Chapter 30

30

March 1847

San Luis Potosí

Ximena sat under the shade of an orange tree in the convent’s courtyard, listening to the sounds in the plaza as the troops prepared to march out of the city. When she heard the bugles ordering the regiments to move out and the potosinos cheering and shouting their farewel s, she closed her eyes and held back the tears. She pictured John at the head of the columns, rol ing out on the horse-drawn caissons as the Saint Patrick’s Battalion moved on, their banner high in the air.

After a time, an eerie silence fel upon the city, even the persistent buzzing of the bees disappeared, as if al life had come to a standstil and there was no one left in San Luis Potosí but her. She was startled by the sudden tol ing of the convent bel s cal ing the nuns to evening vespers and sending swal ows darting through the courtyard. She wrapped herself in her rebozo and fol owed the melancholy sound.

The hours, days, weeks passed in a blur, one after the other, until she no longer knew what day it was. She busied herself tending to the invalids, and little by little the convent’s corridors grew emptier as they left—either walking out on their own or carried out feet rst through the door.

One day she received a letter from Santa Anna at the convent, with news con rming the rumors that had reached them—the port city of Vera Cruz had fal en after sustaining a four-day siege from Scott’s forces. Day and night the Yanqui cannons, howitzers, and mortars had bombarded the city until it nal y

succumbed. Scott refused permission to evacuate once the siege began and hundreds of the city’s residents perished, mostly women and children.

Now that Santa Anna had put an end to the revolution in Mexico City, he and his forces were marching to Vera Cruz, ready to confront Scott. Another battle would soon ensue, and though the general told her he was con dent that this time the Mexican Army would be victorious, Ximena wasn’t going to fal for that again—only God knew for certain what the outcome would be. If Scott defeated Santa Anna’s army, he would then advance to the capital, the heart of Mexico. The general concluded his letter with a copy of his proclamation to the Mexican people, which had been distributed to the masses two weeks earlier.

I pray you heed my call, querida Ximena, he’d written on the margins of the copy he’d sent her.

López de Santa Anna President Ad lnterim of the Mexican Republic, to his compatriots.

Mexicans! Vera Cruz is already in the power of the enemy. It has succumbed, not under the in uence of American valor, nor can it even be said that it has fal en under the impulses of their good fortune. To our shame be it said, we ourselves have produced this deplorable misfortune by our own interminable discords.

The truth is due to you from the government; you are the arbiters of the fate of our country. If our country is to be defended, it wil be you who wil stop the triumphant march of the enemy who now occupies Vera Cruz. If the enemy advance one step more, the national independence wil be buried in the abyss of the past.

I am resolved to go out and encounter the enemy. My duty is to sacri ce myself, and I wel know how to ful l it! Perhaps the American hosts may proudly tread the imperial capital of Azteca. I wil never witness such an opprobrium, for I am decided rst to die ghting!

Mexicans! You have a religion—protect it! You have honor—then free yourselves from infamy! You love your wives, your children—then liberate them from American brutality! But it must be by action, not by vain entreaty nor barren desires, with which the enemy must be opposed.

Perhaps I speak to you for the last time! I pray you listen to me! Do not vacil ate between death and slavery; and if the enemy conquer you, at least they wil respect the heroism of your resistance. It is now time that the common defence should alone occupy your thoughts! The hour of sacri ce has sounded its approach! Awaken!

The nation has not yet lost its vitality. I swear to you I wil answer for the triumph of Mexico if unanimous and sincere desires on your part second my desires. Mexicans! Your fate is the fate of the nation! Not the Americans but you wil decide her destiny. Vera Cruz cal s for vengeance!

Fol ow me, and wash out the stain of her dishonor!

ANTONIO LÓPEZ DE SANTA ANNA

Mexico

March 31, 1847

“I’ve had enough of this damn war, enough of Santa Anna,” Cheno said after Ximena read him the proclamation. His leg was healed enough that he could walk around the convent’s orchards without the use of the crutches, though he stil needed a cane. Every day Ximena had accompanied him on his morning exercises so that he could strengthen his leg, and she was happy to see that very soon he would be able to ride a horse without too much discomfort.

“I’m not going to fol ow him anymore. I’ve done my duty. I almost paid with my life to wash away the stain of Mexico’s dishonor. But that won’t happen as long as that caudil o is in command.” Out of breath, he took a seat on one of the stone benches and massaged his injured leg.

“So you are giving up the ght?”

“Never! I wil always o er my country my blood and never stop defending the Mexican name. One day, if I must, I shal start a war against our oppressors and fatten the land with their own gore. For now, though, it’s time for me to return to the Río Bravo and tend to the honor and interests of my family.”

“How?”

“General Canales and his guerril as have o ered to escort me north,” Cheno said. “Come with me. If we run into any Yanqui patrols along the road, Canales

wil be able to handle them. It’s the safest way to get home.”

