Legacy - Chapter 66
Waiting for the news of the outbreak of a rebellion was agonizing. Mexico knew that Victoria had every intention of overthrowing the emperor, but the man also wasn’t reckless. Spain at least seemed like he’d been knocked back enough that he was not immediately attacking again. But as long as he held the fort in the harbor Veracruz, Spain had a dangerous foothold and could throw his might into another attempt at conquest.
Mexico wished he had not been sent back to the capital, since it had felt more certain when he could look across the bay at the fortress. But in truth he was equally incapable of immediate action either place. As it was, he was waiting in the capital for the right moment to act.
Mexico took another sip of wine as he listened to Quintana Roo continue his story. It had been a very pleasant dinner with him and his wife, which Mexico had gotten Iturbide to accept that he intended to speak to the foreign secretary about matters regarding Spain over dinner. It was an excuse that had been working for months. In truth there was little news about Spain; the last battle had knocked him back, and he still seemed to be regrouping. Or, more ominously, he was waiting for something to give him an advantage.
Quintana Roo was explaining, with ample interjections from his wife, about what had happened when she had been arrested. Mexico provided a slight nudge as he said, “And what did you do then?”
He was certain that he need only give them reason to keep talking. Vicario said with a sly smile, “I knew that he would not leave me there on my own. We had hoped to avoid the authorities, but they took notice of what I was writing eventually.”
Quintana Roo smiled at her like he found her convictions to be the most beautiful thing about her. In the short months that Mexico had known them, he’d become utterly convinced that they were deeply in love. In a way it made him ache for someone he knew was far away, but he tried not to dwell on the feeling.
Quintana Roo picked up the story seamlessly, “Once I got the news, I sent the men I trusted the most to get her out of danger.” Mexico said, making sure he had understood correctly, “You infiltrated a prison to rescue your wife?”
It sounded almost too fantastic to be true, but he could also tell that they were both completely in earnest. Quintana Roo shook his head with a smile, “I didn’t do it personally. There was no way that the guards would not have recognized me. But I did send men to do it.”
Mexico smiled at the thought and said, “How romantic.”
He hoped that it did not sound sarcastic since he really did mean it. Vicario gave him an indulgent smile and said, “That is what true partnership is: being willing to take the biggest risks for each other.” Mexico saw her husband bite his lip slightly like he was bothered by something. Then he said, seeming to pick his words carefully, “Perhaps not the biggest risk.”
He turned to Mexico and said, with unexpected gravity, “I am sure that the emperor has told you that he trusts me because I accepted a pardon during the war. He thinks that will make our mutual friend hesitant to believe I am on his side.”
Mexico could not pretend that it was new information. Iturbide had already mentioned that fact less than discretely. Mexico suspected his reason was to make sure that he did not think of Quintana Roo as a way to reach Victoria. He was apparently unaware that the connection had already been established.
Quintana Roo continued, “But what he does not understand is why I took the pardon. It wasn’t political; it was personal.” Vicario finished the thought for him before Mexico could ask for clarification, “I gave birth to our daughter. We agreed that it was far too dangerous to have child on campaign. We needed to return to the capital for her sake and mine.”
Her husband took her hand tenderly like he could not contemplate life without her. Mexico felt he understood it in a distant kind of way. There were risks to war, and losing a family seemed like a difficult concept to ask anyone to face. He remembered deciding that he would take any punishment to make sure that Guerrero was safe with great clarity.
He started thinking about what promises Quintana Roo must have made to ensure that Victoria trusted him again. It must have been heartfelt and very convincing. He was about to ask when he heard the sound of urgent footsteps in the hallway.
He guessed immediately that it was one of Iturbide’s men, and he held back the thought. He felt the levity leave the room as the other’s heard it as well. Quintana Roo sharply pivoted the conversation, “So that is why it is essential that you reach out to more of Europe. The Netherlands is a good start, but we will be more stable if we can secure other ties.”
He looked up as the man in a military uniform entered the room in faux surprise and said, “Do you need something? This seems quite urgent.”
Mexico hid a smile at how convincing the ruse was. But it fell when the soldier turned and spoke to him directly, “The emperor requests that you return immediately. It is an important matter.”
He looked like someone who had been given the order to return with him and no other information, so Mexico did not bother to ask questions. He sighed deeply and wished that he could exchange knowing glances with Vicario. But he didn’t want Iturbide to have any report that might hint at conspiracy.
He said, “Well, I suppose I have to go. It has been a lovely dinner.” Vicario stood when he stood and took his hand sweetly. She said, with a knowing smile, “It is a pity. I am sure you would have liked dessert.”
Her eyes said something entirely different, and he could hear it as clearly as if she had spoken out loud: Tell us if this is something to do with Victoria. He nodded and replied, “I am sure that I would have.” With that Mexico turned and let his escort lead him out.
He heard Iturbide’s voice before he entered the room, “Are you certain that it was a plot?”
Mexico’s soldier escort had vanished as soon as they had returned to the national palace, so he was on his own. He stopped just outside the door, intrigued by what he was hearing. He had a feeling that going into the room would disrupt the conversation, and that he would learn far more by waiting and listening.
He moved close enough to glance through the partially open door. Bustamante had an urgent letter in his hand and was speaking to the emperor. Mexico didn’t see anyone else in the room, which meant that the emperor was alone with his closest confidant. If he could listen for a minute or two longer, then he was sure that he would hear interesting news that Iturbide would otherwise keep from him.
Bustamante responded, seeming to be drawing directly from the letter, “There is no mistaking it. Santa Anna knew that he was sending them into an ambush and did it intentionally. He wanted our commander killed in that moment.”
