by Oakland Ross
“Go to Querétaro,” she said. “Find Maximiliano. He will listen to you.”
Neither of them referred to the man as the emperor or His Majesty any longer. He was simply Maximiliano.
“I don’t know if he will,” said Diego. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to anyone.”
“He’ll listen to you. This time he’ll have to. You’ll make him.”
“He didn’t listen to me before he left Mexico City.”
“His circumstances have changed,” she said. “Everything has changed.”
It was true. Everything had changed. But still Diego resisted. “He knows they’ll kill him if he surrenders.”
“They’ll kill him if he doesn’t—and take thousands more with him.”
She was right, of course. He took a deep breath and made it clear he submitted. Yes.
“When will you leave?” she asked him.
“Today.”
She seemed surprised, even though she must have known. “When will I see you?”
He produced a thin smile. “When this is over.”
He left that evening. He pulled a woollen serape over his cotton jacket and set his wide-brimmed hat low over his forehead. An unseasonable chill clung to the highland air. He departed Mexico City by the northern gates.
The darkness stretched ahead. As he rode, he thought about Baldemar, but not only about Baldemar. He thought about Ángela, about Beatríz, about Benito Juárez. He wondered how he had ever imagined that Mexico’s president was somehow responsible for what had gone wrong in the country. The opposite was true. Unlike so many others, Juárez had kept faith with his compatriots, firm in his belief that somehow Mexicans would prevail, the invaders would withdraw, and Mexican sovereignty would be preserved.
He urged his horse into an easy gallop, and they seemed to float through the highland darkness. By Diego’s reckoning, they were about halfway between the capital and Querétaro, near the town of Tlaxcoapan, and had been travelling roughly ten hours straight. He decided he would ease his pace before long. He would slow to a jog or even a walk in order to let his horse recover her wind and her legs. But not just yet. He wanted to make as much progress as he could in the coolness of the night, and so he pressed on. It was then that his horse came down badly on something in the track—a rock or a hardened rut. Her stride broke, her hindquarters swung around, and she nearly went down. In a matter of seconds, she pranced in circles on three legs. A pale light crept across the broad grasslands to the east.
Diego flung himself from the saddle and dropped to the ground. Within moments, he saw what had happened. She’d injured her near hind leg, and his heart sank at the sight of it. Just beneath the fetlock, the pastern bulged like the sprung stave of a barrel. Her nostrils flared, her lips curled back, her eyes rolled up into her head. She was frantic with pain. He gripped the reins close to the bit and tried to calm her. “Tranquila, chica. Cálmate, mi amor.” He knew it was bad, but he didn’t want to face it.
“Shoot the bitch.”
Diego swung around at the sound of a man’s voice, and he saw a dark shape sauntering up out of the morning gloom. Despite the chill, the man was shirtless, and he carried a long carbine slung over his shoulder by a length of twine.
“One bullet just below the ear. There’s nothing else you can do. That’s a bowed tendon she’s got. No cure for that. She’s useless now. Got to shoot her.”
“Shoot her?” Diego struggled to hold his horse still. The man was crazy. “No, no. She’ll be all right. A little rest. She—”
“Sorry,” said the man. “That horse doesn’t want a little rest. It wants a long rest. That’s a bowed tendon there.”
By now, several other men had slouched up through the faint light of morning, past the rows of cactus that lined the dirt track running north to Querétaro. All were shirtless, and all carried rifles. Diego realized soon enough who they were—deserters from the army of Maximiliano. They’d thrown away their tunics, of course. That way, they’d be less likely to be recognized as soldiers. But they’d kept their weapons.
“Here,” said one. He pulled a large Colt from the belt of his trousers. “Use this.”
“We’ll lie her down for you,” said another of the men. “Easier that way.”
As if they had practised this manoeuvre countless times before, the men gathered around the horse. One reached beneath her belly and yanked her offside foreleg away. Just like that, she went down, and they piled on top of her. She sprawled on the dirt, head flat against the earth, chest heaving, and it was almost as though she knew what was coming—knew and accepted it.
