When they were done, Nana Hortencia gathered the soiled towels and the bucket of tainted water and then excused herself. Ximena was alone now with Joaquín to sit vigil beside him until he was buried out in the consecrated plot in the grove of pecans, next to their son. She was grateful for the time she could spend with him, to honor his body, to pray for his spirit. Here, she could let the tears she had been holding back flow freely. But they didn’t come. She placed a pillow under his head and ran her fingers through his wavy hair. She caressed his cold cheek and leaned over him, resting her head on his unmoving chest. “Do you remember that yearling calf after the gulf storm sw ept across the prairie?” she asked him. “Remember how she fell into a mudhole and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get out?” The animal’s bellowing could be heard all the way to the house, and Joaquín and the vaqueros had spent an entire day freeing her.
“Now I know how that calf felt,” she said. Alone, frightened, trapped. And the more she struggled, the more her grief sucked her into its suffocating darkness. There was a knock on the door and Juan Cortina came in, out of breath. “I came as soon as I got your message. I’m so sorry, Ximena.” At the sight of Cortina, her grief turned to anger. He’d gotten Joaquín into this mess, turned him into a murderer. Gotten him killed. Cortina tried to comfort her, but she turned away. Then, she heard his sobs and saw his body convulsing with his own sorrow. “¡Maldita sea!” he said. “¡Esos malditos diablos! God damn their souls! I’ll make them pay for this!” She motioned for him to come closer so that he could pay his respects to Joaquín. He stood beside his friend’s body and shook his head. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to join us.” Hearing him echo her thoughts, Ximena wondered if she was wrong to blame him. She thought of what Nana Hortencia had r epeatedly said to her, and she finally understood. “No, Cheno. Joaquín did what he felt was his duty, to defend his home and country again st the invaders. He knew the risks.” Cortina was silent, contemplating her words. He nodded and said, “He was a good son of the frontier who offered his country his blood, and it will not be in vain.” Then he turned to her and added: “But we have to think about you now. Come with me to Matamo ros. I hear Joaquín’s sister will be leaving in a few days for Saltillo, away from the impending battle. It’ll be safe there for you too.” “I won’t leave, Cheno,” Ximena said. “This is where Joaquín would want to be buried.” “And here he will remain, but not you. Not now.” As she looked at her dead husband lying on the table, she felt a dull ache in her heart, and she felt tired, so tired. She wanted to curl up against Joaquín and go to sle ep. “I wish they’d killed me too,” she whispered, realizing too late that she’d spoken aloud. She’d not meant to confess to Cortina the yearning of her soul. To admit that it hurt too much to live. “No digas eso. No, never think that. When the battle is over and we have won, you can return to your home and begin a new life. In the meantime, I promise I’ll do my best to protect you — ” “The way you protected my husband?” The accusation was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Her anger returned and swirled inside her, and she wanted to let it grow, let it turn dark
and menacing, like the howling blue norte that lays waste to everything in its path. The hailstones that beat the tallgrasses into the ground. The raging wind that strips the bark off the mesquites and leaves them naked and exposed. The lightning whose fury gouges holes in the earth. She wanted to hurt something. Someone. She took a de ep breath, looked at Cortina, and said, “I don’t need your protection. But I do want one thing from you. That you tell the Yanqui general where to find his dead men.” His eyes were on Joaquín, not on her when he said, “I don’t know where he left Lieutenant Porter, but I do know where Falcón left Colonel Cross.” “I don’t want them left to putrefy in the chaparral, Cheno,” she said. “If their souls are left to wander, so might Joaquín’s. Will you promise, then?” “Sí. Te lo prometo.” At daybreak the next morning, they rode out from the rancho in silence. Cortina and his men up front, Ramiro and the few remaining ranch hands in the rear behind their families riding in the wagons. Ximena was seated on the extra horse Cheno had brought an d did not speak to any of them. They respected her need for silence, even Nana Hortencia, who secluded herself in the carriage with the house servants, leaving Ximena to her thoughts. She k ept her eyes looking ahead and did not turn back to see the smoke a nd ruin behind her. The route to Matamoros was a well - traveled and hard - packed dirt road. As they traversed the open plains, the road was wide and the sights were beautiful — the prairie alive with the swaying of luxuriant grasses as the wind whispered through the blue - green b lades, salvias and lupine, golden Zizia, Herbertia, and globe mallow pulsing in a wave of colors under the sun, the air radiant with butterflies. In other times, Ximena would have wanted to stop and immerse herself in the beauty around her, to say a prayer of gratitude to the earth for its blessed gifts, but now, neither the wildflowers, nor the singing of the green jays from the thicket of blooming huisaches, nor the clamorous calls of the whooping cranes wading in the water holes could lift her spirits. A small herd of wild mustangs roamed in the distance, and she thought of Joaquín, of how if he’d been here, he would have given them chase. But now he was gone. As was their house. What would become of her and her grandmother? As they neared the river, the chaparral began to take over the prairie, becoming thicker and thicker as they continued on the road. A family of javelinas wallowed in a shallow resaca, grunting in contentment. Ximena could hear the chip - chip - chip of the quail feasting on the red berries of a desertthorn. The ground cuckoos nesting within the thick spiny shrubs greeted them cheerfully with their cuc - cuc - cuc . How could these birds find any joy living among thorns? But
