The Empire of Yearning (26 page)

D
IEGO APPROACHED THE EMPEROR
, who was observing the view from Chapultepec Castle, as if rehearsing the role of a general in command of his troops. He had a leather case looped to his waist belt to contain a spyglass. Just now, however, he had the instrument out and was peering through it. He did not have the appearance of a man who was about to abandon the country and decamp for Europe.

That was why Diego had come, to use whatever influence he still possessed to persuade the emperor to leave for his own good and for Mexico’s. Maximiliano was standing on the same balcony from which in former times he had liked to survey the construction of el Paseo de la Emperatriz, the great boulevard that would connect the castle to Mexico City. The work was still unfinished, and God knew whether it would ever be resumed. Maximiliano lowered his telescope and gazed unaided to the south, where the broad cobbled terrace was crammed with soldiers and tents. The castle’s grounds had been converted into a garrison.

“Ah, Serrano,” he said. He holstered the spyglass and greeted his guest in the Mexican fashion, with an
abrazo
—a cold and stiff embrace in this case.

A week had passed since Diego’s encounter with the empress. He wasted little time on pleasantries. He told Maximiliano that it was not too late for him to abandon Mexico. The liberals under Juárez were certain to triumph. If His Majesty accepted his fate, the war would end sooner, with fewer lives lost and much suffering averted. Besides, if he remained and were to be taken prisoner, he would certainly be put to death.

“On what grounds?”

Diego squinted in the highland sun. It shocked him that the man, even now, so misunderstood the nature of war, the darkness of it. He tried to explain. In the eyes of liberals, the emperor’s chief crime—apart from simply having come to this country—was the decree authorizing the summary dispatch of those who fought on the republican side. Already hundreds of men, perhaps thousands, had been put to death on the authority of this law. They included Baldemar Peralta. Among liberals, the edict was known as the Black Decree. It would not be forgiven, and Maximiliano would be held responsible.

“But that was all Márquez’s doing. He drafted the thing. It was his idea. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Your Majesty signed the document,” said Diego. “Or have I misunderstood?”

The emperor rested both elbows on the chest-high stone balustrade. “It’s all moot anyway, as I will not be taken prisoner. We shall fight, and we shall win. Look.” He waved toward the rows of tents assembled on the terrace below, the bustle of men and horses. “My army grows by the day.”

Diego shook his head. It was well known that three liberal armies were already advancing on the capital. The French had withdrawn, and the Americans were rearming Mexico’s liberals—clandestinely, but with a real effect. If the emperor meant to fight, it would be better to leave the capital now, while there was still time. The city was badly situated and impossible to defend. He said so.

“Perhaps,” said the emperor. “But I await the return of the French troops to our side. Most of them are still in Mexico, you know. They’re
camped out in Veracruz. Before long, their orders will change. The empress has already departed for France. She will explain the truth, and Napoleon will reverse himself. We have only to hold on till then.”

“She has already left?”

“Yes. Three days ago. With luck, she has already put Veracruz in her wake.”

“And the boy? Agustín? Surely now you will give him back to his mother?”

“Out of the question. The papers have all been signed. He shall be emperor one day. I’ve been more than fair. The woman is set for life.”

Diego did not give up. Ángela would not accept as much as a claco in compensation, he said. She must have her child. But the emperor refused to listen. He turned to observe the activity below. It seemed something was bothering him and, after a while, he spoke.

“Old friend …” He removed his hat and reached up with his free hand to worry at his brow. “What you just said about the question of execution …”

“Yes?”

“Surely Juárez would never approve such a thing. He and I are of a single mind. We hold the same beliefs. It is absurd that we are even at war. He would never countenance my death.”

Diego closed his eyes for several moments and then opened them again. He said, “Yes, Your Majesty. He would.”

“He might send me back to Europe at worst.”

Diego’s throat felt dry. He swallowed with difficulty and debated what to say. “Your Majesty,” he said, “please consider your situation carefully. I have said all that I can.” He turned and took his leave of the emperor of Mexico.

The main force of the imperial army departed Mexico City several days later, on a cool February morning, and Diego watched the retreat. He had found room on the terrace of the Monte de Piedad, which stood across the vast plaza from the Imperial Palace. The emperor rode at the column’s head alongside Márquez. The procession included a large
wooden cart pulled by a single draft horse, and Diego thought he could identify its contents—large folds of taffeta, much roping, and a boxy wicker basket large enough to contain two or three men. It was the emperor’s balloon.

Meanwhile, the imperial army stretched out behind its leaders, consisting of some nine thousand men, mainly infantry, but with a complement of cavalry and artillery. This small, ill-equipped corps fell far short of the force Márquez had promised to raise, and Diego wondered how long it could survive. It was known that the emperor’s army was bound for Querétaro, to the north, where they would dig in and make a stand for as long as they could, hoping the French would rejoin them in time, once Napoleon had changed his mind.

