A Ballad of Love and Glory(100)

The guard held the door open for her, and she forced herself to slow her pace as she entered, pausing to thank him. She gazed at the ornate walls, the marble floors, the imposing pillars.

“May I help you, madam?” a kind-looking older gentleman said as he approached her.

She forced a smile.

“Yes, please, sir. I must see the British consul. I have a matter of great importance to discuss. Please, it’s very urgent.”

“May I ask who is calling?” he said, guiding her to the waiting area.

“Se?ora Ximena Benítez y Catalán.”

He motioned for her to have a seat while he headed through a pair of wooden doors.

There were a few people sitting there, gentlemen reading the paper, smoking their cigars with such calm and ease that it made her angry just to look at them.

Finally, the doors opened, and the clerk motioned for her to follow him. He escorted her into an office where a middle-aged man sat behind a mahogany desk. His face was impassive, though she could see the curiosity in his eyes as he took in her disheveled appearance.

“Forgive me for interrupting your duties, sir,” Ximena said, grateful that in the time she had known John, she had much improved her command of the English language. “But I must speak to you about a matter of great importance.”

“Percy Doyle at your service. Please, madam, have a seat. Your English is excellent, though clearly you are not a British subject. I am afraid I might not be able to assist you in my capacity as British consul.”

She sat down, relieved to get off her feet. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m here to speak on behalf of the Irish soldiers imprisoned by the United States Army, sir. They have been sentenced to hang.”

There was no response from the man, and Ximena could tell by his demeanor that he already knew. He looked at her, as if wondering how she fit into all of this.

“They are subjects of Great Britain,” she said, “and as such, is it to be assumed that the British consul will solicit a pardon from the North Americans?”

He pulled his seat back as if to stand up, but didn’t.

“Yes, madam, the British government is well aware of the situation regarding the Irish soldiers, and I assure you if I could be of assistance, I certainly would offer it. But as it is, alas, there is naught to be done for them.”

“They are going to hang, sir,” Ximena said, feeling her body shudder.

“It is a rather complicated situation, and one cannot expect a… ah… lady of your station to understand. Rest assured that I would look into the matter if I knew there was anything that could be done. At the moment, I do not believe there is.”

“They’re British subjects,” Ximena said again. “Does that mean nothing to your government?”

“They are wild and reckless,” he replied. “Those soldiers gave their word to the Americans, just as many of them gave their word to the English. They went back on their word, and now it has come to this. You cannot expect the British government to support those who show no honor or loyalty. Now, if you excuse me, madam, I have another matter to attend to.”

Ximena stood. She could see that he didn’t care at all about the fate of John and his men. They were not worth his effort. John had told her how the English had treated them back home. Now she understood the hatred in his voice whenever he spoke of them.

“You must know, sir, that one of them is my husband.” There, she said it. She had thought it best not to reveal this, but it was the only thing she could think of.

He looked at her and frowned. “I beg your pardon, madam?”

“John Riley, sir, is my husband. We were wed here, in this city, before the battle.”

“I assume it was a Catholic wedding, madam. Do you have legal proof of this wedding?”

“Padre Sebastián—”

“Forgive me, madam, but I don’t think marriage to a Mexican citizen will save your husband from the gallows. The Americans will not care.”

He didn’t say it but she heard it clearly. And neither do we.

“I am with child, sir. I’m carrying John Riley’s child. Please, will you not speak in his favor for my child’s sake!” She allowed her shawl to drop off her shoulders and stood so that he could see her protruding belly.

He coughed in discomfort at her lack of propriety and looked away. “I will see what I can do,” he said, but she knew he would do nothing. “Now, if you will excuse me…” He picked up a stack of papers and motioned for the clerk to guide her out.

The old man held out his hand to her, and she was grateful. Her legs were shaking, her body throbbed, as if she’d collided against a thicket of cacti. Suddenly, there was a kicking inside her. Her child, pressing its little elbows and knees against the walls of her belly. She stood outside the building and placed her hand over her belly, feeling the life she held inside her. Did her child know that its father was in danger? What was her baby trying to tell her? When Joaquín died, she’d dreamed of his death and just stood by, afraid of her visions. Not this time. She closed her eyes and said, “For you, my child, I’ll do it for you.” She rushed down the steps and hurried up the street. She would go to the archbishop and whoever else might help the San Patricios. She would not return home until she knew that John’s life, and the lives of his men, would be spared.