He waved her words away. “I’m feeling fine. In fact, I’ve never felt better. I think your treatment is working. Now, come.” He held out his arm for her. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, your Excellency, but I have other patients to tend to. May I take a look at your leg and take my leave? I won’t be long.” In response, he grabbed his hat and walked past her. “Leave your basket,” he ordered. They made their way to the pens he’d built for his prize game fowl. He winced as he limped along but assured her it was only a minor discomfort. He refused to spend another day in bed, he said. And there was much to be done. As usual, he’d bathed himself i n too much plumeria perfume, but out in the open air, the scent was not so suffocating. When they arrived, she noticed the familiar smells of dry hay, feathers, and rooster droppings, and she thought of home. For a moment she could almost feel herself back at the rancho, listening to the roosters
crowing, the mules hee - hawing, the dogs barking. The chatter and laughter of the ranch hands’ families. She shook those memories away and looked at Santa Anna’s gamecocks. The trainers were busy trimming around their cockscombs, shaping the tails, clipping the wing feathers to give them a straight edge. “The wings need to be done very precisely,” Santa Anna said. “They have to be trimmed exactly alike, otherwise the gallo will be out of balance when he engages in battle with his opponent.” He ordered the trainers to bring his favorite. Taking a seat on a bench, he clasped the rooster close to his chest. “This gallo is my pride and joy. His name is Libertador. Isn’t he magnificent?” She tried to not roll her eyes. She wondered if his other roosters were named the Savior of the Motherland, the Soldier of the People, and the Napoleon of the West. Santa Anna gently spoke to Libertador. He rubbed oil on its beak, cockscomb, and sharp spurs, then massaged more of it into its red and green feathers and long flowing tail. “The oil ke eps the beak and spurs from getting brittle,” he said as he wiped down the rooster with a rag. She thought of Joaquín and remembered him brushing his horses with swe eping strokes and patiently detangling their manes and tails with a comb. How was it possible this vile man could have something in common with her beloved husband? When Santa Anna was done, the cock’s plumage was gleaming in the light. She was struck by the beauty of the creature. “People think they’re pets that I pamper too much,” he said. “And that I waste my time with cockfighting. But to me, these gallos are combatants, warriors. A fighting cock doesn’t retreat, doesn’t surrender. The instinct to flee has been bred out of them, and if they flee, they don’t deserve to live. Many a bird has ended up on my dinner table.” Ximena sat on the bench next to him and watched as the sparring began, starting with the lightest cocks and so on to the heaviest. It was like a dance, the birds leaping into the air, turning, kicking, pecking, at times in perfect synchronization, feathers floating down like autumn leaves. In the sparring, she was glad to see that the birds didn’t use sharp razors. Instead, their spurs were covered with pads. “Right now, it’s not a matter of killing or being killed. It’s about improving one’s stamina and getting stronger. Quicker. Better!” She marveled at how focused Santa Anna was on every move the game fowl made, his eyes so alive and alert, carefully assessing and missing nothing. “Each gallo has his own particular way
of fighting, can you tell? See how the red one likes to attack by flying high, and the brown one attacks from the ground?” To her, the cocks’ movements seemed a blur, too complex to take it all in. But as he walked her through it, she began to notice the individual ways each bird attacked. “Is it strange that they make no noises?” she asked, thinking of her roosters back at the rancho, who’d certainly always had plenty to say. “No. The only time they’ll make a sound is if they are losing. God help you if your cock emits a squawk. Because they rarely make sounds, you have to learn how to judge the damage your cock is making and receiving through keen observation. And you have to know the rules thoroughly, so that you can break them or abide by them, d epending on what is most advantageous to you.” “Like in Goliad?” she asked and immediately regretted it. But it was true. He’d used the absurd Mexican laws against foreigners with arms and piracy to justify the massacre. That was certainly an occasion when abiding by the rule of law had been advantageous to him. He laughed but didn’t take his eyes off the roosters. “Sí. Exactamente, querida.” The birds were allowed to spar for no more than five minutes and s eparated before they caused any serious injury to each other. Libertador went last. Had the metal blade been attached to his spur, he would’ve killed his opponent within seconds. Instead, he pecked out its eye. The unlucky opponent let out a squawk and tried to flee, but the pit was enclosed with hay bales and wooden boards, so there was nowhere to run. “Get that pinche runner out of my sight!” Santa Anna said, waving his cane around. “Send it to the kitchen!” He turned to her and the rage in his eyes was immediately r eplaced by a smile. His shifting moods discomfited her. “Didn’t Libertador do well? He turned his opponent into a squawking sissy!” When the sparring was over, Santa Anna took his winning rooster back from the trainers to tend to him, checking for injuries, especially on his neck. He took a sip of water and sprayed some mist on the bird to cool it down, speaking sweetly to it, then pre ssed it against his face to relax it and slow its heart rate down. Again, Ximena found herself amazed at Santa Anna’s tenderness, at the way he stroked the bird before handing it back to the trainers.
