A Ballad of Love and Glory(89)
Santa Anna nodded and lamented the lack of funds and provisions and his untrained troops, then once again cursed the poblanos for not helping to defend their nation’s honor. “Very well, I will give it some thought,” he said, rising to his feet. “Now, gentlemen, enough with the bickering. Let us conclude with an act of celebration, shall we?”
* * *
“Major?” Ximena said, embracing him.
“Aye, can you believe it, darlin’?”
As they returned to the barracks in the rain, the carriage making its way along the slippery cobblestoned streets, he told her how at the conclusion of the meeting, Santa Anna had called up a few of the men to his side, including Riley, and bestowed new promotions. And so he had walked out of the Palacio Nacional with a rank no other European foreigner in Mexico’s army had ever attained. Finally, he informed her about the most important news of the evening—that Scott had given marching orders to his troops to move against the capital. Taking her hand, Riley asked, “Will you marry me, Ximena? Before the battle ensues, will you unite yourself to me?”
She kissed him tenderly and put his hand on her belly. “I love you, John. To call you husband, for our child to have you as a father, makes this wicked war less so.”
“I wish I could give you a proper weddin’, with flowers and a grand celebration, but there is no time, and I must go off and fight your country’s enemies. But after, my darlin’, when the war is over, I shall build you a home and plant you roses.”
The carriage pulled up to the barracks, and as they walked along the path toward their chambers, they held on to each other, laughing while the heavens poured down on them. He kissed her hungrily, urgently, tasting the rain on her lips.
“My shoes are soaked through,” she said, bending to take them off. But then, as she began walking barefoot over the wet cobblestones, her smile disappeared and her eyes became blank, as if in a trance.
“What’s the matter, lass?”
“Time is running out,” she said.
33
August 1847
Mexico City
The dream came to her again, longer and clearer this time. The wet cobblestones, the gallows, the men hanging from their necks, twisting and jerking in a dance of death. John’s body twirling in the wind, his tongue protruding, his bloodshot eyes staring at her. John!
“Ximena! Wake up, darlin’. Wake up,” he said, lying beside her. She sat up abruptly, and he lit the candle by the bedside, then gathered her into his arms. “Was it the dream again?”
She nodded, afraid to look at him, as if she might see rope marks on his neck.
“You’re shiverin’,” he said, pulling the covers up to her chin. He held her as if she might break. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her mouth, with exquisite tenderness. Her breathing slowed, and she took in the comforting smell of his warm skin, like damp fallen leaves and tendrils of smoke.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said at last. “Not you. Not your men.”
“There is a battle to be fought, a war to be won. Until that happens, we must obey orders.”
“No, you mustn’t go. Please, John.”
His eyes bore into her, and she thought of her home, of the blue lupines growing wild in the prairie. She wished that she were back there again, that she could take him far away from this city. Away from the plaza where the nooses waited.
“I see plain enough you’re lettin’ those visions get the better of you,” he said. “But nothin’, you hear me, nothin’ will keep me from your side.”
“You were hanging from the gallows. Patrick, Auguste, Thomas, Francis, and so many of the others. And you, John, you!”
“This might be one of those dreams that prove false, my love,” he said reassuringly, “or you would have dreamed us facin’ the firin’ squad. Be that as it may, I promise to be careful. The blessed Saint Patrick will watch over us.”
She kissed him savagely, hungrily, with a passion so fierce, so demanding, she scared herself. She pushed him down on the bed and climbed on top of him. She held on to him, just as the dawn was breaking, just as the day—their wedding day—was beginning. They would have only one day as a married man and woman. One day before he was gone.
* * *
“Is this a wedding or a funeral?” Santa Anna asked when he came to escort her to the barracks chapel, which had previously been part of the abandoned monastery. Ximena was startled by his voice. Being so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard his uneven footsteps approaching or his knocking at the door of her chamber.
Now he stood before her, magnificently dressed as usual. Upon hearing the news of the wedding, he’d insisted on walking her down the aisle, and she couldn’t refuse him. But now that he was here, grinning at her, she wished he hadn’t come at all. He was to blame for what was about to happen.
With a flourish, he presented her with a velvet box from his pocket and said, “A wedding gift for you, querida Ximena.” He opened the lid, and she leaned closer to look. He turned slightly so that the sunlight streaming through the window would fall directly on the brooch nestled within. Her breath caught in her throat—the Mexican coat of arms sparkling in all its glory, the serpent inlaid with tiny rubies, the cactus inlaid with emeralds, the golden eagle of smoky quartz, its eye a perfect yellow topaz.