Now that Santa Anna had put an end to the re volution in Mexico City, he and his forces were marching to Vera Cruz, ready to confront Scott. Another battle would soon ensue, and though the general told her he was confident that this time the Mexican Army wo uld be victorious, Ximena wasn’t going to fall for that again — only God knew for certain what the outcome would be. If Scott defeated Santa Anna’s army, he would then advance to the capital, the heart of Mexico. The general concluded his letter with a copy of his proclamation to the Mexican people, which had been distributed to the masses two weeks earlier. I pray you heed my call, querida Ximena , he’d written on the margins of the copy he’d sent her. López de Santa Anna President Ad lnterim of the Mexican R epublic, to his compatriots.
Mexicans! Vera Cruz is already in the power of the enemy. It has succumbed, not under the influence of American valor, nor can it even be said that it has fallen under the impulses of their good fortune. To our shame be it said, we ourselves have produced this d eplorable misfortune by our own interminable discords. The truth is due to you from the government; you are the arbiters of the fate of our country. If our country is to be defended, it will be you who will stop the triumphant march of the enemy who now occupies Vera Cruz. If the enemy advance one st ep more, t he national ind ependence will be buried in the abyss of the past. I am resolved to go out and encounter the enemy. My duty is to sacrifice myself, and I well know how to fulfil it! Perhaps the American hosts may proudly tread the imperial capital of Azteca. I will never witness such an opprobrium, for I am decided first to die fighting! Mexicans! You have a religion — protect it! You have honor — then free yourselves from infamy! You love your wives, your children — then liberate them from American brutality! But it must be by action, not by vain entreaty nor barren desires, with which the enem y must be opposed. Perhaps I speak to you for the last time! I pray you listen to me! Do not vacillate between death and slavery; and if the enemy conquer you, at least they will respect the heroism of your resistance. It is now time that the common defence should alone occu py your thoughts! The hour of sacrifice has sounded its approach! Awaken! The nation has not yet lost its vitality. I swear to you I will answer for the triumph of Mexico if unanimous and sincere desires on your part second my desires. Mexicans! Your fate is the fate of the nation! Not the Americans but you will decide her desti ny. Vera Cruz calls for vengeance! Follow me, and wash out the stain of her dishonor! ANTONIO LÓPEZ DE SANTA ANNA Mexico March 31, 1847 “I’ve had enough of this damn war, enough of Santa Anna,” Cheno said after Ximena read him the proclamation. His leg was healed enough that he could walk around the convent’s orchards without the use of the crutches, though he still needed a cane. Every da y Ximena had accompanied him on his morning exercises so that he could strengthen his leg, and she was happy to see that very soon he would be able to ride a horse without too much discomfort. “I’m not going to follow him anymore. I’ve done my duty. I almost paid with my life to wash away the stain of Mexico’s dishonor. But that won’t happen as long as that caudillo is in
command.” Out of breath, he took a seat on one of the stone benches and massaged his injured leg. “So you are giving up the fight?” “Never! I will always offer my country my blood and never stop defending the Mexican name. One day, if I must, I shall start a war against our oppressors and fatten the land with their own gore. For now, though, it’s time for me to return to the Río Bravo and tend to the honor and interests of my family.” “How?” “General Canales and his guerrillas have offered to escort me north,” Cheno said. “Come with me. If we run into any Yanqui patrols along the road, Canales will be able to handle them. It’s the safest way to get home.” Even though General Scott and most of the Yanqui forces were now in Vera Cruz, Taylor was still in Monterrey, holding possession of the city, probably until the war came to an end. The norteamericanos were still roaming Mexico’s northern lands and the skir mishes between them and the Mexican guerrillas continued to leave a trail of corpses and burned - down homes. “When will you leave?” “As soon as my leg permits it. I’ve asked Canales to secure us some horses, in case you desire to go home as well. Or have you other plans?” “Do you mean will I go in search of John?” “If I didn’t know the Irishman, I would say he was a fool. But I understand that his grief has blinded him, led him to believe he doesn’t deserve you. Being the good Catholic that he is, he will self - flagellate to kingdom come.” “I can mend his body and do my best to mend his wounded soul, but what can I do for the anguish of his guilt - ridden heart?” “Santa Anna then,” he said, taking the proclamation out of her hands to look at it, though, like Joaquín, he did not know how to read. His bad temper had gotten him in perpetual trouble at school. “Will you heed the caudillo’s call, as he implores you to d o? I can see in your eyes, querida amiga, that you still haven’t given up on him, or your Irishman for that matter.” She covered her face and sighed. “Perhaps I am the one who is the fool, Cheno.” For the following weeks, Ximena thought about Cheno’s proposal to join him on his return home. Part of her wanted to go back to the rancho, though without Joaquín, she wasn’t sure