The procession also included members of the emperor’s private entourage. Diego could make out his valet and his chef, both mounted upon stout, shaggy ponies. Bombelles and a guard of hussars flanked their commander. Salm-Salm, easily identifiable by his wide-brimmed scarlet hat, rode not far behind. The loyal Doktor Basch slouched along atop a slowpoke bay horse with a sway back. Nearly all of the other European courtiers had remained behind, to potter about the hallways and the empty salons of Chapultepec Castle, though they too were on the brink of flight. Almost all the furniture and luxuries had been sold to raise money for the imperial army. The rest had been looted by their Mexican servants.

Diego lit a cigarette with his one good hand, rested his weight against the low wall that bordered the
azotea
, and watched the emperor and his army withdraw from Mexico City.

In a few minutes, the imperial forces had all but vanished from sight, receding toward the city’s northern gates. A smattering of onlookers descended from the rooftops surrounding the Zócalo, and Diego joined them. The streets below soon bustled once again with beggars and pariah dogs, itinerant vendors, and sturdy Mexican coaches. It was as if the emperor and his army had never passed this way, as if these past few years had never happened, as if Maximiliano had never reigned at all.

L
IFE IS RARELY AS
simple as anyone expects, and Diego’s rupture with Maximiliano was no different. He had thought he would be glad to be quit of the man. He had thought it would be a relief to take one side and renounce the other, to throw in his lot with the forces that backed Juárez and furthered the cause of progress and reform. And he was right. It was a relief.

But it was also more complicated than that. He found that he missed Maximiliano—not the monarch or the sovereign or the politician, but the man himself. He missed their early mornings at Chapultepec, when it almost seemed they ruled the world, just two men in a candle-lit study considering petitions and proposals, offers and counter-offers that came from every part of Mexico and all corners of the globe. During those sessions, Maximiliano was for the most part the epitome of sobriety, and yet he would sometimes lower his guard and perform hilarious imitations of Carlota’s father, the King of Belgium, or of his own older brother, the despised Franz Josef, or even of Labastida, the archbishop.

Diego missed their morning rides together out to the canals of Xochimilco, their breakfasts alone on a small private patio at Chapultepec,
their carriage journeys into the city. He recalled that night in Coyoacán when Maximiliano had gone among the common folk and, like them, had raced back and forth amid the whoosh and collision of rockets. He remembered the sensations that had almost overwhelmed him that first time they’d met, on that long-ago afternoon by the porte cochère at the Imperial Palace. From the outset, Maximiliano had treated him not as an equal—far from that—but as a respected confederate, no less deserving of respect than any other man. It was impossible for him to think of Maximiliano without fondness, despite all that had occurred.

Diego could readily imagine the horrors that were unfolding now. The siege of Querétaro had begun soon after the emperor’s arrival there. Almost at once, reports began to trickle back to the capital concerning the worsening conditions in that highland city. After decades of almost ceaseless war, Mexicans knew perfectly well what a siege entailed. It would not be long before the imperial army would run out of conventional sustenance, and so the long, dismal slide would begin. At first, men would slaughter their horses and sup upon their bones. When the horses were nearly gone, it would be time to butcher the mules. Still later, dogs would be put to the knife. Standards of hygiene would decline, slowly at first and then disastrously. The liberal armies that now surrounded the city would stop up the aqueducts with corpses. Maladies would flourish. Inevitably, the townspeople would suffer alongside the emperor’s army. Children would lose their fingernails to malnutrition, their skin would peel away in large flakes, their hair would turn orange. Then they would go blind.

But Diego knew the war was being waged not by siege alone. The republican side had mounted artillery batteries on the city’s outskirts and pounded the centre of Querétaro daily, from first light till dark. Regular skirmishes broke out between the two sides, with no decisive result. This standoff had dragged on for days at first and now for weeks. Diego knew the republicans could have unleashed an all-out assault upon the city, but that would be a perilous enterprise, costly in lives—and, worse, it might fail. By contrast, a siege was all but assured of eventual success, but it
was a cruel and demonic enterprise, exacting a terrible price not only from the enemy but also from the innocent.

Diego knew of a third option. The republicans could decapitate the enemy by seizing its leaders, by taking Maximiliano and General Márquez prisoner or else by killing them in battle. But it seemed they were unsure of the exact whereabouts of Maximiliano or Márquez, or their officers. Lacking that intelligence, the republicans pressed on with their siege. Either the enemy would surrender or he would starve.

Diego could imagine the conditions by now prevailing in Querétaro—the disease, the hunger, the stench. Matters would only grow worse. Tens of thousands more would have to die before this war would end. It was Beatríz who finally persuaded him to act. On a morning early in May, she appeared at his lodgings near La Ciudadela. She had journeyed from Cuernavaca in order to tell him what he already knew but had been trying not to face. He did not want to be the one to take this measure, but he was left with no choice.

“Go to Querétaro,” she said. “Find Maximiliano. He will listen to you.”

Neither of them referred to the man as the emperor or His Majesty any longer. He was simply Maximiliano.

