Chapter 41

41

October 1847

Mexico City

With Santa Anna gone, John’s fate was even more uncertain. The commander-in-chief had made promises to the San Patricios, promises that would no longer be honored, not now and perhaps not in the future. Ximena kept herself apprised of Santa Anna’s movements. After a few skirmishes with the Yanquis from his base in Guadalupe Hidalgo, he resigned the presidency and unsuccessful y attempted to besiege the Yanqui garrison in Puebla and retake the city. He failed. The new Mexican president, Peña y Peña, asked him to turn over what was left of his troops and retire to await a court-martial. Terminating his futile harassment of the Yanqui forces, Santa Anna issued several proclamations, and everyone, including Ximena, paid no heed to his words.

Mexicans! I am a man, and I have defects, but never have I sinned against my own country; never has my breast harbored anti-national sentiments. To leave a good name behind me has been the aim of my ambition. I have earnestly longed for everything which is great and glorious for Mexico, and to obtain it I have not spared my own blood. You know this, and you will do me justice.

His words had no weight to them, and his cry for vengeance was carried away by the wind. Facts were facts. Deliberately or not, he had al owed the Yanquis to occupy Mexico City. With the Mexican Army now decimated, the enemy claimed victory.

The bloody revolts of the Mexican people spread from building to building, street to street, plaza to plaza. The Yanquis suppressed the insurrection through force, breaking into homes, slaughtering and scattering dead bodies through the

streets, until the noises of musket and cannon came to an end. General Scott published penal orders, threatening anyone who took up arms against his soldiers with severe punishment, ordering his soldiers to shoot any Mexican carrying arms in the streets. Ximena was disgusted when she realized that only the poor had rebel ed against the invaders, while the “distinguished” citizens of the city had stood by, o ering no support to the resistance, instead protecting their own wealth. Some even obtained positions of power from the Yanquis.

White ags of truce hung from their balconies, as did the ags of the foreigners living in the city who wished to prevent the Yanquis from confusing them with common Mexicans.

The people now resigned themselves to the disgrace of a Yanqui occupation.

Many abandoned their homes and left the capital, carrying with them their meager belongings. Ximena watched the Yanqui soldiers doing in the capital what they had done in Matamoros, sacking the churches, erecting whipping posts to punish any Mexicans who rebel ed. Al night long, the Yanquis gambled, danced, and drank anywhere they pleased in the city. More taverns and bil iard hal s opened up, along with brothels where many impoverished Mexican women went to sel their honor to feed their families. Others took to the streets to ask for alms. Food and other necessities became scarce, and the people struggled to secure what was needed to survive, especial y after the arrival of more Yanqui forces, including the vicious Rangers and other volunteers with their pistols, bowie knives, and rough manners.

Pushing aside her worries for the gloomy future of her country, Ximena focused on the only things that were stil important to her—her child and helping her husband and the surviving San Patricios.

To make matters worse, only a few days after taking possession of the city, General Scott had John and the other branded San Patricios transferred to the Acordada Prison in the city. She was not al owed to see him, but in the Mexican newspaper El Republicano, she read about the ordeal that he and his men were going through. She learned that they had been chained up by their arms so that they couldn’t lie down, with iron col ars around their necks. And they were su ering from hunger, for the little food that they received was barely enough to sustain them. “We hope that General Scott won’t be deaf to our request and wil

consider that not even the laws of war permit inhuman chastisement. The light of the age has proscribed al cruel treatment,” the article read.

Ximena didn’t stop asking for help. She swal owed her pride and went to higher o cials, as wel as to señora Rubio and the wealthy señoras who had shown their support to the San Patricios. She accompanied padre Sebastián and other priests to speak once more to the archbishop, who, in turn, put pressure on General Scott to ease up on the prisoners and permit visitations. As a result, Scott nal y granted permission for the imprisoned San Patricios to receive visitors.

