The Empire of Yearning (16 page)

G
ENERAL
G
RANT WAS DRINKING
coffee at a trestle table set up on the lawn in front of Dr. Epps’s house. He had evidently been alerted to the arrival of a Mexican emissary. When Diego appeared, the general was already on his feet. He invited his guest to join him for coffee, unless he preferred something stronger.

“Coffee would do well,” said Diego.

Grant smiled amiably and got up. He was broad of face, with prominent, almost rock-like features, and he wore a full beard and moustache. He removed the pot from its place by the fire, filling two tin mugs. He returned to the table. “I have many fond memories of your land and your people,” he said. Nonetheless, he wished he had never participated in the Mexican war, as unjust a contest as had ever been waged by one country against another. But it was done now, and its outcome would not be altered by any act of man.

“No,” said Diego. “Unfortunately for us.”

“Most unfortunately for you.”

For a time, they continued to discuss the many injustices and sorry
consequences of that long-ago war, until Grant shrugged and nodded toward Diego’s mug. “Will you have more coffee?”

“No, thank you. But I believe you mentioned something stronger?”

“Then bourbon is the answer.” Grant waved at an orderly, who promptly attended to the serving of drinks. The general raised his glass. “You would think this war would have blocked the supply of two commodities before all others—tobacco and bourbon. And yet it is not so.” He raised his glass, settled into his chair, and took a first swallow. He glanced at Diego’s left arm. “I take it you have known something of soldiering yourself.”

Diego nodded and spoke without thinking. “But all that is in the past now.”

“Is it? I have always found that the past has a disagreeable tendency to overstay its welcome. We would fight many fewer wars if it were not so.”

“I stand corrected. What you say is true, in my country more than most. In Mexico, the past endures forever.”

“So I have heard. But I do not think that you have come to speak of philosophy.”

“No.” Diego swallowed a mouthful of bourbon. “No, I have not. I have come to speak of the future.”

“I thought as much.” The American general thrust out his legs and crossed his arms behind his head. He told the orderly to leave the bottle of bourbon. It was in safe hands. “Very well,” he said. “Speak to me of the future.”

Diego spent the night in a tent set up for his use. When he left in the morning, he possessed a fair understanding of what might be expected
from the United States once its terrible war was concluded. He understood as well that the conflict’s end was closer than he had imagined, and its outcome was as plain as the lines upon the palm of his hand.

In their long conversation on the subject, Grant had left no doubt that the U.S. government would take an extremely dim view of the presence of French troops in Mexico. In time of war, he explained, a government does not like to antagonize another power unnecessarily, and so Washington had been reluctant to court the displeasure of Paris. But, once his country’s own internal conflict was ended, he believed that President Lincoln would declare its firm support for Benito Juárez, the rightful president of the Mexican republic.

But no, he said—anticipating Diego’s next question—this policy would not extend to authorizing the provision of arms or other military equipment to the republican side. He paused, and his expression changed, if only for an instant, into what might have been a smile.

“I refer to policy,” he said. On the other hand, there is
practice.
”

“I believe I understand you,” said Diego. “It is to discuss the practical aspects that I have come to your country.”

“And sought me out,” said Grant, “as a friend of Mexico.”

“Yes. As a friend of Mexico.”

It was now that the two men began to converse in serious terms. Diego learned, for example, that there was a most talented, resourceful, and innovative young man to be found in a Texas town called Franklin. His name was J.S. Bartlett, and he was the correspondent in that region for the
Boston Journal
, a reputable publication.

“‘A reputable publication,’” said Diego. “In my country, many would call that a contradiction in terms.”

“Yes, well …” said Grant. He laughed. “In
this
country, the press is invariably above reproach of any kind. But regarding Bartlett, I believe his sympathies correspond closely to those of President Lincoln, at least as regards Mexico. Moreover, he is employed as the United States customs agent in that region, which makes him a useful man to know. I would urge you, if you should ever find yourself in Franklin, Texas, to look the man up.”

