A Ballad of Love and Glory(64)
“Are you an admirer?” he asked Dalton as they watched the games unfold.
“Ní maith liom é,” he said, shaking his head. “But my ould fella enjoyed it very much. He would take me to the taverns or barns to see them.”
“Mise freisin,” Riley said. “My father believed that the sport was not cruel. He said the cock can quit the fight at any point he wants. ’Tis his choice to run or to stay.”
“Aye, I never knew if ’twas bravery or foolishness that makes most cocks fight to the death,” Dalton said.
“There’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness, to be sure,” Riley replied.
When Santa Anna won every single match, his generals and officers stood and saluted him. By then, the man was half-gone with brandy, but he still managed to give the crowd a rousing speech. Riley couldn’t understand everything the commander said, but judging from all the times the crowd shouted “?Viva México!” and “?Muerte a los gringos!” he knew the general’s remarks had inspired them.
Abandoning his female companions for a moment, Santa Anna approached Riley and Dalton. He said something to the crowd about el Batallón de San Patricio and proposed a toast, whereupon everyone raised their glasses as the general shouted, “?Viva la República Mexicana! ?Viva Irlanda! ?Vivan los San Patricios!”
* * *
Over the next few days, Riley became acquainted with the newest recruit of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion. Since Dalton, too, had donned the hated redcoat back in Ireland, Riley found in him someone who was just as haunted by his service to the sassenachs. They had the same stain upon their souls. In Dalton, he also found an artillerist who matched his own skills and passion for gunnery tactics. At Riley’s recommendation, Santa Anna promoted Dalton to second lieutenant and made him Riley’s second-in-command. After donning his new officer’s uniform, Dalton put an arm around Riley and said, “One day, Lieutenant Riley, we will take the Saint Patrick’s Battalion to Ireland and continue to fight for our sacred cause. We shall be like the Wild Geese, the sons of Ireland comin’ home to set it free.”
24
November 1846
San Luis Potosí
Early one morning, Ximena found herself being escorted to Santa Anna’s private quarters. When she entered his chambers, he was on a large four-poster bed reclining on fancy feather pillows trimmed with lace, a glass of brandy in his hand. John had told her that the previous evening after the nightly junta of officers, the commander had been feeling ill, and General Mejía, who had heard of her skills, recommended that Santa Anna send for her. John had no choice but to second Mejía. Although Santa Anna had his own personal physician, he’d followed his officers’ recommendation and now here she was this morning, in the presence of the man she’d wished to avoid.
When the servant pulled back the mosquito netting, she could see his face flushed and sweaty from fever, with large beads of perspiration gathered on his prominent forehead. He bid her closer, watching her approach with his dark, penetrating eyes. His lower lip protruded naturally, making him seem as if he were permanently pouting. Ximena was taken aback by how he looked without his elaborate uniforms and gold cane. He seemed more like a sickly schoolmaster than the army’s general-in-chief.
“Forgive me for not greeting you properly, se?ora Ximena, but as you can see, I’m obliged to keep to my bed, very much indisposed. Thank you for agreeing to minister to my injury. Teniente Riley and General Mejía speak very highly of your skills as a healer.”
“I’m at your service, your Excellency,” she said, almost choking on the words.
She placed her supply basket on the table in the center of the room where a large porcelain bowl overflowed with pomegranates. Unwrapping her frayed rebozo from her neck and shoulders, she hung it on the back of a scarlet velvet chair. The servant coughed his disapproval, but she left it there, requesting a pot of hot water and clean bandages and towels to be brought to her. When the servant took his leave to fetch the items, she found herself alone with the general.
Despite the fever and fatigue, Santa Anna’s gaze remained just as intense as when he was healthy, perhaps even more so. Previously, she’d observed him from a distance and, thus far, had managed to stay out of his way. The manner in which he looked at her made her even more uncomfortable than she already felt in his luxurious surroundings, replete with silk draperies and marble floors, alabaster candelabras and crystal lamps, papered walls and gilded mirrors. Under his piercing gaze, she felt even more self-conscious of her threadbare blouse and worn-out sandals, the faded skirt Nana Hortencia had dyed with wild indigo and pericón. But her apron was clean, and her hair was braided neatly and fastened together with new ribbons. Those and her gold hoop earrings were the only nice things she owned, and the best she could do to make herself presentable. Besides, she was here to cure this pompous caudillo, so what did it matter what she looked like? She wasn’t here to please him with her looks. He was just another patient, wasn’t he? No, the devil lurking behind his feverish eyes reminded her that he was no ordinary human being.
She took a deep breath to steady herself and approached him. “May I?” She took the glass of brandy, setting it on the night table, and peeled away the sweat-soaked sheets to expose his left leg. The stump was red and inflamed, with pus and blood oozing from open sores. If it had an unpleasant odor, she couldn’t tell, for it was overpowered by the general’s plumeria-scented perfume, which he’d applied far too generously.