She placed her supply basket on the table in the center of the room where a large porcelain bowl overflowed with pomegranates. Unwrapping her frayed rebozo from her neck and shoulders, she hung it on the back of a scarlet velvet chair. The servant coughed his disapproval, but she left it there, requesting a pot of hot water and clean bandages and towels to be brought to her. When the servant took his leave to fetch the items, she found herself alone with the general. Despite the fever and fatigue, Santa Anna’s gaze remained just as intense as when he was healthy, perhaps even more so. Previously, she’d observed him from a distance and, thus far, had managed to stay out of his way. The manner in which he looked at her m ade her even more uncomfortable than she already felt in his luxurious surroundings, r eplete with silk draperies and marble floors, alabaster candelabras and crystal lamps, papered walls and gilded mirrors. Under his piercing gaze, she felt even more self - conscious of her threadbare blouse and worn - out sandals, the faded skirt Nana Hortencia had dyed with wild indigo and pericón. But her apron was clean, and her hair was braided neatly and fastened together with new ribbons. Those and her gold hoop earrings were the only nice things she owned, and the best she could do to make herself presentable. Besides, she was here to cure this pompous caudillo, so what did it matter what she looked like? She wasn’t here to please him with her looks. He was just another patient, wasn’t he? No, the devil lurking behind his feverish eyes reminded her that he was no ordinary human being. She took a de ep breath to steady herself and approached him. “May I?” She took the glass of brandy, setting it on the night table, and peeled away the sweatsoaked sheets to expose his left
leg. The stump was red and inflamed, with pus and blood oozing from open sores. If it had an unpleasant odor, she couldn’t tell, for it was overpowered by the general’s plumeria - scented perfume, which he’d applied far too generously. “The surgeons who tended to me butchered my leg. It has never healed properly. ¡Imbéciles!” As she assessed the wound, Ximena noticed how clumsy the amputation had been. The surgeons hadn’t left enough muscle and skin flap to pad and cover the amputated bone, leaving a few centimeters of it exposed just below the knee joint. He told her it caused him excruciating pain when he walked. The wooden leg couldn’t fit properly, since it rubbed against the protruding bone, and the skin had been stretched so much when it was stitched at the closure that sometimes it broke open, making the stump prone to chronic infection. “The infection is superficial,” she said. “It hasn’t affected the flesh or bone. You’ll soon be on your way to recovery.” “¡Nunca! Those incompetent surgeons condemned me to a life of pain. They should’ve left me to die instead.” His lower lip stuck out farther, making him look even more like a petulant man - child. “The general is fortunate to still have his life,” she said, opening the window to allow the fresh air to circulate. “In my time now in this army, I’ve seen half of the soldiers whose limbs were sawed off perish from the operation.” “It’s an honor to die for one’s country,” he said. “And I would gladly give my life for the motherland. If I had died from my wounds in the battle against the French, I would have had a sublime death with the sweetest taste of glory. To die for Mexico, to go down in history as a martyr!” She took some supplies from her basket and busied herself with pr eparing the herbs she needed to make a paste to treat his wound. She could hear her grandmother whispering in her ear — hierba del pollo to staunch the bleeding, gobernadora to discourage infec tion, calendula to soothe inflammation, florifundia to ease the pain. As she crushed the petals and leaves in her mortar and pestle, Ximena thought about those who’d already perished in this war and how they would never be celebrated as saviors or martyrs. Most who’d given their lives for their country, or who had yet to do so, would be forgotten, as if they never existed. And now this foolish man was speaking of being grateful for a chance at martyrdom. “Teniente Riley said that you’re a widow. Your husband was killed by the Rangers, was he not?” She nodded. She didn’t want to talk about Joaquín with this man.
