A Ballad of Love and Glory(81)
“I love you,” he said. “Perhaps ’tis cruel of me to say it, when I have to leave you, but I want you to know that I do love you, Ximena.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I love you as well,” she said, her voice raw. But then she pulled her hand from his and wiped her eyes. “But if you think to love me is a sin for which you must do penitencia, then I prefer you do not love me, John Riley.”
With that, she left him to his grief, and as he listened to the buzzing of the bees around him, the ache in his heart pulsed and throbbed as if he’d stumbled upon their hive, and the tears finally came.
* * *
During the days that remained in the city, Riley did nothing but prepare the San Patricios for the march ahead. To his surprise, new deserters from the Yankee ranks arrived—despite their loss at Buena Vista—and he replenished his unit. The enthusiasm of the new recruits made him realize that he was honor-bound to the Saint Patrick’s Battalion. He gave himself completely to his busy schedule, avoiding Ximena as much as he could. He could always count on Patrick Dalton to do the daily drills, but he was captain now, he told her, and he had his duties to fulfill. Yet she was never out of his mind. Even as he shouted orders to his men, he would think about when he had made love to her out in the open land as dusk faded into night, and he longed to have her in his arms again. But then he would think of Nelly, of not being there by her side when she took her last breath. What right did he have now to happiness?
Giving up his love for Ximena would have to be his penance. How else could he atone for what he’d done?
30
March 1847
San Luis Potosí
Ximena sat under the shade of an orange tree in the convent’s courtyard, listening to the sounds in the plaza as the troops prepared to march out of the city. When she heard the bugles ordering the regiments to move out and the potosinos cheering and shouting their farewells, she closed her eyes and held back the tears. She pictured John at the head of the columns, rolling out on the horse-drawn caissons as the Saint Patrick’s Battalion moved on, their banner high in the air.
After a time, an eerie silence fell upon the city, even the persistent buzzing of the bees disappeared, as if all life had come to a standstill and there was no one left in San Luis Potosí but her. She was startled by the sudden tolling of the convent bells calling the nuns to evening vespers and sending swallows darting through the courtyard. She wrapped herself in her rebozo and followed the melancholy sound.
The hours, days, weeks passed in a blur, one after the other, until she no longer knew what day it was. She busied herself tending to the invalids, and little by little the convent’s corridors grew emptier as they left—either walking out on their own or carried out feetfirst through the door.
One day she received a letter from Santa Anna at the convent, with news confirming the rumors that had reached them—the port city of Vera Cruz had fallen after sustaining a four-day siege from Scott’s forces. Day and night the Yanqui cannons, howitzers, and mortars had bombarded the city until it finally succumbed. Scott refused permission to evacuate once the siege began and hundreds of the city’s residents perished, mostly women and children.
Now that Santa Anna had put an end to the revolution in Mexico City, he and his forces were marching to Vera Cruz, ready to confront Scott. Another battle would soon ensue, and though the general told her he was confident that this time the Mexican Army would be victorious, Ximena wasn’t going to fall for that again—only God knew for certain what the outcome would be. If Scott defeated Santa Anna’s army, he would then advance to the capital, the heart of Mexico. The general concluded his letter with a copy of his proclamation to the Mexican people, which had been distributed to the masses two weeks earlier.
I pray you heed my call, querida Ximena, he’d written on the margins of the copy he’d sent her.
López de Santa Anna President Ad lnterim of the Mexican Republic, to his compatriots.
Mexicans! Vera Cruz is already in the power of the enemy. It has succumbed, not under the influence of American valor, nor can it even be said that it has fallen under the impulses of their good fortune. To our shame be it said, we ourselves have produced this deplorable misfortune by our own interminable discords.
The truth is due to you from the government; you are the arbiters of the fate of our country. If our country is to be defended, it will be you who will stop the triumphant march of the enemy who now occupies Vera Cruz. If the enemy advance one step more, the national independence will be buried in the abyss of the past.
I am resolved to go out and encounter the enemy. My duty is to sacrifice myself, and I well know how to fulfil it! Perhaps the American hosts may proudly tread the imperial capital of Azteca. I will never witness such an opprobrium, for I am decided first to die fighting!
Mexicans! You have a religion—protect it! You have honor—then free yourselves from infamy! You love your wives, your children—then liberate them from American brutality! But it must be by action, not by vain entreaty nor barren desires, with which the enemy must be opposed.
Perhaps I speak to you for the last time! I pray you listen to me! Do not vacillate between death and slavery; and if the enemy conquer you, at least they will respect the heroism of your resistance. It is now time that the common defence should alone occupy your thoughts! The hour of sacrifice has sounded its approach! Awaken!