José took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He returned to the doorway, shutting me out as he kept vigil.

*  *  *

Another week went by with still no word from our other garrisons. One night as the rain poured outside José sat at our table waiting for his dinner. He shook one of his legs, jostling his knee up and down. The noise got louder and louder until I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

As we settled in to eat we heard a knock at our door. José bounded to it in two steps. General Canabarro stood there, soaking wet. His clothes were covered in mud, with smears of blood on his chest and pants. His eyes were rimmed in red and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “May I come in?”

“Where’s Rossetti?” José asked.

“That’s why I’m here.” Canabarro swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with exaggeration. “I am sure you came across many hardships in your journey.”

“Canabarro, get to it. Where is Rossetti?” José growled.

Canabarro shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He’s dead.”

José took an involuntary step back, knocking over the wooden chair. It hit the ground with a clatter, waking up Menotti in his crate. “No,” José croaked.

“José, there were few survivors,” Canabarro responded almost in a whisper. “The roads were bad. He had to stop and readjust his printing press. Moringue caught up with them.”

José’s knees buckled. I caught him by the elbow as he tried to grasp the table with his other hand. “How?”

“Bayonet, through the stomach,” Canabarro answered in a small voice.

“General, you said there were few survivors. How many?” I asked.

“Two. Moringue wanted them to bear witness and to deliver a message.”

“What was the message?” I dared to ask.

“‘The republic is dead.’”

“Damn that bastardo and his printing press!” José threw the dish off the table. It crashed against the wall, shattering into a million little pieces. “He was always thinking of his glory.” José’s voice choked. “I have to go. Excuse me.”

José slipped out of the cabin, leaving Canabarro looking at me in shock. “Should we go after him?”

I sighed. “No, it’s best to let him grieve in his own way.” I picked up Menotti from his crate, holding him close as he settled down. I looked beyond Canabarro to the door that still stood wide open, letting the rain splatter inside. Emotion did not serve my husband. It led him to rash behavior. I kissed Menotti’s head, letting my lips linger on his scalp.

“Is that your son? I haven’t seen him yet. He’s beautiful.” Canabarro tickled Menotti, who decided to play shy and snuggle in closer to me. “I remember when mine were that young. They grow up too fast, senhora. Hold on to him for as long as you can.”