Grant continued speaking, and so Diego found himself becoming increasingly familiar with a variety of American weaponry called the Spencer carbine, a breech-loading rifle that had been introduced into service in 1863 and had proved itself in battle, especially when augmented by the Blakeslee quick-loading cartridge box. Some ninety-five thousand of these rifles had so far been purchased by the U.S. government for its troops, and it was more than likely that some portion of these firearms would become supernumerary once hostilities had ceased. It was difficult to say how many weapons would fall into this category but, in round numbers, one could certainly speak in terms of tens of thousands.

“I see,” said Diego.

“You must speak with Mr. Bartlett,” said Grant as the two men shook hands before parting. “If you are ever in the fine town of Franklin, Texas, Mr. Bartlett is certainly the man to see.”

On his return to Washington, D.C., Diego conducted meetings with diverse individuals, all of whom had been recommended to him by Ulysses S. Grant. Later, he travelled by train to New York City, where he retained the services of a local portraitist, a man named Hoskins who was adept in the reproduction of images according to a process known as ambrotype. Hoskins accompanied him in a hired coach that transported them both to New Rochelle, a rather dismal suburb of the city, where Diego sought out a Mexican woman by the name of Margarita Maza de Juárez, a gracious matriarch who was living there with her three daughters and three sons. She was the wife of the Mexican president, and she had been dispatched to New York City some months earlier for her safety and that of her family. Baldemar Peralta had given him the woman’s address during
their last conversation. Diego’s meeting with the woman lasted an hour or so. During its course, the man named Hoskins prepared two ambrotype images of the entire family, whose members included an infant son just a few months old. The portraitist said the image needed only to be mounted under glass upon a dark background—a bolt of black velvet, for example—to be complete.

Diego thanked him. He believed this modest acquisition, a likeness of Benito Juárez’s exiled family, might stand him in good stead at some future time. Baldemar had assured him that it would. He left the second image with the woman.

Once these missions were completed, Diego returned to his hotel in Manhattan. At the services desk, he booked passage aboard a mail packet that was bound for Havana three days hence. That done, he rode the elevator to the sixth floor, watched the cage door slide open, and trudged alone to his room, where a bottle of contraband bourbon waited. With any luck, he would be back in Mexico City within a matter of weeks.

“I
MAY BE THE EMPRESS.
” Carlota adjusted the folds of her dress against the red brocade surface of her chair. “But I am not the general of an army.”

She nodded at a servant, who hurried over to replenish her tea.

“You possess an army,” said Diego.

“You think so?”

Diego counted them off—thirty thousand French troops, a like number of Mexicans, plus an assortment of Austrian and Belgian volunteers, and a quantity of African and diverse European mercenaries. Taken all together, they amounted to a considerable force.

Carlota nodded. “I’ll grant you, the numbers are impressive. But the truth is, Bazaine commands almost all of these men.”

“And he answers to Maximiliano.”

She smiled. “I think it will become evident in time that Bazaine answers to himself—and to Napoleon. The crown in Mexico survives at the pleasure of Paris.”

“You have spoken to your husband about this?”

“Oh yes.” She reached up and fussed with several strands of hair that
had come loose from her chignon. “But my husband … well …” Her voice trailed off.

Diego understood. Lately, His Majesty seemed more absorbed by projects of his own devising—the new boulevard or his Montgolfier balloon. He had occupied himself for several weeks on his grand tour of the Bajío and now had taken up residence in Cuernavaca, preferring its warm days and ample sunshine to the often cooler temperatures of Mexico City.

“My husband,” said Carlota, “has a very high opinion of your judgment. What do you think we ought to do?”

“I’m not sure.” Diego had returned to the Mexican capital only a day earlier. He had been summoned almost at once to Chapultepec Castle by the empress, who was exercising the authority of the Crown in her husband’s absence. “Do you mean, as regards Napoleon?” He meant the Frenchman’s demands for the repayment of Mexico’s debts.

“No. Let us leave that for another day. I mean, what ought we to do in general, as those who govern this land? What ought we to do about relations between the palace and the Church?”

“Well, I don’t see what can be done, other than await the arrival of the papal envoy and take the matter up with him.” Monseñor Meglia had yet to reach Mexico, although it was said he would arrive almost any day.

“And adopt what sort of line?”

