In the meantime, Taylor had the balance of his troops ferried across the river to the city. His officers occupied private residences, and most of his soldiers set up their canvas tents in the outskirts. Wasting no time, the whiskey merchants, gamblers, and harlots who’d been following Taylor’s army descended upon the city, and places of ill r epute sprang up — gambling halls, saloons, and dance halls. The norteamericanos roamed Matamoros as if they owned it, especially the Texas Rangers swaggering about with t heir pistol belts and bowie knives, their wild eyes hidden under slouched hats, their untrimmed dirty beards and mustaches hanging from their faces like Spanish moss. Everyone knew they couldn’t be controlled, not even by the Yanqui general or the new gove rnor. They were either drinking, playing monte and gambling, or out in the streets raping, beating, or murdering the townspeople. There wasn’t a day when a
murder or theft was not r eported, especially after more Yanqui volunteers — including more Texians — began arriving to reinforce Taylor’s troops. At the end of May, Ximena heard the news that the US government had officially declared war against Mexico, claiming that “American blood had been shed on American soil.” Ximena seethed with rage at the baseless claim. The land between the Río Nueces and t he Río Bravo was not American soil. Their war was based on a false premise, and the Yanqui soldiers pouring into the city were there to defend that lie. Soon, steamboats were brought up the river, and the inhabitants of Matamoros lined the banks to watch them going back and forth with their puffs of black smoke, transporting Taylor’s troops and supplies. It was such a novelty to see those vessels, one of w hich was named Colonel Cross , even Nana Hortencia liked to watch them go by, scattering the birds with their shrill whistles. Then one day the remains of Lieutenant Porter were found. The Yanqui whom Joaquín had killed two months before had been eaten by wolves, so it hadn’t been easy to identify him. After she watched his funeral service, Ximena asked padre Felipe to say a mass for the murdered Yanqui, hoping that his soul would now rest in peace. The summer rains began and with them, the river swelled until its waters overflowed its banks, turning the area into a swamp. The rains also brought swarms of mosquitoes, and sickness soon spread through the city. If that wasn’t enough, the new Yanqui recr uits were carrying diseases, such as measles, from up north. The pestilence spread through their regiments and through the region. Hundreds of Taylor’s men had fallen sick and were being tended to in the makeshift hospitals in the city. The death march pla yed all day long as the Yanquis buried their dead. Soon, an outbreak of measles took the lives of many of the local children. After long days and nights ministering to them, Nana Hortencia eventually contracted the disease as well. The battles had taken a heavy toll on her. She’d given so much of herself that her body had no strength left to fight. Ximena tended to her grandmother, who seemed to be withering before her eyes. She prayed for divine intervention to stop the approach of death, to give her, just this once, miraculous healing powers so that with a simple touch, she could rid her grandmothe r of the fever ravaging her body, the infection in her lungs, the rash that had spread from her face to her feet, as if consuming her one piece at a time. “You will feel better soon, Nana,” Ximena said as she placed a chamomile compress on the old woman’s inflamed eyes. Nana Hortencia coughed and shook her head. “Let me go, child,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and feeble. “The Creator is calling my spirit to Him.”
“You can’t leave me, Nana. What will I do without you?” The old woman removed the rag from her reddened eyes to look at Ximena. She took her hand and smiled weakly. “You won’t be alone, mijita. Have faith.” But how could Ximena hold on to faith when God seemed intent on taking away everyone she cared about? And what good was her healing gift when it couldn’t ke ep alive the only person left on earth who loved her? The next day, Nana Hortencia told Ximena that she wanted to d epart this world under the canopy of the sky. Knowing that her grandmother would be unable to bear the brightness of the day, Ximena wheeled her out of the makeshift hospital that evening on a bo rrowed wheelbarrow. In the twilight glow, she took her nana to the river’s sandy banks, where she could listen to the night songs of the birds. Through the treetops, they watched the moon climb, Ximena sitting on the damp ground beside the wheelbarrow wher e her grandmother lay wrapped in a woven blanket, lulled by the gurgling of the free - flowing waters of the Río Bravo. Toward midnight, when the moon was approaching its highest point, the old woman’s soul entered the spirit world. Her last ragged breath o f life became part of the breath of the wind stirring along the river and whispering through the moonlit trees. Ximena stayed there with her grandmother until morning’s first light. She beheld Nana Hortencia’s face, noble and serene, all traces of the rash gone. Her eyes, as clear as moonlight, raised to the sky. After she buried her grandmother, Ximena felt like a tumbleweed, defenseless against the whim of the high winds rolling her across the plains. She had nothing to hold on to now. No one to cling to. These thoughts were weighing on her as she walked to church for evening vespers a week after Nana Hortencia’s burial. She passed by a vendor selling fruit outside the plaza and would have k ept walking if he hadn’t stopped her. It took her a moment to reali ze it was Juan Cortina. He was wearing a sarape and a palmetto hat and selling cantaloupes out of a small cart pulled by a donkey. “Cheno, what — ?” “Pretend you don’t know me,” he said, picking up a cantaloupe and offering it to her. “Here, señorita, please, taste this delicious melón straight from my farm,” he continued. “I’ll meet you in the church,” he whispered, and then turned to the crowd and sh outed, “Melones, melones, get your melones, ladies and gentlemen!” She walked across the plaza to the church, careful not to look suspicious. There were Yanqui soldiers patrolling the area, and she knew Cheno would be in trouble if they suspected him. She had no doubt he was here to spy on the Yanquis. Every so often, Tay lor’s men captured spies
