A Ballad of Love and Glory(27)
“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, like 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 never 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 the 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 newly 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 another 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 handle the Yanquis. Ximena had no wish to antagonize her sister-in-law and had kept 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 replaced 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 decapitated, fried his head to preserve it, and displayed it in the town’s central plaza to serve as a warning to the tabasque?os 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 knew 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 prepared were the mounted soldiers of the cavalry, the flower of the Mexican Army composed 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 reminded 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?”