then she latched on to another sound. A solitary Inca dove perched on a drooping paloverde branch called to her, its melancholy coos echoing the mourning of her soul . No hope, no hope, no hope . They came upon General Antonio Canales and his guerrilleros, who were also on their way to the ferry crossing. “We heard what happened to Joaquín Treviño,” Canales said to Cheno after the men greeted each other. He turned to Ximena and said, “Lo siento, se ñora.” She nodded but didn’t feel like conversing with the guerrilleros Joaquín had become in volved with. A few years earlier, Canales had persuaded more than five hundred rancheros to join him in rebelling against the Mexican government to establish the R epublic of the Río Grande, carved out of the states of Coahuila, Nuevo León, and Tamaulipas. But unlike the Texas Rebellion, his insurrection had been squashed by the Mexican forces, and now here he was, serving as a spy for the Mexican general. Ximena had even h eard rumors that while Taylor was camped in Corpus Christi, Canales offered his services to him in exchange for help in making his dream of the R epublic of the Río Grande into reality. Taylor had refused his offer, or at least that was what the rumors said . She glanced at Canales and wondered if he was double - crossing the Mexicans. If so, he was in for a big surprise. The Yanquis cared only about their own dream. In helping the enemy win the war, Canales would only ensure his own displacement. The same had ha ppened to her father. Just like Juan Seguín and other Tejanos, he’d made friends with some of the norteamericanos who’d settled in Texas. He’d admired their industry and advanced machinery, and with awe had watched as San Felipe de Austin and other Anglo s ettlements flourished while San Antonio stagnated. As young as Ximena was at the time, she had understood something her father had not — that the economic success of the white villages was thanks to enslaved labor. She, unlike her father, had no admiration for the Anglo colonists. But her father had even hired a tutor to teach his children and him English, though Ximena turned out to be the best pupil. In the end, her father’s admiration and friendliness to the norteamericanos would prove his undo ing. They traversed the dense chaparral in silence, squeezing through the narrow, winding passage in single file until it eventually widened as they neared the Paso Real crossing, where the ferry would take them to Matamoros. They could see the perimeter of the Yanqui encampment at a bend on the northern shore, and the cannons pointed directly at Matamoros. But even more menacing than the cannons was the flag of stars and stripes rising over the newly built fort, a blatant proclamation of possession and ownershi p of a land that was not theirs to claim. Cheno pulled up alongside Ximena to observe the enemy’s flag. “They’re here to provoke a war,” he said. “And if it’s a war they want, then it’s war they’ll get.”
“Didn’t we learn anything from Texas?” she said, incensed. “Mexico lost Texas long before its rebellion, from the time our government first allowed them to immigrate to the region. And now here we are again, conceding another Yanqui invasion.” “We should have fired at them the moment they came in sight,” Cheno said. As they waited at the ferry crossing, Ximena looked at the US flag waving on one bank and the Mexican flag on the other, with the Río Bravo/Río Grande rushing wildly between them. This restless river with its twisting course would soon run a vivid red, lik e a gash across the heart of the land. Would it become a festering wound that never healed? As if reading her thoughts, General Canales said, “This battle will last but a day. General Arista and his troops are on their way now. With them plus the two thousand men General Ampudia brought with him, we’ll have the Yanqui trespassers wishing they’d n ever set foot on our land.” They boarded the ferry, and when it docked in Matamoros, the ranch hands and their families dispersed, some to find work at Cheno’s mother’s ranch, nine miles upriver, others to join relatives living in the south, as far from the Yanquis as they could get. After their sad farewells, and as she watched the men, women, and children who were like family to her disperse like dandelion seeds, Ximena felt that the disintegration of her home was final. With reluctance, she and Nana Hortencia continued on to the house of her sister - in - law, Carmen. Up and down the street, she saw families packing their belongings and loading them onto their carriages. Feeling the tense atmosphere in the city, and sensing t he people’s fear, Ximena’s anger returned. Why were the Yanquis being allowed to occupy their territory and fly their flag in defiance while innocent families were being displaced from their homes? The following morning, the locals and the Mexican troops celebrated the arrival of General Arista in Matamoros. The church bells rang joyously, and the people lined the streets, crowded their balconies, and climbed onto their rooftops to cheer for the newl y arrived general. From the balcony of Carmen’s house, Ximena had a good view of the troops gathered in the plaza. General Arista addressed his men from atop his horse. She was too far away to hear him clearly, but by the sound of the cheers, she knew the general’s words had everyone’s approval. “¡Viva el general Arista!” the people shouted as the band broke into anoth er lively tune. Carmen came out to the balcony to join her. The day before, she had not wanted to talk about Joaquín’s death with Ximena. She’d simply said that Joaquín had brought it upon himself by taking matters into his own hands instead of letting real soldiers handl e the Yanquis. Ximena had no wish to antagonize her sister - in - law and had k ept her thoughts to herself. The two of
