hours. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than the horror just concluded. Surely—
Something about the light interrupted the thought. She studied the angle of the sun and realized it couldn’t be much later than eight o’clock. The day had hardly begun. Sunday. God’s day. And so many had died—
But His Excellency was wrong if he believed cruelty would destroy the Texans’ will to resist. As Señora Esparza had promised, it would probably have the opposite effect. It did on her.
She turned again, gazing past Cordoba to the mission’s shot-pitted walls. The tricolor and eagle of Centralist Mexico had been raised above the long barracks. Hate welled within Amanda at the sight of the flag flapping in the sun.
Tired as she was, the hate would give her strength, sustain her through whatever might come before this day ended. She wouldn’t grovel in front of the self-styled Napoleon of the West, that much she promised herself.
Shoulders lifting a little, she trudged on toward the river. Her shoes left faint red traces on the hard ground.
Chapter III
The Bargain
i
A MANDA CROSSED THE SAN ANTONIO on one of the plank bridges erected by the Mexicans. It seemed to her that she was returning not to a familiar town but to one that was alien…alien and not a little frightening.
Northward, the low hills were covered with tents and wagon parks. Units of cavalry and infantry were reassembling noisily, raising huge clouds of dust.
Cordoba’s men soon encountered difficulty moving ahead toward the main plaza. The narrow streets of Bexar, so drowsy and pleasant only a few months ago, swarmed with soldiers and poorly dressed Mexican women. Many of the women were dragging children whose clothing was equally dirty and ragged.
The women were hurrying in the opposite direction, toward the mission. Band music drifted from the river now—music celebrating the victory. The women jeered at the captives. Amanda was glad Susannah couldn’t understand Spanish.
Some stones were flung. One struck Señora Esparza. Cordoba drew his sword and ordered his men to close up around the prisoners. After that, the soldaderas —the camp followers—had to content themselves with verbal attacks.
Despite her determination not to succumb to despair, Amanda found her spirits sinking with every step. Her mouth felt parched. Her head hurt. Her arms and legs ached. She wished for the peace and privacy of the tiny walled garden behind the hotel. There, whenever she was lonely or depressed, she had always found solace in simple physical labor. She yearned for the garden now. She imagined the sight of her tomato vines bursting with heavy red fruit in the mellow Texas sunlight. She savored the remembered aroma of strings of onions and yellow and red peppers
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