“I don’t know if he will,” said Diego. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to anyone.”

“He’ll listen to you. This time he’ll have to. You’ll make him.”

“He didn’t listen to me before he left Mexico City.”

“His circumstances have changed,” she said. “Everything has changed.”

It was true. Everything had changed. But still Diego resisted. “He knows they’ll kill him if he surrenders.”

“They’ll kill him if he doesn’t—and take thousands more with him.”

She was right, of course. He took a deep breath and made it clear he submitted. Yes.

“When will you leave?” she asked him.

“Today.”

She seemed surprised, even though she must have known. “When will I see you?”

He produced a thin smile. “When this is over.”

He left that evening. He pulled a woollen serape over his cotton jacket and set his wide-brimmed hat low over his forehead. An unseasonable chill clung to the highland air. He departed Mexico City by the northern gates.

The darkness stretched ahead. As he rode, he thought about Baldemar, but not only about Baldemar. He thought about Ángela, about Beatríz, about Benito Juárez. He wondered how he had ever imagined that Mexico’s president was somehow responsible for what had gone wrong in the country. The opposite was true. Unlike so many others, Juárez had kept faith with his compatriots, firm in his belief that somehow Mexicans would prevail, the invaders would withdraw, and Mexican sovereignty would be preserved.

He urged his horse into an easy gallop, and they seemed to float through the highland darkness. By Diego’s reckoning, they were about halfway between the capital and Querétaro, near the town of Tlaxcoapan, and had been travelling roughly ten hours straight. He decided he would ease his pace before long. He would slow to a jog or even a walk in order to let his horse recover her wind and her legs. But not just yet. He wanted to make as much progress as he could in the coolness of the night, and so he pressed on. It was then that his horse came down badly on something in the track—a rock or a hardened rut. Her stride broke, her hindquarters swung around, and she nearly went down. In a matter of seconds, she pranced in circles on three legs. A pale light crept across the broad grasslands to the east.

Diego flung himself from the saddle and dropped to the ground. Within moments, he saw what had happened. She’d injured her near hind leg, and his heart sank at the sight of it. Just beneath the fetlock, the pastern bulged like the sprung stave of a barrel. Her nostrils flared, her lips curled back, her eyes rolled up into her head. She was frantic with pain. He gripped the reins close to the bit and tried to calm her.
“Tranquila,
chica. Cálmate, mi amor.
” He knew it was bad, but he didn’t want to face it.

“Shoot the bitch.”

Diego swung around at the sound of a man’s voice, and he saw a dark shape sauntering up out of the morning gloom. Despite the chill, the man was shirtless, and he carried a long carbine slung over his shoulder by a length of twine.

“One bullet just below the ear. There’s nothing else you can do. That’s a bowed tendon she’s got. No cure for that. She’s useless now. Got to shoot her.”

“
Shoot
her?” Diego struggled to hold his horse still. The man was crazy. “No, no. She’ll be all right. A little rest. She—”

“Sorry,” said the man. “That horse doesn’t want a little rest. It wants a long rest. That’s a bowed tendon there.”

By now, several other men had slouched up through the faint light of morning, past the rows of cactus that lined the dirt track running north to Querétaro. All were shirtless, and all carried rifles. Diego realized soon enough who they were—deserters from the army of Maximiliano. They’d thrown away their tunics, of course. That way, they’d be less likely to be recognized as soldiers. But they’d kept their weapons.

“Here,” said one. He pulled a large Colt from the belt of his trousers. “Use this.”

“We’ll lie her down for you,” said another of the men. “Easier that way.”

As if they had practised this manoeuvre countless times before, the men gathered around the horse. One reached beneath her belly and yanked her offside foreleg away. Just like that, she went down, and they piled on top of her. She sprawled on the dirt, head flat against the earth, chest heaving, and it was almost as though she knew what was coming—knew and accepted it.

“Go ahead,” said one of the men. “Do it. It’s the kindest thing you could do. Poor thing’s in misery.”

Diego knew it was true. Sometimes the only kindness left is to kill those you love. He took the Colt revolver that had been offered him
and hunched down beside her. “
Lo siento
,” he whispered. “
Lo siento, mi amor.
” He pressed the barrel against the brown fur beneath her left ear. He looked away, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil drove the butt of the gun back into his chest. Her head jerked to the side, one leg kicked out involuntarily, and then his horse was still.

“Better kill her again,” someone said. “Just to be sure.”

He did that too. His hand was shaking, and he couldn’t see a goddamned thing, but he managed to press the barrel of the pistol against her skull once more. He pulled the trigger again.

“There,” said the owner of the pistol. “That’s done.” He took back his weapon, wiped it on his pants. “Not meaning to be a bother, señor, but that’s two bullets I’m out.”

Diego paid the man for the bullets. He said he wouldn’t be needing the bridle or the saddle anymore. The men could help themselves to those, if they were of a mind to do so. He would be on his way. Quickly as he could, he shouldered his haversack and set out on foot for Querétaro.