The Empire of Yearning (19 page)

I
N THE END
, it was Bazaine who came up with a way to free Ángela’s son. The French officer had lately been in noticeably better spirits, owing no doubt to his new romance. He seemed happy and at peace—a circumstance both rare and paradoxical. In such a state, he explained, there was nothing that appealed to him more than the prospect of a good, clean fight. And who better to lock horns with than Labastida? Bazaine loathed the man. It was time to trade words for blows.

He explained his thinking in unusually candid terms during a meeting with Maximiliano, who had returned to Mexico City from Cuernavaca not long after the papal nuncio’s departure for Rome. On more than one occasion, said the Frenchman, Labastida had provoked him almost beyond endurance. Once, the archbishop had dared to bar a senior French officer from attending the celebration of Sunday Mass. It seemed the officer’s wife had failed on some occasion to dress in perfect accordance with the archbishop’s very particular ideas about feminine decorum. He had turned both the officer and the woman away. At the time, Bazaine had chosen to endure this insult to French honour, but he was bound to remember it.

On another occasion, Labastida had threatened to close the doors of the cathedral to the entire officer corps of the French army, vowing to excommunicate every one of its members, because it was they who enforced the reform laws as they related to Church properties and privileges in Mexico.

That time, the churchman had backed down, but only after a volatile exchange that Bazaine recalled even now with a mixture of pride and anger. He had informed the prelate that he possessed plenty of ordnance and would not scruple to make full use of it. If the cathedral was not opened at once to all his men, he would employ good French cannon to blast the doors from their hinges.

The emperor laughed. “This is the first time I’ve heard the tale,” he said. “Marvellous.”

“The events occurred before your arrival in Mexico, Your Majesty,” said Bazaine. “Those were wild times.”

“And harsh words. Did you mean them?”

“I did.”

“You would have blown open the cathedral doors?”

“Without hesitation. Or regret.”

“Oh, well done. Good for you.”

The two men were meeting in an austere salon at Chapultepec, with Diego again delegated to taking notes.

“And did the tactic work?”

“It did. He backed down. The cathedral is Labastida’s weak point, you see. He is besotted with the place.”

The emperor folded both hands behind his head and rocked back in his chair. “So … you propose to try the same stunt again.”

“Exactly.”

“Give the boy up—or bang.”

Bazaine nodded. “I intend to take down a bell tower at least.”

“And what of the mother? The singer. You know …”

Bazaine gave a dismissive wave. The mother was not a part of his brief. He proposed only to liberate the boy.

“Serrano,” said the emperor. “Where is the woman? Where do you think?”

Diego set down his pen. It was strange how lying could become almost automatic, a question of practice. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You’ve spoken to Labastida? You’ve spoken to Salm-Salm?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I don’t believe they know, either. It seems to be a great mystery.”

Maximiliano turned back to Bazaine. “Well, I like your proposal immensely,” he said. “But I wonder, why did we not come up with this stratagem before?”

“Timing,” said Bazaine. He slowly stroked his jaw.

It was apparent to Diego that the Frenchman had something else on his mind.

Bazaine adjusted the sleeves of his military frock coat. “I understand Your Majesty is contemplating some changes to your council of ministers.”

“I have some ideas.”

“Good. So do I.”

What Bazaine had, it turned out, was a problem—and the problem’s name was General Leonardo Márquez. The Mexican officer had lately exceeded all conceivable limits on human savagery in his campaigns along the eastern coast. Even for Bazaine, it was too much. The pillaging and murders were counterproductive. You did not win a war by systematically bolstering the ranks of your enemies, and that was what Márquez was doing. However many Mexicans he killed, more took up arms against him. It was time to bring the man out of the field.

“And put him where exactly?” said Maximiliano.

“The very question I ask myself,” said Bazaine. “My inclination is to put him somewhere I can watch him, and give him a title he would be likely to accept.”

“For example?”

“Minister of war.”

“What?” The emperor shook his head. “Not possible.”

Bazaine narrowed his eyes and waited.

“You can’t be serious,” said Maximiliano. “That heathen? He hanged that man by his feet.”

Bazaine fumbled in his pocket for his watch. He glanced at the time and briefly frowned before easing the piece back into his side pocket. “Your Majesty could go on for a good long while,” he said, “listing the man’s crimes one by one. Such reservations are completely justified. But I speak to a different purpose. Márquez is a liability in the field. We need to take measures to bring him in.”

“It was you who put him out there, you know,” said the emperor. “After he refused to go to Constantinople. That was your doing.”

Bazaine sighed. “You are right, Your Majesty. It seemed like a sound decision at the time. But realities have changed, and we must change with them.”

He reached for his cap on the table at his side, tucked it beneath his arm, and climbed to his feet. “With your permission, I will have a word with the archbishop, as we discussed. We are agreed upon that?”

“Oh yes. Thank you. By all means.”

“And Márquez?”

“Ah,” said the emperor. “I shall have to ponder on that.”

“Not for very long, I hope? Lives may depend upon it.”

“Not long, no.”

Bazaine seemed disinclined to leave the subject. “I take it Your Majesty appreciates the connection between these two measures. I confront Labastida. Márquez becomes minister of war. They are linked in my mind.”

“Yes, of course. I see quite clearly what you are getting at. I shall communicate my answer shortly.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Bazaine nodded and left the room.

As Diego watched him go, he thought he detected the glint of a smile on the man’s face. And why not? The Tiger of Tacubaya would be named minister of war in the end. Maximiliano would accept the bargain. He would have no choice. But it was an outrage just the same. Diego could not believe that he would now serve the same government that employed
the Tiger of Tacubaya as its minister of war. By rights, he ought to finish the job that Baldemar had begun and kill Márquez. Either that or leave Mexico entirely.

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.”

D
IEGO WOULD LEAVE
M
EXICO
, 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.