Part One .
Whither Rolls the Storm
March 1846
El Frontón de Santa Isabel, Gulf of Mexico
When the three steamships came into view, undulating on the shimmering waters of the gulf,
the villagers grew quiet and still, in the way Ximena had seen meadowlarks freeze when hunted
by a hawk. Standing on the shore of the Laguna Madre, the water soaking into her skirt, she
squinted from the glare as she watched the ships passing through the entrance of the inlet, the
smoke rolling out of their funnels dark as storm clouds. She trembled inside. These vessels were
not traders or merchants bringing goods to market.
The port of El Frontón de Santa Isabel, just north of the mouth of the Río Bravo del Norte, was a
lifeline for the small settlements and scattered ranches in the area and the nearby city of
Matamoros. Ximena loved swimming and fishing in the bay, the cool salt air and rolling waves,
so whenever her husband went to the port to sell and trade supplies from their rancho —
cowhides, tallow, wool, livestock, and crops from the last harvest — she eagerly joined him. As
the steamships anchored in the harbor, she caugh t flashes of red and blue in the air and
something glinting on the decks in the afternoon sunlight. Though she couldn’t see clearly what
they carried, an image formed in her mind: bronze cannons and blue - clad soldiers.
For eight months, she’d been hearing rumors of war, ever since US and Texas soldiers had been
encamped in Corpus Christi Bay. But as long as they remained two hundred and fifty kilometers
away, their presence hadn’t disrupted her daily life. Three months b efore, in the last days of
1845, the R epublic of Texas had become the twenty - eighth state in the Union, and a dispute had
erupted over .
this strip of land between the Río Bravo — or the Río Grande, as the norteamericanos called it —
and the Río Nueces to the north. She, like everyone, knew it was only a matter of time before
the Yanqui president, James Polk, would order his troops to march sou th to take possession of
the disputed land. These warships, Ximena realized, were bringing an end to what little
tranquility had existed in her region.
“We should go,” she whispered, turning to her grandmother, who was standing beside her in
the water. Nana Hortencia’s silver braids hung loosely at either side of her head, and although
the years had bent and twisted her body like the limbs of a mesquite, her hands were firm and
steady.
The old woman sighed with worry and said, “Let us go find your husband, mijita.”
Tolling church bells shattered the eerie silence that had descended upon the small community.
All at once, mothers pulled their children out of the water and rushed them home, fisherwomen
snatched up their baskets, and fruit and vegetable vendors hastily l oaded their crates onto their
carts. Out in the Laguna Madre, the fishermen were rowing their boats back to the wharf. Then
bugles sounded the alarm, and the handful of Mexican soldiers protecting the port hurried to
their posts.
Ximena waded out of the water and guided her grandmother to the storehouses. Her wet skirt
clung to her legs, her sandals squished, but there was no time to change. She quickened her
pace, but as Nana Hortencia struggled to ke ep up, she forced herself to s low down, to not panic.
Clutching the old woman’s hand, they wove through the throng of frightened villagers, her eyes
searching for her husband, Joaquín. She sighed in relief when she spotted the ranch hands at a
storehouse, rushing to finish loading the sacks of coal onto the carts. But Joaquín wasn’t with
them, nor could she find him inside.
“Stay here, Nana,” she said and hurried back outside.
As Ximena whirled around into the street, a party of Texas Rangers rode into the plaza from the
rear of the port, shouting their wild cries and firing their re volvers into the air. The villagers
screamed and ran for cover. The Mexican soldiers guarding the customhouse hastily fired
warning shots, and the Rangers retaliated.
The grass - thatched roof of the customhouse had already begun to smoke, and then, suddenly,
burst into flames.
“Joaquín!” Ximena cried out, pushing past the crowd, her heart flailing like a seagull trapped in
netting. Seeing her husband run out of the building, she rushed to join him.
“Vámonos,” he said, taking her hand.
