A Ballad of Love and Glory(110)

With a shaking hand, he resumed his writing.


You may possibly have thought strange at my not writing to you before, but there being no communication between Mexico and the United States, it was impossible for me to address you before now, but as I am at present a prisoner of war by the Americans, it is impossible for me to state facts as they are, but in my next letter, I will give you a full and true account of the war as it has progressed. If you will remember my last words to you and Thomas Chambers when last we parted, which was if God spared me I would again attain my former rank or die.

My situation is such that it is impossible for me to give you a better account at present but have patience for my next. In all my letter I forgot to tell you under what banner we fought so bravely. It was that glorious Emblem of native rights, that being the banner which should have floated over our native Soil many years ago, it was St. Patrick, the Harp of Erin, the Shamrock upon a green field.



The days turned into weeks. Every day, Riley and the other prisoners were let out at seven in the morning and put to hard labor. One day, one of his men, Roger Duhan, managed to escape from the prison. His wife smuggled him out by dressing him as a woman. Such a feat could only work on a little fellow like Duhan. He was slight enough to fit into the women’s clothes his wife had smuggled in. With a Mexican shawl wrapped around his head and shoulders to obscure his face, he’d snuck past the Yankee guards. When his absence was discovered, they imposed further restrictions on visits, and Riley saw Ximena even less. It shamed him to admit, but he was glad that she wouldn’t be obliged to look at his hideous face, his filthy body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed or changed his underclothes. Fleas and lice were bad bedfellows and tormented him every night. No, he didn’t want his beloved to see him like this, such a poor excuse of a man. But on the first of December, padre Sebastián brought him the tidings of the birth of his daughter, Patricia. When they wouldn’t let Ximena visit him to show him the babe, he cursed the Yanks once again and wept with misery.

On December 22, the Yankees released five hundred Mexican prisoners, but they refused to release the San Patricios. Riley and his men were forced to spend Christmas in prison. They weren’t even allowed to receive visitors on that special day, and Riley’s hopes of finally meeting his daughter and seeing how she fared were dashed.

A few days after Christmas, the Yankees came for them. For a moment, Riley and the others thought that perchance their luck had turned. Perhaps the Yanks would let them go and they would be able to welcome the New Year as free men. But it wasn’t to be. He and the other unhappy wretches were merely being transferred to another prison, to Chapultepec Castle where security was tighter and the prison cells more miserable.

Through the thick walls, Riley and his men could barely hear the sound of firecrackers and rockets, of music and cheering as the people welcomed 1848. The church bells in the city tolled heavily, and Riley felt the familiar desire to be once again inside his parish chapel. He betook himself to a dark corner and closed his eyes, but he could hear his men whispering among themselves.

“What will this year hold for us, ye think?” John Bartley said.

“Whatever ’tis, can it be worse than this?” Hezekiah Akles replied.

“Aye, it can. We miserable creatures can die within these prison walls and be buried in unmarked graves,” Alexander McKee said.

Riley wished he could say something to his men—to encourage them, raise their downcast spirits, show them a way out of their despair. But he had lost his will to lead.

Someone came to sit beside him in his dark corner and said, “I know right well you’re awake, Major. Is it ignorin’ us, you are?” It was James Mills, the only one left of the men who’d fought alongside him since Matamoros.

That first battle felt so long ago, and there was nothing left but bygone hopes of glory and distinction.

“What in blazes is the matter with ya, John Riley? I know you’re hurtin’ over our dead comrades, but when will ya stop actin’ as if we’re all dead? Look around ya, Major. Some of us are still here.”

“Leave him be, Mills,” Peter O’Brien said. “?’Tis plain that cock will never fight again.”

“Hold your tongue, you eejit!” Mills yelled. He patted Riley on the back and whispered, “?’Twill be a black day for us, Major, when we know for sure the Yankees have indeed broke your fightin’ spirit.”



* * *



Riley had lost all relish for fighting. The yearning of his heart was to get out of that damp prison and escape the darkness that was consuming him. With no reply forthcoming from Charles O’Malley, he set out to write another letter, this time to the British consul in Mexico City.

Your Excellency, with opportunity of writing to you hoping that your honour will take compassion on me as a British subject as I am unfortunate to be here in prison, I write hoping that you will do your utmost with General Scott… on the conditions that I do not take arms against them, and that I shall go to my home, that is the old country…

Weeks later, Riley opened the letter containing the British consul’s reply.

I wouldn’t fail to speak to the General on your behalf, were there any chance of my being of service to you, but I see none at the present moment.

Riley read those lines again and again. The bastards! Of course he’d known, even when he composed the letter, that it was useless to ask the British for help, just like it had been useless to write to his former employer. He leaned against the wall of his cell and crumpled the letter in his hand. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh. Though he tried to block Patrick Dalton out of his mind, every time he closed his eyes, he saw his friend hanging from the noose like a marionette.