A Ballad of Love and Glory(17)
“He’s here,” Sullivan said, coming to stand beside him. “I reckon ’twon’t be long for the war to start. Maybe even tomorrow?”
“Aye, with General Ampudia here and Cross gone, that’s true enough.”
The morning before, General Taylor’s quartermaster, Colonel Cross, had failed to return from his usual horseback ride. Taylor dispatched several patrols, but rumor had it the colonel was captured or murdered by Mexican irregulars.
“And what are they bickerin’ about? This muddy river?” Sullivan asked.
Riley explained to his tentmate what he knew about the dispute over the Río Grande boundary and how the Americans were looking to start a fight with Mexico so that they could take what they desired.
“So that’s why they’re goin’ to war, for this crooked river and land with more rattlesnakes than people?” Sullivan shook his head.
“?’Tis not that simple. The Yanks see this land as part of their destiny. And the Mexicans see us as invaders, do they not?”
“Destiny? ’Tis English greed runnin’ through those veins of theirs, as thick as buttermilk,” Sullivan snickered.
“And a bad dose of superiority they’ve inherited,” Riley added. He thought about the English, of how they’d conquered territories all over the world to fill the royal coffers, and the way they’d plundered and raped and killed to prove their dominion. The United States was England’s child after all. Even though the Yanks had rebelled against the English and defeated them in battle six decades before, the insatiable lust for power and egotism of their forefathers had already been bred into them.
The Yanks spoke of the Mexicans as being nothing more than ignorant, filthy semisavages, a miserable mongrel race. Riley had heard this before about his own people, descendants of kings and chieftains, but Ireland was a conquered land after all. He looked across at Matamoros and wondered if Mexico would soon face the same fate.
“?’Tis Mexico’s bad luck to have the United States as its neighbor,” he said. “Just as ’twas our bad luck to have England loomin’ across the Irish Sea.”
* * *
Not wasting any time, General Ampudia sent one of his officers with a parley flag and an order for General Taylor to decamp his army, withdraw from Mexican territory, and return whence he came. He gave them twenty-four hours. General Taylor responded that his orders were to stay put, and if Ampudia commenced hostilities, the war would rest on his shoulders, not Taylor’s. He then ordered the navy to blockade the port and to seize any vessels carrying supplies for the Mexican troops. News of the standoff filled the camp with anxiety over the Mexicans’ next move.
Talk around the campfire that night turned to the deserters. Not the unhappy wretches who didn’t make it, but the ones who did.
“I heard the Mexicans pay good wages,” O’Brien said. “We might not have to wait donkey’s years before we see our relations again.”
“And they treat the Irish as equals, not cattle,” Maloney said, touching his forehead. “And don’t we Irish know how it feels to be driven forth from our land by Protestant invaders?”
“The Mexicans are Catholic,” Flanagan said. “Is it shootin’ our Catholic brethren, we are now?”
“?’Twill soil our souls right enough,” Quinn said.
“How many more buckin’ and gaggin’s? How many more brandin’s ought we to put up with?” Sullivan asked.
Riley listened quietly, contributing no opinions. When he stood up to retire to his tent, Maloney called after him.
“Unholy war is nigh, John Riley. Which side will you be on when it starts?”
“I saw you, brave fella,” Quinn chimed in, “standin’ up to that dirty li’l maggot, Lieutenant Bragg. Seein’ ya put the blaggard in his place made my day. If not for the general, I bet you would’ve knocked the bejabbers out of him.”
“Faith, you would’ve knocked a grinder or two at least!” Flanagan said, laughing. “Look here, John Riley. I know I was wrong about you, I was. If you lead us in the crossin’, I’ll follow ya. We all will, won’t we, boys?”
“Aye, aye,” the men said, nodding.
Riley glanced at his countrymen and wondered which of them would be gone the next day. “I won’t be castin’ my lot with Mexico. I’m stayin’ here with my regiment, but ye are all free to make your choice.” He sensed their disappointment and added, “May Saint Patrick protect ye.” He thought of the oath that bound him to the US Army, of his duties as a husband and father—promises made before God.
A soldier obeys orders, hadn’t he learned that already in the British Army? How many times was he obliged to do things he didn’t approve of? Despicable things that stained his soul, that no amount of Paternosters or Ave Marias would ever serve to absolve him of. He still remembered the utter shame he felt at going up and down the Irish countryside with the redcoats to make sure that his countrymen obeyed the whims of their English landlords, helping to reinforce the police and bailiffs as they evicted the poor tenants, tore down cottages, tossed entire families out to the high road for a life of beggary and ruin. He still remembered that brutal episode in Clare a year after he’d joined the army when a group of tenants was driven off their land to make room for cattle. They’d protested and beaten back the constabulary. He’d been part of the division called in to quell the disturbances. Taking their marching orders from the local landlord, they burned out the farmers and shot two men who had resisted. And these were his people. Poor men and women who were just like his family and friends from Clifden.