Aztec Rage (70 page)

“As you know, amigos,” the padre began, “Viceroy Venegas has rejected our terms for a peaceful surrender of the capital. Instead, he's rallying the city against us. He has had the sacred image of the Los Remedios Virgin removed from its shrine and brought to the cathedral. A witness tells me that Venegas went to the cathedral, knelt before the Sacred Virgin,
placed in its hands his vice-regal staff of office, and appointed the Virgin captain-general of his army.”

Religious fervor had risen to a fever pitch as the revolutionary army closed in on the capital. The viceroy's conscription of the Virgin de los Remedios was a masterstroke, mirroring the padre's recruitment of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

“My emissary says that the viceroy has created los Remedios banners in imitation of our own Guadalupe ones. Thus, when our armies meet in the field, each side will be asking the Mother of God to speed victory to them.”

Allende stood and said, “Each day we delay gives the viceroy more opportunity to prepare. We must follow through with the victory in the pass. We know the viceroy has sent desperate pleas for military commanders all over the colony to march to his aid. When the people of the city see the dust raised by tens of thousands of indios en route to their city, they'll panic. Thousands will flee. If we attack now, we carry with us the momentum we've gathered. If we hesitate, the Spanish armies in the field will attack our rear while we are bogged down fighting to take the city street by street.”

General murmuring among the military men supported Allende's opinion that they must attack the capital immediately.

Father Hidalgo spoke slowly, his eyes going from one general to another. “I have given this matter great thought, because we have so many complications to consider. We overcame the viceroy's forces in the mountains but now face a much greater force in the city. And, as we all know, other royal forces are moving to relieve the city. In addition to the many casualties our army suffered in the battle for Las Cruces, we now suffer thousands of desertions. Our men are tired and poorly equipped. I do not believe that the fighting level of our army is as high as we can make it. We need to replenish our supplies of powder, musket balls, cannons.”

“What are you saying, Miguel?” Allende asked. “You want to spend more time preparing here at Cuajimalpa? We don't believe—”

He stopped, because the padre was already shaking his head. “No, not here, we would be exposed to the viceroy's forces. I have decided we will move our forces back to the Bajío to regroup.”

The padre's statement exploded in the room. Officers gasped in disbelief and jumped to their feet. My hand went to the hilt of my sword. Allende muttered a curse. He was as shocked as the others. The priest didn't flinch. “We have come a great distance in a short time. Starting with a few hundred, now we lead scores of thousands. We must shine in God's eyes; otherwise we would not have achieved so much. And the victory of the revolution is not just along the path we march. In the north at Zacatecas and San Luis Potosí, to the west at Acapulco and in a dozen other places, the people rise against the gachupines.”

“True,” Allende said, “but we must secure the final victory by taking the capital now.”

“We're not ready to fight an army in the capital that's both large and entrenched.”

“
We have to fight
,” Allende emphasized. “That's why we are here, why you made the shout for freedom in Dolores.”

“We must fight when we're better prepared. The Bajío is open to us; we'll go there and regroup, resupply, then set out again.”

“That would be a great mistake—”

The padre shook his head vigorously. “I have made my decision. In the morning, we turn the army north.”

“
Insanity!”
Allende struggled with his emotions. For a moment I thought he was going to leap at the padre. I eased my sword a third of the way out of its scabbard. Across from me, I saw Marina tense, her hand buried in her coat. If Allende moved toward the padre, she would attack him with her dagger.

I couldn't depend on Marina stopping Allende if he went for the padre; the general was too strong and swift. My left hand went to my gun, and I kept my right hand on my sword. I would first shoot Allende, because he was the most dangerous and at almost the same time strike at Aldama with my sword.

Allende suddenly spun on his heel and rushed from the room, his face a mask of rage. Silence followed his exit. Two of the other officers stared at me, and I stared back. I suddenly realized that indio vaqueros with machetes were assembled just outside the door. I caught Marina's eye and nodded. She was one smart woman. She should have been a general.

Aldama broke the silence. He spoke slowly to keep control of the emotion in his voice. “Padre, you are our leader. We all look to you for counsel and wisdom, but this matter is purely a military one. We must respectfully insist that you permit our military training to override your opinion. We're in striking distance of the capital; we're moving with enormous momentum. By the time we reach the outskirts of the city, our army will double—”

“I'm sorry. I've made my decision. Notify your officers to pass the word, we march north in the morning.”

The officers filed out, anger, frustration, even shock written on their faces. With the others gone, the padre appeared ready to collapse. As Marina went to him, I stepped outside to make sure that the officers who left would not be coming back in a hurry with their swords drawn. I nodded at the vaqueros who had assembled outside the door. “Stay alert,” I told them.

Marina came out behind me. She spoke rapidly to one of the vaqueros in an indio tongue. I followed her words enough to realize that she was instructing him to have a hundred men at the ready—she suspected a murder plot.

Spaniards might conceivably return with a company of men and place
the padre under arrest, but I sensed that Allende or Aldama would not lead them; both were men of honor. I mentioned that to Marina. “If there is to be trouble from either of them, they'll confront the padre to his face, not stab him in the back.”

“I protect the padre, from whatever source. You said there was an assassination plot. Now I'm sure trouble is brewing.”

