A Ballad of Love and Glory(15)

Ximena still remembered when the mayor of San Antonio and a commander in the Texas Army, Juan Nepomuceno Seguín, came to their house to convince her father to join the norteamericanos—or Texians as they liked to be called—in their armed rebellion against Mexico, and to force President Santa Anna to reestablish the liberal constitution that he’d abolished and restore the states’ rights. After seven months of fighting, the Texas revolt turned into a war of secession—the Texians wanted Texas to be completely free of Mexican rule—forcing her father and the other Tejanos to choose between remaining in the fight against Mexico, or renewing their loyalty to the Mexican government. Her father chose to side with the Texians, not knowing he would regret doing so until the day he died.

After the Texas Revolt, things were never the same between the Texians and the Tejanos. Anyone of Mexican origin was suddenly viewed with suspicion and even hatred. A whole town was razed, others threatened with violence, and hundreds of Tejano families had to flee their homes. Eventually, even her own family packed up and headed south. A few months later, they lost their lands to white squatters. Thus, they were forced to remain in Matamoros, where she met and married Joaquín. Her father died soon after her marriage, undone by grief that his service and loyalty to the Lone Star Republic had been repaid with suspicion, exile, and ruin.

Her life with Joaquín had given Ximena new hope. Alongside him, she had come to believe that she could grow new roots and build a home with him for the family they’d hoped to have. But now the Yanquis were threatening to take everything away from her again.

“It’s going to be worse this time, Nana. Much worse.”

“Even you cannot know what God has planned for us,” Nana Hortencia said.

“But Nana—”

“Look at this beautiful gobernadora, and our salve has run out,” Nana Hortencia said and busied herself plucking the waxy dark-green leaves of a creosote bush. Exasperated with the old woman, Ximena turned toward the road, straining to see beyond the high brush fence and the groves of huisache glowing golden in the sun. No one was coming.



* * *



That night, she drifted in and out of sleep, afraid to succumb to the dreams that would surely reappear as soon as she surrendered to the darkness. As she reached for the sheepskin blanket that had slipped off the bed, she saw him. He was standing by the window, gazing out as if it were daylight. He was admiring the beauty of their rancho, open land stretching as far as the eye could see. At hearing her stir, he turned around. There was a look of such pain on his face, perhaps of what was to come.

“Ximena,” he said. Blood began to bloom on his chest, a bright crimson hibiscus flower. He pressed his hand against his heart and gasped at the sight of his bloody hand.

She screamed his name, and he disappeared into the moonbeams piercing through the curtains. The dogs began to bark, and soon after, there was a pounding at the front door that jolted her awake. Fighting to catch her breath, she could hear hurried footsteps amid the continued pounding. She rushed out of her chamber and bumped into Nana Hortencia.

“Is Joaquín—?”

Her grandmother placed a loving hand on her arm. “Rest easy, mi ni?a. He has returned to you.” Together they went into the kitchen and there was Joaquín sitting on a chair, his caporal, Ramiro, by his side, their eyes haggard from want of sleep. Then, spotting the dried blood on her husband’s shirt, she ran to him and fell into his open arms.

“Joaquín!”

“No llores, querida,” he said, reaching to wipe her tears.

She hadn’t even realized she was crying. “Where are you hurt?” She patted his chest, searching for the wound.

He turned his gaze away from her. “It isn’t my blood.”

“Tell me what happened,” Ximena implored, looking at the men.

“We’ve killed a Yanqui.” Joaquín looked at the orange blossom tea Nana Hortencia had placed in front of him. He banged his hand on the table and tea spilled out of the mug. “A colonel. ?Maldita sea!”

“We came upon Ramón Falcón and his guerrilleros,” Ramiro said. “Falcón told Cheno that the Yanqui was out riding alone five kilometers from his camp. He wanted us to go with him on an ambuscade. We found the Yanqui and dragged him into the chaparral.”

“We were going to deliver him to General Mejía in Matamoros, make him a prisoner!” Joaquín added. “But Falcón decided to rob the colonel and killed him with a blow to the head. He took his watch, his pistols—”

“His life,” Ximena added.

Joaquín looked away in shame.

“Where’s his body?” Ximena asked.

“Hidden in the brush,” Joaquín said. “Falcón said to leave him to the buzzards. You know how he is, as mean as a rattler in mating season.”

“And that’s someone whose company you keep? You want to become like him?”

“No, Ximena. But as long as our government does nothing, what choice do I have? Would you rather I gather some pecans and hide in the house while the Yanquis invade our land?”

Ximena grabbed her husband’s hands. “Are you really willing to compromise our future with all this violence, Joaquín? To risk everything we’re working for?”

He stared at the floor, and she could tell he was thinking about what she’d said. Then he looked up. “You were right, Ximena. War is coming. And I’ll be damned if I let the gringos take it all like they did to your father.”