A Ballad of Love and Glory(42)

She didn’t need to leave the hospital tent to know chaos also reigned throughout the city. The defeated troops stumbled through the dimly lit streets and gathered in the plaza. The darkness couldn’t hide their fear and confusion, their terror that at any moment the enemy forces would make their way across the river and attack once again. Some of the inhabitants barricaded themselves in their homes while the hungry soldiers spent the night sitting on the ground, leaning against walls, lying under trees. Later that night, General Arista himself staggered into the city.

For the following days, stragglers wandered into the city in groups, some too tired to talk, others too frightened to be quiet, their wild, haggard eyes constantly looking behind them. From the fragmented stories she heard in the overcrowded hospital tent, and from what Cheno told her when he paid her a visit, Ximena learned of the questionable decisions General Arista had made.

“Honestly, Ximena,” Cheno had said, “why would he allow Taylor to prepare for combat at his leisure before attacking? The pinches Yanquis even had time to refill their canteens! And then, when Arista finally did attack, he opened fire when the enemy was out of range.”

She learned about the general’s rotten luck and how his plans had gone awry, but the rumor most damning to his reputation—because it was true—was that when Taylor’s troops attacked on the second day of battle, Arista wasn’t even at the front lines but in his tent writing letters. Ignorant of the chaos reigning in the chaparral, the general had allowed the enemy to take him by surprise. Once his troops had abandoned their weapons and ran for their lives, Arista fled as well, leaving behind his belongings to be ransacked by the enemy—including a detailed map of the area that Taylor would surely use to his advantage.

Now only half of Arista’s troops remained, including the wounded and distressed. The bloated corpses of the drowned were washing up on the riverbanks. No one could pass by the river without coming upon at least a dozen dead soldiers and rotting horses.

Everyone was waiting for the Yanquis to attack the town, to take advantage of Arista’s broken army and damaged morale. They knew it would be foolish for General Taylor not to press on and take Matamoros. It wasn’t a question of if the Yanquis would attack, but when. As the days passed, everyone held their breath, eyes fixed on the river.

When teniente Riley stopped by the hospital tent one afternoon to check on his wounded, he coaxed Ximena into taking a break. “You look weary, lass. When was the last time you had some rest or nourished yourself?” he said with a firm tenderness, offering her his arm.

“There is much to do, teniente Riley, and I can eat later when it is done,” she answered, even as she allowed him to guide her out of the tent into the daylight.

Closing her eyes briefly, she felt grateful for the heat of the sun warming her skin. Ever since she’d been working with the injured, tending to shrapnel wounds or assisting with amputations, she couldn’t stop shivering. It wasn’t from cold, but fear. And even the sun’s warmth couldn’t help her with that. She held on to the lieutenant’s steady arm, realizing how comforting his strong physical presence was at that moment.

“?’Tis a noble service you are doin’ for your countrymen—and mine as well,” he said, “but if you continue thus, you’ll be lyin’ in that tent with the sufferers instead of takin’ care of them.”

She could see the concern in his eyes, and she wanted to tell him she was fine, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She was overextending herself. Depleting her spirit. As was her grandmother.

She led him under the canopy of an ebony a few paces away from the hospital tent and took a deep breath of its creamy flower puffballs. Their fragrance could not overtake the metallic stench of blood and putrid human flesh that had soaked into her clothes, her hair, her very being. When the breeze shifted, she caught another scent, a wisp of burnt gunpowder. She looked at the exploding bomb symbol embroidered on the red collar of the lieutenant’s uniform to denote his company, and she remembered the most horrific sounds she’d ever heard.

“This war,” she said, “I pray to God that it… termine pronto.”

“I pray for the same,” he said. “We Irish know what ’tis like to be oppressed by an aggressive neighbor. May God save Mexico from a similar fate. But for hostilities to end, your people must remain united.”

“I have heard bad talk of General Arista,” she said. “Is what you mean, teniente?”

“Aye, the officers aren’t pleased with our commander. They blame him for his blunders, which led to us takin’ that whippin’ from the Yankees.” He looked at her, his mood suddenly somber. “General Ampudia is none too pleased at playin’ second-in-command to Arista and is leadin’ the dissension. But the commander is right in pleadin’ his subordinates to present a unified front to our troops. As he said, ‘How can we fight the Yankees if we are too busy fightin’ each other?’?”

Upon hearing him repeat Arista’s words to her, all Ximena could think of was that this handsome Irishman didn’t know her country well. It was Mexico’s sad reality that its leaders had trouble trusting one another and seeking unity.

“What happens now?” she asked, swatting at the flies tempted by the blood on her apron.

“General Arista wants to preserve the city at all costs,” he said. “If the Yankees take Matamoros, Taylor will use it as his base as he goes on to attack the next city and the next.”