Free The Furies by John Jakes Page B

he’d spoken half a sentence, she was struck just under her left breast—viciously—by a man’s fist.
    She spun, raising her arms to protect herself. With shock and disbelief, she saw the contorted face of her attacker.
    It was Cordoba.
iv
    “You’ve said enough, you ignorant whore!” Cordoba yelled, drawing his hand back to hit her again.
    Susannah Dickinson tried to rush to Amanda’s assistance. Two of the enlisted men seized her and wrenched her back as Cordoba slammed his fist into Amanda’s stomach, then flung her to the floor.
    The room darkened, distorted. She pressed her hands against the wood, trying to rise—trying to comprehend the inexplicable change that had come over the major.
    He was flushed, breathing hard as he bent his leg backward at the knee, then kicked her in the belly.
    Amanda cried out. The room began to swing back and forth. Cordoba’s voice sounded faint but furious.
    “Let me take her and discipline her, Excellency.”
    “Better she be shot outright,” another of the officers said.
    Cordoba again: “No, no, Colonel—if you please! I’ll see that she suffers for her insolence. Much more than she’d suffer if you killed her.”
    Santa Anna: “I find your request a bit unusual, Major. You said nothing during her outbursts—”
    “My astonishment—my anger—robbed me of suitable words, Excellency.”
    “Nor are you known for your temper—”
    “Except when my commander is insulted, Excellency.”
    “Well, that’s the proper attitude, certainly.”
    “Then let me have her!”
    Amanda tried to sit up. She was too weak and dizzy. She fell back, her black silk dress tangled around her legs. She’d thought Cordoba possessed some small degree of honor. Like Santa Anna’s generosity, that honor had been revealed as a sham. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard him pressing his request.
    “I promise you I’ll work her till she drops, Excellency. I lost my serving woman on the march from Saltillo. Telele killed her—the fever from bad water. So if you’ll put her in my keeping, I’ll teach her to respect Centralist authority—”
    Several of the officers muttered about Cordoba’s proposal—whether for or against it, Amanda couldn’t be sure. Finally, she heard Santa Anna shout for silence. The voices cut off abruptly. The dictator sounded amused again.
    “Very well, Major, you may have her. See that she fully enjoys the perquisites of her new station—and that she comes to regret her refusal of my clemency. But mark this—!”
    He struck the desk again. The sound was loud as a shot.
    “Under no circumstances is the offer to be repeated. By you or any other officer. She will not go free now or ever. Of course, if she finds the work of a camp woman too difficult—if she should sicken and die—that’s your affair. No questions will be asked.”
    The room seemed cloaked in darkness. Amanda let it sweep into her mind, blotting out Santa Anna’s soft, satisfied chuckle.
v
    A fly buzzed. There was a sensation of intense heat.
    She opened her eyes.
    Above her, she saw an expanse of light. After a moment she realized she was lying on hard ground, gazing up at the sloping side of an officer’s marquee, one of dozens that dotted the flat land and the hillsides around Bexar. The sun was broiling down on the other side of the canvas, lighting it to brilliance.
    She still ached from the punishing Cordoba had given her. Slowly, she rolled her head to the side and saw a mussed cot. A rickety table. A washstand holding a razor case, brushes, a dented copper basin—
    Then, in the periphery of her vision, she noticed boots. Boots marked with dried blood and dirt. One of the boots was resting on a small wooden box. Hands were drawing a cloth back and forth across the stained leather—
    She turned her head a bit more. Cordoba took his foot off the box, dropped the cloth. He stood staring down at her, his uniform blouse unbuttoned. Black hair curled above a sweat-grayed