The Empire of Yearning

by Oakland Ross

  That was what he should do. Leave Mexico entirely. The truth was, he had Baldemar’s authority to do so, to journey north by sea. That was what they had spoken of, in whispered voices, the last time they had met. They had discussed Spencer rifles and Baldemar’s desperate need for weaponry and how Diego might help. He would have to head north yet again but this time by a different route and with a different destination. He had dreaded the prospect before, but now he saw it instead as a godsend. He could leave right away. Why not? There was nothing to stop him. Better that than remain here, serving a man who would appoint the Tiger of Tacubaya as minister of anything. The more he thought about the idea, the more convinced he felt that it was impossible to do anything except leave. Leave at once.

  The emperor stood, reached out with both arms and stretched. He stifled a yawn. “Damned tired, all of a sudden,” he said. “Well then, Serrano. Tomorrow at the usual hour? Serrano? Are you listening to me?”

  Diego looked up. In fact, he had not been paying attention at all. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  CHAPTER 36

  DIEGO WOULD LEAVE MEXICO, but not just yet. First, he had to attend to one or two other matters. If only he could determine the whereabouts of Ángela’s son, he might be able to reunite the child with its mother. That would hardly be the case if Bazaine were permitted to carry out his far more militant operation. It was a faint hope, but he felt honour-bound to try.

  And so, two days after Bazaine’s meeting with the emperor, Diego made his way to the archbishop’s residence, not far from the Zócalo. He presented his card at the entrance and was soon ushered into the prelate’s dining room. It was mid-morning, but Labastida was still at breakfast, a dish of crepes. He was alone except for the Prince of Salm-Salm, who was wearing clerical robes, in his role as Padre Fischer.

  “Ah, el poeta manco,” said Salm-Salm. He raised a cup of coffee in a sort of salute. “I heard you were stopping by.”

  He had? From whom?

  The archbishop remained focused on his meal.

  “Come, sit down,” said Salm-Salm. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” Diego took a seat by the long hardwood table. He rested his hat on the chair beside him. He wondered again what Salm-Salm was up to. Did he have some clear goal or did he merely love to connive? He turned to the prince. “What brings you here?”

  “I like to keep up. Did you manage to meet Monseñor Meglia while he was in Mexico?”

  “I did. Briefly.”

  Salm-Salm whistled. “Huevos,” he said and made a rude gesture with both hands.

  “Please …” said the archbishop. He pushed his plate away. “The man merely expressed the view of Rome, a view we share in every particular, I am happy to say.”

  Diego decided to plunge straight in. “I have come to discuss the boy.”

  “Ángela’s son,” said Salm-Salm. “We were just talking about the case.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” said Labastida. “Not in that quarter. We have one subject to discuss. The reform laws. They must be repealed in their entirety.”

  “And only then will the boy be released?”

  “I say nothing of the boy.”

  Salm-Salm edged forward, placed both arms on the table. “Personally, I would prefer to discuss Ángela,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No.”

  Salm-Salm narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure? You’re quite positive?”

  “Yes—I mean no. I don’t know where she is.”

  Salm-Salm narrowed his gaze still further, and Diego felt as if the man’s eyes were boring a pair of holes right through him.

  He shifted uneasily in his chair. “Is there more coffee?”

  He wanted to turn the discussion back to Ángela’s son. He was just about to speak when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. A minion of the church entered and announced the arrival of a messenger from Maréchal Bazaine.

  “Show him in,” said Labastida.

  A young soldier strode briskly into the room and held up an envelope.

  “Read it,” said Labastida.

  The soldier opened the missive and read the document aloud, speaking in a heavy French accent. It turned out that Bazaine stood at this very instant in the centre of the Zócalo, along with two batteries of sixteen-pound cannon. The pieces were primed to fire and were trained upon the twin bell towers of the archbishop’s beloved cathedral. Unless the prelate acceded to his demands immediately, Bazaine meant to blow the building to rubble, starting at the top and working his way down.