“¡Esos Rinches malditos!” he said. “Death and damnation to them!” The servant returned with the supplies and set them on the table for her before leaving the room. She put malva leaves into the hot water and let them ste ep before washing his wound. Glancing up, she found him watching her intently. “Tell me, señora Ximena — if it isn’t impertinent of me to ask — where in the R epública do you hail from? I detect a familiar accent in your voice.” “San Antonio de Béxar.” “¿Una bexareña? You don’t say. And your family — did they fight with me or against me during the Texan insurrection?” She looked him in the eye and didn’t hesitate to say, “Against.” Then she held her breath as she waited for his reaction. His eyes, the color of roasted tobacco leaves, revealed nothing. She almost wished he would throw her out of his chambers so she could get away from him. Finally, he shook his head and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? It comforts me to see that you’re on the right side of the war this time.” She turned back to the table, her body throbbing from the sting of his words. She took her time finishing the paste, mixing some of the hot water into the crushed herbs until it was the right consistency. She remembered so vividly the day Santa Anna and hi s troops arrived in San Antonio. Many of the townspeople had tried to flee into the country as soon as the rumors reached them that he was on his way to the town. Colonel William Travis and his small force barricaded themselves in the old Alamo mission, in cluding her father who was under the command of Captain Seguín. The wagon her father sent to take her and Nana Hortencia to their ranch fifteen miles from the town was unable to get past the Mexican troops, and so they’d locked themselves up in their house and were forced to witness the siege. Santa Anna hung a red flag from the towers of San Fernando Church — a sign that no quarter would be given, no mercy for the rebels — and she and Nana Hortencia cried for the fate of her father and prayed for his safety. W hen the Alamo fell, they both rushed out to search for him among the fallen and didn’t find him anywhere. They later learned that he’d left the Alamo one night with Seguín under orders from Travis to bring reinforcements. Santa Anna, denying the insurgents a Christian burial, incinerated their bodies in pyres. Ximena watched from the terrace of her home as the smoke rose over the buildings. The fire burned for two days, and the stench of burnt flesh permeated the air, linge ring permanently in the collective memory of its citizens. A few days later, a letter arrived from her father with news that he was alive and with General Houston’s forces.
The executions in Goliad soon followed. Almost four hundred captives — Texian and Tejano alike — were marched onto a field and shot dead on the orders of the vile man before her. As she observed him lying prostrate in bed, Ximena saw not an invalid or an ampu tee, but the monster who had committed such atrocious acts of violence from which her homeland had never recovered. Did he have any idea how the destruction he’d wreaked in Texas had incited the Texians’ fury and loathing for all Mexicans? She wished she c ould shake him and make him see how his mishandling of the Texas Rebellion had set the stage for what was happening now. She turned away from him and placed the rags to soak in the hot water. “You know, they call me the butcher of the Alamo, but it was the troublemakers themselves who chose their fates. I gave those malcontents the opportunity to surrender — seven times, in fact. They made their choice.” She turned back around to look at him. How had he known what she was thinking? Had he noticed the accusation in her eyes? He smiled at seeing the surprise on her face. “You’re not the only Tejana I’ve met. Juan Seguín has looked at me the same way you just did, as if I were a bloodthirsty, barbarous villain and not a president - general fulfilling his duty by suppressing the re bellion of those foreigners who were intent on taking Texas from us. You blame me for the way the ungrateful Texians have treated Tejanos ever since. After the re volt — which too many of you supported — you became second - class citizens in your own homeland. So much unnecessary bloodshed, isn’t that what you accuse me of? But as I said, I gave the wretched adventurers the opportunity to surrender, and they didn’t, at least, not until it was too late. Now they are venerated as martyrs. Travis, Bowie, Crockett... Th ose lucky scoundrels. But it is only those Yanquis who will be remembered and beloved — not the native sons of Texas who were in the fort with them. Only the white defenders will go down through the ages as the heroes of Texas Ind ependence, whereas their Te jano allies, like Juan Seguín, were run out of the new r epublic in shame and disgrace. That’s Yanqui gratitude for you.” She remembered the moving eulogy Seguín had delivered at the funeral service of those who were killed at the Alamo. Burying the ashes from the pyres, he’d lauded the heroism of the defenders. “ Yes, my friends, they preferred to die a thousand times rather than submit themselves to the tyrant’s yoke .” He’d called them valiant heroes and worthy companions. Her father had w ept as he listened to Seguín’s moving speech. “And what about Goliad?” Santa Anna shrugged. “I was merely upholding our existing laws. Our government had decreed that foreigners bearing arms in Mexican territory were to be treated and tried as pirates, which,
