A Ballad of Love and Glory(109)

“John,” she said. “Please. We haven’t much time.”

He finally stood up and came over to her. He was thinner than he’d ever been, and though still tall, he seemed to have shrunk somehow. She’d never seen him so dirty and slovenly. He slouched as he walked, and he put his hands over his face as if to shield himself from an unrelenting wind. But there was no wind. Just her. Why would he need to hide from her?

“You ought not to have come, darlin’,” he said at last, still hiding his face behind his hands, and she could see only his haggard-looking eyes. She felt the pain as his words registered in her mind. She had waited so long, fought so hard to make this moment happen. And now to hear him say those words to her. But she knew he didn’t mean them. She could hear what he hadn’t said, and she understood.

“Nothing has changed between us, John. I love you. No matter what they’ve done to you. I will always love you, come what may.”

He finally dropped his hands, and he stood facing her. The room was dimly lit by the torches hanging on the walls, and there were sinister shadows everywhere, but as the torch light flickered on his face, she could see what he didn’t want her to see—not his pallid flesh or his sunken cheeks, but the burns still red and scabbing, the two-inch D’s marring his handsome face. The Yanquis had inflicted a great violation upon him. For the rest of his life, he would carry these scars, and in time, the physical ones would fade, but the scars on his soul might not. She wouldn’t let them win. She would help restore his traumatized spirit and guide him to feeling whole again.

She put her hand through the bars, reaching for him. She wanted to touch him, hold him, but he took a step back from her, and she had no choice but to retract her hand. “Don’t be afraid of me, mi amor.”

He got closer to her and put his forehead against the bars. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have.”

“Shhh. You don’t need to apologize, John. What they’ve done to you—” She stopped herself. There was so much that she wanted to say, but she knew that time was brief and the Yanqui guards were listening to their every word. She reached for the parcel she had brought. She handed it to him and watched as he took out a jar of calendula salve she’d made for his wounds and a cotton shirt, the first she’d ever stitched with her own hands. He traced the shamrock embroidered over the left pocket with green silk thread.

“?’Tis truly a fine shirt,” he said. “But they won’t let me keep it.”

“They will. The officer promised me they would.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Thank you, darlin’. ’Tis so good to see you. And how is the babe?” He put his hands through the bars to touch her huge belly, running his hands gently up and down. Suddenly, the baby kicked hard, as if saying hello to its father. Finally, his impassive face lifted into a genuine smile. There he was, her John. So he was not completely broken, as she’d feared.

“He’s a fighter, this one,” he said proudly.

“Just like his papá,” she said.

“Time’s up!” the head guard called out. “All visitors will now be escorted out. Please make your way to the stairs.”

They reached for each other through the bars, clutching tight, afraid to let go. “Don’t concern yourself about me, mi amor. I’ll be fine. Our child will be fine. Just concentrate on staying alive. For me. For us.”

He kissed her hands and then released her. A guard came up behind her and yelled at her to move. As she hurried out of the prison, she realized she hadn’t told him about the Irish and German soldiers still deserting the Yanqui army and heading to Querétaro to join the San Patricios who had escaped Churubusco. Even with John in prison, even with so many of his men hanged at the gallows, the Saint Patrick’s Battalion still lived on.





42


October 1847

Mexico City


October 21, 1847

Respected Sir,

I have taken the liberty of writing to you hoping that you are in good health as I am at present, thank God for it. I have had the honor of fighting in all the battles that Mexico has had with the United States, and by my good conduct and hard fighting, I have attained the rank of major. I suppose from the accounts you have seen in the United States papers, you have formed a very poor opinion of Mexico and its government, but be not obscured by the prejudice of a nation, which is at war with Mexico, for a more hospitable or friendly people there exists not in the face of the earth, that is to a foreigner and especially to an Irishman and a Catholic. So it grieves me to have to inform you of the deaths of fifty of my best and bravest men who have been hanged by the Americans for no other reason than fighting manfully against them, especially my first lieutenant, Patrick Dalton, whose loss I deeply regret…



Riley put the pen down, unable to continue. Writing a letter to his former employer in Michigan, Charles O’Malley, had seemed a good recourse, but now he couldn’t be sure. O’Malley was the only acquaintance Riley had in the United States, and surely, a man in his position might be able to speak on his behalf. O’Malley had always looked out for his countrymen.

In the solemn glow of the little piece of tallow candle he’d managed to procure, he reread the last sentence and thought of Patrick. He wished he hadn’t witnessed the hanging. He wanted to remember his friend as he was before the gallows, a loyal and courageous fellow, a man who deserved better, so much better.