  This news was so shocking that a few moments were required for the full import to sink in. Once it did, the archbishop put a hand to his heart and slumped at his table, chest heaving, as the colour ran from his large round face.

  “The gall,” he said. “The unholy gall.”

  An able-bodied man might have been able to make the journey from the archbishop’s residence to the city’s central plaza in a matter of several minutes, but the archbishop was not an able-bodied man. Still, he set off on foot. Guided by his secretary and a coterie of priests, he lumbered up the cobbled street. Salm-Salm and Diego followed at a distance as the procession made its slow way up the cobbles toward the Metropolitan Cathedral, pausing often so that the prelate might catch his breath. Eventually, the party rounded upon the Zócalo.

  Just as advertised, Bazaine stood near the centre of the square, several paces from a pair of cannons. When he saw the archbishop, the Frenchman removed his cap in a gesture of salutation.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in a voice that carried easily on the cool morning air. He announced that he had already ordered both his gun captains to arm their pieces. This, he explained, merely involved pushing half-pound paper sacks of powder into the cannon muzzles, followed by sixteen-pound balls of lead. It remained only for him to give the order to fire.

  Bazaine paused and tilted his head. He conceded that the sixteen-pounders were ornery beasts, a challenge to aim accurately. Still, at this range and with this target, he doubted the difficulties would prove insurmountable. Besides, both batteries were well supplied with powder and shot. If necessary, they could pass the entire morning blasting away.

  “My terms are simple,” he said. “Release the son of Ángela Peralta into the protection of the French army at once. Or face the consequences.”

  The archbishop was still out of breath but had recovered some of his composure and pugnacity. He raised himself to his full height and held up a clenched fist.

  “God damn you, sir,” he said. “God damn you. I instruct you to remove your cannons instantly. You are committing a crime against the Church.”

  “Indeed?” said Bazaine. “Well, I have been accused of worse. As for the cannons, their presence or absence is entirely up to you. You have only to comply with my terms. Otherwise, your blessed cathedral will forego its bell towers, after which I shall give some thought as to the fate of its roof. You have considered my demands?”

  “I have. They are an outrage.”

  Bazaine frowned. “This is your answer?”

  “It is.”

  Evidently, the prelate had decided to call the French officer’s bluff.

  “He is making a mistake,” Diego whispered.

  Salm-Salm snickered. “I have no doubt of it. Delightful.”

  Bazaine consulted his timepiece and held up a hand to test the speed and direction of the wind. He replaced his watch in the side pocket of his military frock coat. “I urge you once again to accept my terms.”

  “You have heard my answer.”

  “I see.” Bazaine turned to one of his gun captains. “Monsieur le capitaine,” he said, speaking in a loud, theatrical voice. “How long are the fuses?”

  “Three seconds, mon maréchal.”

  “Very good.” The French marshal turned to the archbishop. “Three seconds, Monseñor. In my experience, they pass very quickly. You do not wish to reconsider?”

  Labastida shook his head. No.

  �
�Very well.” Bazaine instructed his gun captain to proceed.

  The artillery men took their positions behind the near piece. The captain accepted a proffered torch and touched the flame to the vent behind the breech of the sixteen-pounder. The fuse made a low, whooshing sound, followed three seconds later by a phenomenal blast and a billowing curtain of smoke. The cannon recoiled with an awful shriek, rocking back on its carriage like a rearing horse.

  Diego turned at once toward the cathedral, expecting to see one of the steeples crumble. Instead—nothing. He heard a deep thudding impact somewhere beyond the cathedral. It seemed that the ball had overshot its mark. Had it landed upon a house?

  “You are in luck,” said Bazaine, addressing the archbishop. “You have been granted a reprieve. But I doubt that my men will miss a second time. Do you wish to alter your position?”

