She and Nana Hortencia did as much as they could to teach their female aides how to make and administer poultices and ointments, soothing washes, and healing salves. She organized the women into rotating shifts so the men were looked after properly. But th ey soon resigned themselves to the indisputable reality that not enough could be done to alleviate the suffering of all their patients, and what the men needed most from them, beyond their infusions and soporific teas, were the words of comfort they could offer to a mangled soldier as he took his last breath.
She didn’t need to leave the hospital tent to know chaos also reigned throughout the city. The defeated troops stumbled through the dimly lit streets and gathered in the plaza. The darkness couldn’t hide their fear and confusion, their terror that at any m oment the enemy forces would make their way across the river and attack once again. Some of the inhabitants barricaded themselves in their homes while the hungry soldiers spent the night sitting on the ground, leaning against walls, lying under trees. Late r that night, General Arista himself staggered into the city. For the following days, stragglers wandered into the city in groups, some too tired to talk, others too frightened to be quiet, their wild, haggard eyes constantly looking behind them. From the fragmented stories she heard in the overcrowded hospital tent, and from what Cheno told her when he paid her a visit, Ximena learned of the questionable decisions General Arista had made. “Honestly, Ximena,” Cheno had said, “why would he allow Taylor to pr epare for combat at his leisure before attacking? The pinches Yanquis even had time to refill their canteens! And then, when Arista finally did attack, he opened fire when the enemy was ou t of range.” She learned about the general’s rotten luck and how his plans had gone awry, but the rumor most damning to his r eputation — because it was true — was that when Taylor’s troops attacked on the second day of battle, Arista wasn’t even at the front lines but in h is tent writing letters. Ignorant of the chaos reigning in the chaparral, the general had allowed the enemy to take him by surprise. Once his troops had abandoned their weapons and ran for their lives, Arista fled as well, leaving behind his belongings to be ransacked by the enemy — including a detailed map of the area that Taylor would surely use to his advantage. Now only half of Arista’s troops remained, including the wounded and distressed. The bloated corpses of the drowned were washing up on the riverbanks. No one could pass by the river without coming upon at least a dozen dead soldiers and rotting horses. Everyone was waiting for the Yanquis to attack the town, to take advantage of Arista’s broken army and damaged morale. They knew it would be foolish for General Taylor not to press on and take Matamoros. It wasn’t a question of if the Yanquis would attack, but when. As the days passed, everyone held their breath, eyes fixed on the river. When teniente Riley stopped by the hospital tent one afternoon to check on his wounded, he coaxed Ximena into taking a break. “You look weary, lass. When was the last time you had some rest or nourished yourself?” he said with a firm tenderness, offering h er his arm. “There is much to do, teniente Riley, and I can eat later when it is done,” she answered, even as she allowed him to guide her out of the tent into the daylight.
Closing her eyes briefly, she felt grateful for the heat of the sun warming her skin. Ever since she’d been working with the injured, tending to shrapnel wounds or assisting with amputations, she couldn’t stop shivering. It wasn’t from cold, but fear. And even the sun’s warmth couldn’t help her with that. She held on to the lieutenant’s steady arm, realizing how comforting his strong physical presence was at that moment. “ ’Tis a noble service you are doin’ for your countrymen — and mine as well,” he said, “but if you continue thus, you’ll be lyin’ in that tent with the sufferers instead of takin’ care of them.” She could see the concern in his eyes, and she wanted to tell him she was fine, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She was overextending herself. D epleting her spirit. As was her grandmother. She led him under the canopy of an ebony a few paces away from the hospital tent and took a de ep breath of its creamy flower puffballs. Their fragrance could not overtake the metallic stench of blood and putrid human flesh that had soaked into her clothes, her hair, her very being. When the breeze shifted, she caught another scent, a wisp of burnt gunpowder. She looked at the exploding bomb symbol embroidered on the red collar of the lieutenant’s uniform to denote his company, and she remembered the most horrific sounds she’d ever heard. “This war,” she said, “I pray to God that it... termine pronto.” “I pray for the same,” he said. “We Irish know what ’tis like to be oppressed by an aggressive neighbor. May God save Mexico from a similar fate. But for hostilities to end, your people must remain united.” “I have heard bad talk of General Arista,” she said. “Is what you mean, teniente?” “Aye, the officers aren’t pleased with our commander. They blame him for his blunders, which led to us takin’ that whippin’ from the Yankees.” He looked at her, his mood suddenly somber. “General Ampudia is none too pleased at playin’ second - in - command to Arista and is leadin’ the dissension. But the commander is right in pleadin’ his subordinates to present a unified front to our troops. As he said, ‘How can we fight the Yankees if we are too busy fightin’ each other?’ ” Upon hearing him r epeat Arista’s words to her, all Ximena could think of was that this handsome Irishman didn’t know her country well. It was Mexico’s sad reality that its leaders had trouble trusting one another and seeking unity. “What happens now?” she asked, swatting at the flies tempted by the blood on her apron. “General Arista wants to preserve the city at all costs,” he said. “If the Yankees take Matamoros, Taylor will use it as his base as he goes on to attack the next city and the next.”
