Chapter 43

43

The Road to Vera Cruz

They left the capital at daybreak. Ximena turned to catch the last glimpse of it from the window of the diligence pul ed by eight mules and guarded by a hired escort, as they traveled along the National Highway. The magni cent Val e de México, anked by the two snowcapped volcanoes and encircled by rugged mountains, was spread out under the pink-tinged sky. She looked at the towers, domes, and spires of the churches pointing to the heavens above, the numerous trees and gardens in and around the city, their verdure contrasting with the red roofs of the buildings, the countryside dotted with sleepy haciendas and lakes as clear and glittery as looking glass. Ximena elbowed John and pointed outside the window to get him to look as wel , but instead, he turned up the col ar of his cloak to hide his face and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. He was a big man, and no matter how smal he tried to make himself, his long legs took up too much of the insu cient space inside the coach. Ximena couldn’t miss the last glimpse of the val ey’s beauty and splendor. These four hundred kilometers stretching out before them could be the last she might ever see of her country. But her soul was Mexican and would always be so, and even when her feet no longer touched her native soil, she would always carry Mexico inside her heart. So while John and little Patricia slept, she poked her head out the window to take it al in.

She leaned back in her seat, trying to keep her teeth from rattling every time the stagecoach went over a rut or rock on the road. As she listened to the rumble of the wheels, she wished the driver would slow down, and at the same time, she wanted his mules to go faster so that the passengers would stop looking at John’s

branded cheeks with open curiosity. She knew he was feeling self-conscious about their stares, which was why he was feigning sleep.

But stil , she was grateful to be on this journey, grateful they nal y had the funds to pay for their travel expenses and had convinced the British consul to assist them with passage on one of the English vessels. After requesting his discharge from the army, it had taken John months to get the Mexican government to pay the wages owed to him and the surviving San Patricios and to provide him and Ximena with passports out of the republic. Once Santa Anna went into exile, the government vacil ated in honoring the promises that were made to the San Patricios. The treasury was empty and the country in ruins, they said. The Yanquis had brought Mexico to its knees, and who knew how long it would take for the col ective agony and wounded national pride to recover. Nevertheless, the government nal y gave John his back pay, made him a colonel, and thanked him for his service to the republic.

They passed by humble vil ages of cane huts and immense haciendas of stone and mortar, decaying chapels and ancient churches, large gray convents and smal shrines to la Virgen de Guadalupe, white gleaming crosses o the side of the road or perched atop rocks, elds of volcanic rock and haystacks, vast plantations and sugarcane elds, arrieros with their loaded mules and shepherds with their ocks of goats or herds of pigs, Indians col ecting cochineal from the cacti or siphoning the sap out of the maguey and into their pigskin pouches. As the sun-kissed Popocatépetl and his sleeping lady, Iztaccíhuatl, faded behind them, another volcano appeared in the distance—Orizaba, the highest peak in al of Mexico, the most majestic mountain Ximena had ever seen. The volcano rose before her, cutting through the sky with its snowy crown that pierced the clouds.

In Puebla de los Ángeles they changed mules and spent the night in a modest inn and acquired a new escort. At sunrise the next morning, the stagecoach left the city behind and entered the state of Vera Cruz. When Santa Anna had talked to Ximena about the place of his birth, she’d thought that, like with everything else, he’d exaggerated its grandeur and beauty. And now, here it was before her, the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Every shade of green—the fertile elds of waving cornstalks and plantations of co ee; forests of cedar, oak, and pine;

rol ing hil s carpeted in grass and wild owers where cows and horses pastured; emerald streams meandering through the lush vegetation and fal ing in smal cascades. This was the xalapeño’s home, this paradise of eternal spring, with its verdant foliage, its tropical owers and orchards heavy with papayas, its banana groves and elds of pineapples.