“Go ahead,” said one of the men. “Do it. It’s the kindest thing you could do. Poor thing’s in misery.”
Diego knew it was true. Sometimes the only kindness left is to kill those you love. He took the Colt revolver that had been offered him and hunched down beside her. “Lo siento,” he whispered. “Lo siento, mi amor.” He pressed the barrel against the brown fur beneath her left ear. He looked away, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil drove the butt of the gun back into his chest. Her head jerked to the side, one leg kicked out involuntarily, and then his horse was still.
“Better kill her again,” someone said. “Just to be sure.”
He did that too. His hand was shaking, and he couldn’t see a goddamned thing, but he managed to press the barrel of the pistol against her skull once more. He pulled the trigger again.
“There,” said the owner of the pistol. “That’s done.” He took back his weapon, wiped it on his pants. “Not meaning to be a bother, señor, but that’s two bullets I’m out.”
Diego paid the man for the bullets. He said he wouldn’t be needing the bridle or the saddle anymore. The men could help themselves to those, if they were of a mind to do so. He would be on his way. Quickly as he could, he shouldered his haversack and set out on foot for Querétaro.
CHAPTER 51
DIEGO WALKED ALL THAT day and most of the following night. As he proceeded northward, he encountered an almost constant stream of shirtless men trudging back south. It seemed the imperial army was collapsing. He counted hundreds of men. They paid him little mind, not much concerned with a one-armed, blood-encrusted fool who was going the wrong way on a bad road. Occasionally, one or another of the retreating men eyed him warily, shrugged, then returned to the more important business of leaving the war far behind.
Diego adjusted the weight of his haversack against his shoulders. In his mind, he heard that desperate keening, a stricken horse hobbling on three legs in the first light of dawn. His eyes smarted, and he clenched his jaw. He continued on his way toward Querétaro.
He must have trekked more than twenty hours straight when he first heard the reports of cannon fire—the liberal forces bombarding the city. Presently, he stumbled upon a large military encampment sprawling across several fields of blond grass. No one paid him any mind. Why would they? A man without a rifle shuffling along the perimeter of the camp? He approached a trio of half-dressed soldiers who were bathing by a large wooden barrel. They told him this encampment was the army of General Mariano Escobedo. Diego thanked them and soon found his way to the general’s tent, where a young officer was making notes of some kind at a refectory table set out on the patchy grass. Diego introduced himself and declared he was looking for His Excellency Benito Juárez.
“You won’t find him here,” said the man, who had a rectangular face with a dark complexion beneath a wedge of dense black hair.
It turned out the president of the Republic had established his provisional capital in San Luis Potosí, a day’s journey on horseback to the north.
“Maybe you’ll find him there,” said the orderly. “If you do, please convey my regards—and tell him I want to be paid.”
Diego said he would try his best. He thanked the orderly and reshouldered his haversack. He departed the republican encampment and resumed his northward trek. Every few minutes, another blast shook the ground beneath his feet, follo
wed by a whistling in the air and, later, a deep crash and the clatter of cracked stones and splitting wood. He barely reacted. Instead, he kept putting one foot in front of the other. He continued on his way, tracing a rutted track lined by thorn scrub and rows of organ pipe cactus on a trail that led north.
The temporary office of the president of Mexico consisted of a dark room, a row of wooden jalousies—almost completely shut—a large wooden desk, some cabinets, a few chairs, and a powdering of recent dust. Benito Juárez was at his desk. He adjusted the lapels of his jacket, and then reached with both hands to align the edges of a sheaf of papers. A faint mustiness clung to the air.
“No,” he said.
“No?” Diego had expected exactly this response, but even so it was dismaying to hear. He had asked the president if he would consider issuing a pardon for Maximiliano.
“Not even if he surrenders?”
The president shook his head. “Not even if he surrenders.”
“And abdicates?”
“No.”