Iturbide drew in a shaky breath like he was deeply anxious. Mexico saw the shadow of him run a hand over his face, clearly agitated. Iturbide said, “How do we know it is insurrection and not merely ambition. Alejandro swears that-“
Mexico knew what he had already said about Santa Anna, and how much of it had been lies. Bustamante replied, “He may have hidden it well, but he is a traitor. I doubt it matters if he is driven by conviction or simple ambition. I think he has decided that his ambitions are best served with the republicans.”
Mexico drew in a breath through his nose. He had been waiting for news that Santa Anna had acted, but it seemed reckless to him. He hoped that Santa Anna had Victoria’s blessing for his action. If he was acting on his own, then it could endanger everything. If Victoria was not yet prepared for a swift response, it would be disastrous.
Bustamante asked another question, which made Mexico glad that he had waited and listened, “Do you think that Ale has any idea? He may have seen some hint of where the rebels are.”
Mexico drew in a breath at the thought that they had called him back to interrogate him about Santa Anna. He was prepared to lie, of course, but he did not relish the idea of being put on the spot. Iturbide replied, “You promised me that you would get an answer to that question.”
Mexico raised his eyebrow for a moment at what that could possibly mean. He couldn’t see the way that Bustamante reacted, but he heard his answer, “You have to give me time. It is not the easiest task.” Iturbide scoffed, “Or maybe he is just immune to your charms.”
At that Mexico decided he had been listening long enough. He knocked on the mostly closed door to let them know that he had arrived. He heard the conversation on the other side of the door go quiet.
Then Bustamante pulled open the door and immediately smiled at him and said, “Oh, you’re back.” Mexico tilted his head ever so slightly and said, “The emperor summoned me back, and took me away from a very good dinner by the way.”
He didn’t wait for Bustamante to invite him in. The demand that he return was enough of an invitation.
As he walked past Bustamante, he took note of the way that the man’s eyes lingered on him and traveled down his body. The conversation he had just heard collided in his mind about what Santa Anna had said about the man and his penchant for young men. Mexico could guess what it all was pointing towards. But he was no aide eager for the attention of a general and the possibility of promotion. He was not going to pause to humor the glances.
Instead, he walked all the way into the room and said, “So, Agustin, what is worth pulling me away from discussing foreign relations?”
He saw the slightest twitch in the man’s face like he suspected something. Iturbide said, leaning on a desk like he was calm and collected as if he had not just been anxiously pacing. He said, betraying only a little bit of what he thought, “You do seem to take a lot of interest in foreign policy.”
Mexico could hear the dig at the closeness of his relationship with Quintana Roo, but he refused to react. After all, it was Iturbide who had introduced him to the man. It would have been absurd to not expect closeness. He answered, “Well, as far as I can tell, cultivating alliances is the one thing that may persuade Antonio to stop breaking our treaty.” It was a sound enough excuse, and he also added, “And it is the one useful thing I can do since you don’t want me fighting.”
He knew why Iturbide didn’t want to put him closer to former insurgents. He would have been even more insistent about it if he knew Mexico had seen Victoria. Mexico had no confirmation of it, but he suspected that Iturbide had to know that Victoria was free and poised to cause him trouble.
Iturbide replied, his face falling out of the carefully cultivated look of self-assurance, “I don’t think Spain is going to be our biggest issue soon. That is why I called you back. I want to make sure that what I tell you stays between the three of us.”
He glanced at Bustamante, who then closed the door with a slightly dramatic thud. Content that they were alone, Iturbide continued, “I know that the republicans want to depose me. They have been meeting and plotting in secret.” Mexico crossed his legs and said, “Well, what are you going to do? Is there a real plot that you know of?”
He would have been shocked if he said yes, since as far as he knew there was not a solid plot yet. Iturbide shook his head as Bustamante drew closer. He answered the question, “No, not yet. But I know that I have to send my own troops to deal with Santa Anna. He is acting like I warned you he might.”
Mexico steepled his fingers like it was new information to him. He said, “You’re planning to move against him already? Will Congress approve of using the army for that?”
He didn’t continue the thought to say that Congress likely wouldn’t since he was sure that Iturbide already knew that Santa Anna was charismatic and popular. Iturbide’s face darkened at the reminder that there was still a Congress to be dealt with. He gave Bustamante a glance that spoke to some private conversation that Mexico had not overheard.
Then Iturbide let out a long sigh and said, “I will get their approval later. Those wheels turn slowly, and I need to act now.”
Mexico raised a skeptical eyebrow at him and countered, “But you will need approval eventually. You promised that you would keep the balance with democracy.”
He saw a dangerous light flash in the emperor’s eyes, and he knew that he had hit a nerve. Bustamante cut in, “We are aware. But we will have to be sure that the vote will be favorable.”
Iturbide hooked one finger in the collar of his uniform and pulled it like he needed air. He said, speaking partly to himself, “You understand why I need to move quickly. You understood the necessity before.”
Mexico drew in a breath through his nose. Acting without any backing from an elected body would empower the republicans, he was sure of it. It would make Iturbide look like a tyrant. Mexico knew that Victoria would like that, since it would give him more reasons to undo the empire. He would write a letter to pass to Victoria as soon as he could, and it might be soon enough to warn Santa Anna too.
He could feel Bustamante surveying him like he was waiting for some indication that he was in favor of the republic. Mexico knew how to conceal what he was thinking well enough. He replied, “I understood when we were discussing Spain. It is not the same thing when you’re sending troops against another commander. It will create a civil war.” He could see Bustamante’s eyebrows both rise slightly. Mexico doubled back to the guarantees, “I think it will be safer if you don’t act alone.”
Iturbide gave his collar another tug and Mexico wondered why he was still wearing it. It was late and there was no one he really needed to impress. He clearly felt like it was chafing him. He finally said, “As I said, I will. But I need the element of surprise. If I announce a vote, then some deputy who agrees with them will give them fair warning.”
