The Empire of Yearning (28 page)

“Y
OU ARE IN POSSESSION
of a horse, I take it?” said General Escobedo.

Diego said that he was not. He had been obliged to shoot his horse along the road from Mexico City.

“A great shame,” Escobedo said. “Well, we shall fit you out with another. You will ride with us, of course? It would be a great help.”

Diego had already described the location where Maximiliano might be found, along with what little was left of his once magnificent entourage. Wasn’t that enough? But he understood it would be better to have a guide, someone who had made the journey already. Besides, he found that he deeply wished to be a part of this. He wanted to witness the emperor’s capture in Querétaro, just as he had observed the man’s arrival in Veracruz. Now, finally, the war would end. The siege would be lifted. The Black Decree would be revoked. No more men would be obliged to die as Baldemar had died, summarily, without trial.

“Yes,” he said.

“Very well.” Escobedo dispatched an orderly to see to the horses. They would ride in the
madrugada
, he said—in the darkness of the early morning.
By four o’clock, they were mounted—just two dozen men. This modest contingent was all that would be needed, said Escobedo. A larger group would follow at daybreak to secure the city once the main work was done. Escobedo reined his horse around and led the way, with Diego just behind. No one spoke. The moon had set, and the column advanced through the star-freckled darkness toward a treeless plateau and then filtered down a narrow
barranca
, the same ravine Diego had traced on foot early the previous day. They rode beneath the fresnos, whose cargo of dead men still strained from the branches, as if yearning even now to feel the earth against their feet. They entered the city proper through a gap in its walls, the horses choosing their steps warily through the heaps of rubble. The sentries had vanished.

Once within the city, Diego had expected to find the route without difficulty. But the darkness and its depths combined to unnerve him. Twice he misjudged the way, and the riders had to retrace their steps. Both times, he sensed Escobedo’s impatience. At last, he peered through the shadows ahead and thought he could make out the shape of the convent walls and, above them, the convent’s imposing bell tower with its tall wooden cross. The pressure eased in his chest, a signal of relief, but just as quickly the tension returned. Finally, the time had come. His heart pressed against his ribs.

He spoke in a whisper. “This way.”

Behind him, the column of horses and riders swung to the right, and immediately an alarm went up. Someone cried out, “Who goes there?”

No one responded, and shots rang out at once.

The resistance was light—lighter than Diego had expected. Still, by the time Escobedo and his soldiers broke through the convent gates, all those within had been given considerable warning. Teams of republican soldiers fanned out on foot through the corridors and courtyards, but it seemed the emperor’s party had fled on horseback. The only exception was Doktor Basch, who stumbled out into the stable yard all alone. He was still half-asleep, it seemed, and thoroughly confused. He did not realize he had been captured by liberals.

As for the rest of the emperor’s party, they had made a break for it, escaping by a separate set of gates at the rear of the stable.

“Come on, then,” shouted Escobedo.

He led the advance, and the others followed.

Diego kicked his heels into the flanks of the bay gelding he’d been loaned and cantered away with the rest. The horses careened through the debris-strewn streets and crossed beyond the city walls through another large gap, opened no doubt by an errant shell. Beyond a broad savannah, a large ridge of land rose in the western distance, visible in the thin light radiating from the east.

Someone shouted. “They’ve made for the Hill of Bells.”

Fearful that the emperor’s party would try to mount a last desperate stand from the summit, Escobedo ordered several of his best sharpshooters to veer out to the left and right, in search of a clear line.

“Then start firing,” he ordered.

It wasn’t long before the reports of their carbines rang through the cool air of morning. One of their bullets brought down the horse ridden by General Miramón, one of Maximiliano’s senior officers. The general wound up sprawled beneath his mount, his leg apparently broken by the fall. On Escobedo’s orders, several of the liberal riders reined back their horses to tend to the officer and take him prisoner.

The light rose, and flocks of sparrows sprang into the air, swooping crazily over the fields of cropped grass. The sun’s oblique morning rays beat across the land, exploding through pools of low-lying mist as the liberal fighters galloped toward the Hill of Bells. Their horses’ hooves thudded against the dew-slick ground. In the end, there was no battle. When the republicans reached the base of the hill, they found the emperor and a small party mounted on their horses, quietly awaiting their inevitable fate. Looking sallow and drawn, Salm-Salm slumped atop his horse at the emperor’s side. Another general—Mejía by name—lifted his peak cap in a mournful salute as Escobedo and his men drew their horses to a halt. Diego held back a little, dreading this moment as much as he had anticipated it.

