A Ballad of Love and Glory(103)
“I shall die as a San Patricio ought to die,” Dalton said, “with the satisfaction of havin’ done my duty well under your command. That shall be my soldier’s glory.”
“Aye, that you have, indeed. You have fought bravely and loyally under the green banner.”
Riley made out the glistening of tears in his friend’s eyes. And his own chest throbbed as if his heart had been replaced by a handful of stinging nettles.
“You will make sure they bury me proper, won’t ya?” Dalton said. At his trial, he had asked the court to be buried in consecrated ground, and his request had been granted.
But one never knew what the Yanks would do or not do in the end. Still, Riley nodded. “I will make sure of it, Pat, I promise.”
* * *
The guards came for them early in the morning. Some of the men had drifted off into listless sleep. Others, like Riley, had sat vigil all night. He had prayed to every saint he knew, even Saint George, the patron saint of soldiers. He had begged God to spare the lives of his men, but when he heard the footsteps outside the cell, he knew it was not to be.
“Rise and shine, batallion of traitors,” one of the guards said as he unlocked the cell. “The day you have been waiting for is here.”
They broke them up into two lines, those going to the gallows and those meant for the muleteer’s whip. Riley cringed at seeing how short his line was compared to the other one. Only seven in his line, sixteen in the other.
Riley pushed his way up to Dalton and the two men grasped hands. Dalton stifled a sob. “Promise me, John,” he said, holding Riley tighter. “Promise me that when this is over, you won’t think about this day. That you won’t carry the burden of our deaths—”
“Move, traitors, move!” the guard said, hitting Riley with the butt of his musket so hard he had to struggle to regain his breath. “And you, fall in line!”
They marched them all out of their prison, down the corridors where the sounds of their shuffling feet and dragging metal chains echoed against the damp walls. They took them outside and proceeded to San Jacinto Plaza in the heart of San ángel. Daylight had broken, and the rain had ceased, but the cobblestones were wet and slippery beneath their feet. Riley held his head up but didn’t look at anyone in particular. The square was full of people, even at this hour. Yankee soldiers stood around the perimeter, their faces filled with mockery and hatred, clearly looking forward to the grotesque spectacle that was about to unfold. He looked away and his eyes fell on the hundreds of Mexican villagers holding rosaries and chanting silent prayers, the women—young and old—wrapped in shawls and pleading for him, for his men.
“Perdónenlos,” the women cried out, their arms raised in supplication. “?Tengan piedad por los Colorados!”
He searched their faces but did not find Ximena’s. And wasn’t it better that way? Best for her not to see him like this.
“God have pity on us,” Dalton said.
Riley turned his head at the sound of his friend’s voice and there, looming before him, were the gallows with sixteen nooses hanging down, swaying in the morning breeze. There was no platform, no trapdoor. Eight wagons pulled by mules had been placed underneath the nooses, waiting.
“Courage, my brave brothers!” Riley said. “Courage!” But his own knees were already trembling.
Hezekiah Akles broke forth in tears.
“Curse ye, curse ye all!” James Mills cried.
“Quiet now!” one of the guards said, pulling on the chains and forcing them to continue their march forward. Riley winced as the wrist chains ate into his flesh, knowing this was only the beginning.
General Twiggs came out to the plaza on his horse, and at the sight of him everyone fell silent. “We’ll start with you first,” he said, looking at Riley but indicating his line with the other six men who were to be flogged. Riley could feel the horse’s hot breath and saw a hint of his reflection in its glossy brown eye. He looked away. When this was over, he would never want to look at his reflection again.
“Thomas Riley, Hezekiah Akles, James Mills, John Bartley, John Bowers, Alexander McKee, and John Riley,” General Twiggs said. “You have been found guilty of desertion and have been sentenced to receive fifty lashes and to be branded with the letter D for deserter. We will now proceed.” He ordered his sergeants to take Riley and the six other men to the stand of ash trees where a small group of priests stood chanting prayers as they held a large crucifix high in the air.
One by one the seven prisoners were freed from their chains and stripped of their ragged shirts and coats, and with torsos now exposed, each man was tied to a tree. The muleteers came to stand behind each man, their rawhide whips at the ready. Riley caught sight of the whips, with their long-knotted tails quivering like rattlesnakes ready to strike. He took a deep breath as the muleteer behind him measured the distance between his bare back and the whip. Saint Patrick, protect me.
Twiggs shouted the order to begin. As the whips whistled through the air in unison and tore through human skin, the cries of the men echoed against the buildings. Birds flew out of the trees and fled.
Riley had never known such pain. It felt as if he were being skinned alive. He bit his lip and tasted blood but didn’t cry out. Some of the San Patricios fainted, others begged for mercy. Through the wailing and the praying, and the cracking of the whips, Riley latched on to the sound of Twiggs’s voice counting the lashes one by one as they landed. Drifting in and out of darkness, he felt himself succumbing to the pain. He thought of his son and could hear his voice calling him, Don’t leave me, Dadaí. He willed himself to come back.