how she could make it prosper again. The survival of the rancho had d epended on the wild mustangs Joaquín caught and broke and the good mules he bred by using his best mares and jacks. She knew that Cheno would offer assistance, but he had his own family t o take care of, and she didn’t want his charity. Another part of her wanted to follow John. She understood his grief, his guilt, and she shared in his sorrow. Although she had never met his wife, Ximena felt compassion for her and yes, even guilt for being able to enjoy John’s presence, to receive his lo ve and attention, while Nelly had been suffering thousands of kilometers away. They hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, especially that poor woman. Was being apart the price to pay now? As for Santa Anna’s proclamation, she felt as Cheno did, that she had done her duty to her country. But she also hoped that their compatriots would answer Santa Anna’s call, especially those who had the means to do so. She hoped they would rouse from their apathy, to unite and chase the invaders off their land once and for all. If she was now going to let go of everything — the rancho, the war, and John — there was another option for her to consider, one she’d tried not to think about until now. She could remain here with the nuns. They treated her kindly and took great interest in everything she was teaching them about the healing arts and the uses and spiritual powers of each plant. She enjoyed working in the convent’s gardens and had begun helping the nuns add more medicinal plants. Inside the convent’s high walls, Ximena felt saf e, and she loved the solitude and tranquility of being away from the world, from its violence and heartache. What if she took the veil? What if she remained inside these walls forever and gave herself up completely to God? The convent could be a place of r efuge for her. She could seek asylum here from all that had befallen her, and she could finally rest her weary body and soul. The nuns could be a new family for her, and she could have sisters with whom to share her joys and sorrows, sisters who would nurs e her when she was sick, offer her a kind word or a smile. She could grow old here in this cloister, contentedly surrounded by her medicinal plants and flowers, in her small cell in peaceful meditation, and perhaps one day, God willing, she could die peace fully in her black robe in her sle ep, surrounded by her sisters, and take her last breath amid the sweetness of their prayers and tears. “We would gladly take you, hija,” the old Madre said to her when Ximena shared her thoughts with her one day. “But your heart belongs to capitán Riley, and it will always be so. Especially now that you’re carrying his child.” Ximena was taken aback. She put a hand on her belly and looked at the Madre, knowing she spoke the truth. In her distress, she hadn’t paid attention to the signs — the queasiness in her stomach, the retching in the mornings, her missed cycles.
“Yes, hija, I’ve been watching you,” the old Madre said. “The babe belongs with its father as well. But above all, it cannot be brought into the world out of wedlock. You can’t suffer the poor creature to pay for your sins. Some of our priests will be trav eling to Mexico City to visit the archbishop. I can inquire if they have a seat in one of the carriages for you, perhaps you can travel with their attendants. And with your skills as a healer, they might not protest the presence of a woman.” “Thank you, Madre. I appreciate your kindness. But I don’t yet know what I will do.” Afterward, Ximena sat in the courtyard, thinking about what she’d just learned. When she was a child, she’d watched from afar as a wildfire, started by lightning, had spread across the prairie and burned everything in its path. She still remembered the bre ath of heat on her skin, the odor of scorched earth, the crackling grasses and screeching wildlife. Seeing the sky choking on smoke, she’d cried at the catastrophe before her. Nana Hortencia put an arm around her and told her not to cry. “ Don’t you see, mijita, this is how the Creator renews the prairie. The fire gives it new life .” After the fire passed, and Ximena looked at the blackened earth, the piles of cow dung still smoldering, the carcasses of rabbits, coyotes, prairie dogs, and other small animals littering the scorched land, she’d doubted her nana’s words. How could ther e be life when all she saw was death everywhere? It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when the new grasses and plants returned with vigor, that she’d understood. The fire had burned everything to the ground to give new seeds and overcrowded roots a chance. S he imagined her baby as a seed burrowed de ep within the sacred ground of her womb. Her home had literally been destroyed by fire, the war had all but consumed her, her loved ones had been taken from her. She was as scorched and barren as a burned prairie. But now life had sprouted within her. A new beginning. She dreamed of him that night. She saw herself in a plaza, with rain falling and trees swaying in the wind. On bare feet, she walked across the wet cobblestones, slippery and cold, the rain soaking into her nightgown, her hair sticking to her face. And the re before her, hanging from the gallows, were the San Patricios. Some had their backs to her, others faced her with dead, red eyes, tongues thrust out of their foaming mouths, hands clenched into fists. One of them turned with the wind and now she could se e his face, and she blinked and blinked, wiping the rain from her eyes, but every time she looked, it was him. It was always him. She woke suddenly, bathed in a cold sweat and choking down a scream. After she caught her breath, she lit a bundle of sage and gave herself a barrida, the smoke soothing her mind and steadying her as she sw ept her body with it. She lay down, trying to push the images of the hanging men out of her mind. But every time she closed her eyes, she could see John hanging from a rope.