He paused for a moment and looked away from Mexico. He added, “Who knows how many secretly believe that I should be deposed. Victoria is still technically appointed as a deputy. Who knows how many others harbor the same sentiments but don’t dare say them to me?”
Mexico didn’t know what to say to him. He wanted to say that it was inevitable since Iturbide had been the one to change sides and many of the insurgents had connections to each other. Cutting out Victoria and Guerrero from the Congress was not enough to sever those ties.
Before Mexico could say anything, Iturbide turned back to him and continued speaking, “But I am telling you now because I don’t want you to hear that fighting started without an explanation.”
Mexico knew he let his face slip enough that the emperor could see his concern. He drew closer and said, “Ale, listen to me. Every single man who chooses rebellion right now is not thinking of your welfare. I am sure that is what Spain is waiting for. He wants us fighting amongst ourselves so he can snatch you away.”
Mexico said, not bothering to hold back the thought since it didn’t incriminate anyone else, “So you are starting another fight to protect me?”
He knew that he should not have said it the moment it left his mouth. He saw Iturbide recoil ever so slightly. Mexico immediately knew that he should excuse himself before he said something more that he would regret. He tried to recover by saying, “I am tired. I should go to bed.”
Iturbide shook his head like he didn’t quite buy the excuse. He replied, “I do not intend that. I intend to stamp out a small fire before we have a wildfire.”
Mexico found it hard to believe that it would be so easy. Santa Anna didn’t seem like an easy man to subdue, unless Iturbide intended to kill him. Mexico nodded as though he agreed, and he was certain that the conversation was over. He stood and said, “Well, I hope the resolution comes quickly. May I go for the night?” Iturbide smiled slightly and said, “Of course. Do not worry; I will take care of it.”
Mexico did not believe him, but he gave him another slight nod before turning to leave. He looked ever so subtly at the mirror mounted on the wall. He saw that as he walked away Iturbide looked to Bustamante and gave a quick jerk of his head as if telling him to follow.
As subtly as he could, Mexico drew in a breath through his nose. He had hoped that his acting was over the night. Surely enough, as he walked down the hall, he heard the sound of someone following him.
Mexico turned on his heel and rounded on Bustamante, “Well, are you planning to follow me to bed?”
He said it sharply and hoped that Bustamante took the hint that he should back off. The man laughed at his comment like it was a shared joke, “I will if you want me to.” He paused for a beat as though waiting for an answer. Mexico took the opportunity to glare at him. Bustamante seemed to take the hint well enough and said, “I wanted to assure you that Agustin is moving with the utmost caution. He wouldn’t put you in more danger than necessary.”
Mexico scoffed, “Yes, I heard. I do not believe it more because you say it. You and he are the same voice.” He was sure that Bustamante already knew he didn’t need the repetition. He did not want to deal with whatever other conversation the man was trying to start, since he had a sneaking suspicion where those might go.
Bustamante seemed to reconsider his approach and then said, “If you need anything, you can come to me.” Mexico said, before turning away, “I’m sure that you would like that.”
The lock clicked as he turned the key. Mexico gave the door a firm rattle to make sure that it was really locked before he pulled out paper and ink. A letter to Victoria was dangerous, but he knew that he had to give them some warning.
He quickly marked down that an attack was coming and that he was completely certain that Santa Anna would soon be stripped of his command. He paused for only a moment before adding something that he knew was speculation.
The last time that Iturbide had been inconvenienced by Congress, he had simply ignored it. He had a gut feeling that Iturbide might make the decision even more permanent. Mexico weighed the pen in his hand and contemplated whether he was going a step too far.
He decided that he would temper his thoughts and scrawled, “I believe that he may move to dissolve the Congress.” It was uncertain enough that he had space to be wrong about what Iturbide would do next. He paused and tried to think of what else to say.
He could not help but feel like something more monumental was coming. He didn’t dare write it though, since he did not want the letter dismissed as his own paranoia. Instead, he folded up the letter, and placed it gently under his pillow.
Mexico tucked the letter into his jacket pocket in the morning before leaving to meet the emperor again. He hoped that Iturbide would be in a less unsettled mood. But when he found Iturbide, the man was bent over what seemed to be a number of decrees that he was furiously amending.
Mexico glanced over and asked, somewhat cautiously, “What are those?”
He could see that the imperial seal and signature on all the documents, but he couldn’t read them. Iturbide barely looked up at him as he answered the question, “Insurance against insurrection.”
He paused and then seemed to realize that he should explain more thoroughly. He explained, placing a hand on each piece of parchment as he referenced them, “This is my order to Echevarri. It instructs him to remove Santa Anna from all command.” He moved to the second document, “This is for if he refuses to give up power. It declares him a traitor and strips him of all of his titles.” He moved to the third, “This offers a pardon to any of his officers who abandon his cause. It will keep him from being able to raise an army against me.”
Mexico watched him talk and the thought crossed his mind: If an ambitious man willing to change sides is what scares you most, then the mirror must terrify you.
Instead, he said, “Do you really think it will come to that?”
Iturbide nodded, looking coldly resolved, “If it does, then it will be a fatal mistake. I will have him in front of the firing squad within the fortnight.”
Mexico could see a slightly manic light in the man’s eyes, and he could not imagine how Iturbide had the time to draw up so many documents already. He asked, “Did you sleep last night?”
He could only imagine that Iturbide had been up until the small hour writing endless degrees. Iturbide shook his head dismissively and answered, “I couldn’t sleep until I was sure I had all of this set. I will sleep better once Santa Anna is out of command.” There was a dark edge in his voice as he added, “Or dead.”
America stopped him, speaking like he was answering a teacher’s question, “He must have backed down! I know that he had to live to be president, and I also know that he is a coward.” Mexico turned to him with a cocked eyebrow and said, “You are assuming quite a lot. He wasn’t the man you met yet. At that point he still acted with abandon.”