“And rescinds the Black Decree?”
“No. There are no circumstances in which I would consider such a step. None. The courts will decide the fate of your Austrian, assuming he is not killed in battle first.”
“And if the courts sentence him to death?”
“Then he will die. I won’t intervene.”
Juárez folded his arms on his desk. He was little changed from the last time Diego had seen him—aloof and stern to the point of severity, at least on the surface. Occasionally, he fidgeted with his hands, the only visible sign that he was not entirely sanguine, not entirely in control.
“The Republic,” he said, “is not something to be taken for the asking.”
He explained that he was not thinking only of the Austrian. More than four decades had passed by since independence—a wasted time, a time of puffed-up grandees who strutted across the national stage, men with private armies, vainglorious ideas, and inflated titles, men for whom Mexico was merely a sort of offering, something to be seduced, enjoyed, and tossed aside.
“When these men look upon Mexico, what they see is not a nation of citizens but an instrument for expressing their own vanity, a dark sky in which to cast a brief star. But the star burns out, and the darkness remains.”
Diego nodded. The wording was melodramatic, possibly rehearsed, but this was Mexico’s reality. He thought of Iturbide, Santa Anna, and the other men who had held power over the land—men who believed they were gods. Was Maximiliano so different? He should never have come, but, having come, he should have abdicated and gone—long ago. Yet here he remained, and for what? To salvage his honour? To burnish a legend? Meanwhile, the war ground on, men died, and Mexico suffered. It was a harsh line that Juárez was taking, but it was just. Diego reached for his hat and rose from his chair.
“Wait,” said Juárez. “Sit. Stay.” He edged forward, and his low tone took on an unexpected warmth. “You did me a kindness once. Don’t think I have forgotten.”
Diego resumed his seat and set down his hat. “It was what anyone would do.”
“I disagree. It was a deeply personal act. That picture made all the difference, you know. It gave me strength I did not realize I had.”
Diego’s heart thudded in his chest, but he merely inclined his head. “Mi presidente.”
“And now,” said Juárez, “I have need of your services again. I take it you mean to seek out the Austrian—despite what I have said.”
“Yes.”
“You must be very careful, for it will be dangerous.” He paused. “Besides, there is something I wish you to do.”
“I know.”
“When we last met, in El Paso del Norte, I made a similar request—and you said no.”
“That is right,” said Diego. “But circumstances have changed.”
“So they have.” Juárez hesitated. “I know about your friend—Baldemar Peralta. You are speaking of vengeance, then?”
“No.”
“Good. Vengeance is a treacherous thing. But you will help us?”
Diego nodded. He had suspected all along that the conversation would come to this, but he had not known what he would say, or not until this moment. He remembered the keening he had heard on the road south of Querétaro, after his horse came down badly. There was just one thing he could have done, and so he had done it. A final cruelty, a final kindness—they amounted to the same thing. He understood it now.
“Fine,” said Juárez. “I will prepare a laissez-passer. It will take you part of the way. For the rest, you are on your own.”
The outskirts of Querétaro were clotted by large encampments of republican troops, dimly illuminated by scattered bonfires. It was night, and a half moon glowered through a screen of broken clouds. At first, no one paid Diego any mind. But eventually a pair of sentries emerged from a thicket of mesquite scrub and ordered him to identify himself.
From the folds of his serape, Diego withdrew the letter drafted and signed by Benito Juárez. It offered him safe passage through republican lines at the city of Querétaro.
The taller sentry took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the leaf of paper. He held it before him in the negligible light. He frowned at the letter. “What is this?”
“I have just come from San Luis Potosí, where I spoke to President Benito Juárez.”
“Of course,” said the young man. “We ourselves have just been in Rome, where we got pissed with the pope. Come with me.”
The sentry pocketed the letter and led Diego away to be interrogated by his superiors. Security measures in the camp had evidently redoubled since he had last travelled this way. Now one interrogation followed another, and another followed that. The rounds of questioning resumed early the following morning, each session more energetic than the one that preceded it.
