A Ballad of Love and Glory(43)
“And you believe is possible? To save Matamoros?”
The lieutenant took off his leather shako and ran his fingers through his hair as he gazed at the river and the enemy fort beyond, the dark feathery brown curls at the nape of his neck unfurled in the breeze like tender fern fronds. “?’Tis true, lass, what the general said. Matamoros ought to be defended. But I’m afeared we haven’t got the means. Our equipment is mostly broken, and so are our forces. The troops have been decimated and those who remain have low morale. If the general can’t reenergize his dispirited troops and get them back on their feet, I dare say I see but little hope in savin’ the city.”
“Especialmente now that Taylor has more ca?ones.”
“Aye, right you are. I see Sergeant Cortina has paid you a visit. The Yankee general has already positioned those eighteen-pounders on the bastions of his fort ready to pummel us.”
She pointed toward the growing pile of amputated limbs the surgeons carelessly tossed near the hospital entrance and said, “And we know now what his ca?ones can do.”
“The general understands that we don’t have the resources to repel an assault,” Riley said. “And the ammunition at our disposal, we would be lucky to make it last four hours.”
“And with our port in the hands of the Yanquis, there’s little food.” Ximena couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She hadn’t been hungry until this moment when, all of a sudden, the last of her energy gave way to a ferocious gnawing in her stomach, and the memory of fresh corn tortillas cooking on a hot stone tormented her. “So, we die of hunger or suffer defeat?”
He looked away and said nothing.
Then she realized there was another potential outcome.
If the Yanquis attacked and captured the deserters, teniente Riley and his men would be shot to death.
* * *
A few days later, Arista sent out General Requena with a flag of truce to ask Taylor for an armistice. The Yanqui general refused, stating that the capture of Matamoros was inevitable, though its occupation could be accomplished without the violence and chaos that had been required on the battlefield. If Arista wanted to avoid any more bloodshed, he must withdraw his troops and abandon the city at once.
Without the reinforcements promised by the minister of war, Arista had no other choice and ordered his troops to prepare for the retreat. Ximena knew there were not enough mules and wagons to carry the supplies, let alone the three hundred sick and wounded. Would Arista dare to leave his injured soldiers and officers behind at the mercy of the enemy?
The more she thought of it, the more she was sure of the answer. The lives of the poor, illiterate Indian peasants in their ranks were of little value to the criollo generals. Hadn’t she seen how the Indian soldiers were poorly clothed, barely fed, and ill trained? Didn’t the officers speak to them in voices dripping with contempt? It reminded her of what teniente Riley had told her about how the Yanquis and the English treated the Irish. These Mexican Indians, like the Irish, were once a powerful people who were now oppressed and treated as foreigners in their own land.
On May 17, Cheno and the other scouts returned to Matamoros to alert them that Taylor was on the move. Their time had run out. As the troops prepared to vacate the city and march south to Linares, Cheno came to the hospital.
“I’ve secured a place for you and your grandmother on one of the wagons,” he said. “We don’t have much time. Taylor now has all the boats he needs to cross the river, and his troops are coming across as we speak.”
“But what about all the infirm? There are hundreds of mutilated men in the hospital tents!” Ximena said.
“We’re leaving them here. The general has moved his injured officers to private residences. The rest are to remain in the tents and Captain Berlandier will stay to ensure their safety.”
“These men deserve better than that, Cheno. How can Arista abandon his wounded compatriots?”
He looked at her with resignation. “I agree with you, but it can’t be helped, Ximena. We have no wagons and no oxen to pull them. We have been ordered to leave our personal equipage behind. Those who can still walk will rely on their own two feet to carry them away from Matamoros. Those who can’t will have to pray that the enemy has mercy on them.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the tent where Nana Hortencia was burning sage over each patient to ward off evil energies. Despite Ximena’s insistence, the old woman refused to rest and continued to minister to the pain and suffering in the makeshift hospital. Ximena grew uneasy, knowing that her grandmother was giving too much of herself without taking the time to replenish her strength.
“I hate to disrupt the ceremony, but we must make haste if you don’t want to lose your place in the wagon,” Cheno said.
Ximena looked at Nana Hortencia. Tending to the wounded of the two battles had been too much for the old woman. A hasty retreat across barren land with little water would surely kill her. She couldn’t leave her grandmother behind, just as she couldn’t leave these mangled men. She looked at the hospital tent, at the mutilated soldiers lying on the naked ground or palm petates. “My nana and I will be staying here, Cheno. She’s too old to travel, and I won’t abandon her or these men who have sacrificed so much for our country.”
“It’s not safe for you to stay here. The minute the Texas Rangers arrive, all hell will break loose, and you know what they’re capable of.”