Ximena didn’t know what to expect when she arrived at the Acordada Prison, not far from the Alameda where she and John had often strol ed. As she and the other visitors were escorted to the second oor cel s where the San Patricios were imprisoned, she told herself that she wouldn’t cry, not in front of John. But at the sight of him behind bars, she couldn’t prevent the tears from wel ing up. She stood to the side as the other visitors passed her and went to the cel s. John was stretched out on a straw mat in the farthest corner of the second cel , hiding in the shadows. Unlike the other men, who were happy to receive visitors, John didn’t seem pleased. He kept his face hidden and turned to the wal , taking no notice of the visitors. While the prisoners were not wearing the iron col ars described in the newspaper, they were indeed shackled and dressed in rags, each with a straw mat and thin blanket o ering no protection from the damp wal s and oors.

After drying her tears, she nal y approached his cel . Grabbing hold of the cold bars that stood between them, she cal ed out to him. He turned slowly to face her. His eyes were hidden by his hair, which was getting long and shaggy.

Why wouldn’t he come to her? Why was he just lying on his petate, unmoving?

Wasn’t he happy to see her?

“John,” she said. “Please. We haven’t much time.”

He nal y stood up and came over to her. He was thinner than he’d ever been, and though stil tal , he seemed to have shrunk somehow. She’d never seen him so dirty and slovenly. He slouched as he walked, and he put his hands over his face as if to shield himself from an unrelenting wind. But there was no wind.

Just her. Why would he need to hide from her?

“You ought not to have come, darlin’,” he said at last, stil hiding his face behind his hands, and she could see only his haggard-looking eyes. She felt the pain as his words registered in her mind. She had waited so long, fought so hard to make this moment happen. And now to hear him say those words to her. But she knew he didn’t mean them. She could hear what he hadn’t said, and she understood.

“Nothing has changed between us, John. I love you. No matter what they’ve done to you. I wil always love you, come what may.”

He nal y dropped his hands, and he stood facing her. The room was dimly lit by the torches hanging on the wal s, and there were sinister shadows everywhere, but as the torch light ickered on his face, she could see what he didn’t want her to see—not his pal id esh or his sunken cheeks, but the burns stil red and scabbing, the two-inch D’ s marring his handsome face. The Yanquis had in icted a great violation upon him. For the rest of his life, he would carry these scars, and in time, the physical ones would fade, but the scars on his soul might not. She wouldn’t let them win. She would help restore his traumatized spirit and guide him to feeling whole again.

She put her hand through the bars, reaching for him. She wanted to touch him, hold him, but he took a step back from her, and she had no choice but to retract her hand. “Don’t be afraid of me, mi amor.”

He got closer to her and put his forehead against the bars. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have.”

“Shhh. You don’t need to apologize, John. What they’ve done to you—” She stopped herself. There was so much that she wanted to say, but she knew that time was brief and the Yanqui guards were listening to their every word. She reached for the parcel she had brought. She handed it to him and watched as he took out a jar of calendula salve she’d made for his wounds and a cotton shirt, the rst she’d ever stitched with her own hands. He traced the shamrock embroidered over the left pocket with green silk thread.

“ ’Tis truly a ne shirt,” he said. “But they won’t let me keep it.”

“They wil . The o cer promised me they would.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Thank you, darlin’. ’Tis so good to see you.

And how is the babe?” He put his hands through the bars to touch her huge bel y, running his hands gently up and down. Suddenly, the baby kicked hard, as if saying hel o to its father. Final y, his impassive face lifted into a genuine smile.

There he was, her John. So he was not completely broken, as she’d feared.

“He’s a ghter, this one,” he said proudly.

“Just like his papá,” she said.

“Time’s up!” the head guard cal ed out. “Al visitors wil now be escorted out.

Please make your way to the stairs.”

They reached for each other through the bars, clutching tight, afraid to let go.

“Don’t concern yourself about me, mi amor. I’l be ne. Our child wil be ne.

Just concentrate on staying alive. For me. For us.”

He kissed her hands and then released her. A guard came up behind her and yel ed at her to move. As she hurried out of the prison, she realized she hadn’t told him about the Irish and German soldiers stil deserting the Yanqui army and heading to Querétaro to join the San Patricios who had escaped Churubusco.

Even with John in prison, even with so many of his men hanged at the gal ows, the Saint Patrick’s Battalion stil lived on.