As a cloud of dust that had been raised on the hill dispersed, horses’ hooves could be heard. A Republican general reached the hilltop on horseback. He dismounted, and after a slight—a very slight—bow, imperceptible to a fool’s eyes, he addressed the emperor.
“Your Majesty, you are my prisoner.”
While the men looked on in disbelief, and without resistance, the emperor accompanied him until he was in the presence of Mariano Escobedo. Once there, slowly, with the subtlety of a knife grinder, he drew his sword, mustered his Austrian humility, and handed it over.
General Escobedo took it like someone receiving the keys to a city.
“This sword belongs to the nation,” he said with a hint of pride.
At eight o’clock in the morning, Maximilian of Habsburg, emperor of Mexico, surrendered.
From San Luis Potosí, Benito Juárez, smiling, jubilant, and so happy he could have drunk a glass of mezcal, ordered his telegrapher to send a message to Mexico City that read:
Viva México. Querétaro has fallen to us.
Maximilian had gone from being an emperor to a prisoner of war overnight. From being called to the throne like Moctezuma and Iturbide, to being subjected to ignominy because of Napoleon III’s betrayal. If his blood were spilled, the monarchs of Europe, the heirs of Charlemagne, would call the one they named the Little to account, and not just for Maximilian, but also for the German, Belgian, and French blood that had been spilled because of his arrogance.
Querétaro did not celebrate. Death wailed in the streets, and some didn’t even dare look out from their balconies. Their spirits were as broken by the siege as the empire was. Entire families were ruined because they had members on both sides. Infants died from gastrointestinal illnesses before they learned to run on the paving stones, youngsters were pumped full of lead on the battlefield, the elderly died with horror in their eyes. There were few reasons to make merry.
With Maximilian a prisoner, two days after the fall of Querétaro, El Diario del Imperio, to avoid alarming the population and following its editorial line, published a coded message:
Never sing until your food is digested. The great effort that singing requires could interrupt the stomach’s work and disturb your circulation.
Maximilian did not want his circulation to be disturbed, either. His digestion was another song entirely. He was very sick. If the Juaristas didn’t kill him, the dysentery would. But despite it all, he was a Habsburg: a Habsburg was never abandoned to his fate. Part of his soul still believed that Eugénie de Montijo would help him. She was the reason he ended up where he was; she would be responsible for his liberation. What Maximilian didn’t know, being captive, was that the only son and heir to Napoleon III’s throne had just fallen critically ill. Under such circumstances, the French rulers had no time for anything other than their child’s health. They barely registered Maximilian’s fate on the other side of the ocean.
Maximilian hoped that the European monarchic machinery would be set in motion. Queen Victoria, Carlota’s cousin, would undoubtedly be a lifeline to grab hold of. Half the world was under her rule. But since the death of her beloved Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha six years ago, the august queen had been under a terrible depression, and nothing would bring her out. She governed out of habit, and she couldn’t be bothered to resolve political matters that, ultimately, had nothing to do with her dominions. Not even the Austrians came to his rescue. His brother Franz Joseph and his wife, Sissi, were about to be crowned to further expand their power. The Austrian Empire would now also be Hungarian. All of his brother’s attention was on Hungary and the fondness the virile Hungarian count Andrássy had been professing lately for his wife. From time to time, drawn by the call of his blood ties, he took his mind away from his commitments to the citizens of Buda and Pest to inquire about the health of his sister-in-law Carlota. Rumors reached him of her delicate state of mind, as well as the complex situation his brother was facing in Querétaro, but Sissi soon persuaded him to leave them to fight for themselves. Each to their own, she would say. They had too many reasons for joy in their lives to sully themselves with bad Belgian decisions.
“They made their bed, they can lie in it,” said Sissi, showing him a row of white teeth.
To clear his conscience, and because he was in a good mood as his empire grew, Franz Joseph made a decision.
“I’m going to restore all the titles, honors, and rights I withdrew from Max when I had him sign the family pact, Sissi.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“If he’s captured, Benito Juárez can’t execute an Austrian archduke, a royal prince of Hungary and of Bohemia, brother of the Austro-Hungarian emperor . . .”
