Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [32]
“I wonder what these people think of us.”
Mira stared ahead, still pressed against him. “What people, you mean the Spanish, the Mexicans?”
“Yes. We won the war, took over their government here, and they just go on like they always did. Maybe they never considered themselves Mexicans, any more than they consider themselves Americans.”
“It’s the Church. They worship at the same place they have since they were children, the same priests. I don’t think Consuela even understands what the government is. She talks about the priests as the authority.”
“She told you this?”
“In not so many words. The priests always were in control here, even before the war. If the people have problems, that’s who they see.”
“And now the Americans are having problems, and the priests see an opportunity to regain control.”
She sat up, turned, tried to see his face in the darkness.
“Do you really think it’s the Church?”
“I don’t know. Someone is organizing this resistance, the protests. Those people today, the protesters, they have leaders, behind the scenes. They’re smart enough not to show us who they are. All it takes is one, one man who knows how to use words, charismatic, who commands their respect, a man like Santa Anna.”
“Surely not the Church . . .”
“I don’t know. We may never know.”
She stood, stretched her arms upright, and he could barely see her. We should have a lantern, he thought, but no, if they come, they must not know I am in here. It’s the only advantage I have.
The word was out, Banning had seen to it, and the Spanish citizens were buzzing, hostile and afraid, and Hancock knew it had been a risk, but no one had come near the warehouse, not yet. But now the rumors came back at him. At a meeting, even a rally, tonight, the militant leaders of the Spanish community were going to take their own actions. Many of the locals had been speaking out, calling for a rebellion, taking back control from the Americans.
And though his rumors had seemed to work, and slowed down the hot talk, there were still no American soldiers, they had not come, no great military presence to keep down the talk of rebellion. He had sent a message to Tejon and a civilian courier to Benicia, but it was slow, no telegraph, no railroad. There had been a squad of infantry passing through, going to Arizona. They stopped briefly for provisions, the normal function of the Quartermaster’s Depot, but they had not stayed, could not. Their captain had orders, an Indian raid near Yuma, did not see Hancock’s problems as a priority, and so they loaded a few wagons with supplies from the warehouse and were gone.
“This is all because of the election.”
She bent down beside him, put a hand on his, and she knew he wanted to talk, did not want her to leave, not yet. “What do you mean?”
“This trouble—it’s all because of the election, all the talk in the paper, Hamilton’s damned newspaper, his great oratory about the collapse of the country if Lincoln is elected. It’s madness, pure idiocy.”
She sat quietly beside him. “It’s his right, he can print anything he wants,” she said. “I don’t think people pay much attention to that kind of talk.”
“But they do. They are—it’s not just Hamilton, it’s the South . . . the states. The infantry unit that just came through, their captain told me that soldiers at Benicia are talking about going home, quitting the army if Lincoln wins the election. The newspapers come from back East and fights break out over pieces of news. They are talking about the slave states pulling out of the Union, making a new country . . .” He paused, lifted his hat from his head, ran his hand through thick hair, and she sat closer again, next to him, felt his tension.
He took a deep breath, said, “We have a system, a democratic system, and if one man is elected, it’s because the people choose him.