and imprisoned them at the fort across from Matamoros, which had been renamed Fort Brown in honor of their fallen major. Another spy, Jerónimo Valdez, was locked up there now. She sat on one of the pews and waited for Cheno. Mass was beginning, and as she listened to the priest, Ximena couldn’t stop looking at the shattered walls of the church with its statues and crucifix missing. The stench of horse dung infected the air. The Rangers had desecrated the church, robbed it, and even used it as a stable before Taylor forced them out. Then they turned to looting and destroying private property instead, burning ranches, especially preying on the vulnerable peasants living in jacales on the outskirts of the city where Taylor had no surveillance. Cheno finally appeared toward the end of the service. Taking a seat next to her, he said, “I was very sad to hear of your grandmother’s passing. I’m sorry, Ximena.” After the priest finished mass, they left the church together. It was sundown, and the Yanqui soldiers were wandering the town looking for dinner. Cheno helped her onto his cart, and the two of them rode outside the city, where they hid among a cluster of gnarled mesquites. The sweltering heat radiated off the ground, and the humid air vibrated with the songs of the cicadas. The canícula, the dog days of summer, would soon be upon them. “I’m sneaking out of here tonight to deliver intelligence and catch up to our troops,” Cheno said, confirming her suspicions that he was in town to spy on Taylor. “They’re on their way to Monterrey. Come with me, Ximena. Taylor is leaving Matamoros soon to confront our forces. We need you at our next battle. The rancho will still be here waiting for you.” She thought of her home. Now that the enemy — especially the Rangers — were leaving the area, she could return there, rebuild it, and do her best to coax the land to yield a new life for her. But for what? She was all alone, and she had lost her spiritual gui de. She felt so empty, like the husk the cicada leaves behind. Emptiness was the worst kind of sickness, her grandmother had often said. But how could she r eplenish her spirit when there was no laughter, no joy, no love left in her life? A screeching in the sky made them look up. Two eagles were quarreling in midair, chasing each other across the fiery sky. As their threatening screams cut through the humid evening, Ximena saw something swirling down. She got off the cart and ran after it. “Careful!” Cheno said as she forced her way through the thorny shrubs. The spines on the twigs of a lime prickly ash clawed at her, but she managed to reach the fallen object on the branch where it had landed. “What is it?” he asked.
“A feather,” she said, “from a golden eagle.” In the afterglow of the setting sun, she could barely see the blood that covered the feather. Ximena thought of her grandmother. Nana had told her to look for the sign. She held the bloody golden eagle’s feather and wondered if it was a portent of wounds y et to be inflicted upon the sacred soul of Mexico. Was the eagle that once devoured the serpent now being itself devoured? Part Two The Eagle and the Shamrock S eptember 1846 Monterrey, Nuevo León Upon the parapets of the citadel, twenty feet above ground, Riley was inspecting the placement of a cannon while scanning the road below. Any day now, the Yankee troops would march into view, and he and his gunners would be ready for them. After the loss of Matamoros, the troops carried the burden of disappointment with them on the two - hundred - mile retreat across the desolate terrain, the weather alternating between blazing heat and cold, heavy rains. Many men had perished on the dusty roads from starvation, exhaustion, or suicide before the Mexican Army of the North — or what remained of it — finally stumbled half - dead into the city of Linares. Just the thought of it made Riley’s blood boil. They lost good men on the retreat. After spending thre e weeks in Linares recovering from the ordeal, the troops, under General Mejía, trudged another hundred miles northwest to Monterrey, in the state of Nuevo León, while General Ampudia went to Mexico City to gather reinforcements. General Arista had been court - martialed and dismissed from the army, and President Paredes had been overthrown. When Ampudia returned to Monterrey with three thousand more troops and sixteen artillery pieces, he also brought an order from the new governmen t reinstating him as commander - in - chief of the Army of the North and authorizing him to make a stand in Monterrey against the approaching Yankee army. To Riley, the best part of Ampudia’s trip to the capital was the chest of gold pieces he brought back wit h him to finally pay the troops. Through the priests of the city, Riley was able to send Nelly his largest remittance yet, which would see them through the approaching winter.