them had little in common, but since she was Joaquín’s older sister, Ximena had always treated her with respect. “It’s a relief to see General Arista here,” Carmen said, fanning herself with a Spanish fan decorated with mother - of - pearl and lace. Her husband was a successful merchant and always brought her expensive gifts from his trips. “Arista is the best general we have. When we heard that Ampudia had been named general - in - chief and was on his way to Matamoros, everyone dreaded his arrival. The man is unbearable. Thank God that President Paredes r eplaced him with Arista.” Ximena had heard of General Ampudia’s excesses, such as what he did to a former governor of the state of Tabasco, who’d been sentenced to death for treason. It hadn’t been enough to execute the man. Ampudia had had him de capitated, fried his head to preser ve it, and displayed it in the town’s central plaza to serve as a warning to the tabasqueños and prevent another insurrection. “With General Arista in charge, we will defeat our enemy,” Carmen said. “My brother’s death shall be avenged. And life will be safer for us all once the Yanqui invaders are gone.” As Ximena scanned the troops, she didn’t feel as confident as Carmen. As was usual in the army, most of the generals and officers were criollos, of “untainted” Spanish blood, but the foot soldiers were Indian or mixed - blood conscripts, poor peasants who kn ew nothing about soldiering. They were haggard and grimy, their brown faces showing the toll of the brutal march to Matamoros. As they stood in formation near Carmen’s balcony, Ximena could see their old and unkempt uniforms. Some didn’t even have uniforms but wore the typical peasants’ attire: coarse white trousers rolled up to the knees, colorful sarapes, and wide sombreros. Many didn’t have proper army shoes either, wearing leather huaraches instead. But what most surprised her was that many carried only a machete or rawhide slingshot. Where were the muskets, the pistols, the rifles, the bayonets that would be needed to defeat the enemy? The only ones who looked well pr epared were the mounted soldiers of the cavalry, the flower of the Mexican Army compose d of criollos and a few mestizos who were clad in brightly colored uniforms and had long flowing plumes sticking out of their helmets. She noticed a group of soldiers who were neither Indian nor mestizo. In fact, they didn’t look Mexican at all. The troops were too far away for her to make out their faces clearly, but she could see that most of them had fair skin and fiery hair that remin ded her of the red feathers on the heads of cactus woodpeckers. “Are there foreign soldiers in our ranks?” Ximena asked.
“Yes, the Irish, of course,” Carmen said. “And some Germans and Poles. They’ve been deserting the enemy’s ranks to join us. Do you see the lieutenant there with dark hair? That’s their leader, teniente John Riley.” Ximena looked at where Carmen pointed. She saw a tall man — taller than most — with a confident stance, a hand on the hilt of his officer’s sword. He was dressed in a dark blue uniform, the trousers trimmed with a scarlet stripe running down the sides, and the coat with a scarlet collar and cuffs and a row of brass buttons down the breast. On his head he wore a black leather shako with a red pom - pom. “And what would happen to them, if they’re caught by the Yanquis?” “They would be executed, I assume,” Carmen said. As she followed Carmen back into the house, Ximena turned to glance at the plaza once more, wondering about those foreign soldiers who were willing to risk their lives to help defend her country. April 1846 Matamoros, Río Grande Just as morning’s review ended, the new brigadier general summoned Riley to his headquarters. In the last twelve days since he’d joined their ranks, Riley had been busy helping train the gunners not just to operate the cannons but to maneuver them around t he field. Unfortunately, the cannons in the Mexican arsenal were twenty - year - old relics, and some were obsolete. The round shot used was inferior and its range too short. But the most pressing problem was that the Mexicans didn’t have heavy - caliber guns, t heir biggest being 12 - pounders. He knew that the walls of the Yankee fort, which he helped build with his own hands, could not be penetrated by the cannons the Mexicans had at their disposal. As he made his way to meet General Arista, Riley thought about how familiar Matamoros was to him now. The city was laid out in blocks, and General Ampudia had marched the troops in long parades up and down the streets to fool the Yankees into thinking the Mexican force was more massive than it actually was. This was how Riley had come to learn his way around the city. The outer fringes of Matamoros had dirt streets and crude huts made of tall cane and thatched roofs, with frail walls and no windows, not unlike the wretched cabins of Irish peasants, exc ept that instead of the potato garden and cabbage patch, here they gr ew beans, tomatoes, and maize for their tortillas. The inner part of the town, where the higher classes lived, had cobblestoned streets, houses made of sunbaked clay bricks, which the Mexicans called adobe, with
tiled roofs as red as the sunset. The whitewashed buildings near and around the plaza had massive walls with large windows grated top to bottom with ironwork, all of it woven with red bougainvillea.