“I like the sound of that: Austro-Hungarian emperor . . .”
“And brother-in-law of the king of Belgium, related to the queen of England.”
“But how will you inform him, since you broke diplomatic relations with Mexico?”
“I’ll write a telegram to the minister in Washington and ask him to pass on the message.”
“When Maximilian hears the news, he’ll come running back to Austria. You know that, don’t you, my dear?”
Franz Joseph seemed to think for a second and then he said, “I know.”
And after sending the telegram, he washed his hands in a basin of Hungarian water and never devoted another second of his attention to the matter.
The telegram didn’t arrive in time.
67
Benito Juárez had made the decision to execute Maximilian on the day the emperor embarked on the Novara. He couldn’t allow any European, whether imperialist or colonialist, to consider trying to occupy an American country again. Even if that meant a Habsburg’s blood trickling down a hill.
He gave instructions to try Maximilian before a military court, because first and foremost he was a man of the law and not some vengeful heathen who shot every enemy he crossed paths with. He was tried along with Miramón and Mejía and, though the emperor didn’t attend what he considered to be a pantomime, the three of them were sentenced to death. Letters begging for clemency began to arrive in droves. Distinguished individuals sent telegrams pleading with Juárez to show the generosity of the victor toward the defeated, of the people who win and who forgive; everyone from Garibaldi to Victor Hugo sent messages. Hugo’s letter caught the president’s attention. He remembered the letter the Frenchman had sent from exile to the people of Puebla, praising them for defeating the Army of Intervention on May 5. He remembered smiling when he received news that people were hanging copies of the writer’s letter from their front doors. That man’s a true Liberal, he thought. The Frenchman’s opposition to Napoleon III was no secret: he was his bitter critic, and the Mexican adventure had always made him grind his teeth, not so much for Mexico as for the waste it meant for France. The republic’s victory would make the French defeat more humiliating, which was why, of all the letters received, it was his Juárez read with the most interest. He sat at his desk, as he liked to do when he was about to perform an important task, and putting on his half-rim spectacles, he began to read:
Hauteville House, June 20, 1867
To the President of the Mexican Republic, Benito Juárez, You have equaled John Brown. Today’s America has two heroes: John Brown, and you. John Brown, thanks to whom slavery has ended; you, thanks to whom liberty lives. Mexico has been saved by a principle and by a man. The principle is the Republic, the man is you. For the rest, the fate of all monarchic assaults is to end up aborting. Any usurpation begins with Puebla and ends with Querétaro. In 1863, Europe pounced on America. Two monarchies attacked its democracy; one with a prince, another with an army; the army carried the prince. Then the world saw this spectacle: on the one hand, an army, Europe’s most battle-hardened, receiving support from a fleet as powerful at sea as the army was on land, funded with all of France’s wealth, with constantly renewed recruits, a well-organized army, victorious in Africa, in Crimea, in Italy, in China, vali
antly dedicated to its flag, owner of large quantities of formidable horses, artillery, and ammunition. And on the other side, Juárez.
And one day, after five years of smoke, dust, and blindness, the cloud cleared, and we saw the two empires fall; no more monarch, no more army, nothing but the enormity of the usurpation in ruins, and on this rubble, a man standing, and beside this man, liberty.
You did such a thing, Juárez, and it is great. What you have yet to do is greater still. Listen, citizen and president of the Mexican Republic. You have defeated monarchies with democracy; you showed them the power of democracy. Now show them its beauty. After the ray of sun, show them the dawn. Show the Republic that grants life to the dictatorship that massacres. Show the people who reign and control themselves to the monarchies that usurp and exterminate. Show civilization to the savages. Principles to the despots.
In front of the people, serve the monarchs the humiliation of being dazzled. Finish them off with mercy. Principles are reaffirmed, first and foremost, by offering protection to our enemies. The greatness of principles is in ignoring. Men have no name before principles; men are Mankind. Principles know only themselves. In their supreme stupidity, they know only this: human life is inviolable.