The air reeked of smoke. Ximena could hear the crackling of the burning timber and thatch as
the villagers’ huts burned. Flames licked the rafters in the plaza church even as the bells
continued to toll. People ran out of their homes with whatever they cou ld carry. A fortunate few
loaded their wagons and carts and fled. The rest followed behind on foot in a frantic pace,
seeking shelter in the prairie beyond.
The Yanqui cavalry suddenly burst through the smoke, led by a peculiar old man dressed like a
farmer and wearing a straw hat. They shot their pistols into the air, and in the shocked silence
that followed, the man in the straw hat pulled his horse to a hal t and held up one hand.
“My name is General Zachary Taylor, commander - in - chief of the Army of Occupation of the
United States of America,” he declared. “Do not be afraid.”
No one waited to hear the Yanqui general say more. Joaquín handed Ximena her horse’s reins,
and as soon as Nana Hortencia sat safely on one of the canvastopped wagons and the ranch
hands took the reins, they rode out of the village, eluding the general and his mounted troops
along with the Rangers.
They made their way across the broad plains, but encumbered by wagons and carts loaded with
sacks of rice, wheat flour, coffee and cacao, crates of piloncillo and dried fish, and other
provisions they had picked up at the port, they couldn’t get away fast enough. As the gathering
dusk gave over to the fireflies twinkling over the prairie, Ximena, struggling to see in the
de epening twilight, wondered how long it would take to cover the remaining nine kilometers to
the rancho.
She glanced back at the village in the distance and saw it was covered in an orange haze.
“War is coming,” she said.
“No, mi amor,” Joaquín said. “They will negotiate. I’m sure it won’t come to war.”
He was only trying to ease her worries. But it was futile to try to shield her from what she had
witnessed that day. What else could this be, if not an act of war?
She remembered that ten years before, when Texas rebelled against Mexico and declared itself
an ind ependent r epublic, it proclaimed that its boundary would then extend two hundred and
fifty kilometers south to the Río Bravo, even though the Río Nueces had been the established
border even before Mexico had achieved its ind ependence from Spain. Mexico had never
recognized Texas’s ind ependence or its claim to the Río Bravo and the region between the two
rivers, and it had warned the United States to ke ep its h ands off its lands.
Looking to the sky, Ximena thought of the single star on the flag of the R epublic of Texas,
realizing that it was now part of the American constellation. If the United States was now ready
to destroy everything in its wake, what would become of her and her family?
March 1846
Rancho Los Mesteños, Río Bravo
The next day, Ximena sat on her horse facing northeast, looking beyond the prairie teeming with
wildflowers at the wisps of smoke rising over the remnants of El Frontón de Santa Isabel. They
had arrived at the rancho before sunup, and though she was tired, she had been unable to
sle ep. So she’d gotten dressed to ride out to the prairie and offer up a prayer for the villagers. If
the Yanquis weren’t stopped, would El Frontón de Santa Isabel be the first of many Mexican
villages to be burned to the ground?
The wind rippled through the zacahuistle grass. Specks of the windblown ash settled on her
opened hand, and she licked them off her palm, tasting the bitter sorrow of innocent families
displaced from their homes. What would happen to them now? Those who’d fled were most
likely scattered about the bare prairie, unsheltered and exposing themselves to further dangers.
But where could they go? Those who hadn’t been able to flee were surely now at the mercy of
their enemies, facing an equally uncertain fate.
As she turned her horse, Cenizo, to return to the house, she spotted another cloud rising in the
west. This one was not from a fire. Mounted riders were kicking up dust as they sped toward
the rancho, and that kind of haste meant trouble. Ximena galloped b ack to the stables, calling
for the foreman’s sons to fetch her husband and the wranglers who’d taken the horses out to
pasture. The teenage boys dropped their pitchforks and hurried off, but the horsemen reached
the main house before Joaquín. The barking dogs brought out Nana Hortencia and the three
house servants, who waited fearfully under the ramada.