“And you believe is possible? To save Matamoros?” The lieutenant took off his leather shako and ran his fingers through his hair as he gazed at the river and the enemy fort beyond, the dark feathery brown curls at the nape of his neck unfurled in the breeze like tender fern fronds. “ ’Tis true, lass, what the general said. Matamoros ought to be defended. But I’m afeared we haven’t got the means. Our equipment is mostly broken, and so are our forces. The troops have been decimated and those who remain have low morale. If the general can’t reenergize his dis pirited troops and get them back on their feet, I dare say I see but little hope in savin’ the city.” “Especialmente now that Taylor has more cañones.” “Aye, right you are. I see Sergeant Cortina has paid you a visit. The Yankee general has already positioned those eighteen - pounders on the bastions of his fort ready to pummel us.” She pointed toward the growing pile of amputated limbs the surgeons carelessly tossed near the hospital entrance and said, “And we know now what his cañones can do.” “The general understands that we don’t have the resources to r epel an assault,” Riley said. “And the ammunition at our disposal, we would be lucky to make it last four hours.” “And with our port in the hands of the Yanquis, there’s little food.” Ximena couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She hadn’t been hungry until this moment when, all of a sudden, the last of her energy gave way to a ferocious gnawing in her stomach, and the memory of fresh corn tortillas cooking on a hot stone tormented her. “So, we die of hunger or suffer defeat?” He looked away and said nothing. Then she realized there was another potential outcome. If the Yanquis attacked and captured the deserters, teniente Riley and his men would be shot to death. A few days later, Arista sent out General Requena with a flag of truce to ask Taylor for an armistice. The Yanqui general refused, stating that the capture of Matamoros was inevitable, though its occupation could be accomplished without the violence and ch aos that had been required on the battlefield. If Arista wanted to avoid any more bloodshed, he must withdraw his troops and abandon the city at once. Without the reinforcements promised by the minister of war, Arista had no other choice and ordered his troops to pr epare for the retreat. Ximena knew there were not enough mules and wagons to carry the supplies, let alone the three hundred sick and wounded . Would Arista dare to leave his injured soldiers and officers behind at the mercy of the enemy?
The more she thought of it, the more she was sure of the answer. The lives of the poor, illiterate Indian peasants in their ranks were of little value to the criollo generals. Hadn’t she seen how the Indian soldiers were poorly clothed, barely fed, and ill trained? Didn’t the officers speak to them in voices dripping with contempt? It reminded her of what teniente Riley had told her about how the Yanquis and the English treated the Irish. These Mexican Indians, like the Irish, were once a powerful people wh o were now oppressed and treated as foreigners in their own land. On May 17, Cheno and the other scouts returned to Matamoros to alert them that Taylor was on the move. Their time had run out. As the troops pr epared to vacate the city and march south to Linares, Cheno came to the hospital. “I’ve secured a place for you and your grandmother on one of the wagons,” he said. “We don’t have much time. Taylor now has all the boats he needs to cross the river, and his troops are coming across as we speak.” “But what about all the infirm? There are hundreds of mutilated men in the hospital tents!” Ximena said. “We’re leaving them here. The general has moved his injured officers to private residences. The rest are to remain in the tents and Captain Berlandier will stay to ensure their safety.” “These men deserve better than that, Cheno. How can Arista abandon his wounded compatriots?” He looked at her with resignation. “I agree with you, but it can’t be helped, Ximena. We have no wagons and no oxen to pull them. We have been ordered to leave our personal equipage behind. Those who can still walk will rely on their own two feet to carry them away from Matamoros. Those who can’t will have to pray that the enemy has mercy on them.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the tent where Nana Hortencia was burning sage over each patient to ward off evil energies. Despite Ximena’s insistence, the old woman refused to rest and continued to minister to the pain and suffering in the makeshift hospital. Ximena grew uneasy, knowing that her grandmother was giving too much of herself without taking the time to r eplenish her strength. “I hate to disrupt the ceremony, but we must make haste if you don’t want to lose your place in the wagon,” Cheno said. Ximena looked at Nana Hortencia. Tending to the wounded of the two battles had been too much for the old woman. A hasty retreat across barren land with little water would surely kill her. She couldn’t leave her grandmother behind, just as she couldn’t leav e these mangled men. She looked at the hospital tent, at the mutilated soldiers lying on the naked ground or palm