He held back more that he wanted to say. He would love to say that time had taught Santa Anna caution, not cowardice. He was not quite ready to start that fight yet, and already knew that it would be coming eventually.
He shook his head and said, “No, Santa Anna was not going to back down. He risked his whole career with that move, and he wasn’t going to give up on the gamble. But it turned out that my other hunch was correct much sooner.”
“My informant had no doubt about it. There is a conspiracy to deny me authority with the next vote.”
Mexico had locked his jaw to stop it from falling open as he listened to the emperor spin out a tale that he had supposedly heard from one of his spies in Congress. He had been ranting for several minutes about how the republicans were a secret cabal in Congress and how they had been planning against him to deprive him of the powers of his office.
Mexico was almost certain that what he was saying could not be true since he had heard nothing of the sort from Victoria. But whatever had been said had been enough to set off Iturbide’s anxiety about his precarious position.
He continued, completely engrossed in his own theories, “The moment I announce that I am moving to crush rebellion, they intend to deny me the right to command my army.”
Mexico glanced at Bustamante to see if he was as alarmed as Mexico felt. The man had the carefully controlled expression of someone who was trying to measure when to say something. Iturbide had the dark circles under his eyes that gave Mexico no doubt that he had spent yet another sleepless night thinking about the possibility of being stripped of authority.
Iturbide ran his hand over his hair, and Mexico could almost imagine that he could see a smattering of grey hairs at his temples that had not been there before. Iturbide said, speaking seemingly to himself, “And if they can do that, what will they deprive me of next? My crown? My family? My life?”
At that Bustamante’s restraint broke and he interjected, “Agustin! We don’t know that they are planning any of that.”
Mexico tasted blood in his mouth as he realized that he had been biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything. He unclenched his jaw and rubbed the joint as he realized that the muscles were beginning to ache. Bustamante’s face looked concerned, but Mexico had no doubt that he was loyal, and would be loyal to the death. If Iturbide was choosing madness, then Bustamante would follow him.
His interjection seemed to break the cycle of paranoid thoughts, and Iturbide met Bustamante’s gaze in a way that almost looked like he was hoping for understanding. He said, “Maybe not yet. But if we let them set the precedent, then who knows what they may take next. I cannot allow anyone to stand in such open rebellion. It will only add credibility to Santa Anna’s cause if he decides to raise troops.”
Mexico heard the words in the uncurrent of what he was saying. It was the same thing he had suspected days before, and he had the unsent letter in his pocket to prove it. He had not yet had the time to leave and speak to Vicario, and he did not have the confidence to send such a sensitive letter in any other way. He broke his silence to say, “What do you intend to do about it?”
He could feel his own written words as heavy and prophetic. Iturbide confirmed exactly what he had suspected when he said, “I must permanently dissolve the Congress. I must do it before they strengthen any rebellion or weaken me.”
He had gone back to pacing and Mexico felt certain that he was going to wear a hole in the bottom of his boots if he was not more careful. Iturbide turned to Bustamante and said, “Anastasio, I need you to choose the men that we can trust absolutely. Form a junta; we will need it to govern.”
Bustamante seemed shocked at the sudden request and said, fumbling his words, “This is so sudden. I don’t know if-“
Iturbide cut him off, “Please. You are the only person I know I can trust, and you are my dearest friend. Can you not do this for me?”
Whatever hesitation Bustamante seemed to have crumbled and he said, “Of course. I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”
Mexico felt distinctly like he was treading on an intimate moment as he said, “You cannot do that.”
Iturbide turned to him and said, “I can, Ale. And it is essential that I do for both of our survival.”
Mexico narrowed his eyes at him. He did not appreciate the implication that he would fall if the empire fell. If anything, the republicans had shown far more interest in his protection. He said, explaining his point, “You promised representation. If you break that now, it will only make everything worse.” Iturbide scoffed and said, “Promises? They promised me that there would be no more rebellion. I was promised that they would support the empire and wouldn’t take up arms against me. I am not the first one who broke a promise.”
Mexico wanted to continue to argue with him, but he had a feeling that it would go poorly. He drew in a breath like he was about to start talking and he felt Bustamante lay a hand on his shoulder. And for the first time the touch didn’t feel like it had any ulterior motive except to stop him from saying anything damaging.
Mexico restrained himself enough to only say, “You do know this will give your enemies greater cause, right?” Iturbide confidently shook his head, “No, I don’t believe it will so long as they see what I do to those who rise against me.” Iturbide left a beat of silence before adding, “But to be safe, I want you to stay in the national palace until I have dealt with this threat. I don’t want you in harm’s way.”
Mexico bit his lip again to stop himself from arguing and he could taste blood again, and it brought to mind words he had said to Victoria a little over a year before about hoping that this experiment in empire did not end in blood on the Senate floor. Iturbide’s actions seemed to be careening in that direction. He couldn’t help but think to himself: How very like Ceasar.
Mexico waited anxiously for news of Santa Anna. His own impression of the man told him that Santa Anna would take the demand that he be demoted as a personal insult. He had a hard time imagining someone that brash and confident accepting a threat and slinking away into the night. But it took time for the orders to reach Veracruz, and it would take more time to know what the answer would be.
Mexico was reading in the palace garden in the midday sun a month later, waiting for news. There was a chill in the air, but he felt confined in his rooms. The gardens, though still confined, gave him a sense of freedom. He had read the words on the page several times, but he felt like he was not retaining any of it. He was wondering if Iturbide would even tell him when the news arrived or if he would have to wait for Victoria to send it to him through slower secret channels.
His question was answered by the thundering of hooves in the courtyard. Mexico stood in time to see a hurrying man on horseback. He looked tired, like he had ridden as fast as possible from Veracruz. Something that must have happened that was urgent enough to justify exhausting both the rider and the horse.
