A Ballad of Love and Glory(4)
When they arrived at the rancho, she saw him before he spotted her and her father outside the corral watching him. He was inside breaking a horse, a beautiful blue roan about two years old. Ximena was captivated by the way he stroked and patted the filly with a firm but gentle hand to get it used to human touch. He was not only a patient trainer but also compassionate, for not once did she see him mistreat the animal even after it repeatedly tried to bite him. By the time the drill ended, a change had come about in the filly. Instead of trying to hurt Joaquín, it gently put its head on him. From outside the corral, Ximena could sense the emotional bond forming between man and beast, and she found herself wanting to put her head on him too. Even before a word had passed between them, she’d trusted Joaquín. Loved him.
With reluctance, she listened to Cortina, who was sitting across the fire from her, recount his expeditions spying on the Yanquis while they were encamped at Corpus Christi. As one of the dozens of scouts serving the Mexican Army, Cortina was one of the first to learn of President Polk’s orders for Taylor to advance south to the Río Bravo. Most of the cannons had been sent by ship and the bulk of the troops on foot.
“You know what infuriates me?” Cortina said to Joaquín. “That for a handful of lentils our very own compatriots—Mexican rancheros—provided the Yanqui general the pack animals he needed to transport his supplies.”
Joaquín shook his head and cursed. “They’ve betrayed our country helping those land-grabbing Yanquis get down this far.”
Ximena thought of the hundreds of meste?os, wild mustangs, Joaquín had captured and broken through the years. Unlike other rancheros who continued to illicitly trade and sell livestock to the norteamericanos, she and Joaquín had stopped shipping their saddle horses, mules, and oxen to New Orleans as soon as Taylor’s army settled in Corpus Christi. They now sold only to Mexicans and exported to Havana. Since the survival of their rancho depended on the profits their livestock fetched, it made life harder for them.
Cortina recounted his face-to-face confrontation with Taylor’s forces at the Arroyo Colorado. Mexican scouts and the militia had read the Yanqui general a proclamation from the Mexican commander, warning him to advance no farther into Mexican territory and to turn back. Of course, Taylor would not be stopped and responded with a threat of his own, pointing his guns at Cortina and his men. Being no match for the Yanqui forces, the Mexican riders were forced to back down in disgrace and return to Matamoros to alert the inhabitants and their commander that the Yanquis were on their way.
“It’s a shame General Mejía was just bluffing, because the arroyo was the perfect place to attack the Yanquis and repel their invasion,” Cortina said. “We should have welcomed the invaders with arms ready and matches lighted. But Mejía insists he doesn’t have enough troops, and the reinforcements and supplies he was promised haven’t arrived.”
“Surely our government will send them soon,” Joaquín said.
Cortina scoffed, turning the chickens on the spits so they could roast evenly. The grease dripped onto the fire, and it crackled and shot up flames that glinted on his angry face. “We norte?os are of little concern to the caudillos in Mexico City, my friend. They are too busy with their political intrigues. Instead of using national troops for border defense, they use them for their never-ending insurrections and will abandon us to our luck, as they always have. It falls to us to defend our homes from the perverse intentions of the Yanquis. So, what do you say, Joaquín? Will you join us in driving back our enemies to the Nueces? Will you do your sacred duty to protect our frontier?”
As the questions hung in the air, Ximena wished Juan Cortina hadn’t come to the rancho. She wanted her husband home where she knew he was safe, or at least safer than sneaking around in the chaparral, spying, plundering, and killing. Waging guerrilla warfare on the Yanquis would only invite trouble. And where would that lead? Would he come home one day bleeding and barely holding on to his horse? Or worse? She shuddered at the mere thought. She had already lost so many loved ones. She couldn’t lose her husband too.
Ximena took Joaquín’s hand and interlaced her fingers with his, hiding their locked hands in the folds of her skirt. The thought of you out there risking your life terrifies me, she wanted to say. And you becoming a murdering guerrillero, what would it do to your soul, to your gentle spirit? Will it lead you down a path I cannot follow, Joaquín? But Ximena couldn’t say those words aloud. She didn’t want to shame him by speaking her mind in front of the men.
She imagined them alone. She could speak to him then, saying what she wanted to express freely. She knew Joaquín would at least hear her out, even if he didn’t heed her counsel. But now, as he avoided her eyes and gently tried to pull his hand away from hers while she refused to surrender it, she knew that neither her advice nor her blessing would be sought tonight. So she loosened her grip and let him go.
Joaquín rose and reaffirmed what he’d said earlier. “What are we waiting for, Cheno? Vamos. Let’s get those pinches Yanquis off our land.”
3
April 1846
Fort Texas, Río Grande
Long before the bugles sounded reveille at the break of day, John Riley was already buttoning his private’s uniform. His tentmate, Franky Sullivan, barely turned over on the makeshift bed Riley had built to protect him from rattlesnakes. Riley shook him, and still, the snoring continued. The night previous, Sullivan took a drop too many despite Riley’s warnings to leave liquor alone. In the seven months since he’d enlisted, he’d seen too many of his countrymen suffer all manner of punishments at the hands of the Yankee officers. Drunkards always fared the worst, but that didn’t stop Sullivan—like so many others—from sneaking off at night in search of the liquor peddlers among the horde of camp followers.