as you may know, is punishable by death. The law was unjust, but the law commands, and who am I to violate it?” So that was how he justified having almost four hundred prisoners shot in cold blood. “They weren’t all foreigners,” she said, realizing she was entering dangerous territory. “Some were Mexican citizens.” His skin turned redder and his feverish eyes flashed with anger. “When you Tejanos took up arms against the motherland, you forfeited your rights as Mexican citizens! You committed treason against your own people. How else should I have treated the rebels who dared betray our nation?” His accusation hovered in the room like a swarm of screeching grackles darkening the sky. She turned away from his anger, her hands shaking. The mortar and pestle were suddenly too heavy, and she set them down on the table. She wished she could simply leav e instead of tending the wounds of this man whose actions were responsible for so much bloodshed and for the plight of the Tejanos. If instead of brutality he had shown mercy and treated his prisoners in an honorable way, maybe then in the eyes of the Texi ans, not everyone of Mexican descent would be looked upon as an enemy. She breathed de eply, letting the aromatic oils of the crushed plants calm her. Then she took a rag from the pot, squeezed it out, and began to wash his stump vigorously. Hearing him wince, she stopped and willed herself to be gentler. He was, above all, he r patient right now. She couldn’t let her personal feelings and bad energy get in the way of her healing. Suddenly, he grabbed her arm and said, “I’m not angry at you, señora Ximena. Your family might have betrayed me once to ally yourselves with the Yanquis, and you paid for your disloyalty. But now here you are, fighting alongside me. Instead of trying to ki ll me, you’re here trying to heal me so that I can do what I was put on this earth to do — bring honor to Mexico.” He released her and let her continue working. She patted his skin dry, lathered the poultice on a clean bandage, and applied it to his stump, saying nothing. But she felt his eyes still on her. The anger was gone, r eplaced by something else. His gaze roame d her body, as if undressing her. She glanced at her rebozo on the back of the chair and wished she could wrap herself with it. “You’re a beautiful woman. I can see why teniente Riley is so bewitched by you.” His voice was de eper now, overtly sensual. And she realized that she preferred his anger. His eyes were lingering on her breasts, so she cleared her throat and to distract him asked, “How did you get this injury?” “Have you heard of la Guerra de los Pasteles?”
She shook her head. Her plan had worked. She did, in fact, remember the Pastry War of 1838. She’d been seventeen when the French invaded Mexico and set up a blockade of the ports. Santa Anna, reclining on his pillow, began recounting for her the dispute be tween the French and Mexicans that began over a bakery owned by a Frenchman that had been looted and destroyed by Mexican soldiers. France, demanding r eparations for that and other debts owed to its citizens, had attacked Vera Cruz. When Santa Anna rushed to defend his home state, the French fired a cannon loaded with grape, killing Santa Anna’s horse, two of his officers, and some of his troops, and shattering his left leg. “It cost me dearly,” he said. “But it was worth the price. Ah, you should have seen us charging the enemy with our bayonets, driving them back into the sea. Our country’s flag remained in its place, flying triumphantly over Mexican soil. That day, I brough t victory to la R epública Mexicana. And I will do so again, with the Yanquis.” When she finished dressing his wound, she massaged his stiff leg muscles and knee joint with a salve she’d made from árnica mexicana simmered in lard. She’d wanted to redirect his attention and she had, but now she had to suffer his bragging. “It was worth it, you know.” “What was, General?” “The loss of my leg. The people thought it was a national tragedy. They offered prayers for my life, held parades in my honor. They came to watch my leg being interred at the cemetery of Santa Paula. What a glorious funeral it was. You should have seen the celebrations, the magnificent monument that was to be the home of my lost limb. I think about that on the days I cannot bear to put on the prosthetic because of the pain. My people know I am but a selfless warrior, a good Mexican. A soldier of the people. ” She wished she could hurry out of there. The man was intolerable. His arrogance and egoism were irritating, but she knew that healing required patience, good energy, and faith on her part. So she pushed her frustration aside and massaged the pain and stres s from the leg muscles until they were relaxed and supple. He sighed with pleasure and closed his eyes. “Ah, don’t stop. Por favor. My wife chose to remain in the capital instead of accompanying me on the campaign. But I’m glad you’re here to minister to m e,” he said, his voice de ep with arousal. Then he took her hand and placed it over his manhood. Without hesitation, she slapped him across the face. Startled, he opened his eyes but was too shocked to speak. She could see the terrible ferocity in his eyes, the violence raging in their dark d epths, but she refused to be intimidated by it and matched i t with anger of her own.