When they nal y arrived in Xalapa at dusk and wound their way along the steep mountain road, Santa Anna was more present in her mind—the evening air smel ed like him, the fragrance of plumeria ampli ed by the humidity. They stopped for the night in an inn near an old convent. Too tired and jolted by the journey to eat, they retired to their room, where Ximena and Patricia slept on the bed and John, unable to break his prison habit, slept on the oor. Ximena longed to feel his body next to hers, to make love to him under the light of the moon streaming through the bars on the window. But he had withdrawn inside himself once again, and she wondered how many limpias it would take to make his soul whole again, to lure his spirit out of the dark shadows of his prison cel .

She had faith that one day, he would nal y transcend his sadness, his guilt, and the disharmony within him would end once he remembered who he was.

They left the paradise that was Xalapa at the break of day. To the southwest, the snowy Orizaba was enveloped in clouds tinged with the pink of dawn, and in the distance, beyond the lofty mountains, a glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico. It was only then that John’s melancholy eyes brightened, like rain clouds lit by lightning. Soon, they would be traveling upon those waters, sailing to his beloved home, and the Atlantic breezes would blow away the darkness inside him.“It won’t be long now,” she said.

He smiled and pul ed her and their daughter against him.

Most of the land from Xalapa to the city of Vera Cruz belonged to Santa Anna, and so the stagecoach traversed his hacienda for kilometers. It was quiet and empty, not a peón in sight, not even a sign of cattle out to graze. The house itself was too far from the road for Ximena to see, but she’d heard that the Yanquis had plundered and destroyed Santa Anna’s property with reckless abandon. As they left El Lencero behind, the scent of plumeria nal y faded away.

Descending the mountain, John could not take his eyes o the glittering blue stretching toward the horizon. And nal y, as dusk fel upon them, a breath of salt water, the murmur of waves, and the Gulf of Mexico came into view, tinted with the ery glow of the setting sun, with vessels, large and smal , lying at anchor near its shores. The port of Vera Cruz spread out before them in a half-moon shape, surrounded by a high wal and barren hil s of moving sands.

Seagul s ew across the scarlet sky and over the ickering lights of the city.

No sooner had they gotten settled at their inn than John wanted to go out and cal upon the ship’s captain to ensure the arrangements were properly made.

Ximena wished to have a bath, to soak her body in hot water and wash away the toils of the journey, but she could see his desperation to gaze upon the waters and the ship that would bear him home.

“You go on, John,” she said, as she and their daughter lay down on the bed. “I wil feed Patricia and request hot water to wash. I feel like a sparrow that was dust bathing al day.”

She was asleep before the door closed behind him.

In the morning, it was her turn to go out. “I wil light a candle at the cathedral and pray for good weather,” she said, kissing his cheeks. “If we are unlucky enough to get hit with a norte, it wil delay our departure for days.”

She left him to take care of their daughter and hurried out the door. As she walked down the streets, Ximena could see the remnants of the four days of bombardment the city had su ered at the hands of the Yanquis when over a thousand veracruzanos, a great many women and children, had been kil ed or wounded. Half of the city had been destroyed, and many of the houses and public buildings were stil riddled with holes, while others had been left with only blackened wal s or turned to a pile of ash and ruins. Zopilotes circled overhead, and two of the buzzards landed on the street to ght over a pile of refuse next to an abandoned home. She quickened her step.

Upon her arrival at the cathedral, she sought the padre in the sacristy.

“Padre Bernal? I am Ximena, wife of coronel Juan Riley.”

“Sí, hija. Come in, come in,” the priest said. “I was just writing a letter to padre Sebastián. He’l be happy to hear you’ve al arrived safely.”

“Is it done, then?” she said. “Are they here?”

“Sí, sí, no te preocupes, hija. Everyone’s here now, and it’s al taken care of.”

She sighed in relief. “Gracias, padrecito. I thank you with al my heart for your help. Without you and padre Sebastián, and the archbishop, it wouldn’t have been possible.”

“Your husband has su ered enough for our country. And so have al the San Patricios. Mexico wil not abandon its Irish heroes. Now, God be with you, child. I wil pray for a safe journey for you and your family across the ocean.”

“Thank you, padre.” She kissed his hand and took her leave, lighting a candle in gratitude before returning to the inn.