Oh, venerable impartiality of truth! Law without judgment, occupied only with being law. What beauty! When we renounce taking the law into our own hands, only those who legally deserve death must face it. The scaffold must come down before the guilty.
May the violator of principles be safeguarded by a principle!
May he have this good fortune and this shame! May the violator of law be protected by law. Stripping him of his false inviolability, you shall lay bare the true kind: human inviolability. May he be left speechless when he sees that the side for which he is sacred is the side of which he is not the emperor. May this prince, who didn’t know himself as a man, learn that there is a misery in him, the prince, and a majesty in him, the man. Never has such a magnificent opportunity as this presented itself. Will they dare kill Berezowski in the presence of a Maximilian who is alive and well? One wanted to kill a king; the other, a nation. Juárez, make civilization take this giant leap. Juárez, abolish the death penalty everywhere on earth. Let the world see this prodigious thing: the Republic has its murderer in its power; when the time comes to crush him, it realizes that he is man, it releases him, and says to him: “You are of the people like everyone else. Go.”
That, Juárez, will be your second victory. The first, defeating the usurpation, is great; the second, pardoning the usurper, will be sublime. Yes, to those monarchs whose prisons are full; to those kings who hunt, banish, imprison; to the king of Siberia; to the kings that possess Poland, Ireland, Havana, or Crete; to the princes who judges obey; to the judges who executioners obey; to the executioners who death obeys; to the emperors who order a beheading with such ease . . . show them how an emperor’s head is saved!
Above all the monarchic codes that drip with blood, open the law of light, and in the middle of the holiest page of the supreme book, may the Republic’s finger be seen resting on this commandment from God: Thou shalt not kill. These four words contain your duty. You will fulfill this duty.
Two years ago, on December 2, 1859, I spoke on behalf of democracy, and I asked the United States for John Brown’s life. I did not obtain it. Today I ask Mexico for Maximilian’s life. Will I obtain it? Yes. And perhaps, by now, my request has already been met. Maximilian will owe his life to Juárez. And the punishment? they will ask. Here is the punishment: Maximilian will live by the grace of the Republic.
Victor Hugo
Juárez sat back in his seat. If there was anything in the world he liked more than being right, it was the pleasure of reading a well-written letter. He had to admit that Victor Hugo was a man he would’ve liked to sit down and converse with. The things they could tell each other! However, while he understood the Frenchman’s arguments, he couldn’t allow himself to weaken.
After a long night in which the words of the author of Les Misérables ricocheted in his head, Juárez climbed out of bed. Still wearing his pajamas, he went to his desk, picked up his favorite pen, the one he wrote important decrees with, and addressing the letter to Monsieur Victor Hugo, he wrote:
It is not the man I kill, but the idea.
68
1867, Mexico
The aroma of jasmine exploded into the night air. The smile-shaped moon was shining in the sky, and the fireflies were dancing aimlessly. Refugio decided to go for a walk to distract herself, or at least to think while in motion. She walked for a few minutes, questioning herself. She needed to sound out her sons. She’d been keeping an eye on Salvador, who from time to time had brought her news both of the Liberales and of Constanza’s progress. But she barely spoke to Joaquín. She missed him. They’d drifted apart almost without realizing it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a conversation with her son in which they shared affection. One without demands or explanations. Her Joaquín. Her eldest son. She respected him because he was incorruptible and incapable of betraying a comrade. It wasn’t thanks to his parents: all they’d done was fill the mold he’d had from birth. Refugio knew that, had he gone over to the Liberal side, he would have overshadowed General Díaz himself. On occasion she’d been tempted to try to bring him into the cause, but she knew for that precisely these reasons he would refuse. If there was one thing she loved him for, it was the strength of his convictions. Where was he now? The cold night air hit her chest. A slight breeze brought the cool of the mountain snow, and Refugio wrapped herself in her shawl like a tamale. She had to go back to the house. Her brain had seized; her left temple was throbbing with