Mexico picked up his book and immediately headed for the emperor’s quarters. If a message was that urgent, then it would surely go straight to him. He came into the emperor’s office right before the messenger and Iturbide looked up at him to say, “What is wrong?”
Mexico said, only slightly breathless from scaling the stairs, “I believe he will tell you.” His timing was impeccable, and the soldier appeared in the doorway. Iturbide fixed an expectant eye on him and said, “Well? What has happened.”
The man took a moment to catch his breath before saying, “Your Highness, I’ve come from Veracruz. I rode as fast as I could.”
He doubled over and pulled in a breath while Iturbide looked at him impatiently. Mexico knew in his gut what the man would say before he said it. Santa Anna must have refused any demotion.
Sure enough, the man managed to say, “General Echávarri reports that Santa Anna has massed troops in Veracruz and has declared himself in open rebellion.”
Mexico could see the way the emperor was holding the stress of the moment on his shoulders. Iturbide said, “Very well, I have prepared for this. He will be declared a traitor. Tell the general that I either want him to bring back Santa Anna in chains or to bring me back his head.”
Mexico felt a chill go down his neck at how coolly the emperor pronounced the end of another man’s life. He realized that he had never seen the way that Iturbide had dealt with rebels before. Spain had said he had dismissed the man for cruelty, but Mexico had not seen it so clearly before. He looked at Iturbide with a new skepticism and thought that perhaps Victoria was right that he should be removed entirely.
The messenger swallowed heavily before saying, “There is more, sir.” Iturbide said immediately and sharply, “More?” The messenger nodded and said, “He is not alone. He issued a proclamation, and it was co-authored by Guadalupe Victoria.”
Iturbide’s face went pale. Mexico had thought that Iturbide had known Victoria was free and could become a threat. But he looked utterly shocked. Iturbide said, speaking softly, “How long has he been in Veracruz?”
The messenger looked around like he was wondering if he was expected to answer. Mexico shook his head slightly to tell him that he was not required to. Iturbide spoke more clearly to the man, “Very well. Tell the general that he is to bring them both back if he can so I can ensure they are properly punished.”
He added, seemingly out of sheer curiosity, “What are they demanding?”
The man looked uncomfortable answering the question, like letting the words pass over his lips would earn him the accusation of treason. But he also knew he couldn’t refuse the direct question, so he said, “They want the Congress reconvened and given power to decide everything in the state.”
To Mexico the answer seemed reasonable enough. The independence was fought for the right of the people to decide. Iturbide repeated bitterly, “Everything? I suppose they want the ability to decide if there should be an emperor.”
Mexico could hear the warning in his tone clearly. So too could the messenger, who very hesitantly said, “Yes, sir, I believe so.”
He looked like he was still terrified that he would say something incorrect and incur the emperor’s wrath. But Iturbide shook his head and said, “I expected as much. You may go.” The man bowed quickly and left.
Iturbide waited until he was gone before asking again, “How long has Victoria been in Veracruz?”
This time Mexico could feel that the question was pointed directly at him, and he answered it, “Why would I know the answer to that?”
Iturbide tilted his head like he was trying to measure Mexico’s honesty. He said, “I sent you there to look for signs of trouble. You told me that there were none. What I’m wondering is whether there were whispers you disregarded because I told you that Victoria was in jail.”
Mexico tried to read his eyes, to see if the question was a trap. It seemed like it was, and he decided to be careful, “If there were whispers, I did not hear them. If I had to guess, I would say that he heard Santa Anna’s call for troops and chose to join them.”
He hoped that Iturbide accepted his excuse and did not press him further. Iturbide said, “I hope that is the case. I would not sleep very soundly if I knew that I put you that close to a republican.”
Mexico met his eyes and noticed the dark circles under them. He replied, “Do you sleep at all, Agustin?” Iturbide seemed to take his point, and said, “No, I do not. I will rest much easier once this is all put down.”
America asked, seeming to guess at something that bothered Mexico at the time, “Didn’t you want to go fight?” He caught Mexico’s eye and said, with a tone that almost sounded like admiration, “If there is one thing I know for sure, it is that you fight for what you support.”
Mexico smiled, glad that America knew him so well. He answered, “Oh I wanted to. I thought about doing it even against Victoria’s directives that I stay there.”
He remembered the way that he itched to ride away from the confines of the capital and to take up his sword and guns again. He smirked and said, “But luckily for me, there was someone wiser to talk me out of it.”
Vicario took a drink of a cup of coffee before saying, “I am glad for the chance to speak with you. We have missed you at our dinner table.” Mexico was sitting across from her and said, as casually as he could, “The emperor has decided that it is best if I stay here.”
He didn’t have to say that he felt like a prisoner, she certainly heard it in the tone. He saw that she understood from the crease that formed between her eyebrows. She said, carefully, “He may be right. There is fighting in Veracruz, and our mutual friend has yet to succeed the way that we hoped he might. I brought you this to amuse yourself while you are here.”
She pushed a book across the table and Mexico could see that there was a letter from Victoria in the pages. Mexico knew better than to open it and draw attention to it. He would do that when he was alone in a locked bedroom. But the news that Victoria’s efforts were not going well filled him with anxious energy.
Mexico stood up and started to pace. He verbalized his feeling of impotence, “I wish I could go anywhere and be of use.”
He didn’t say exactly what he meant, since he wasn’t sure who might be listening. He clenched and unclenched his fists irritably as he thought about how useless he felt sitting in the palace while battle raged. He knew she was clever enough to hear the words he meant behind the words that he said.
Vicario gently put her cup aside and stood. She drew closer to him and took his hands gently, and said to him, “You need to have patience. I know it is difficult to wait for news, but it will not be helpful if you put yourself in danger.”