“I don't doubt that. I saw the faces of the officers when they left. They've risked everything for this moment: their fortunes, families, reputations, their lives. The only thing that can save them from the wrath of the gachupines is to win the war and destroy the citadel of Spanish power. They wanted a quick fight, an overwhelming force of indios and a certain victory. With the capital only hours away, we are now making a long, hard journey to the Bajío, prolonging the war and its outcome.”

“The criollos see this revolution,” Marina said, “as a way to defeat the gachupines through the spilling of Aztec—not criollo—blood. They see the revolution in military terms; they don't understand that the padre sees it in human terms. He doesn't want to destroy everything the revolution stands for just for the sake of winning battles.”

“You knew?” I asked her. “You knew he had decided not to attack the city?”

“I guessed, but he'd told no one.”

“It makes sense: regroup, come back stronger.”

She locked eyes with me and lowered her voice as she spoke. “He prayed that the viceroy would surrender the city. You know why he's not attacking the city. You just don't want to acknowledge it.”

I knew the padre shared a common bond with the criollo officers who joined the revolution: courage. But he was worlds apart from them in how he exercised it. For the military men, a man stood tall only when he fought. But the padre knew that it often took more courage to back away from a fight, even one you knew you could win. No, it was not a lack of military skill or courage on the padre's part that kept him from attacking the city. It was not even an abhorrence of bloodshed; much blood had been spilled at the battle for the granary.

“War against the people of the city,” I said.

She nodded. “To attack the city is not to do battle with an army; it is to do war to the knife against the
people
.”

“He took to heart my descriptions of the bravery of the Spanish people battling the French invaders—”

“Hearing it from you only confirmed what he had already concluded, that's why we stopped here rather than continuing to the capital. He hoped that the viceroy would spare the city, that he would either surrender or have the courage to march out and meet on a field of battle. When the viceroy established his defenses in the heart of the city, the padre realized
that he couldn't win without house-to-house fighting. That's why he sent you into the city, to confirm what he already knew.”

“He wouldn't be able to control the rage of the Aztecs.”

“God Almighty Himself couldn't control one hundred thousand of my people who suddenly had the opportunity to strike back at the bastardos who have kept them enslaved for centuries.” She shook her head. “Those criollos don't understand. The padre knows blood will have to be spilled to bring the revolution about, but he launched a revolt to fight
Spanish
armies, not people. His plan is to draw away from the capital, regroup and resupply in the Bajío, and wait for the viceroy's armies to seek him out. He will meet them on the field of battle.”

I was humbled by the padre's intelligence, foresight, and humanity. I wasn't sure what caused me to care only for women and horses . . . and for a simple priest who was capable of holding the whole world in his hands. Whether he had been a good priest or a bad one, I didn't know; certainly from the church's standpoint, he was often a problem, asking questions that they didn't want to answer, questions like why churches had become storehouses of wealth while children starved. Now he saw beyond the battle to all the people who would suffer and die if he allowed himself to think only as a military man.

“Don't think he's just a priest while you're a real man. The padre was not born a priest; he was born on a hacienda and raised as a caballero with a horse between his legs and a pistol in his hand. But unlike you and Allende and the other criollo officers, he doesn't think with what he has in his pants. And he has more heart than a saint. He'll fight gachupines who have no reason to be in the colony other than to steal and enslave our people, but he won't war on people defending their homes.

“He's in charge,” I said. “The officers can't change that. The criollos they expected would join the revolt have not done so. The ones who joined are brave and reckless, but they must understand that they don't command the Aztecs. That will keep them from attempting to remove the padre.”

“That will keep some of them from trying it, but not the ones who see themselves as king if the old king is dead. Nor will it keep your mystery assassin from the capital from attempting it.” She tapped me on the chest. “Keep your eyes and ears open, señor. Without the padre, the revolution will be lost.”

I was about to retire to the company of my horse, a jug of brandy, and a cigarro, when the padre's servant came out and called my name. “He wishes your attendance. You and the lady.”

“Marina—”

“No, señor, the Spanish woman.”

Only then did I realize that Doña Isabella and Renato were approaching.

NINETY-EIGHT

I
SABELLA FLASHED ME
a radiant smile. The nephew gave me an indifferent glance, the empty expression of a gachupine wiping his muddy boots on the back of a prone servant. The purpose of such expressions was to let peons know they were beasts of burden, nothing more. If he hadn't been a guest of the padre, he would have gotten one of my boots up his backside, the other in his cojones.

The padre faced a window, his back to us, when we entered the room. He turned to greet us, poker-faced. His features revealed nothing of the man who had just backed down career military officers in a furious test of wills.

“Señora, señores, I have called you here to discuss that matter of common interest. Juan is my right arm in these situations. He was away on a mission of great urgency and has not been informed of your request.” He spoke to me. “The marquesa has suffered a great tragedy. Her husband, Don Humberto del Miro, one of the most noble and distinguished Spaniards in the colony, was recently arrested by followers of our revolution who demand repayment from him for monies that the marqués took in the form of profits. Unless repayment is made, the revolucionarios holding him will be forced to implement sanctions.”

The padre was using polite terms to say that Isabella's husband was a thieving gachupine pig and that the bandidos holding him would skin him out with hooked knives and hot pincers, then pack his bleeding carcass in rock salt if he didn't come up with ransom money.

“I am also informed that prior to his capture, Don Humberto hid a considerable amount of gold, the proceeds from a mine sale. And, as best we know, the revolucionarios holding him don't know his true identity, nor do they know he possesses hidden gold. Is that correct, señora?”