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  Yank scanned the report and squirmed uncomfortably. “A newly raised militia is not an army, Mr. President; it is a collection of farmers, merchants and other patriotic citizens. Had I been in General Hull’s position I should have fully expected ill-equipped men, lacking in military discipline.” He rescanned the report. “I find this reference to his using the Fourth Infantry to discipline the militia quite alarming, sir.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, sir, turning one’s troops against each other is hardly the recommended method of creating a cohesive fighting force.”

  Madison nodded. “There’s more.” He consulted another file. “When General Hull reached the rapids of the Maumee he sent the schooner Cuyahoga Packet ahead of his army to Fort Detroit carrying invalids, supplies, and official documents. Can you guess the result?”

  “No, sir.” Yank sat up in his chair. “But from your demeanor it cannot have been good.”

  “No indeed, not. The British have three gunboats and six warships near Fort Amherstburg, which as you may know is directly opposite Fort Detroit on the other side of the Detroit River.”

  Yank nodded. “Amherstburg also has a substantial battery. Was Cuyahoga Packet sunk or was she captured, sir?”

  “Captured. I wish she’d been sunk. The British have our maps and battle plans.” He shook his head. “What could that damned fool have been thinking?”

  “Where is he now, sir? General Hull, I mean.”

  “I would presume Fort Shelby but I do not know for certain.”

  “Fort Shelby, sir?”

  “Fort Detroit has been renamed Fort Shelby. I think they do these things to confound me.”

  “It was called Fort Lernoult the last time I was there,” Yank said. “Is Hull aware that Fort Michilimackinac has fallen or of his documents being captured?”

  “Once again, I do not know. The reports I have came from General Henry Dearborn in the Northeast.”

  “What would you have me do, sir?”

  “I was rather hoping that you might have some ideas.”

  “On the surface it appears that General Hull needs to be promptly relieved of his command.”

  “Yes, but how do I know for certain? I have only the word of General Dearborn who is Hull’s long time rival and who Hull has accused of bearing responsibility for the loss of the Cuyahoga Packet.”

  “Well, sir, if you trust my judgment you could write a letter relieving him of his command and let me decide if it should be delivered or not.”

  “I trust you implicitly, but during your wife’s absence I hate to send you so far from home.”

  “My wife is not likely to ever come back from New Mexico, Mr. President, and my children are well cared for. Thank you for your concern but I’d like to do this for you.”

  August 14, 1812

  Santa Fe, Nuevo México

  It was early in the morning but the cantina door was unlocked so Marina walked in, let the door slam behind her and squinted into the gloomy interior.

  “We are closed.” A fat woman was on her knees scrubbing the floor.

  “I am looking for Rosa.” Marina walked toward her.

  “What for?”

  “I am looking for work.”

  “I am Rosa.” The woman got to her feet with a great deal of grunting and groaning. “Let me see your legs.”

  Marina hesitated, but lifted the hem of her dress.

  “Higher.”

  Marina raised her dress to her waist.

  “Good legs. Can you dance?”

  Marina let her dress fall. “Well enough.”

  “Can you sing?”

  “A bit.”

  “Do you know any bawdy songs?”

  “Only in French.”

  “Room, board, five dollars a week, ten percent of the take on all the drinks you sell and I get fifty percent of what you make upstairs.”

  “Ten dollars a week and I do not take men upstairs.”

  The woman shook her head. “That is too much, unless you will entertain upstairs.”

  “I play poker and I win more than I lose. I will give you half my winnings.”

  “No deal.”

  “Very well.” Marina started for the door.

  “Be my new Salome and I will pay you twenty a week.”

  “Salome?” Marina walked back.

  “Like the woman in the Bible that wanted the head of John the Baptist.”

  “You want me to dance naked.”

  “No. I want you to make it look like you are naked behind veils. The law would close me down if you were really naked.”

  “Twenty a week and all I do is dance.”

  “Twice a night. At eight and midnight.”

  “I get half of the tips.”

  “Agreed.”

  August 16, 1812

  Fort Shelby, Michigan Territory

  One moment Yank was shouting defiantly at General William Hull and the next he was spinning through space like a child’s toy top, to be slammed against the stone battlement wall. The world went black as he bounced like a ragdoll onto the rampart.

  ~

  The pain was monstrous; it fogged his vision and clouded his brain. He struggled to find himself within the pain but could not.

  ~

  He heard the guns, bombs, muskets, rifles; the screams of agony and rage – then it faded to silence.

  ~

  He blinked once and saw above him the familiar red, white and blue banner fluttering on its mast. Then the vision faded to black.

  ~

  He heard himself moan and was ashamed. It felt as if some long-clawed predator was inside him and trying to dig its way out. He opened his eyes and the world swam into place. But there was a white flag on the pole where the colors should have been.

