A Ballad of Love and Glory(18)
He, John Riley of the unhappy county of Galway, had worn the red. Now he wore the blue. And soon, he would go into Mexico and help the Yanks bespoil the Mexican people of their lands and bring them into submission.
But wasn’t life like that? A powerful nation will always hunger for more power. And they will always find men like himself—starving wretches, so far from home and country and desperate to do right by their families—to do the dirty work.
Sitting on his cot, cleaning his smoothbore flintlock musket for the next day’s inspection, Riley heard whispers and spurts of merry laughter from outside. Were his comrades laughing at him? They could mock him all they wanted. He had nothing to prove to them. He owed them nothing. If they wanted to risk their lives swimming across the river—not even knowing if things would be better yonder—that was on them. The bugles gave the signal, and Sullivan came into the tent as the others dispersed. Usually, they would spend the last few minutes before lights-out talking about their dreams for the future, but that night Sullivan crawled under his blanket with nary a word from his lips. Riley reckoned he was cross with him again. Just as well, he thought. He was tired of trying to make the little fellow understand how life truly worked.
Just then, sharp yips—like the bugles of the Mexicans—made Sullivan sit up on his cot, clutching his musket.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Riley said. “?’Tis only a coyote.”
Sullivan nodded but didn’t lie down. In the mellow ray of a tallow candle, he perused the leaflet he pulled out from under his bedroll.
“Is it mad you are? Didn’t I tell you not to carry that around!” Riley said.
Sullivan looked at it intently, as if he had suddenly learned how to read, but then handed it to Riley. “Will ya read it to me?”
Holding its faded words close to the candle, Riley read the leaflet slowly but softly, wary of anyone lurking about. Tonight, extra sharpshooting guards stood alert to catch deserters—with orders to fire on sight. When he got to the last paragraph of the leaflet, he felt compelled to read it twice. Separate yourselves from the Yankees, and do not contribute to defend a robbery and usurpation… Had he joined an army about to attack a Catholic nation? Would the Yanks do to the Mexicans what the English had done to his people?
He handed the pamphlet back to Sullivan and blew out the candle, his thoughts churning in his head.
“The Yanks promised me adventure full of fun and frolic and plenty of fine whiskey,” Sullivan said a few minutes later. “They promised me roast beef and pretty black-eyed se?oritas,” he continued, with a bitter laugh. “But they’re the biggest liars this side of perdition! I didn’t leave Ireland and my family to end up in this Yankee pisshole.”
Riley had his own version of the Yanks’ false promises. He could “earn back his sergeant’s chevrons,” they said. Rise through the ranks. Obtain US citizenship and good wages to pay for his family’s passage through the golden door. He thought about his wife and son. It’d been three years since he’d seen them. Johnny was almost thirteen and would soon be a little man, yet Riley wasn’t there to guide him and teach him all he ought to know. That thought gave him the most sorrow. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
He was drifting off when he heard a rustling in the dark. Franky Sullivan was getting dressed. “Don’t do it, lad,” he said in the darkness.
“Come with me,” Sullivan said softly, kneeling beside his cot. “We can do it together. Look out for each other!”
“I cannot.”
“Those miserable sinners told us false. How can you stay?”
Riley didn’t answer.
“Very well then. I’m goin’. Will ya give me your blessin’?”
“I need scarcely remind you that there are pickets out there ready to shoot anythin’ that moves,” Riley said instead. “How far d’ya think you’ll get? And if they don’t get ya, the river will. ’Tis a mighty current and will pull you under when you least expect it.”
Sullivan sat back down on his cot with a sigh. “I can’t do this no more.”
“Don’t let your passion lead you astray, lad. These sonsabitches are all strung up, itchin’ for the war to start, so they’ve nothin’ better to do but to amuse themselves with us. We’ll prove our valor soon enough, and by-and-by they’ll realize their ignorance of us Irish. They’ll see we’re damn good soldiers, better than those West Point amadáns.”
“I’m just a farmer,” Sullivan said. “And I wasn’t even good at that. If I was, the hunger wouldn’t be hard upon my poor parents now.”
“?’Twasn’t your fault the potatoes rotted, was it now? God willin’, the upcomin’ harvest will be plentiful enough for our people to get by.” He heard Sullivan lying back again on his cot and settling in with a sigh. “Be patient, Franky, a chara. I promise I’ll keep ya under my eye, and I’ll see to it you get your share of glory and honor.”
When Sullivan finally closed his eyes, Riley stayed alert to the murmur of the Río Grande, the clamor of toads, crickets, and hoot owls echoing in the dark, the barking of dogs in the sleepy city across the river, the melancholy howls of a solitary wolf beyond, and the wailing cry of a jaguar. Then finally Sullivan’s snores joined the chorus, and Riley surrendered at length to his own fatigue.