A Ballad of Love and Glory(86)
He turned on his heel and took off running to the park. It couldn’t be. Had she truly come all this way? After all the suffering he’d put her through, could it be true that she was here and not where he’d imagined her? He hurried down the stone-paved sidewalk, sidestepping the peasant women selling pottery, wooden toys, and corn husk dolls, and the peddlers carrying bundles of colorful sarapes.
He finally gained the Alameda and spotted her sitting in the shade on one of the stone benches by the large water fountain, feeding the pigeons. In the dappled light beneath the poplars, Riley paused for a moment, catching his breath and listening to the falling waters of the fountain. The sight of Ximena was like a sunbeam penetrating the dark brooding of his heart. He could scarcely trust his eyes to believe she was truly there. That he wasn’t just imagining her. But then, he began worrying, uncertain as to what he should say. Forgive me… He would start with that.
As soon as she saw him, she ran to him. He held her aloft and swung her around, his body thrilled at being able to embrace her once more. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, and he responded in complete surrender.
He bought her a lemonade from a peddler selling refreshments, and they strolled around the verdant gardens on shady paths lined with flowering shrubs, sharing what had transpired in their lives while they’d been apart. He concluded by telling her about the deserters he’d recruited at the prison that morning. “The Saint Patrick’s Battalion is still strong,” he said. “When the Yanks get here, we’ll be ready for them.”
“And our child will be born in a country free of invaders,” she said, putting a hand on her belly.
He stared at her, wondering if she was jesting. She hadn’t mentioned a babe, but then, he lowered his gaze and confirmed what she’d just said. Her skirt and petticoat nearly hid the swell of her belly.
“I’m sorry, I should not have surprised you like this. I thought—” She put a hand to her mouth and bit the tender flesh of her knuckles.
He gathered her into his arms and felt her body tremble.
“Should I not have come, John?” she whispered.
“Nay, lass, don’t say that,” he said. “I’ve dreamed of havin’ you back in my arms every night, though I was too much of a coward to seek you out. But just give me a minute to get over my shock, will ya?”
He held on to her, afraid to let go, not knowing what to make of this news. A child. They were going to have a child. Would the conflict between Mexico and the United States be over before the birth? He wished to God it was so. He raised her chin so that she could look at him.
“I love you, Ximena, and I love our child. Have no doubt of that. But I loathe the thought of this innocent creature bein’ born in a country ravaged by war, you understand? Don’t I already have another child livin’ in a land scourged by hunger and misery? Is my lot in life to subject my children to such a sorrowful existence?”
She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “Do not think this way, John. The Yanquis haven’t won. Not yet. When we win this war, our child shall be born in a new Mexico. One ready to be the great nation it is destined to be.”
He smiled and pulled her against him, trying to share in her fancy for the future. “Aye, and we shall send for my son. And we can be a family. The four of us. Would that be all right, darlin’? He would make a fine brother, my Johnny…”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” she said, holding tight to him.
He kissed the top of her head and looked up at the cloudless sky. He wanted to believe in the future they envisioned, but hadn’t he learned by now that a windy day was not a day for thatching? The Yankees would soon be marching their way. The upcoming battle would be the defining moment—the moment that could turn the tide of the war once and for all. He prayed with all his heart that the Mexican eagle would be the victor.
32
August 1847
Mexico City
After mass one Sunday, Riley hired a carriage to take them on a ride around the city. With the invasion of the capital looming over them, this period of calm was sure to be brief, and he wished to spend it doing things that they might have done had Ximena’s country not been at war. The carriage ride was enough for now, but someday, perhaps they could visit the museums or the Botanical Garden, the Shrine of Nuestra Se?ora de Guadalupe, the famous Chinampas floating gardens, the pyramids in Teotihuacán. He wrapped his arm around her and held her close to him, enjoying the beautiful trees and lush plants and flowers on either side of the road, the sharp outline of the two volcanoes in the distance rising above the plains of the Valley of Mexico, and the stone arches of the two aqueducts that bisected the city. As the carriage rumbled past Chapultepec Hill, he looked at the formidable castle on the summit, which was visible through the trees, and at the Mexican flag flying from its ramparts. The castle was home to the country’s military college, the Mexican West Point, and he wondered if there was still time for him to obtain permission to visit it.
As they traversed the Paseo de Bucareli, the driver told them how in times of peace, there were a thousand carriages on the avenue in the evenings, full of people dressed in their finery out for a bit of fresh air and socializing. But the city was about to be under siege, and so even though the day was perfectly brilliant, the Paseo was mostly deserted. The driver pointed to two of the mountains surrounding the city and asked if they wanted to hear the story of their creation, according to the Aztecs. These snow-covered volcanoes dominated the horizon and were named Iztaccíhuatl and Popocatépetl.