“Your sword,” said Escobedo.

With some difficulty, Maximiliano separated his scabbard and its sword from the belt looped at his waist. He briefly held the scabbard high and only then surrendered it to the liberal officer.

“You have got the better of me on this day,” he said. His eyes searched the remaining riders until his gaze came to rest upon Diego. He nodded. His lips moved, almost imperceptibly, forming the words
el poeta manco.

“Your Majesty,” Diego whispered in reply. It had been true once.

On the general’s command, the party of riders turned and accompanied their captives back toward Querétaro and its coppery walls, glinting in the oblique rays of the rising sun. Desultory gunshots echoed from the town, but soon the reports abated, and the liberal squadron rode to the east, accompanied by scattered birdsong, toward what seemed like peace.

I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
, Diego joined a search party that ventured out from Querétaro in hopes of locating Ángela’s son, along with whatever remained of the emperor’s Montgolfier balloon. They found nothing. Still, word of the incident quickly spread as the tale found its way from one adobe hut to the next, from village to town and from town to village. After a month or so, Diego heard reports that the torn remnants of what must once have been a vast bolt of taffeta cloth had turned up, scattered across the overgrown slopes of the ancient Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacán, several hours’ ride to the northeast of Mexico City. A large wicker basket was discovered there as well, battered but more or less intact. There was no mention of a child.

As soon as he could, Diego rode out to see for himself. He spoke to any number of
campesinos
who dwelled in that region. They had mostly heard stories of a magical boy in an airborne vessel, but the chronicle had got mixed up with the legend of Quetzalcóatl, the prodigal man-god of ancient mythology whose eventual return had been foretold long ago. Many of those whom Diego spoke to believed that it was the god himself
or else the god’s own son who had sailed over the horizon in a boat that rode upon the air. As a result, they said, Quetzalcóatl dwelled among the people now, alive but invisible. Were the
campesinos
imagining this? Had the boy survived the flight? Had he been injured or killed? Had someone happened upon the child and taken him in? Diego found no answer to any of these questions, not then, not ever.

Later, once again in the capital, he called upon Ángela at her home in the calle San Francisco. He told her what little he knew. He assured her that he would not abandon his efforts to find her son. She nodded as he spoke, but she could say nothing, so close to breaking into sobs.

Following their capture, Maximiliano and what little remained of his retinue were incarcerated in the Convent of the Cross in Querétaro. A chorus of foreign governments, dignitaries, and heads of state pleaded for clemency. The voices included Andrew Johnson, the new president of the United States of America, and Queen Victoria of England, as well as the government of Prussia and the great French writer Victor Hugo. They did not include Franz Josef, Maximiliano’s older brother, who was overheard to have remarked, “I hope it doesn’t occur to him to come here. That’s all we need.” The Princess of Salm-Salm managed to win the release of her husband through a combination of bribes and intrigue. It was rumoured she offered herself to General Escobedo in exchange for the prince’s freedom. One way or another, Salm-Salm was released. He and his wife promptly departed Mexico, bound for France.

On the sixteenth day of June in the year 1867, the Council of War that had been convened to consider the charges against Ferdinand Maximilian von Hapsburg delivered its verdict. The Austrian was found guilty of thirteen charges, including the crime of acting against the integrity and independence of the Mexican republic. He was sentenced to death by firing squad, as were his two remaining generals, Miramón and Mejía. The execution was set for the nineteenth of June, three days hence.

Diego returned to Querétaro after the emperor’s trial and immediately sought permission to visit the man. In acknowledgment of his services on behalf of the liberal cause, Escobedo approved the request, and
Diego soon found himself in the confines of the convent, where Maximiliano and his fellow prisoners occupied two desolate rooms on the second floor, one for the use of the deposed emperor and the other for his haggard entourage.

When Diego appeared, the Austrian was resting on his travelling cot. At once he clambered to his feet, his limbs unfolding like scissor blades.

“You look unwell,” he said to Diego, although he himself looked vastly worse, worn and depleted, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, his thin hair dishevelled, his reddish beard flecked with grey. “Have you not been sleeping?”

Diego allowed that he had not.

“I see.” Maximiliano nodded. “Another bond between us.”

Diego grimaced. He was about to speak when Maximiliano cut him off.