“You forgot to kiss it goodbye,” she joked, as she’d often teased Joaquín about his horses. Too late, she realized she’d forgotten whom she was speaking to. Santa Anna looked at her, surprised, and then laughed. “Gallos can’t be trusted, querida. They aren’t loyal creatures. You can’t let your guard down around them.” He pointed to a small scar near his eye and said, “This one bit me once. He was aiming for my eye. He likes to peck eyes out, as you’ve noticed. When I look at the scar, I remember to be careful about whom to trust. Too many people around me are like my gallos — they won’t hesitate to hurt me, no matter how well I treat them. That’s one of the many lessons they’ve taught me.” The trainers took the birds in to bathe and retire them for the day, each in their own enclosed pen with dividing wooden walls to ke ep them from seeing one another. The general got up, and she followed him back to his quarters. “Do they have to be k ept s eparated?” she asked. “Yes, otherwise they will kill each other. When I first got into cockfighting, my favorite gallo killed himself.” “How?” “He saw his own reflection in the water trough and attacked it, thinking it was another gallo. The fool was so intent on killing his opponent, he drowned himself.” “Well, he succeeded then, didn’t he?” She stopped and turned to him. “He was his own enemy.” He smiled and made as if to kiss her. When she took a st ep back, he grabbed her hand and kissed it instead. “So you think I’m my own worst enemy, is that it? Quizá tenga razón, señora Ximena.” When they got back into his private chambers, he served himself a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter and offered her one, which she declined. He sat on the chair by the window and watched her roll up his pant leg, detach the wooden leg, and remove the soiled bandages. His stump was bleeding slightly again, though at least the infection and swelling had mostly subsided. She glanced at him and shook her head. “You must take care not to overuse it. Stay off the leg as much as you can for another day or two. Give it time to fully heal.” “This thing will never heal. But I shall abide by your recommendations. I would hate to lose the rest of my leg.” “Well, you could have a glorious funeral for it, bury it in that magnificent monument where the other part of your leg is interred.”
Her sarcasm made his smile vanish, and in his eyes appeared the familiar flash of rage and indignation. But then, to her surprise, a certain sadness registered on his face. It was so unexpected — his naked sorrow — that she forced herself to apologize to him. He said nothing, and she thought that perhaps he hadn’t heard her apology. His eyes had a faraway look to them, lost in a bitter memory. As she dressed his wound, he watched her in silence, and she wondered if her words had upset him. Losing a limb was a de eply traumatic experience, she knew, and she r eprimanded herself for her rude remark. Her grandmother would have been disappointed in he r behavior. This was no way for a healer to behave. This man brings out the worst in me, Nana . “My leg is no longer interred,” Santa Anna said at last. She looked up at him. “Where is it?” “Vanished. Right before I was forced to go into exile in Cuba, the mob in the capital took it out of its tomb, dragged it through the city streets in protest. Imagine, having the limb I lost so gloriously in service to my country treated in that manner. An d it wasn’t just my leg that received such treatment, but my statue, my theater, robbed and defiled, my portraits burned! They would’ve pecked my eyes out, had I let them.” Two years before, after he’d made a mess of the country, he had been overthrown. Joaquín had talked about it for weeks, asking Ximena to read to him every newspaper article that covered the re volt in the capital. Santa Anna had tried to regain control of t he government, but it was too late. The re volt couldn’t be stopped. The people, fed up with the oppressive conditions he had them living under, protested and rioted in the streets, not just in the capital but in other cities, including in his home state of Vera Cruz. The president - general was captured while trying to es cape and thrown in prison for months before being exiled. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. Fortune turned its back on me in ’44, but it has smiled upon me again,” he said, his somber mood suddenly lifting. “The people have thrown the city gates open to me once more and have hailed me as their savior. My return to th e capital was a day of celebration. I wish that you’d been there to witness how the people entrusted the destiny of Mexico to me, how they saluted me again with the title of Soldier of the People! And look at me now — señora Ximena — I have been reelected as president of this great r epublic!” Yes, he was back in power. Somehow, he’d gone from being the most hated man in Mexico, d eposed and exiled, to being president again and the commander - in - chief of the Army of Liberation. She wondered how he had pulled that off. How did he get past the block ades the Yanquis set up in Vera
Cruz? How did he take back the reins of the Mexican government, with the support of the same political and military rivals that had imprisoned and exiled him? How did he get the masses that had so gleefully dragged his limb across the public streets to hai l him once again as their liberator and president? Could the rumors of his secret dealings with the Yanquis possibly be true? Ximena knew he could see the questions in her eyes, but he didn’t answer them. He puffed up his chest and gloated instead. For a second, she almost expected him to crow. January 1847 San Luis Potosí 7, S ep’ 1846 Dear beloved husband, I pray that this letter reaches you wherever you may be in that far land. I think too many of me letters seem to have miscarried. I received your remitance, which we were verry much wanting afther we ate our last potato. It soothed my sowl to know God has spared you and k ept you safe, a stór. We are doing our best to ke ep going, but life is getting harder and harder. It lo oks like the praties are rotting in the fields again, God help us. Scarcely a house has es caped the hunger or the terrible faver. There are dead lying in homes, in the ditches, in the fields, and everyone is too hungry and weak to bury them. And you couldn’t believe the stench of it all, John. Anyone who has the means to es cape is laving. My dear frind Molly and her family jist up and left and went over to America a few days ago, widout even a farewell. I pray that you can send for us soon, a stór. Mammy and Daddy talk about us going to the workhouse. We oughtn’t to do that! They would take Johnny from me, sure enough. We would all be s epar ated. At laist for now, thanks to you, we still have a roof over our heads and a bit of food in our bellies. What you send ke eps us alive, but most important, it ke eps us still together. I regret not having betther tidings from home. Sometimes I’m afeard G od has left us widout Him. I know it isn’t thrue. God is good, and I must have faith.