A Ballad of Love and Glory(19)

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Scarcely had he closed his eyes than he was roused suddenly, not by a bugle call but by musket shots. Seeing Sullivan’s cot empty, he scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the tent, shoes unlaced. The camp was in an uproar, drummers beating the long roll, soldiers running in all directions, muskets at the ready, thinking the Mexicans were upon them. But Riley knew better. He ran to the river, his heart squeezed tight inside his chest. He heard what might have been the squealing of geese, though it was a human voice crying out with affright.

“Stop, please, I beg ya!”

Day was just breaking, and it was hard to see clearly through the wreaths of mist, but he knew without seeing that it was Franky Sullivan. Riley pushed his way past the crowd, and through the reeds; he watched that fool of a boy struggling to swim back to the camp after getting himself caught deserting. On the riverbank, a sentry was pointing his musket right at him.

“I made a mistake!” Sullivan said as he struggled to pull himself out by grabbing onto the cane. The sentry lowered his musket, and Sullivan began to wade out of the river. Just then, Colonel Twiggs pulled up his horse beside the sentry and said, “Do your job, soldier!”

“But, Colonel—”

“I said do your job!”

The sentry raised his musket again and, with a click of the trigger, discharged his load of buck and ball. Riley watched as Sullivan dropped to his knees, the water around him tinged with red. Soon he was floating downstream, and moments later, he got pulled under, disappearing from sight.

“Who’s next?” Twiggs said as he surveyed the soldiers from atop his horse.

Riley took a step forward, feeling his blood boiling inside him. Twiggs had Sullivan shot down even though he’d begged for mercy.

“Easy, now,” Maloney said from behind him. He put a firm hand on Riley’s shoulder and steadied him. “When the proper time comes, we’ll cut their sinnin’ souls out.”

“Get to your ranks and be prepared for a hard day’s work!” General Taylor shouted as he approached the crowd on his mare. “Ampudia is here in Matamoros. War is upon us, and I want this fort finished once and for all.”





7


April 1846

Fort Texas, Río Grande

Riley spent the next rainy Sunday poring over Franky Sullivan’s meager belongings. There was no one to send them to. In the months since they’d shared a tent, the lad had never received a letter from his relations.

The bells of the church in Matamoros began to toll. Riley turned toward the sonorous sound and felt his heart aching. Gathering up Sullivan’s things, he hurried to the riverbank. He’d loved coming here before General Taylor ordered shoot-on-sight. He missed watching herons, snowy egrets, and geese and ducks alight along the low banks to play in the shallows. The sight of the Río Grande was now forever changed by the heartless punishment for a boy’s blunder.

A soft mist clung to the towers of the church on the other side, and Riley imagined the priest inside preparing for mass. For a moment, he fancied himself there, safe in God’s home. He bent down to the muddy ground and quickly dug a hole, putting all of Sullivan’s things inside, except for a crude wooden shamrock the little fellow had whittled himself. A token to remember him by, Riley decided. He said a prayer before throwing the clay back into the hole.

“Thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”

“Hey, move away from the river!”

Riley turned to see a sentry walking toward him, pointing his musket.

“You know what happens to deserters, right?”

“Aye, right well I do,” Riley said, taking a few steps away from the river. He looked at the church. If only he could find a way to get there.

“Get on with you then, Mick,” the sentry said, “if you don’t want to end up like the rest of your traitorous kind.”

With one last glance at the church, Riley turned around and hurried back to his tent as the rain began to let up. Along the way, something caught his eye. A man hanging by his thumbs from a tree limb, his toes barely touching the ground. He rushed over to Maloney. He reached for the rope, and the old man jerked out of the way, crying in pain as he did so. “Stop! You’ll get punished, you will.”

Riley glanced at the patrolling sentries. One would surely look toward them, in only a matter of time.

“But why?” Riley asked, immediately regretting it. Did it matter why?

“Duncan got into a passion because I didn’t salute him proper,” Maloney said through clenched teeth. Sweat dripped from his face, the letters branded on his forehead were scabbing and stood out hideously. He looked toward the river and said, “If ’twasn’t for my ignorance of swimmin’, I’d do it, you know? I’d be long gone by now.”

“And end up like Sullivan?” Riley asked.

Maloney nodded. “Aye, even the bottom of the river is better than here. Look, lad, I know honorin’ your oaths is important to ya, and I may be an ignorant spalpeen that knows more about pickin’ spuds than military laws, but I do know well enough that a contract binds both parties. Won’t you at least go see for yourself what the Mexicans are all about? For Franky?”

The sentries drew nearer. “God give you strength, Jimmy, a chara,” Riley said, before quickly parting.