  August 17, 1812

  Santa Fe, Nuevo México

  Rosa poured out the coins that had been swept up from the stage after Marina’s midnight performance and began dividing them into two piles. “You are the best Salome I have ever had. We took in nearly a hundred at eight o’clock and this take is even bigger. We have men coming from all over the territory just to see you.”

  Marina yawned.

  “El Jefe says that you can do it naked if we pay him ten percent and you keep the veils moving like you do now.”

  “No.”

  “We could double what we make now. Maybe triple.”

  “No.”

  “How about wearing a veil to cover you so they could get a peek through it?”

  “For a percentage of the house, I might do that.”

  Rosa shook her head.

  “I could tie a veil just above my breasts and another around my hips. My nipples would show through and I would look naked from a distance.”

  “How big a percentage?”

  “Twenty-five percent.”

  “Ten.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “All right but the veils have to be white and very sheer.”

  “I agree.” Marina nodded.

  August 18, 1812

  Michigan Territory

  “Hold still.”

  Yank felt hands on him. He tried to fight but the pain was excruciating.

  “I’m a doctor and I’m trying to help you. Hold still.”

  A face appeared out of the gloom.

  “You’re not hurt as badly as you feel. You were struck a glancing blow by a spent cannonball. It broke your collar bone, several ribs and slammed you against a wall.”

  Yank tried to talk.

  “Your head took a mighty thump. There’s no blood in your ears so I don’t think your skull’s fractured but you have a severe concussion.”

  Yank tried to talk again.

  “Drink this. It’s laudanum. I have to wrap your ribs and it will hurt like sin.”

  August 19, 1812

  Michigan Territory

  A woman’s face appeared.

  “Marina?”

  “No. I’m not Marina.” The face became clearer. “My
name is Annabelle Priest.”

  “Where am I?” Yank asked.

  “Safe,” she answered.

  “I can’t talk right. What’s the matter with me?”

  “You’re not wearing your false teeth but I can understand you.”

  He touched his mouth. “Did you find them?”

  “Yes. But they’re broken.”

  “Let me have them. They have to be better than nothing.”

  “No. Not until you’re more stable. I can understand everything you say.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the home of a doctor. I’m his assistant and his sister.”

  “Where?”

  “Not far from Detroit.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “You were covered with someone else’s blood and gore so the British left you for dead. Some Indians brought you here.”

  “Indians?”

  “Yes. Shawnees. We thought they’d come to kill us but they just left you on the porch and went away.”

  “What happened to the others at Fort Shelby?”

  “That’s enough talk for now.” She poured a dark liquid into a spoon. “Swallow this.”

  He accepted the liquid. “Hull surrendered?”

  “Hush now.”

  “If the British find me here they’ll hang you.”

  “Shh. You have a fever and need to rest.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rest.”

  August 22, 1812

  Michigan Territory

  Yank awoke to blinding sunlight. The woman who had said her name was Annabelle was opening the curtains and the man who had identified himself as a doctor was standing in the doorway. “How long have I been here?” Yank mumbled.

  “A few days,” The man said. “Your fever’s broken and I think you’re out of immediate danger.”

  Yank tried to sit up.

  “No, no.” The man moved toward him. “You need to stay flat on your back until your ribs knit. It’s a miracle that you didn’t puncture a lung.”

  “I need my teeth,” Yank insisted.

  Annabelle brought them to him and Yank inserted the dentures. “Thank you. That’s better. What’s your name?” he asked the man.

  “James Winslow.”

  Yank took a deep breath. “Please help me sit up, Doctor Winslow.”

  “No.”

  “I’m Colonel John Van Buskirk. I was sent here by President Madison and I must get a message to him.”

  “And say what?” Winslow asked. “That the fort was lost? If he doesn’t know already he’ll know it soon and a lot more than you can tell him.”

  Yank clamped his teeth together, pushed himself up on his elbows and swung his feet off the examining table.

  “For the love of Christ.” Winslow rushed to catch Yank. “Help me, Annabelle.”

  “I need to sit up,” Yank hissed. “Please.”

  Winslow nodded and the two people eased Yank into a sitting position.

  Yank caught his breath. “The British hang anyone who offers aid and comfort to senior American officers.”

  “That was in the last war,” Winslow replied. “They haven’t issued those kinds of proclamations this time.”

  Yank shook his head and was rewarded with more pain. “I can’t let you take the risk.”

  “You’re my husband and you were kicked by a mule,” the woman said.

  “Oh, Annabelle,” Winslow complained.

  “Why not?” she asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Well, for a start, everyone around here knows you’re my sister.”

  “Yes, but they don’t know that I’m a widow or that I came here to stay. For all they know I’m here for a visit.” She gestured toward Yank. “My husband came to fetch me and was kicked by a mule.”

  “Better make it a horse,” Winslow said. “I don’t have any mules.”

  “A horse then,” she replied.

  “That was a joke,” he said. “The idea is ridiculous and out of the question. I refuse to discuss it further.”

