A Ballad of Love and Glory(37)



“?Fuego!” the spectators shouted along with teniente Riley. But when the cannons remained silent, the local boys shook their heads in disappointment.

“Why won’t they fire for real?” they asked.

“Because first they have to learn the steps so well they can do it with their eyes closed,” she told them. “And gunpowder is expensive and cannot be wasted blasting away the shrubs.”

Finally, in the last drill before the crews were dismissed, the boys’ patience was rewarded when the cannons roared to life and spewed fire out of their mouths. Ximena covered her ears as the shots boomed. The diabolical sound made her tremble, but the boys cheered and clapped, clamoring for more.

“Fair play, fellas!” she heard teniente Riley say. The smoke hovered over the crews, and the stench of burnt gunpowder permeated the air. Through the haze, Ximena looked at the foreign soldiers, at Maloney and teniente Riley, and gave an involuntary shudder. She thought of the atrocities she’d witnessed firsthand during the rebellion in Texas. She remembered the Battle of the Alamo, the cannons blasting, limbs strewn about, the rubble and chaos. This is what awaits these Irishmen, she thought. Carnage and bloodshed, mutilation and suffering, all for fighting a war that isn’t even theirs to fight.

If only this despicable war could be avoided. But how? The Yanquis were already there, right across the river. And the conflict had begun. The boundary line was already being drawn with blood and gunpowder.

Juan Seguín was right. The only thing they could do now was to try to survive it, and she couldn’t do it while wallowing in grief. But she couldn’t give in to her anger, either. So she had to turn to the only thing she knew would give her comfort and solace—her God-given gift of healing. Ever since she was a little girl, this is what she had wanted to be, a curandera like her grandmother. She would act upon the sacred calling to help the suffering. And by doing so, perhaps it would help her ease her own.

This time, Ximena would make sure not to be on the wrong side of the war. This time—to honor Joaquín’s courage and to absolve her father—she would stand with Mexico.



* * *



“Surely you must have lost your senses,” Carmen said that evening when Ximena told her what she had decided to do. All around them, the servants were rushing to finish packing up the house. “Have you told Cheno about this?”

“He was the one who told me the army has hardly any medical staff. He agrees I should help.” Ximena thought of the soldaderas—the soldiers’ wives, mothers, and daughters who had followed the men to battle to provide an invaluable service to them as laundresses, cooks, nurses, and sometimes, when the need arose, even took up arms with the men. “He also suggested I could train the soldaderas to make herbal remedies and better care for the troops.”

Carmen scoffed, shaking her head again, waving Ximena’s words away. “This is madness. A battle is no place for us women.”

Ximena looked across the table at Carmen. She knew Joaquín’s sister wouldn’t understand her desire to stay in Matamoros and contribute to the war effort. In her sister-in-law’s condescending attitude, Ximena saw her own mother, the way she’d objected to Nana Hortencia teaching Ximena the healing arts. She’d accused the old woman of filling her little girl’s head with talk of plants and spirits, rituals and ceremonies. And how could her daughter one day be a desirable young lady if she was running around the countryside digging up roots with her bare hands?

“We have no medical facilities, no medication and supplies, no experienced nurses,” Ximena explained to Carmen. “My grandmother and I can help with that.”

“And what about Saltillo?” Carmen asked.

Ximena couldn’t bear the thought of going to Saltillo and sitting with Carmen in her parlor, sipping hot chocolate and eating bu?uelos while her country was under attack. She couldn’t do it. She looked down at her hands. They weren’t meant to be wrapped in white-laced gloves while fanning herself with expensive fans from Spain. Her hands were meant to heal.

“The war is here and the soldiers need us,” she insisted. “How can we run away?”

“A woman does not belong in a field hospital,” Carmen repeated. “At least not any woman of our station. My children, my husband, and I will leave for Saltillo tomorrow. You do what you want. Become a soldadera if that is what you wish. But if my brother were here—”

“He would give me his blessing,” Ximena said. “Joaquín didn’t run from the storm, and neither will I.”





14


May 1846

Matamoros, Río Grande


15, Feb’ 1846

Beloved husband,

I received your letter and remitance. It soothes the hurt in my heart to know you are in good health. God continue to bless and presarve you, a stór. It has been sich a hard winter here in Clifden. Since the blight killed almost half of our lumpers from last year, we had no choice but to eat our seed potatoes. I’m afeard there isn’t much left to plant. But we’ll soon put in the ground what remains and pray that the rot will not return again this year. Otherwise, we’ll be slaving at the spade for naught. Some of our nabours who have the means have had enough and spake of going out to America. But most of our parish are too poor for that, as you well know. I’m afeard there will be hungry months until the next harvest, but we have survived bitther bad times in the past and with the grace of God things will improve. Johnny, Mammy, and Daddy all send you their blessings. You would be proud of our Johnny. He is a strong boy and he loves the horses like yourself. We are looking forward to the time we can make the crossing to be with you. I know you’re working hard for us. Pray send us word of how you are keeping.

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