Two days later, they were waiting to embark on the ship that was rst bound for Cuba. The wind was gritty from the sandhil s surrounding the city. Ximena looked at the Gulf of Mexico, remembering that fateful day when she had stood on the shore, watching the Yanqui ships approach El Frontón de Santa Isabel almost a thousand kilometers to the north of Vera Cruz. Would her eyes ever again behold the prairies and chaparrals, the solitary thickets of thorny cacti and twisted trees, the golden bel s of esperanza glowing under the sun, the wild mustangs running free in the prairie? Would she never again hear the vibrating song of the cicadas, the warm breath of the wind whispering through the grasses, the chorus of the chachalacas and green jays? She was so far from the rancho now, from the pecan grove where Joaquín and their son were buried, from the cemetery in Matamoros where her father and grandmother lay in eternal rest, from San Antonio de Béxar where her mother and brothers had remained, from Monterrey where Jimmy lay in repose in a dirt grave. I’ll always keep you in my heart, she promised. She would be like a mesquite, dig her tap root deep into the entrails of this Mexican earth, and never let go.

Little by little, the passengers arrived at the dock with their trunks and crates.

John kept his eyes on the ship anchored in the harbor, anxious to board,

oblivious to the activity around him. Ximena saw him startle when he heard the familiar voices.

“At your service, Colonel Riley.”

John turned around to nd a group of men at attention, saluting him. The surviving San Patricios, not al of them, but a dozen of them. Some, Ximena knew, had chosen to settle in Mexico and raise families.

“Faith, but what in blazes are ye al doin’ here, fel as?”

They turned to look at her with smiles on their faces. “Our lady Ximena found us. Told us you were goin’ home,” James Mil s said.

“And here we are, goin’ back with you, sir,” Peter O’Brien said.

John looked at her. “But how?”

“The church,” she said. “The priests helped nd them and made sure my letters got to them. They forced the government to honor the agreement you made with them, that they would pay for passage of any San Patricio who may wish to travel home.”

His frown deepened, and then, after her words sunk in, he burst into a laugh.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman, you sure beat al !” He took her and their little girl in his arms and spun them around.

Then he embraced his men, one by one. “Ye are a glorious sight to behold, my boys!”

Al the men were branded on their cheeks, though John was the only one with the two brands. The Yanquis had tried to shame them by marking them like cattle, but Ximena hoped that one day, John would learn to see those marks as a badge of honor. Because that is what he was, an honorable man who had stood up for what he believed. The D was not for deserter. But rather defender.

“We’re goin’ home, my brave fel as!” he said. “And ght we shal for the good of Ireland.”

Alexander McKee took out his ask and said, “Bás in Éirinn! ”

The ship sounded its horn, and it was time for the passengers to be taken aboard on the rowboats. The locals gathered to watch them leave, and as she was being rowed away, Ximena waved goodbye. Would she ever see her compatriots again?

As they left the shore, Ximena stood on the deck, enjoying the spray of the waves breaking against the ship. Seagul s skimmed the surface of the waters, and pelicans plunged in to pick up their breakfast. She took out her brooch and tenderly caressed the Mexican eagle as she watched Vera Cruz drift farther and farther away. The white houses, the churches, the sand dunes, the fortress San Juan de Ulúa, they al receded into the horizon until there was nothing left of her country but the blue of the Mexican sky and the lofty mountain of Orizaba peeking through the morning clouds that enveloped its snowy bosom like a lacy mantil a.

No, this was not an eternal farewel . Not adiós, but hasta luego.

John came to stand beside her and pul ed her close. “A long time ago I crossed an ocean, and now this gulf wil return me to that same ocean—the great Atlantic—and back to my son and my homeland. I shal be a wanderer no longer.”

“No, you wil be a brave son of Erin who has come home,” she said. They looked at their daughter, with Mexican and Irish blood owing through her veins. Ximena knew that she and John, haunted by the horrors of war, would always carry battle scars within them, but they, had survived, hadn’t they? One way or another, they would nd a way to thrive.

They walked along the deck to where the San Patricios stood watching the sailors work the ropes, the canvas sails bending with the breeze, and together they turned to face the future that lay before them, praying it would be as splendid and boundless as the golden waters rippling ahead.