A Ballad of Love and Glory(115)
“It won’t be long now,” she said.
He smiled and pulled her and their daughter against him.
Most of the land from Xalapa to the city of Vera Cruz belonged to Santa Anna, and so the stagecoach traversed his hacienda for kilometers. It was quiet and empty, not a peón in sight, not even a sign of cattle out to graze. The house itself was too far from the road for Ximena to see, but she’d heard that the Yanquis had plundered and destroyed Santa Anna’s property with reckless abandon. As they left El Lencero behind, the scent of plumeria finally faded away.
Descending the mountain, John could not take his eyes off the glittering blue stretching toward the horizon. And finally, as dusk fell upon them, a breath of salt water, the murmur of waves, and the Gulf of Mexico came into view, tinted with the fiery glow of the setting sun, with vessels, large and small, lying at anchor near its shores. The port of Vera Cruz spread out before them in a half-moon shape, surrounded by a high wall and barren hills of moving sands. Seagulls flew across the scarlet sky and over the flickering lights of the city.
No sooner had they gotten settled at their inn than John wanted to go out and call upon the ship’s captain to ensure the arrangements were properly made. Ximena wished to have a bath, to soak her body in hot water and wash away the toils of the journey, but she could see his desperation to gaze upon the waters and the ship that would bear him home.
“You go on, John,” she said, as she and their daughter lay down on the bed. “I will feed Patricia and request hot water to wash. I feel like a sparrow that was dust bathing all day.”
She was asleep before the door closed behind him.
* * *
In the morning, it was her turn to go out. “I will light a candle at the cathedral and pray for good weather,” she said, kissing his cheeks. “If we are unlucky enough to get hit with a norte, it will delay our departure for days.”
She left him to take care of their daughter and hurried out the door. As she walked down the streets, Ximena could see the remnants of the four days of bombardment the city had suffered at the hands of the Yanquis when over a thousand veracruzanos, a great many women and children, had been killed or wounded. Half of the city had been destroyed, and many of the houses and public buildings were still riddled with holes, while others had been left with only blackened walls or turned to a pile of ash and ruins. Zopilotes circled overhead, and two of the buzzards landed on the street to fight over a pile of refuse next to an abandoned home. She quickened her step.
Upon her arrival at the cathedral, she sought the padre in the sacristy.
“Padre Bernal? I am Ximena, wife of coronel Juan Riley.”
“Sí, hija. Come in, come in,” the priest said. “I was just writing a letter to padre Sebastián. He’ll be happy to hear you’ve all arrived safely.”
“Is it done, then?” she said. “Are they here?”
“Sí, sí, no te preocupes, hija. Everyone’s here now, and it’s all taken care of.”
She sighed in relief. “Gracias, padrecito. I thank you with all my heart for your help. Without you and padre Sebastián, and the archbishop, it wouldn’t have been possible.”
“Your husband has suffered enough for our country. And so have all the San Patricios. Mexico will not abandon its Irish heroes. Now, God be with you, child. I will pray for a safe journey for you and your family across the ocean.”
“Thank you, padre.” She kissed his hand and took her leave, lighting a candle in gratitude before returning to the inn.
* * *
Two days later, they were waiting to embark on the ship that was first bound for Cuba. The wind was gritty from the sandhills surrounding the city. Ximena looked at the Gulf of Mexico, remembering that fateful day when she had stood on the shore, watching the Yanqui ships approach El Frontón de Santa Isabel almost a thousand kilometers to the north of Vera Cruz. Would her eyes ever again behold the prairies and chaparrals, the solitary thickets of thorny cacti and twisted trees, the golden bells of esperanza glowing under the sun, the wild mustangs running free in the prairie? Would she never again hear the vibrating song of the cicadas, the warm breath of the wind whispering through the grasses, the chorus of the chachalacas and green jays? She was so far from the rancho now, from the pecan grove where Joaquín and their son were buried, from the cemetery in Matamoros where her father and grandmother lay in eternal rest, from San Antonio de Béxar where her mother and brothers had remained, from Monterrey where Jimmy lay in repose in a dirt grave. I’ll always keep you in my heart, she promised. She would be like a mesquite, dig her tap root deep into the entrails of this Mexican earth, and never let go.
Little by little, the passengers arrived at the dock with their trunks and crates. John kept his eyes on the ship anchored in the harbor, anxious to board, oblivious to the activity around him. Ximena saw him startle when he heard the familiar voices.
“At your service, Colonel Riley.”
John turned around to find a group of men at attention, saluting him. The surviving San Patricios, not all of them, but a dozen of them. Some, Ximena knew, had chosen to settle in Mexico and raise families.
“Faith, but what in blazes are ye all doin’ here, fellas?”
They turned to look at her with smiles on their faces. “Our lady Ximena found us. Told us you were goin’ home,” James Mills said.