Mexico wanted to ask for greater details about the battles and what their position was. But he knew that she would not be able to tell him freely, and he would put her in danger by asking questions that were too obvious. He squeezed her hands comfortingly and said, “I know this is best, but I cannot help but feel restless.”
Her eyes were kind and understanding as she answered him, “It isn’t a sin to listen to your heart. But you have to temper it with your head.”
Mexico nodded, but he still felt anxious. Vicario, seeming to sense his anxiety, pulled him into a hug. She rested her head on his shoulder, and Mexico was amazed at how comforting it felt to have that kind of soft affection. No one had held him affectionately since he had last seen Guerrero.
She said, patting his back comfortingly, “You are a good man. You just need restraint.”
Mexico took the words to heart and silenced his own urge to run into battle. He knew better than he had when the independence had started. Then he would have gladly thrown all caution to the wind and charged directly into the danger. He knew it was childish behavior.
She spoke, in a barely audible whisper, “Take heart. The news has been spreading and our commanders have flocked to the cause. Right now, Guerrero and Bravo are at Almolonga facing the emperor’s troops. You know their competence. I am sure I will have good news for you soon.”
Mexico’s eyes widened at the news, and he tried not to show his surprise as she gently released him. He spoke in barely a whisper and hoped that she could read his lips, “Vicente is in battle right now?”
He could imagine the man in his mind’s eye, handsome astride his war horse. Vicario nodded and replied as she touched his face gently, “He’s fighting for you.” Mexico smiled and said, “Just as he promised he would when I saw him last.”
As the words left his mouth, he felt a pain shoot through the left side of his chest. He put his hand to the spot, utterly mystified by the source of the pain. It felt tender to the touch for no obvious reason.
He must have winced because Vicario asked, looking alarmed, “Are you alright?”
He took a moment to answer the question. He could feel no real damage, so he could not be injured. There was also nothing that could have injured him, and the pain was beginning to fade.
He said, trying to reassure her and himself, “I think so. It was just an odd pain.”
She nodded and said, “You represent a country at war, so that might happen.” He didn’t reply, though he filled in the words in his head: It has never happened before. She suggested, with the air of a concerned mother, “Perhaps you should get some rest.”
That night Mexico found himself once again at a loss for what to do. He was alone in his bedroom, and he had read through Victoria’s letter several times already. It detailed the battles so far and assured him that being pushed back to Veracruz was only a temporary setback. It urged him to stay where he was. “It will do no use for you to join us.”
It was surprisingly dry, which told Mexico that Victoria was more alarmed by the setbacks than he was saying. Victoria would have been much more effusive if there were victories to write about.
Mexico put it aside and looked out into the inky black night. The clouds had covered the stars and the only light was coming from his single candle. As he looked out the window, his own face reflected back at him. He could see the marks of exhaustion and worry in it, the fine lines and dark circles that had printed themselves on his skin.
He knew that he should do something, but both his enemy and his allies had told him that he must stay put. He wracked his brain for something he could do that would help. His gaze fell on the image of the virgin Mary that hung on his wall.
It had been years since he had asked God for anything, and he had rarely gotten an answer. But she had always been kinder to him. For all the times that God had been aloof and silent, Mary had felt like a listening ear. Perhaps, he mused, she can do something while I cannot.
He fished through the drawers of his desk for a rosary that he had put there at one point. Finally, he felt the beads and pulled it free. He dusted off the cross and the beads before turning back to the image of the only divine being who had ever seemed to care.
As he got to his knees, he thought about what he should pray for. His mind immediately lighted on Guerrero. The man he cared about the most deeply was facing danger on the battlefield and would need every assistance possible. His chest ached again when he thought of the man in that same spot right above his heart on the left side.
He bent his head and ran the beads between his fingers. He said, softly, “I rarely ask you for anything. But I am asking this. Please, if you can hear me, keep him safe and bring him victory.”
He intended to say more, but as he tried to bring the words to his mouth, a strange feeling rose in the back of his throat. It was like there was something tickling the back of his airway. He also tasted something sharp and metallic in his mouth.
Unable to stifle the feeling, he coughed into his hand. As he drew the hand away, he could see a dark shape on his hand. Alarmed, he moved the hand closer to the light. The dark spot shone red, and he felt his whole body shiver.
Strangely, it didn’t feel wet on his hand like blood should. The sight of it filled him with dread that chilled him to the bone. He felt his chest tighten and he couldn’t quite pull in a whole breath without the spot on his chest aching.
The candlelight wavered, and when he looked again the spot was gone.
There was nothing on the hand that Mexico was staring at. He looked at it with complete confusion. Had he fallen asleep? Was it a dream?
He turned to look back at the icon and said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, but I do not like it.” He decided to give up on the prayer and blew out the candle.
Mexico’s chest still felt strangely tight in the morning like something was preventing him from taking a deep breath. As soon as he was awake, he got dressed and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the central courtyard. He felt like he needed to breath and only truly fresh air would alleviate the feeling.
He kept his undershirt loose and his jacket unbuttoned so that he had room to breathe. He was pulling in deep breaths of the chilly air.
A figure on the ground caught his eye, as did the one trailing him. He would recognize Iturbide anywhere, even out of uniform. The man was up early and seemingly had something important to do. He was dressed casually, like he had woken up to something urgent and only bothered to dress in the bare minimum. Bustamante was at his elbow, in the same state of casual undress.
The next thing that Mexico was aware of in the silence of the morning was the crinkling of parchment. It must have been another missive. Mexico immediately assumed that it must be the results of a battle that had happened the day before. He moved closer to the edge of the balcony, hoping that he would be able to hear what the two said to each other. His heart was beating nervously, eager to know what had happened. They were two stories below, but the quiet afforded him the ability to listen.
They were both engrossed in what they were doing, so he could comfortably assume that they would not look up in his directions.