  “Certainly not,” said Labastida, who still seemed convinced that the Frenchman was merely testing his resolve. “I warn you that this entire episode will be reported to Rome, with the gravest consequences for you and your men. I do not doubt that you will all be excommunicated.”

  Bazaine thrust back his shoulders. “I warn you, Monseñor, that I grow weary of these threats.”

  “May your soul rot in hell.”

  “Where it will not lack for company.” Bazaine ordered his second gun captain to proceed.

  This time, there was no mistake. The morning air cracked as the ball raced headlong into the northernmost of the building’s two massive, colonnaded steeples, each the size of a substantial church.

  The impact was visible a few instants before it could be heard. Great shards of stone blew outward, and several columns seemed to crumple, tottering upon their bases before slanting sideways and breaking into huge pieces that tumbled into the square below, crashing upon the cobbles and scattering across the gardens and walkways. A great cast-iron bell, itself taller than a man, slowly began to slip from its sagging support beam. The beam cracked, broke loose, swung out over the square, and the entire works plummeted to the ground, where the great bell slammed into the stones with a colossal force, sundering into several sections.

  The archbishop let out a cry followed by a long, anguished moan. He slumped to his knees. Several priests sought to manoeuvre him into his chair on wheels, which had been retrieved from his home.

  Large knots of passersby had gathered in the huge plaza, and they gaped in silence. How many coups and civil wars had ravaged Mexico over the decades? Dozens or more—and many of them had been decided in this very square, with no shortage of death or destruction. But no one had ever imagined anything like this.

  “Rearm the cannons,” said Bazaine.

  It wasn’t necessary. The archbishop’s aides were already rushing forward, arms outstretched. They pleaded with the French officer to stop, stop, for the love of God. Labastida slumped in his chair on wheels in a stupor. He gasped for breath, trembling and shaking as his attendants opened parasols to shade him from the sun and plied him with water.

  Finally, the archbishop was well enough to speak. His voice was hoarse and feeble, his colour wan. Yes, he acceded to the Frenchman’s demands. Yes, he would deliver the son of Ángela Peralta into the protection of the French army. Just please put an end to this merciless, demonic destruction. Spare the cathedral, for God’s sake.

  “Very well,” said Bazaine. He adjusted his collar and straightened his cap. “As there is no shortage of witnesses, I shall take you at your word.”

  As a precaution, however, he ordered his men to leave the cannons in their positions and under guard. If necessary, they would be ready to fire again at a moment’s notice.

  CHAPTER 37

  A LETTER ARRIVED FOR DIEGO, written in a compact, precise hand and signed by Beatríz. She wrote that preparations were being made to receive a child at la Casa del Olvido, where Ángela Peralta had formerly stayed as the emperor’s mistress. A governess had been engaged, and various appurtenances had been delivered, including a small bed, a variety of playthings, a pram, and other articles, all indicating beyond doubt that a young child was soon to take up residence.

  Beatríz asked don Diego what he thought she should do. It was clear the boy belonged with his mother.

  Diego put the letter down. He was sure the emperor had caused these arrangements to be made. He thought it likely that Salm-Salm was somehow involved as well. He composed a brief letter to Beatríz, suggesting that nothing be done for the moment. The boy would undoubtedly be kept safe. In the meantime, they should wait and see. There was really nothing else they could do. He did not think it would be as easy to pluck Ángela’s son from the little house in Cuernavaca as it had been to rescue Ángela. Security measures were bound to be tighter now.

  He was about to dispatch a reply by courier when it struck him that he might as well deliver the letter in person. He would pass through Cuernavaca on his way to the western sea coast in any case. The prospect of stopping there for a time immediately raised his spirits. That afternoon, he caught himself whistling aloud as he went about making preparations for his departure. In the evening, he informed the emperor of his intentions, without revealing their true purpose, and Maximiliano provided his blessing.