  Yank closed his eyes as a wave of pain passed over him. “If they find me – even if they find my uniform, they’ll hang you both.”

  “You hush,” Annabelle said, “I know what I’m doing.” She looked back at her brother. “Now I’m no longer permitted to speak, Charles?”

  “I don’t think the British will come here,” he said lamely.

  “If you’re wrong and they do, then what? Do we give Colonel Van Buskirk to them?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “If we hide him to protect him and they find him, what will they do to us?”

  “Oh Annabelle.”

  “Answer me, Charles. What will they do?”

  “All right,” Winslow said after a moment. “All right. But they won’t come.”

  “What does your family call you, Doctor Winslow?” Yank asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “James, Jim, Jimmy? If I’m to be your brother in law…”

  “James,” he grumbled unhappily.

  “People call me Yank.”

  “Oh now there’s an even worse idea,” Winslow replied.

  “We’ll just call you John,” Annabelle said decisively. “Now John. You must lie down again and permit us to care for you.”

  September 17, 1812

  Santa Fe, Nuevo México

  “Go away,” Marina shouted. She put the pillow over her head.

  The pounding on her door became louder and more insistent.

  She uncovered her head, gave the door a hostile look, then got out of bed and walked naked to the door. “Who is it?”

  “I am a colonel in the Revolutionary Army of General José María Teclo Morelos y Pavón.”

  “I am not interested.”

  “You will open the door or I will obtain a key from the landlady.”

  She plucked her silk dressing gown from the chair, shrugged it over her shoulders, palmed her pepperbox and pulled back the bolt.

  As a man dressed in an elaborately gold braided uniform came in, Marina returned to sit on the edge of her bed. “What do you want?”

  “I, Colonel Juan Miguel Ramirez Guerrero, have come on behalf of General José María Teclo Morelos to accompany you to Chilpancingo,” he announced.

  “I have never met the general and have no desire to go to Chili-Pan-Cinco, wherever that may be.”

  “But you must.”

  “Why must I?”

  “You are Marina Elena Cortés.”

  “Yes, I know who I am but I still do not know what you want and why you have interrupted my sleep.”

  “It was your forefather who began this struggle.”

  “What struggle?”

  “The struggle for Mexican independence.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You must mean Martín Cortés?”

  “Of course. The son of Hernán Cortés and La Malinche, who led the first revolution against the Spanish Colonial Government.”

  “He only did it because he was jealous of his brother.”

  “He did it to eliminate the oppression of the conquistadors.”

  “Well it hardly matters since I have no interest in your Revolution and I will not be going with you to Chili-Pan-Cinco.”

  “Chilpancingo,” he corrected.

  “I will not be going there either,” she said. “But please thank General Morelos for the invitation. Good day.”

  “It is not an invitation, Madam. It is an order.”

  “I do not take orders from revolutionary generals who are one step ahead of the hangman.”

  The colonel’s eyes grew cold. “I have been instructed to take you by force, if necessary.”

  Marina cocked the pistol and aimed it at his groin. “Trying would be a very big mistake.”

  “I have an entire company of soldiers waiting for me in the street, madam. I would rather not call them, but go with me, you will.”

  She put the muzzle of the pistol to her temple.
“Not alive.”

  “You would not.”

  “Would La Malinche?”

  His resolve was failing. “You would be treated as royalty, madam.”

  She lowered the pistol. “Royalty? I thought the purpose of this revolution of yours was to eliminate the Viceroy not steal his crown.”

  “I did not mean that,” he began in frustration.

  “Get out.”

  The colonel hesitated, then turned and walked to the door. “I will be back.”

  Marina got up, closed the door and shot the bolt, then went to the window to look down at the street where four mounted officers and perhaps sixty men were formed into a column of two. As Colonel Guerrero walked haughtily out of the cantina to mount his horse, another knock sounded on her door. “Now what?” she mumbled in English. She walked toward the door. “Who is it?”

  “Rosa.”

  Marina pulled the bolt and stepped back.

  The fat woman in a dirty apron came in and closed the door. “I do not want this kind of trouble.”

  “I had already decided to leave. Pay me what you owe me and I will be on my way.”

  “I owe you nothing.”

  Marina shook her head sadly. “It will take me an hour to pack. When I come down you will pay me what you owe me or I will take it from you.”

  “Those who have tried to take money from me in the past have not lived to tell about it.”

  Marina suddenly remembered the pistol in her hand and raised it. “Then perhaps I had better take it before you can prepare yourself.”

  The fat woman lunged for the pistol and Marina pulled both triggers.

  September 17, 1812

  Michigan Territory

  “You’re tougher than an oak tree,” Doctor Winslow pronounced. “I’ve never seen anyone recover so fast.”

  “I owe it all to you and Annabelle,” Yank replied. A local dentist had made him a set of false teeth carved from ivory. They were too white and fit badly but he was able to speak without slurring the words.