anxiety. Yes. She had to go back in. And, if she could, drink a glass of cognac with Vicente to try to relax. Vicente. In the last couple of years, Vicente seemed to have aged as fast as a jacaranda’s flowers fall. It was as if life had suddenly borne down on him. He was tired. That the European prince had turned out to be of a liberal persuasion had been a bitter pill to swallow. Each time he heard the rumors about the indigenous boys that the emperor adopted, or that, for want of heirs to the throne, he’d named Iturbide’s grandchildren as dauphins, his heart grieved. Both of their hearts did. Vicente’s for having chosen the wrong candidate, and Refugio’s because of the affinity of his ideas with those of the Liberales. Not even President Juárez—with Zapotec roots in his native Oaxaca—had afforded the natives the protection that the emperor had. But her Vicente couldn’t recognize such achievements. His hair had turned white, and he went from being a respectable man admired by all to spending the afternoons playing poker and drinking whiskey. He spent all of his time fulminating about every political decision made or to be made. He ranted and raved, and eventually Refugio decided to stop listening, for with each word her husband said, she felt her soul shrivel a little more. On more than one occasion, bewildered by the grandiloquent words that led nowhere, she found herself wishing she’d married a man whose mind was only concerned with how many cards to take at the blackjack table. But then her heart missed him, and she searched his eyes for the idealist that had once resided there. The ambitious man capable of fighting for an ideal when his leg had just been blown off in combat, and, for an instant, she would think she’d found him. Perhaps tonight would be one of those nights, she thought. Tomorrow, she would look for Joaquín to sound him out. Yes. That’s what she would do. She wanted to know how he was. They wouldn’t talk about politics or war; she just wanted to know he was all right. To hold him in her arms again. To know what he was feeling now that the empire was on the verge of collapse. To feel that a part of his being belonged to her. And realizing her selfishness, she felt a pang in her conscience stronger than Adam and Eve felt when they learned they were naked.
Ashamed of herself, she went to bed without doing any of the things she’d planned. Vicente was sound asleep, and the cognac remained unserved in the sidebar. Unlike her husband, that night, Refugio didn’t sleep a wink.
She couldn�
��t find Joaquín the next day, or the day after that. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole. Nobody knew anything. Desperate to know his whereabouts, she finally went to Salvador. As she feared, he had devastating news.
“Mother, Joaquín was taken prisoner in Querétaro.”
Refugio’s color drained, and she said, “You must go rescue him.”
“It’s too dangerous, Mother. I could be exposed.”
“We can’t abandon him, Salvador. They’ll execute him. Do it for your mother. I trust you. You know how to keep yourself safe.”
Salvador hesitated. The country was a powder keg. Juárez’s generals were advancing and capturing towns. Prisoners of war were dropping like flies, and requests for reprieve were rarely heeded, no matter how much one begged. Traitors were punished with a firm hand. And while Salvador had been adept at playing a double game, he knew he couldn’t afford the luxury of blowing his cover. Neither could he abandon Joaquín. For the first time in years, he struggled with his conscience.
After much thought, he decided.
“I’ll go, Mamá. But you’d better say every prayer you know.”
Then he gave her a kiss on the forehead that meant goodbye. Refugio, once again, was left alone.
Perhaps she hadn’t been completely mistaken, she told herself. Being a sympathizer of the Liberales and giving two of her children to the cause might yet save Joaquín. She sat in a rocking chair in the living room, and for the first time in ages she commended her soul to the Virgin Mary, the Guadalupana, the Morenita, a mother like her.
Joaquín was awaiting his sentence at the Convento de las Capuchinas. In a more isolated cell, Maximilian, suffering from severe stomach pains, was also waiting. Salvador reached Querétaro after a grueling journey from Mexico City. The list of prisoners awaiting execution included senior Mexican and European officers. Salvador, aware that his brother would in all likelihood receive the maximum sentence, tried not to fall into despair. He climbed out of the Juarista stagecoach ready to negotiate his brother’s release. After a couple of hours of hard bargaining, he sealed the deal with a handshake.
The Empress: A novel Page 34