  Diego departed early the next morning. His route took him over the high sierra to the west of the capital and then downward through waves of blond grass and humming pine forests. He carried in his baggage the ambrotype image he had obtained in New York City, wrapped in paper and cotton and carefully enclosed in a bolt of black velvet to safeguard it from harm.

  It was late afternoon by the time he reached Cuernavaca, and he made his way directly to the House of Borda. He found Beatríz in the gardens, with a basket over her arm, clipping flowers. Her hair was done up in ribbons, and her dark skin seemed to shine in the dusky light.

  “Don Diego …” she said in a voice that suggested she had in fact been expecting his arrival and had been wondering what was taking him so long.

  He smiled. “I got your letter.”

  “And you came all this way in person to deliver your reply?”

  “Yes … or, I mean, no. Or …” He shook his head. “Well, I am here.”

  “And most welcome, too.”

  She set the basket down on the grass and led him to a marble bench sheltered by a vine-encumbered trellis. The bench overlooked the artificial lake, where goldfish surfaced now and then, snapping at flies.

  “We can talk here,” the girl said.

  “Talk?” he said. “About what?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced at what little remained of his left arm. “Why not about what happened to your arm?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  But he told it. He could sense that she really did want to hear it, and so he found himself talking about an episode that he had rarely recounted to anyone. Baldemar knew, of course, as did Ángela, but he had spoken to very few others. Six years had passed by since that day in April 1859 when liberals and conservatives squared off in the Battle of Tacubaya, named for the town located only a couple of leagues from Chapultepec. It was to be the first and last engagement in Diego’s military career. At the time, he’d had no experience of war, but that was true as well of the other young liberals at his side. And yet they leapt into the fray just the same.

  Diego carried his long-barrelled Colt revolving pistol. It was an effective weapon in the hands of someone adept with firearms but of limited use in the hands of someone like him. He and the others set out for Tacubaya on horseback but left their mounts in the care of a blacksmith who ran a livery stable at the edge of the town. They were close enough now to hear the din of combat, and Diego felt his heart racing. He shuddered and ducked instinctively at each roar, each blast, and his fear must have been obvious to his companions, but they did not seem to share it. They seemed excited rather than afraid—Baldemar most of all.

  Something exploded nearby with a colossal din, and Diego ducked instinctively.

  “You don’t need to
do that,” Baldemar said. “We’re out of range.”

  How on earth did he know? Diego’s breathing came in shallow bursts. No matter how much he tried to calm himself, he was unable to. Every fibre in his body felt stretched to the limit, about to snap. They were advancing on foot now toward the source of the mayhem. They reached an intersection, mostly unprotected. They were so close to the fighting. One by one, Diego’s companions darted across a rutted lane to take what shelter they could by a low stone wall. Here and there, the earth burst upward in miniature explosions as bullets bit into the ground. Diego was the last one to cross the road. Dear God, he did not want to do this. But he somehow willed himself forward. He gritted his teeth and ran, trying to keep down.

  Something went wrong. Either he tripped over his own feet or some other force knocked him over. One way or the other, he was suddenly somersaulting through the air and wound up sprawled on the road, the crack of bullets and the rumpus of cannon fire all round. He tried to get up, but his left arm would not cooperate. He put most of his weight on his right, with his pistol clutched in that hand, but still he couldn’t seem to manage it. He could not get up. It was Baldemar who hurried back and dragged him across the road to something like safety in the frail shelter of the stone wall.

  Blood was pumping from his left arm, the limb badly mangled, a tangle of cloth, blood, and exposed bone—as if it had been hit by grape-shot from a cannon.

  Or by a pistol. A pistol at very close quarters.

  The others must have assumed it was a cannon blast that had caught him, but even then Diego realized it probably wasn’t so. Either he had managed to shoot himself while in the act of falling down, or he had first shot himself and then fallen down.

  Apart from Diego, only Baldemar understood what happened. He checked the chambers of Diego’s Colt and, sure enough, one round was missing.