In the end, Diego was presented to General Mariano Escobedo, who apologized for the discomfort his guest had suffered owing to an excess of zeal on the part of his interrogators. In war, mistakes are made.
By this time, Diego was missing several teeth and could see only with great difficulty. His back throbbed with pain, and he heard a ringing in his ears.
Escobedo tapped the letter of safe passage. It was spread out before him on a folding table that stood beneath a canvas awning. “Your purpose in Querétaro, I take it, is to visit the Austrian?”
“That is so.”
“Why?”
“To persuade him to surrender.”
“You think he will agree?”
“No.”
Escobedo reached up with both hands and smoothed his moustache. He smiled and tilted his head. “You seem to be caught in a contradiction.”
“I know.” Diego explained what he meant to do.
Escobedo lit a cigar, turning it around several times in the match’s flame until it was burning evenly. “That would be very useful.” He blew out a plume of smoke. “Oh, and you may wish to carry some dried beef with you. It could save your life.” He hesitated. “Your arm—I take it that’s an old injury?”
“Very old. Courtesy of General Márquez.”
“He escaped, you know. He and a dozen men, give or take. They ran straight through our lines two nights ago. Made off to the south. We managed to bring down one or two, but the rest got away. They won’t be back.”
“No.” Diego grimaced. This probably explained the tightened security in the republican encampment.
Escobedo tilted his head. “I’ll send a physician around,” he said.
With difficulty, Diego climbed to his feet and took his leave. Later, a doctor examined his injuries and did what little he could to blunt their impact. Before long, an orderly brought a quantity of dried beef wrapped in folds of oiled paper. Diego tucked the packet beneath the stump of his left arm. It was mid-morning, and a pair of sentries accompanied him on foot to the edge of the encampment and then followed him partway down an earthen slope scribbled with tree roots. Upon reaching some invisible line—prob
ably the perceived limit of enemy rifle fire—they halted and let him continue alone.
He picked his way ahead, limping and sore. He was glad to be making this leg of the journey by day rather than by night, for this was a terrible place, reeking of evil. He counted fourteen corpses, all dangling from the branches of trees. He supposed that these were the bodies of men who had tried to escape from the city. They must have been captured by the imperial forces, and their bodies were being displayed as an example and a warning to others, a desperate attempt to hold a disintegrating army together. The corpses were bloated, and carrion birds had started on their flesh. Diego kept his gaze low. He increased his pace.
Moments later, a great shadow darted across his tracks—something passing overhead—and instinctively he spun around to look over his shoulder, then peered up at the sky. What in God’s name was that? At first, the object seemed like nothing he had ever seen. But then the shape cohered into a recognizable image. It was the emperor’s balloon. The contraption sailed overhead, carried on a steady breeze, quickly ascending. The wicker basket clung to the taffeta globe by a netting of ropes, and the entire contrivance soared away to the south at remarkable speed. The sight was both exhilarating and unnerving. It actually flew. Diego felt dizzy. He kept watching the spectacle until the balloon disappeared into the cloud-flocked sky.
He wondered whether anyone had been riding in the basket that dangled beneath the device. From his vantage point, it had been impossible to tell. Had Maximiliano escaped into the sky? He couldn’t even begin to guess. Still shaky on his feet, his back sore, his eyesight diminished, he resumed his trek into Querétaro. Before long, he was challenged by several imperial sentries—haggard, hollow-looking men who stepped out from behind a crumbling adobe wall, aiming their carbines directly at him. Who knew if they possessed bullets? Diego held up the dried beef, and their hunger got the better of them. Gaunt as skeletons, they yanked the stuff from him and fell upon it, moaning like animals. Too busy eating to care about much else, they waved him through. He could pass into the city if he had a mind to, if he were as crazy as that. They obviously did not suspect him of posing any danger. A lone man on foot, battered, bruised, and equipped with only one arm? What danger was that?