“A hard line. The hardest possible. These are not the Dark Ages. These are modern times. The Church must be separate from the state, and it must submit to the civil authority.”

“In other words, the Church must do what the government says.”

“In secular affairs, yes.”

“Release Ángela Peralta, for example?”

“Of course.”

“And her son?”

“Yes.”

“And if the Church refuses?”

Diego shrugged helplessly. “That is the problem.”

“We could threaten the use of force, I suppose.” Carlota gave a wry
smile. “But I wonder whether the troops of France would carry out our wishes. I would not like to issue a hollow threat.” She sipped her tea. “But we shall see.” She hesitated briefly. “Meanwhile,” she said, “we shall have other threats to confound us, I am sure. Please, tell me of your travels.”

Diego took a deep breath. He tried to release the tension in his chest. The truth was, he felt a little intimidated by the empress, who was a far more forthright and clear-eyed individual than her husband. Briefly, he told her what he had heard and seen during his travels, sharing what intelligence he could while omitting many details from his account. Of course, he made no mention of Spencer rifles or of the man named Bartlett.

Instead, he outlined what he had learned about the fortunes of war in the American states, making no effort to hide what was patently true. First, the Unionist forces were poised on the brink of victory. Second, such a victory would not serve the interests of Maximiliano or Carlota. He waited for the empress to respond.

“I see,” she said.

“I am sorry the news is not better.”

Once again, she fiddled with some loose filaments of her hair. She seemed both distracted and agitated. “I suppose that if we ourselves are aware of these developments, it is only natural to assume that Napoleon must be in possession of similar intelligence. Don’t you think?”

Diego inclined his head. Yes.

She considered this, then straightened her shoulders. She fixed him with a strained and deliberate smile.

“Very well then,” she said, her voice suddenly clipped and formal. It was as if she no longer recognized who he was. “Thank you for efforts on our behalf and for your report. I fear this is all the time I have for you this morning.” She proffered her right hand, fingers extended. “Welcome back to Mexico. And good day.”

She could be like that—all friendliness one moment and curt to the point of coldness the next. Diego made directly for the stables. He asked the grooms to saddle his mare.

One of the men glanced at his wardrobe.
“¿Inglés o charro, señor?
”

For a moment, the question caught him by surprise. Lately, he had taken to going about in a European style of dress—gabardine trousers and a cutaway frock coat. This was the sort of outfit he had worn while in Washington. It must have occurred to the grooms that he might prefer a different style of saddlery as well, the English style, rather than the more ostentatious Mexican finery.

“
Inglés?
” he said a little tentatively. He wasn’t entirely sure. Then he nodded.
“Sí. Inglés.”

The man shrugged in reply and set off to fulfill the commission, leaving Diego to wonder just who and what he had become: a one-armed Mexican in an Englishman’s suit, at once an agent for the republicans and a servant of the imperialists. It seemed impossible that he should go on answering to both these masters, and yet what was to stop him? Who was to stop him? He was still debating these questions when the groom marched out into the courtyard, leading a small roan Arab rather than his horse, which would not have responded well to a European bit or bridle.

He was soon perched upon a thin, unsubstantial saddle, holding two pairs of slender reins attached to a Pelham bit. It was one of the few times he had ridden in this style, and it seemed strange and unpleasant. Besides—four reins in one hand. He felt like an idiot. He kicked his heels and clicked his tongue, and the animal somehow understood what was required and set off for Mexico City at a brisk trot, Diego trying to post to the awkward beat of the horse’s stride. He had acquaintances to renew in the more disreputable parts of the capital, and he thought it possible that he might cross paths with Baldemar, too. The man seemed to know exactly when and where to appear, and it occurred to Diego that his old friend must have other spies in his service, men and women who told him all he needed to know—including news of the departure of a thin and swarthy Mexican dressed in an English suit, mounted upon a roan horse, and bound for the walled capital of Mexico.

He felt as if he were impersonating someone. He wondered who this individual might be—his true name, his genuine allegiances, his authentic
identity. To whom was he loyal? Whom did he betray? Was he Indian or European? Mexican or something else? The answers should have been obvious, but they were not. Who was he? He posed the question in his mind, over and over again, and he failed to come up with the same answer twice.