They sometimes had dinner at a zócalo restaurant, then joined the spirited crowd of sweaty dancers by the park bandstand. On such nights they would come home at a late hour with their blood in high excitement and go up to the rooftop and make love under the winking stars. They desired more children, but despite their frequent attempts she did not conceive again. Not even after a double effort under the April full moon, which Josefina had assured Elizabeth Anne was the night most auspicious for the womb to accept a man’s seed. Elizabeth Anne discussed their failing hopes with Nurse Beckett, who told her it was just as well, considering her ordeal in delivering John Samuel, whose conception had clearly been a case of lightning in a bottle.
The good fortune of their first two years in Veracruz included the city’s being spared from its chronic epidemics of yellow fever. El vómito negro, the Mexicans called it, because of its deadliest salient trait. There was a mild outbreak in their second year but the sickness inexplicably quit the city before its contagion could spread. Then late in their third summer the yellow jack struck again—hard—and once more Elizabeth Anne and John Samuel nearly died in each other’s close company.
Both of the young maids were also stricken. The household’s four victims lay under blankets in a shivering, soaking sweat, moaning with the pain in their heads and joints, soiling their beds, vomiting into chamber pots, eyes and skin going yellow. The house was a mephitic reek. Having contracted the disease in the past, Josefina and Beto the handyman were now immune, and by some blessing of genetics John Roger was among those naturally resistant to it. An understanding of the pathology of yellow fever was still a half century in the future, and there was little a doctor of the day could do for the afflicted beyond prescription of quinine, cold compresses for the forehead, mustard plasters for the feet, and quantities of hot tea. They advised the populace to keep their windows open to the fresh air day and night.
John Roger spent most of every day tending to Elizabeth Anne. When he was not drying her brow or spooning broth to her or holding the pot for her to vomit into or cleaning her and changing her sheets, he would be reading to her from her favored volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, suspecting that his words had little register in her fevered mind but hoping the sound of his voice was itself some comfort. Josefina sneaked a dead beetle called a crucifijo under Elizabeth Anne’s pillow and another one under John Samuel’s. Characterized by a thin red cross on its black back, the bug was a rare sort long regarded by the local Indians as a curative for the vómito negro. Josefina had found only those two crucifijos in the garden, else she would have put some under the pillows of the maids as well.
The plague worsened. The stench of the sickness carried through the narrow streets. So too the raspings and bangings of the coffin makers, the lachrymose wails of the bereaved. There were daily processions to the cemetery. Doors all over town were hung with black crepe. No one in the city dared to shake hands or even stand too close to another. The two young maids now bled from the mouth and nose and could not keep from screaming their pain. When their vomit began to look like black coffee grounds Josefina made the sign of the cross over them. They died within a few hours of each other, and their meager corteges were added to the succession of mourning parties trudging to the graveyard.
At length the epidemic diminished and then at last was gone and both Elizabeth Anne and John Samuel recovered. She would hereafter fatigue more easily than before and have to take greater care in the sun, but John Samuel’s skirmish with the disease had no more lasting effect than did the desperate struggle of his birth. He was not yet three years old and his eyes were now green as his mother’s, his hair the same coppery shade. He would grow into a hale, clever, polite boy and would earn the unanimous praise of his tutors. But he would always be a solitary soul, even after he married and became a father. He would never form a close friendship nor regret the lack of one, and nobody—not his parents, not his brothers, not his wife or children—would ever really know him. He would not shed a tear in his life until his final moments. And his happiest memories would forever be of his mother coming to his room in the evenings to sing him to sleep.
Toward the end of their fourth year the news and public discourse was mostly of war. Since its humiliating defeat by the United States and the loss of half of its territory to the Yankees, Mexico had been fighting with itself more often than not. With rarely as much as a few months’ peace between them, one uprising followed another, as first this political faction and then that one conceived a new plan of national government and declared itself in rebellion against the incumbent regime. Even when a revolt succeeded for a brief time, nothing would change in the lives of the impoverished multitude, and the country’s leadership would remain as autocratic and avaricious and unstable as ever. Now the nation was embroiled in its most brutal civil war yet—the War of the Reform, between the Liberals of Benito Juárez, whose principal objective was an end to Church power in Mexico, and the national Conservatives, an alliance of the ecclesiastical and the secular rich, who opposed any change to their privileged order.
As in most other wars, this one was largely fought in the interior of the country and had but small impact on Veracruz, which had not been badly damaged by warfare since the Yankee invasion. But Mexico was now of so little interest to its newly grown behemoth of a neighbor that news of its latest internecine bloodshed hardly carried beyond Texas, an unawareness reflected in Mrs Bartlett’s letters to her daughter. They were always full of questions about her grandson but made only cursory inquiry of what else might be new and implied a total ignorance of Mexican affairs.
There was a federal garrison near the Veracruz port, but it was always quick to ally itself with any general who arrived with a larger force and declared himself in command of the city. In every such instance, pressgangs would scour the streets for recruits. Males of military age stayed out of sight until the occupiers departed, usually before long, and then the city would revert to its easy ways until the next time it was taken over.
Every war also prompted some among Mexico City’s moneyed class to flee to Veracruz in readiness to take refuge outside the country if need be. The War of the Reform brought a greater number than usual of such affluent refugees. And as always, they sold jewelry at bargain prices in order to have ample hard money in hand. Even as John Roger was persuading Richard Davison to expand the company’s range of imports to include a variety of exquisite ornamentation wrought by Spanish and Indian craftsmen of the past three centuries—necklaces and brooches and bracelets and rings—he was already buying all the refugee jewelry he could. Richard found a ready market for it and the company’s profits rose to new heights. And John Roger grew richer still.
RECKONINGS
It was in the late summer of that fourth year that John Roger received a packet from New Orleans containing records of Trade Wind business in Mexico prior to his employment. Richard’s enclosed note said, “Heres the stuff I promised, sorry it took so long to round it all up but you anyway didnt need it just like you said you didnt to do the good job youve done. Never much cared for working with papers my self. Do with them what you will.” John Roger smiled at the thought that the man surely did keep a promise, no matter how long it might take. He was certain that by this time there could be nothing in the old records of use to him, and he thought of pitching them in the waste can, but it was not in his nature to get rid of any papers he had not at least scanned, so he emptied the packet’s contents onto his desktop and began sorting through them.