“A pregnant woman and two small children are going to help?” I frowned.

“You’ll be on the ship. It will be a grand adventure. Just like when we were in Laguna.”

I sighed. “I don’t need to be reminded of what happened in Laguna. The children and I don’t need a grand adventure.”

José regarded me. “When you were with me in every one of my battles, I was able to keep you safe.”

“You kept me safe as much as I would let you. I seem to remember a number of occasions when I tested that. Hell, there were a few times I thought you were going to kill me yourself.”

He smiled that lopsided, boyish grin I knew so well. “The point is, when we are together, we are stronger. We are safer. I don’t want to be apart from you and the children anymore.”

I crossed my arms. My husband had a point. All the negative things that had happened to us—the sickness, Rosita’s death—it had all happened when we were apart. We were stronger when we were together. “Then we will go to Salto.”

Thirty-Nine

February 1846

The Río Uruguay served as a natural border between Argentina and Uruguay, its only outlet being the Río de la Plata, the bay that separated Montevideo from Buenos Aires. We sailed from Montevideo to the mouth of the river. Thanks to France’s meddling, our ship, carrying two hundred and fifty cavalrymen, went unnoticed as we made our way toward Salto.

The Argentinians had already crossed the river and occupied the little towns that dotted its banks all the way down to Salto. The Uruguayan army had been keeping them at bay from the east, but needed the reinforcements we brought to attack the southern Argentinian lines. As we sailed north on the murky river, Menotti stood on a box in front of the ship’s wheel, helping his father navigate. The men called him piccolo marinaio, “little sailor.” I felt proud as I watched him learn how to sail the ship. José beamed with pride standing next to his son, his hand on the wheel, letting Menotti think he was doing all the work. Teresita was fast asleep in our little cabin, giving me the opportunity to soak in the morning sun in peace. I savored the feeling of the wind as it stung my face and pulled my hair.

I stood at the bow of the Rivera watching the dark, tranquil water of the Río Uruguay ripple ever so gently with the movement of the boat. The river beckoned me with its smoothness, but I knew different. My body trembled at the memory of being swept away by the current on our escape from São Gabriel. I tightened the shawl that hung around my shoulders, hugging it closer to me against the memory of the frigid river that nearly took me and my child.

Later that night, as our ship charged through the black stillness, José woke me from a deep sleep. He put a finger to my lips to keep me quiet so that we didn’t wake the children. With a sparkle in his eye he led me to the bow of the ship. The stars glittered around a sliver of the moon in the tranquil night sky. José pulled me to him, gently kissing me.