At sunrise in mid - May, Cheno appeared with Canales along with the other guerrillas. Furnished with a mount, Ximena grabbed the reins and climbed willingly upon the saddle. Soon she would be back to the Río Bravo delta, back to the rancho and her new life w ith her child. The old Madre and the nuns stood outside the convent to see her off, some crying their farewells. They handed Ximena a box with sweets and fruits for her journey. “Gracias, Madre. Gracias por todo.” “God be with you, hija.” Canales gave the order, and the group rode out. Ximena didn’t turn to look behind. She stared straight ahead until they reached the city limit and the convent bells began to toll, as if calling her back. Then, very faintly, she heard the nuns singing their daily hymns. As they left the city behind them, she listened as Canales told Cheno about his adventures and misadventures fighting Taylor’s forces, including all the Yanquis he’d killed and the men he’d lost to the Rangers who roamed wild in the area, committing atrocities from village to village. He told of how he’d lassoed a Ranger and dragged him through the cacti, how he’d stripped and castrated him in retaliation for killing two guerrilleros. “Well done, amigo. They thought they would come here to kill Mexicans and go unpunished? No, señor,” Cheno said approvingly. When Canales told the story of another band of guerrillas who’d killed dozens of Mexican muleteers whom Taylor had hired to transport his supplies, Ximena thought about the carnage she’d witnessed and the stories from the wounded she’d tended to. In the ra nchos and haciendas from San Luis Potosí all the way to the Río Bravo, Mexican families had been forced to flee because if they refused to help the guerrilla bands, the guerrilleros would destroy their homes, and if they helped the guerrillas, the Yanquis would destroy their homes. They were caught, as the saying went, entre la espada y la pared, between a sword and a wall. This war was taking place not only on the battlefield, but also on the roads, in humble villages and isolated ranchos, in the chaparral and prairies, in deserts and mountain passes. She thought of Joaquín, of what had been asked of him. She wondered what kind of journey lay before her. Would they be plundering and killing their way home? What atrocities would she be forced to witness? If more slaughter and devastation awaited her, wasn’t she heading the wrong way? She turned her head to l ook at San Luis Potosí, but only the ste eples and bell towers of the churches were visible now. She thought of John, of how he had almost lost his life right at this spot from sunstroke and the fatigue of that nightmarish retreat. But he had lived. He was still alive. Then she thought about her dream.
How could she not warn him? He’d made it clear that there was no future for them anymore, and she might be foolish to go looking for him, but how could she start a new life with her child when its father’s life was in peril? Didn’t her child deserve a fath er? Shouldn’t she at least try? “I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular. “I’m heading the wrong way.” They all turned to look at her. She dismounted the horse and handed the reins back to Canales. “Take it,” he said. “It’s one of the horses Joaquín gave us.” She nodded her thanks, then looked at Cheno, who approached her on his horse. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “I’ll look after your rancho, Ximena, and when you’re ready, it will be there waiting for you.” “Adiós, Cheno.” She looked at the guerrillas and said, “Vayan con Dios.” She remounted the horse, turned it around, and cantered back to the city, her eyes fixed upon the cathedral ste eple where the priests were making pr eparations for their visit to Mexico City. Part Three The Heart of Mexico July 1847 Mexico City The Port of Vera Cruz had surrendered to the Yankees at the end of March, and in April, Santa Anna’s army collided with Scott’s at the Battle of Cerro Gordo in the hills of Vera Cruz. Though the Mexicans managed to inflict a good deal of damage, the Yankee s still bested them in battle, and Riley had found himself once again on the run with his men and his Mexican comrades - at - arms, leaving behind more than one thousand of their dead on the battlefield, thirty - three field pieces, ammunition, and a chest with twenty thousand dollars from which the soldiers’ wages were to be paid. To Riley, Cerro Gordo had been a clearer defeat than Buena Vista — this time, there was no doubt that the Yanks had emerged victorious, forcing Santa Anna to abandon the battlefield at panic speed on horseback after his personal carriage was riddled with bul lets and his spare wooden leg fell into the enemy’s possession. Scattering in every direction in a disordered mass, Santa Anna’s forces had then made their way to Mexico City. Riley had no choice but to follow. As long as the Yankees had possession of Vera Cruz and its port, there was no way to get home but to ke ep on fighting. In Mexico City, Santa Anna occupied himself with arrangements to defend the capital, but he faced the same obstacles as before — insufficient funds, limited supplies and munitions, and lack of support from the Mexican states and the clergy. After his disastr ous defeat in Vera Cruz, he’d
also lost the confidence of some of his followers, and his rivals, especially Generals Ampudia and Valencia, wasted no time in renewing their intrigues and sowing dissent. Riley watched as Santa Anna, undeterred by his subordinates’ plotting, took the reins of the presidency once again and made the defense of the capital his priority. Soon fortifications were being constructed and martial law imposed, forcing males between the ages of sixtee n and sixty to r eport for military duty. Riley was not surprised when, in no time at all, Santa Anna had accumulated twenty - five thousand soldiers under his command. Now he was focused on raising funds and support, invoking the patriotism and zeal of the c ity residents, urging them to devote their fortunes and their honor in defense of Mexico.