“If you wanted a whore, General, you should have called for one instead of a curandera.” She got up and tossed her supplies into her basket. “My apologies, señora Ximena,” he said. She turned to look at him. The expression on his face had changed, the savage ferocity r eplaced by r epentance. “Please, forgive me for committing such an indelicacy. My fever has led me astray.” He was lying. Fever or no fever, she could see who he was — vile, despicable. And what if he retaliated against her or John? She nodded. “I’m done for today. I’ll have your servant bring you fresh sheets for your bed and a light meal. As soon as you eat and drink the seven blossoms tea I will have him pr epare for you, you should rest, and please, stay away from alcohol.” “Will you return in the morrow?” He looked beseechingly at her, his voice nauseatingly sweet, like overripe fruit about to spoil. What would he do if she said no, refusing to treat him again? Was she ready to find out? Could a healer refuse to heal? “If you promise me there will be no more disrespect toward my person, I will tend to you until the infection is gone. You have my word.” “I shall eagerly await your return, my lady Ximena. You have my sincerest appreciation for your tender care, believe me. Teniente Riley was correct. You have a great gift.” That afternoon, as she and John walked around the busy mercado, she recounted her visit with Santa Anna. She thought about telling him how he had disrespected her, but decided against it. The thought of it sickened her. “Beggin’ your pardon, Ximena,” John said as they sidest epped the vendors who offered them their produce, insisting that they try the freshest melons, the ripest tomatoes. “ ’Twas compassion that I had for the general when I saw him agonizin’ from the pain in his leg, worse than usual last night. I knew you could help him. He doesn’t trust surgeons anymore. Since they mangled the amputation, he’s had no faith in them.” “I do not trust them either,” she said as she stopped to buy a bag of zapotes. “Some are incompetent with the saw. And they go from one patient to another with dirty tools and sponges. If the patients survive, it is because of their stamina and intervenció n divina.” “Forgive me?” He picked up some guavas from a nearby fruit stand and clumsily juggled them, dropping one on his head.
She laughed as he massaged his scalp and paid the vendor for the bruised fruit. “I know you meant well, John, but the man is insoportable!” As they made their way to the stalls that sold fresh herbs and spices, she acc epted that John and General Mejía had not meant to put her in harm’s way. But this wasn’t going to be a one - time thing. The general suffered from chronic pain. Even once he healed, there would be the next time, and the next. “You think it’s true, what people say about him?” she asked as she inhaled the earthy tang of fresh oregano. They had both heard rumors that Santa Anna was secretly collaborating with the Yanqui president, which would explain why he’d been allowed through their naval blockade of the port of Vera Cruz and permitted to disembark and make his way to the capital. “The commander has many enemies,” John said. “He claims the rumors of his treachery to Mexico are poor attempts to turn the people against him, to discredit him.” “And you believe him?” “I believe what I see. He has fulfilled the promise he made to his people when he returned from exile — he’s leadin’ the Mexican Army against the Yankee invaders. Those who are heapin’ calumnies upon him are the ones who are not here pr eparin’ to go to battle and willin’ to die to avenge the insults to their country.” “Santa Anna made a treaty with the Yanquis before — when he was capturado after the Battle of San Jacinto. He gave Sam Houston all he asked. Why he not do the same now with Polk?” “He was a prisoner of war, wasn’t he? A captive president forced to enter into an agreement with the enemy, which the Mexican government later disavowed.” “El daño — the damage — was irremediable by then,” Ximena said. As she paid the Indian woman for the herbs she needed, she thought of what a cruel joke destiny had played on her — to have her use her healing gift on the very man her father had once fought agains t. As they headed toward the barracks, Ximena turned to John and said, “My father fought in the Battle of San Jacinto. He’d be disappointed to see me here, tending to Santa Anna. He was wrong to betray Mexico, this I know. But when I was with the general toda y, all I wanted was to defend my father from his ire.” She sighed and looked away. “My poor father... he wished to be a hero, but instead he died seen as a traitor by both sides.” John put an arm around her and looked at her in understanding. “When I joined the British Army, my people saw me as a traitor as well. I pray to be given the chance to redeem myself one day. Your father didn’t have that chance, but you are here now in his stead, eh? ’Tis through you he will find his redemption.”
December 1846 San Luis Potosí A week later, the city was abuzz with news of the latest presidential elections — once again, Santa Anna was president of the r epublic. Cannons fired a salute from the Palacio de Gobierno, rockets were launched into the air, and the people cheered from the streets and terraces. Even Ximena celebrated, but for a different reason — she hoped this meant Santa Anna would head to the capital and leave the army to be led by a different commander. But it was not to be. Santa Anna proclaimed that his duty was to defend Mexico’s honor, and so he designated his new vice president, Valentín Gómez Farías, to hold the reins of the government during his absence from the capital and serve as acting president. Meanwhile, he was s taying put in San Luis Potosí to continue pr eparing for battle. Just as she had expected, he sent his servant to fetch her again. It would be the third time she tended him, and she hoped it would be the last. As she and the servant arrived at his private quarters, Santa Anna was pr eparing to go out, immaculately groome d as always. “Ah, there you are. Come with me,” he said, grabbing his golden cane. “Where to?” “Mi gallinero. I haven’t been out to visit my gamecocks. I’m organizing a cockfight to celebrate the great news.” “I need to inspect your leg, make sure it’s healing properly.”