A Ballad of Love and Glory(44)

“We’ll take our chances. We could go to the rancho if we had to.”

“Don’t be foolish, Ximena. Two defenseless women alone on a burned-down rancho? The Rangers will be roaming wild, not only here in the city, but in the countryside, too, where you’ll be isolated. And if they don’t get you, the Comanches will. Listen to me. You know I’m right.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “We’ll stay here with the invalids and hope for the best,” she said. “Take care of yourself, my friend.”



* * *



Ximena and Nana Hortencia stood watching the troops march out of the town. The columns stretched as far as the eye could see. After losing their shoes or huaraches in the river, many of the troops were marching barefoot. Those in the hospital tents who could manage to walk crawled out of their cots and lined up with the columns, preferring to take their chances on the arduous retreat than with the barbarians from the North. The lancers whose horses had been killed in battle carried their saddles on their shoulders. Some of the cannons were thrown into the river, and the troops’ belongings and weapons were left behind in the plaza. They were hungry, weak, demoralized, and much fatigued before the march had even begun.

“Mi ni?a, are you sure you want to remain here?” Nana Hortencia said.

“No, but we can’t abandon our patients. You’ve taught me that, Nana.”

Teniente Riley and his men lined up in the rear of the infantry columns, and the carriages carrying the only cannons they could take with them lurched forward. The Irishman waved goodbye as he passed by on his caisson. “God bless you both,” he said. Like Cheno, he’d tried to convince her to go with the troops, but he understood she was doing her duty and wished her well.

“I’ll keep you both in my heart,” Maloney said as he waved goodbye.

Nana Hortencia started back to the hospital, but Ximena stayed by the road watching the troops march away. The soldaderas walked or rode on humble donkeys behind the columns, some of them pregnant, others with their babies tied to their backs with a rebozo, their faces shaded by palmetto hats.

Ximena took one last look at the dusty road and went to join her grandmother.





16


May 1846

Matamoros, Río Bravo

Everyone was gone by the following day. All the troops, all the camp followers, and almost a thousand residents of the town had disappeared into the cloud of dust the army had left in its wake. Ximena and Nana Hortencia lay on their cots listening to the whispers of the men. “They will kill us,” they said. “The enemy will show no mercy.” Their fear was palpable. Many of the wounded had died in their sleep, as if they had preferred the certainty of death over the uncertainty of the Yanqui occupation.

But when Taylor appeared and the local authorities informed him of the army’s evacuation, there was no bloodshed. He honored the promise he’d made to Arista. Still, the pain of watching the Mexican flag, which flew over Fort Paredes, being lowered and replaced by the enemy’s banner felt like a bayonet piercing Ximena’s heart. And perhaps she shouldn’t have been so shocked when the citizens of Matamoros welcomed the Yanquis into the city, lining up to offer food and liquor to the enemy, gladly taking their money. When Taylor removed the Mexican governor and put Colonel Twiggs in his place, the possession of Matamoros was complete.



* * *



Ximena and Nana Hortencia stayed in the hospital tents as much as possible, the safest place for them to be. To her surprise, Taylor ordered his own medical team to help with the Mexican infirm, and there was soon a makeshift hospital on every street. Ximena was relieved to see that the Yanqui surgeons and their staff didn’t mistreat her wounded compatriots, as she’d feared. She and Nana Hortencia worked side by side with the Yanquis, and although Ximena pleaded with her grandmother to slow down, that there was plenty of help, she refused to leave their side. Luckily, when the soldiers realized they weren’t going to be killed while lying helpless on their cots, their morale improved, and with that, their will to live.

In the meantime, Taylor had the balance of his troops ferried across the river to the city. His officers occupied private residences, and most of his soldiers set up their canvas tents in the outskirts. Wasting no time, the whiskey merchants, gamblers, and harlots who’d been following Taylor’s army descended upon the city, and places of ill repute sprang up—gambling halls, saloons, and dance halls. The norteamericanos roamed Matamoros as if they owned it, especially the Texas Rangers swaggering about with their pistol belts and bowie knives, their wild eyes hidden under slouched hats, their untrimmed dirty beards and mustaches hanging from their faces like Spanish moss. Everyone knew they couldn’t be controlled, not even by the Yanqui general or the new governor. They were either drinking, playing monte and gambling, or out in the streets raping, beating, or murdering the townspeople. There wasn’t a day when a murder or theft was not reported, especially after more Yanqui volunteers—including more Texians—began arriving to reinforce Taylor’s troops.

At the end of May, Ximena heard the news that the US government had officially declared war against Mexico, claiming that “American blood had been shed on American soil.” Ximena seethed with rage at the baseless claim. The land between the Río Nueces and the Río Bravo was not American soil. Their war was based on a false premise, and the Yanqui soldiers pouring into the city were there to defend that lie.