A Ballad of Love and Glory(68)
“Santa Anna made a treaty with the Yanquis before—when he was capturado after the Battle of San Jacinto. He gave Sam Houston all he asked. Why he not do the same now with Polk?”
“He was a prisoner of war, wasn’t he? A captive president forced to enter into an agreement with the enemy, which the Mexican government later disavowed.”
“El da?o—the damage—was irremediable by then,” Ximena said. As she paid the Indian woman for the herbs she needed, she thought of what a cruel joke destiny had played on her—to have her use her healing gift on the very man her father had once fought against.
As they headed toward the barracks, Ximena turned to John and said, “My father fought in the Battle of San Jacinto. He’d be disappointed to see me here, tending to Santa Anna. He was wrong to betray Mexico, this I know. But when I was with the general today, all I wanted was to defend my father from his ire.” She sighed and looked away. “My poor father… he wished to be a hero, but instead he died seen as a traitor by both sides.”
John put an arm around her and looked at her in understanding. “When I joined the British Army, my people saw me as a traitor as well. I pray to be given the chance to redeem myself one day. Your father didn’t have that chance, but you are here now in his stead, eh? ’Tis through you he will find his redemption.”
25
December 1846
San Luis Potosí
A week later, the city was abuzz with news of the latest presidential elections—once again, Santa Anna was president of the republic. Cannons fired a salute from the Palacio de Gobierno, rockets were launched into the air, and the people cheered from the streets and terraces. Even Ximena celebrated, but for a different reason—she hoped this meant Santa Anna would head to the capital and leave the army to be led by a different commander.
But it was not to be.
Santa Anna proclaimed that his duty was to defend Mexico’s honor, and so he designated his new vice president, Valentín Gómez Farías, to hold the reins of the government during his absence from the capital and serve as acting president. Meanwhile, he was staying put in San Luis Potosí to continue preparing for battle.
Just as she had expected, he sent his servant to fetch her again. It would be the third time she tended him, and she hoped it would be the last. As she and the servant arrived at his private quarters, Santa Anna was preparing to go out, immaculately groomed as always. “Ah, there you are. Come with me,” he said, grabbing his golden cane.
“Where to?”
“Mi gallinero. I haven’t been out to visit my gamecocks. I’m organizing a cockfight to celebrate the great news.”
“I need to inspect your leg, make sure it’s healing properly.”
He waved her words away. “I’m feeling fine. In fact, I’ve never felt better. I think your treatment is working. Now, come.” He held out his arm for her.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, your Excellency, but I have other patients to tend to. May I take a look at your leg and take my leave? I won’t be long.”
In response, he grabbed his hat and walked past her. “Leave your basket,” he ordered.
They made their way to the pens he’d built for his prize game fowl. He winced as he limped along but assured her it was only a minor discomfort. He refused to spend another day in bed, he said. And there was much to be done. As usual, he’d bathed himself in too much plumeria perfume, but out in the open air, the scent was not so suffocating. When they arrived, she noticed the familiar smells of dry hay, feathers, and rooster droppings, and she thought of home. For a moment she could almost feel herself back at the rancho, listening to the roosters crowing, the mules hee-hawing, the dogs barking. The chatter and laughter of the ranch hands’ families. She shook those memories away and looked at Santa Anna’s gamecocks. The trainers were busy trimming around their cockscombs, shaping the tails, clipping the wing feathers to give them a straight edge.
“The wings need to be done very precisely,” Santa Anna said. “They have to be trimmed exactly alike, otherwise the gallo will be out of balance when he engages in battle with his opponent.”
He ordered the trainers to bring his favorite. Taking a seat on a bench, he clasped the rooster close to his chest. “This gallo is my pride and joy. His name is Libertador. Isn’t he magnificent?”
She tried to not roll her eyes. She wondered if his other roosters were named the Savior of the Motherland, the Soldier of the People, and the Napoleon of the West.
Santa Anna gently spoke to Libertador. He rubbed oil on its beak, cockscomb, and sharp spurs, then massaged more of it into its red and green feathers and long flowing tail. “The oil keeps the beak and spurs from getting brittle,” he said as he wiped down the rooster with a rag. She thought of Joaquín and remembered him brushing his horses with sweeping strokes and patiently detangling their manes and tails with a comb. How was it possible this vile man could have something in common with her beloved husband?
When Santa Anna was done, the cock’s plumage was gleaming in the light. She was struck by the beauty of the creature.
“People think they’re pets that I pamper too much,” he said. “And that I waste my time with cockfighting. But to me, these gallos are combatants, warriors. A fighting cock doesn’t retreat, doesn’t surrender. The instinct to flee has been bred out of them, and if they flee, they don’t deserve to live. Many a bird has ended up on my dinner table.”