Even though General Scott and most of the Yanqui forces were now in Vera Cruz, Taylor was stil in Monterrey, holding possession of the city, probably until the war came to an end. The norteamericanos were stil roaming Mexico’s northern lands and the skirmishes between them and the Mexican guerril as continued to leave a trail of corpses and burned-down homes.

“When wil you leave?”

“As soon as my leg permits it. I’ve asked Canales to secure us some horses, in case you desire to go home as wel . Or have you other plans?”

“Do you mean wil I go in search of John?”

“If I didn’t know the Irishman, I would say he was a fool. But I understand that his grief has blinded him, led him to believe he doesn’t deserve you. Being the good Catholic that he is, he wil self- agel ate to kingdom come.”

“I can mend his body and do my best to mend his wounded soul, but what can I do for the anguish of his guilt-ridden heart?”

“Santa Anna then,” he said, taking the proclamation out of her hands to look at it, though, like Joaquín, he did not know how to read. His bad temper had gotten him in perpetual trouble at school. “Wil you heed the caudil o’s cal , as he implores you to do? I can see in your eyes, querida amiga, that you stil haven’t given up on him, or your Irishman for that matter.”

She covered her face and sighed. “Perhaps I am the one who is the fool, Cheno.”

For the fol owing weeks, Ximena thought about Cheno’s proposal to join him on his return home. Part of her wanted to go back to the rancho, though without Joaquín, she wasn’t sure how she could make it prosper again. The survival of the rancho had depended on the wild mustangs Joaquín caught and broke and the good mules he bred by using his best mares and jacks. She knew that Cheno would o er assistance, but he had his own family to take care of, and she didn’t want his charity.

Another part of her wanted to fol ow John. She understood his grief, his guilt, and she shared in his sorrow. Although she had never met his wife, Ximena felt compassion for her and yes, even guilt for being able to enjoy John’s presence, to receive his love and attention, while Nel y had been su ering thousands of kilometers away. They hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, especial y that poor woman. Was being apart the price to pay now?

As for Santa Anna’s proclamation, she felt as Cheno did, that she had done her duty to her country. But she also hoped that their compatriots would answer Santa Anna’s cal , especial y those who had the means to do so. She hoped they would rouse from their apathy, to unite and chase the invaders o their land once and for al .

If she was now going to let go of everything—the rancho, the war, and John

—there was another option for her to consider, one she’d tried not to think about until now. She could remain here with the nuns. They treated her kindly and took great interest in everything she was teaching them about the healing arts and the uses and spiritual powers of each plant. She enjoyed working in the convent’s gardens and had begun helping the nuns add more medicinal plants.

Inside the convent’s high wal s, Ximena felt safe, and she loved the solitude and tranquility of being away from the world, from its violence and heartache. What if she took the veil? What if she remained inside these wal s forever and gave herself up completely to God? The convent could be a place of refuge for her.

She could seek asylum here from al that had befal en her, and she could nal y rest her weary body and soul. The nuns could be a new family for her, and she could have sisters with whom to share her joys and sorrows, sisters who would nurse her when she was sick, o er her a kind word or a smile. She could grow old here in this cloister, contentedly surrounded by her medicinal plants and owers, in her smal cel in peaceful meditation, and perhaps one day, God wil ing, she could die peaceful y in her black robe in her sleep, surrounded by her sisters, and take her last breath amid the sweetness of their prayers and tears.

“We would gladly take you, hija,” the old Madre said to her when Ximena shared her thoughts with her one day. “But your heart belongs to capitán Riley, and it wil always be so. Especial y now that you’re carrying his child.”

Ximena was taken aback. She put a hand on her bel y and looked at the Madre, knowing she spoke the truth. In her distress, she hadn’t paid attention to the signs—the queasiness in her stomach, the retching in the mornings, her missed cycles.

“Yes, hija, I’ve been watching you,” the old Madre said. “The babe belongs with its father as wel . But above al , it cannot be brought into the world out of wedlock. You can’t su er the poor creature to pay for your sins. Some of our priests wil be traveling to Mexico City to visit the archbishop. I can inquire if they have a seat in one of the carriages for you, perhaps you can travel with their attendants. And with your skil s as a healer, they might not protest the presence of a woman.”

“Thank you, Madre. I appreciate your kindness. But I don’t yet know what I wil do.”