But as Iturbide read the letter, he let out a sound of excited triumph. Mexico could hear the words clearly, “Dead! Killed in battle!” His volume decreased only slightly as he said to Bustamante, “Now we can be certain of victory.”
Bustamante asked the question that Mexico desperately wanted to know the answer to, “Who?”
There was more crinkling as he took the letter. Mexico could feel his heart fluttering anxiously. There was a beat of agonizing silence before Bustamante said, with the sound of barely contained excitement, “Guerrero!”
Mexico’s heart dropped in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he let out a loud gasp. Two faces turned up to look at him. And he could distinctly make out Iturbide saying the word, “Damn.”
Mexico’s thoughts were racing. It didn’t seem real that Guerrero had fallen in battle. In his mind it was simply impossible that it could happen so far away from him and without his knowledge. He would have liked to stand and think about the question for a while longer and let his heart process what his ears had heard.
But his mind moved faster than both and reminded him that he had just been seen and Iturbide was certainly about to try to face him. There was nothing he wanted less than coming face to face with either of them. He was sure that they would stop him from doing anything and would judge the grief bubbling up in his chest.
There were two flights of stairs between them, and he had time. There was another set of stairs that would take him straight to the stables. From there he could take his horse and ride as far away as possible.
And then?
His mind drew a blank, but he was certain that he would have the time to consider that once he was away. His feet moved immediately as he had the thought. They carried him down the stairs and out to the stables, as he heard the pounding of footsteps behind him, or perhaps on completely different stairs. It was all so loud with his heart pounding anxiously in his ears that he could not tell.
The next coherent thought crossed his mind as he mounted his horse. He posed the question to himself: Where are you going? The answer came as he kicked his horse and took off across the cobbles. As far away as I can get.
He flew out of the city so fast that the wind stung his eyes. Only once he was far outside the city did the question occur to him again, more urgent. Where are you going?
He didn’t know the answer. To Guerrero perhaps? Guerrero was dead.
The thought hit with hideous clarity. It hadn’t sounded real when Iturbide said it, with that sickening sense of triumph. But it sounded real when he thought it to himself, so staggeringly real that he couldn’t deny to himself.
He pulled the horse to an abrupt stop. His heart felt heavy as a stone in his chest, so heavy that it was hard to keep moving.
A pained sob ripped its way out of his throat. It felt like it was coming from the depths of his soul. The sound was like the keening of some dying animal.
He dismounted the horse. There was no point in continuing to ride if he had no idea where he was going. He could see Guerrero’s face so clearly in his mind’s eye. The smile he had given him the last time they had seen each other, so confident of victory. Mexico could remember the feeling of their last embrace.
He howled his agony.
He ached to the depth of his being as he thought of how he would never feel those arms again. The words that Vicario had said echoed back to him, “He is fighting for you.”
My fault. He died for me. Like everyone else I’ve ever loved.
He tried to blink away the tears, but it was a lost battle. As soon as the tears started, they refused to stop. Once again, a man who had devoted his life to him had died a bloody death and he hadn’t even been there to see it.
The unbidden image flashed across his mind of Guerrero laying on the battlefield, eyes open and unseeing. Another agonizing sob rumbled out of his lungs. It felt like it tore the skin of his throat, like grief could hurt like a knife.
He put a hand to the locket that he still wore. It contained Guerrero’s portrait, but he could not stand to open it. If he could see Guerrero’s face, he knew it would break him beyond repair. His tears rolled off of his cheek and splattered on the gold of the locket. It felt like baptizing the object as a memento of the dead.
Mexico clapped a hand over his own mouth to muffle the ugly sobs that would not abate. It felt mortifying to be sobbing, in the open, like a dying animal. But the painful thoughts continued.
He had not even gotten a proper goodbye.
The last time they had seen each other it had only been a farewell until they were together again. There were words that Mexico had not said, ones that he had held back out of pain at the lies. The lies that seemed so small next to the enormity of the fact that he had held back those vital words.
Had he died thinking that Mexico still resented him? The thought made Mexico shake.
A small, merciful voice in his mind said, You can still say it. He knew that he couldn’t say it to a living person, but if he could find his body, then he could say one last goodbye. And perhaps that was what would make it feel the most concrete, to see the body laid out. Even if it shattered him to see the man’s face in the flesh, it would be worth it to tell him that he loved him one more time.
After that, he could let the sorrow take him completely. The whole world could go to hell as far as he cared. He just wanted to have his last moment for grief.
He knew for sure where the body would be since Vicario had told him the location of the battle. It was close enough that he could make it within the day on horseback. He took a shaky breath to try to steady his hands.
The sleeve of his jacket was surprisingly rough as he wiped it across his face to erase the tears. He was able to regain his composure enough to climb onto his horse and ride in the right direction. The wind in his sore eyes made the tears run again.
When he arrived, he realized that he had no idea where to go next. He could easily find the battlefield. It was never difficult to find a place where the earth had been torn up by so many horses and cannon shot.
And he had no doubt that since it had only been a day, there would still be bodies scattered over the battlefield. But it was different between a general and a common soldier. Someone must have pulled him off of the battlefield and taken him somewhere to be cleaned up and buried with dignity.
Even thinking of the man as a corpse rather than a living man made Mexico feel sick to his stomach. He had swore to himself that he was not going to cry, not after spending half the ride collecting himself. But even thinking about it made his eyes sting again.
As he thought, he started to walk. It seemed futile to look around for a hint of where someone would have brought the body, but he felt like he would crumble if he stood still.
As he walked through the streets, he noticed the stares that he was getting. It took him a moment to realize what he must look like. His jacket was still wide open, even though the day was cold. He was not wearing the right riding boots and there was dark mud splattered nearly up to his knees. His face must have been red. He knew from the outside that it must have been quite the sight, and he didn’t blame anyone for staring.