“You did well,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I say, you did well. It was you, of course, who delivered me to my enemies. You informed them of my precise whereabouts. You did well.”

Diego wondered whether Maximiliano was mocking him. But maybe not. Maybe he was truly relieved that the conflict had finally come to an end. Besides, it was like him to heap praise upon an act that most men would have considered an unforgivable piece of treachery. Diego swallowed with some effort. “I thought you would be pardoned at trial,” he said. “I did not expect it to come to this.”

Maximiliano laughed, and his laughter had a hard, brittle sound, despite his weakened state. “Come,” he said. “We have been dishonest with each other a very long time. Let us not be dishonest now.” He shook his head. “Let us think of happier times.”

The two men embraced, and Maximiliano lowered himself onto his cot. He adjusted his weight. As he did so, he hummed a tune in a low, sad voice—”La Paloma.” Before long, he was fast asleep. Diego retrieved his hat. He took his leave of the remaining prisoners, one by one, and then departed the convent.

The next morning, Maximiliano was roused early from his bed. His
warders allowed him to make a final confession, or so Diego was later informed. After the prisoner had consumed a light breakfast, he was conducted in a black carriage to the foot of the Hill of Bells, followed by a second vehicle bearing his senior officers, Miramón and Mejía. Diego was among some two dozen observers who gathered to witness the event.

Overhead, a few slender clouds drifted through a pale blue sky, and the low sun cast an amber light. A company of guards led Maximiliano and his two Mexican generals to a grassy ledge partway up the Hill of Bells, where three stakes had been driven into the earth in preparation. Several saguaros loomed above the clearing, like thorny green sentinels. Diego watched as a pair of liberal soldiers led Maximiliano toward the stakes. The Austrian withdrew some coins from his pockets and turned them over to his guards. He glanced back at the members of the firing squad who were assembling, and it seemed he meant that the coins should be divided among them as well. Among his executioners.

The guards allowed Maximiliano to address the gathering, albeit briefly. The Austrian removed his hat and clasped it to his chest.

“I am going to die for a just cause, the independence and liberty of Mexico,” he said in a thin voice that trembled only a little. “May my blood put an end to the misfortunes of this land.
¡Viva México!
”

He fell silent and closed his eyes for several moments before opening them again and seeming to smile. One of his guards took him by the shoulders and said something in a low voice. Maximiliano replaced his hat. He stumbled as several young Mexican servicemen stood him against one of the outside stakes, the one to the left of Miramón, who occupied the middle place. Maximiliano thrust his shoulders back and nodded at each of the two condemned men who were being manoeuvred into positions on his right. He shifted his gaze toward the east, toward the city of Querétaro and perhaps beyond, toward whatever could be imagined there. He held his head high, slightly tilted and with a quizzical expression, as if he were straining to hear something that came from far away. The soldiers in the firing squad raised their rifles, set the wooden
stocks against their shoulders. They squinted down along the barrels, waiting for the order to fire.

Diego had seen enough. He reined his horse around and rode away from the Hill of Bells, back toward Querétaro. His mount quickened its pace and soon broke into a canter. Behind him, a fusillade of shots cracked against the still surface of the morning, followed by a second barrage, and a third. He counted seven in all. He did not turn around. He did not look back.

Still, his eyes began to smart, and soon his gaze was blurring. He recalled something Maximiliano had once said, in Cuernavaca, at the House of Borda. The emperor had been standing against a backdrop of jacaranda trees, poinsettia, and royal palms. In Diego’s recollection, he was cradling a goblet of Riesling in one hand and a cigarette in the other, dressed in walking boots, knickerbockers, and a white cotton blouse. He was freshly returned from a morning of prospecting for botanical specimens in the tangled ravines nearby, on yet another glorious day.

“When the sun shines in Mexico,” Maximiliano had declared, speaking to no one or maybe to himself alone, “you think it will shine forever.”

And now Diego smiled. His eyes still stung and watered, and yet he smiled. Because it was true. You did. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode at a gallop toward Querétaro. There he meant to collect his few possessions and then head south, bound for Cuernavaca, where Beatríz would be waiting. The wind whipped his hair, and the earth seemed to tumble beneath the quickening pace of his horse’s hooves. By now, the sun had climbed well above the horizon. The early clouds had burned away, leaving a dome of marian blue that arched over the central highlands of Mexico.

The day ahead promised to be splendid.