petates. “My nana and I will be staying here, Cheno. She’s too old to travel, and I won’t abandon her or these men who have sacrificed so much for our country.” “It’s not safe for you to stay here. The minute the Texas Rangers arrive, all hell will break loose, and you know what they’re capable of.” “We’ll take our chances. We could go to the rancho if we had to.” “Don’t be foolish, Ximena. Two defenseless women alone on a burned - down rancho? The Rangers will be roaming wild, not only here in the city, but in the countryside, too, where you’ll be isolated. And if they don’t get you, the Comanches will. Listen to me. You know I’m right.” She wrapped her arms around him. “We’ll stay here with the invalids and hope for the best,” she said. “Take care of yourself, my friend.” Ximena and Nana Hortencia stood watching the troops march out of the town. The columns stretched as far as the eye could see. After losing their shoes or huaraches in the river, many of the troops were marching barefoot. Those in the hospital tents who cou ld manage to walk crawled out of their cots and lined up with the columns, preferring to take their chances on the arduous retreat than with the barbarians from the North. The lancers whose horses had been killed in battle carried their saddles on their sh oulders. Some of the cannons were thrown into the river, and the troops’ belongings and weapons were left behind in the plaza. They were hungry, weak, demoralized, and much fatigued before the march had even begun. “Mi niña, are you sure you want to remain here?” Nana Hortencia said. “No, but we can’t abandon our patients. You’ve taught me that, Nana.” Teniente Riley and his men lined up in the rear of the infantry columns, and the carriages carrying the only cannons they could take with them lurched forward. The Irishman waved goodbye as he passed by on his caisson. “God bless you both,” he said. Like C heno, he’d tried to convince her to go with the troops, but he understood she was doing her duty and wished her well. “I’ll ke ep you both in my heart,” Maloney said as he waved goodbye. Nana Hortencia started back to the hospital, but Ximena stayed by the road watching the troops march away. The soldaderas walked or rode on humble donkeys behind the columns, some of them pregnant, others with their babies tied to their backs with a rebozo , their faces shaded by palmetto hats. Ximena took one last look at the dusty road and went to join her grandmother. May 1846
Matamoros, Río Bravo Everyone was gone by the following day. All the troops, all the camp followers, and almost a thousand residents of the town had disappeared into the cloud of dust the army had left in its wake. Ximena and Nana Hortencia lay on their cots listening to the w hispers of the men. “They will kill us,” they said. “The enemy will show no mercy.” Their fear was palpable. Many of the wounded had died in their sle ep, as if they had preferred the certainty of death over the uncertainty of the Yanqui occupation. But when Taylor appeared and the local authorities informed him of the army’s evacuation, there was no bloodshed. He honored the promise he’d made to Arista. Still, the pain of watching the Mexican flag, which flew over Fort Paredes, being lowered and r epl aced by the enemy’s banner felt like a bayonet piercing Ximena’s heart. And perhaps she shouldn’t have been so shocked when the citizens of Matamoros welcomed the Yanquis into the city, lining up to offer food and liquor to the enemy, gladly taking their m oney. When Taylor removed the Mexican governor and put Colonel Twiggs in his place, the possession of Matamoros was complete. Ximena and Nana Hortencia stayed in the hospital tents as much as possible, the safest place for them to be. To her surprise, Taylor ordered his own medical team to help with the Mexican infirm, and there was soon a makeshift hospital on every street. Xime na was relieved to see that the Yanqui surgeons and their staff didn’t mistreat her wounded compatriots, as she’d feared. She and Nana Hortencia worked side by side with the Yanquis, and although Ximena pleaded with her grandmother to slow down, that there was plenty of help, she refused to leave their side. Luckily, w hen the soldiers realized they weren’t going to be killed while lying helpless on their cots, their morale improved, and with that, their will to live.