But the eyes on him were making him feel more conspicuous. If anyone were to dare to ask him what he was looking for, he was quite sure that he would burst into tears. He pulled his horse down a side street to avoid being seen.
His heart told him that it was the best thing to do, and he was far too tired to question what his instincts told him. He paused and thought about where he was going. He had no idea, and at the moment it felt like he had decided on the stupidest plan instead of taking his dignity and returning to the capital.
His head was starting to ache from the stress and the crying. He put it in his hands and closed his eyes. He rested there for a moment before opening his eyes again. As he did, something caught his eye. One of the houses, small and unassuming as it was, had a pair of fine riding boots sitting outside its front door.
They were caked in what looked like battlefield mud. Mexico felt the strangest thrill of recognition. Those were Guerrero’s boots; he was almost certain of it. He had seen those boots many mornings when Guerrero got dressed.
He inconspicuously secured his horse. Then he slipped behind the house. There were sheets hanging on a line like the owner had washed them recently. Tucked in among the white sheets, Mexico noticed that there were pieces of clothing. An undershirt and the jacket of a uniform with the general’s epaulets removed.
Seeing it sent an unpleasant shiver of recognition down Mexico’s spine. He put a hand on the jacket and ran his fingers over the fabric. His thumb caught on a hole. A bullet hole, right on the left breast.
He could imagine the shot, right through the chest. It had probably knocked him off of his horse.
Mexico felt his eyes burn again. He knew he needed to face the worst. He looked at the back door with utter foreboding. He couldn’t very well knock on the front and insist that he needed to see the body of a dead insurgent. But he could slip in quietly and say his last goodbyes and leave before anyone noticed his presence.
He dreaded seeing the reality that he knew would cause him pain, but he knew he would regret it all the more if he didn’t go in
. He took a deep breath and approached the door. It wasn’t locked, so it didn’t make much noise when he opened it. The heels of his boots made an unfortunate amount of noise on the floor as he snuck in.
He pushed on the closed door to the bedroom. He heard the sound of a gun cocking on the other side. A voice spoke, “Who’s there?”
Mexico froze. He knew that voice; he would have known it anywhere. He had spent the day convinced that he would never hear that voice again. He said, half convinced that he was hallucinating the other voice, “Chente?”
He pushed the rest of the way open, fully accepting that he would be shot if he was wrong.
There, unmistakable in the daylight, was Vicente Guerrero pointing a gun at the door. There was a mass of bandages around his chest, and his arm seemed to be shaking from the effort of holding the pistol.
His eyes widened and he said, “Ale? What are you doing here?”
Mexico felt the tears roll down his cheeks again. But this time it was out of pure relief. He felt like he was looking at a miracle, like he was seeing Lazarus. The wave of relief that washed over him could have easily knocked him off of his feet. His knees felt numb, like they might buckle at any point.
Mexico said, his voice sounding ragged from the crying, “Oh thank God.”
Unable to restrain himself, he rushed to Guerrero and took his face between the hands. It felt so reassuring to feel the warmth of the man’s flesh. He was warm and still so alive. It was solid and real and undeniable. Mexico’s heart, which had been so heavy, felt like it was alight.
He only vaguely registered that Guerrero had thrown his gun away.
Guerrero looked perplexed, but happy to see him. Mexico could see from his face that the wound must have bled terribly. The man looked wan and pale. There was still mud in his hair, undoubtedly from hitting the ground. But none of that mattered; he was alive.
Mexico repeated emphatically, “Thank God.”
Guerrero replied, clearly confused, and concerned, “Have you been crying? Why aren’t you properly dressed?”
Mexico tried to make himself and his state of undress more comprehensible as he said, “They said you had been killed. I thought you were dead.”
The word felt bitter and tasted of blood. But was not impossible to pronounce once he knew it was untrue. He could put it in the same comforting sentence: Vicente is not dead.
He saw the look of alarm on the mortal’s face, like this was the first time anyone had told him. Doubtless no one had given him news of the battle yet.
He said, “Oh, my dear, no one has taken me from you. Not yet.” Mexico couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s face to look at the bandages, but he could tell that the man had been injured badly. He could smell the blood and the soap that had been used to scrub away more of the grime.
Guerrero confirmed it when he said, “It was close though. If a loyal soldier hadn’t brought me here, I don’t know what would have happened. But fate is not ready to kill me yet.”
He pulled in a breath at the end of the sentence, like it had been a great effort to say so much. Mexico noticed for the first time that he sounded winded and was pulling in ragged breaths. If the bullet had not killed him, then it had hit him in the lung. It would explain the uneven breathing.
Almost like he was confirming the thought, Guerrero coughed into his hand, and Mexico caught the flash of red. Coughing blood.
Mexico shivered, though he was not sure what it meant that he had seen it before.
He repeated, unable to quite say anything else, “Chente, the report said you were killed in battle. I believed it.”
He felt like he was going to start sobbing again, this time from an entirely different emotion. Guerrero seemed to sense it and cupped his face with his good hand and said, “Don’t cry for me. Please don’t. I am right here with you. The report was wrong, love.”
Mexico drew in another shaky breath before he said, “I came here because I needed to tell you-“
He paused as the words were thick in his throat. He had intended to say them to a corpse, and yet they somehow stuck in his throat faced with a living man. Guerrero prompted him gently, using his right arm to stroke Mexico’s face softly, “What did you need to tell me?”
Mexico could hardly get the words out as he said, “I love you. And I couldn’t stand the thought that you were gone, and I hadn’t said it to you. I couldn’t stand the thought that I left you with my stupid selfish resentment.”
Guerrero’s lips curled into a warm smile, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mexico shook his head, certain that his point had not been clear enough, “I love you more than anything. I forgive you for everything.”
Before Guerrero could reply, Mexico pulled him firmly into a kiss that would convey his emotions better than words ever could.