Afterward, Ximena sat in the courtyard, thinking about what she’d just learned. When she was a child, she’d watched from afar as a wild re, started by lightning, had spread across the prairie and burned everything in its path. She stil remembered the breath of heat on her skin, the odor of scorched earth, the crackling grasses and screeching wildlife. Seeing the sky choking on smoke, she’d cried at the catastrophe before her. Nana Hortencia put an arm around her and told her not to cry. “Don’t you see, mijita, this is how the Creator renews the prairie. The fire gives it new life.” After the re passed, and Ximena looked at the blackened earth, the piles of cow dung stil smoldering, the carcasses of rabbits, coyotes, prairie dogs, and other smal animals littering the scorched land, she’d doubted her nana’s words. How could there be life when al she saw was death everywhere? It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when the new grasses and plants returned with vigor, that she’d understood. The re had burned everything to the ground to give new seeds and overcrowded roots a chance. She imagined her baby as a seed burrowed deep within the sacred ground of her womb. Her home had literal y been destroyed by re, the war had al but consumed her, her loved ones had been taken from her. She was as scorched and barren as a burned prairie. But now life had sprouted within her.

A new beginning.

She dreamed of him that night. She saw herself in a plaza, with rain fal ing and trees swaying in the wind. On bare feet, she walked across the wet cobblestones, slippery and cold, the rain soaking into her nightgown, her hair sticking to her face. And there before her, hanging from the gal ows, were the San Patricios.

Some had their backs to her, others faced her with dead, red eyes, tongues thrust out of their foaming mouths, hands clenched into sts. One of them turned with the wind and now she could see his face, and she blinked and blinked, wiping the rain from her eyes, but every time she looked, it was him. It was always him.

She woke suddenly, bathed in a cold sweat and choking down a scream. After she caught her breath, she lit a bundle of sage and gave herself a barrida, the smoke soothing her mind and steadying her as she swept her body with it. She lay down, trying to push the images of the hanging men out of her mind. But every time she closed her eyes, she could see John hanging from a rope.

At sunrise in mid-May, Cheno appeared with Canales along with the other guerril as. Furnished with a mount, Ximena grabbed the reins and climbed wil ingly upon the saddle. Soon she would be back to the Río Bravo delta, back to the rancho and her new life with her child. The old Madre and the nuns stood outside the convent to see her o , some crying their farewel s. They handed Ximena a box with sweets and fruits for her journey.

“Gracias, Madre. Gracias por todo.”

“God be with you, hija.”

Canales gave the order, and the group rode out. Ximena didn’t turn to look behind. She stared straight ahead until they reached the city limit and the convent bel s began to tol , as if cal ing her back. Then, very faintly, she heard the nuns singing their daily hymns.

As they left the city behind them, she listened as Canales told Cheno about his adventures and misadventures ghting Taylor’s forces, including al the Yanquis he’d kil ed and the men he’d lost to the Rangers who roamed wild in the

area, committing atrocities from vil age to vil age. He told of how he’d lassoed a Ranger and dragged him through the cacti, how he’d stripped and castrated him in retaliation for kil ing two guerril eros.

“Wel done, amigo. They thought they would come here to kil Mexicans and go unpunished? No, señor,” Cheno said approvingly.

When Canales told the story of another band of guerril as who’d kil ed dozens of Mexican muleteers whom Taylor had hired to transport his supplies, Ximena thought about the carnage she’d witnessed and the stories from the wounded she’d tended to. In the ranchos and haciendas from San Luis Potosí al the way to the Río Bravo, Mexican families had been forced to ee because if they refused to help the guerril a bands, the guerril eros would destroy their homes, and if they helped the guerril as, the Yanquis would destroy their homes.

They were caught, as the saying went, entre la espada y la pared, between a sword and a wal .

This war was taking place not only on the battle eld, but also on the roads, in humble vil ages and isolated ranchos, in the chaparral and prairies, in deserts and mountain passes. She thought of Joaquín, of what had been asked of him.

She wondered what kind of journey lay before her. Would they be plundering and kil ing their way home? What atrocities would she be forced to witness? If more slaughter and devastation awaited her, wasn’t she heading the wrong way?

She turned her head to look at San Luis Potosí, but only the steeples and bel towers of the churches were visible now. She thought of John, of how he had almost lost his life right at this spot from sunstroke and the fatigue of that nightmarish retreat. But he had lived. He was stil alive. Then she thought about her dream. How could she not warn him? He’d made it clear that there was no future for them anymore, and she might be foolish to go looking for him, but how could she start a new life with her child when its father’s life was in peril?

Didn’t her child deserve a father? Shouldn’t she at least try?

“I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular. “I’m heading the wrong way.”

They al turned to look at her. She dismounted the horse and handed the reins back to Canales.

“Take it,” he said. “It’s one of the horses Joaquín gave us.”

She nodded her thanks, then looked at Cheno, who approached her on his horse. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “I’l look after your rancho, Ximena, and when you’re ready, it wil be there waiting for you.”

“Adiós, Cheno.” She looked at the guerril as and said, “Vayan con Dios.”

She remounted the horse, turned it around, and cantered back to the city, her eyes xed upon the cathedral steeple where the priests were making preparations for their visit to Mexico City.