A Ballad of Love and Glory(20)
“You’ll come back for me, won’t ya? I’ll fight with you through sunshine and storm. ’Tis a promise!” Maloney shouted after him.
Up ahead, Braxton Bragg, James Duncan, and other West Point officers swashed across the campground. Something Bragg said roused laughter. Riley’s face heated, his jaw clenched. When Bragg fixed his spiteful dark eyes upon Riley, and his lips curled with insolence, Riley knew the West Pointer meant mischief. What if Maloney was right? He ducked behind the tents and headed straight to his commanding officer’s quarters.
* * *
After a proper salute, he asked for permission to speak. He knew that the Yanks looked down at his religion, but it was the best lie he could come up with at the moment.
“Permission to leave camp, sir,” Riley said. “Word is a priest will be holdin’ services yonder north at a local farm. I’d like to ask a prayer of him for my dead tentmate.” Riley held himself straight and still as if frozen inside his American blue uniform. Lying to his commander made his body itch, worse than if he’d just gathered a field of fuzzy corn. He looked straight ahead at the wall behind Merrill, lest his eyes betray him.
“General Taylor was clear about the consequences of deserting, was he not?”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain studied Riley for a few seconds. “You’re a good soldier, Private Riley,” he said at last. “What a pity that your countrymen cannot see the error of their ways.”
Riley thought of Maloney hanging by his thumbs on that tree, of Franky Sullivan at the bottom of the river, of the church and the bells that called to him. He clenched his fists and unclenched them. Steady, he told himself. Steady. He held his breath as he watched Merrill sign the paper that would get him past the guards.
“Don’t disappoint me, Private,” Captain Merrill said, handing him the pass.
Dismissed, Riley headed through the rain to the perimeter of the camp, the pass tucked safely in his pocket. He quickened his pace, feeling Merrill watching him from his quarters. There was no priest giving mass at any nearby farmhouse, and his lie would be found out soon enough. He passed by tents, the parade grounds, the cannons that pointed at Matamoros. When he reached the perimeter, he took out the pass and handed it to the sentries.
Taking in the landscape outside the camp, he remained alert for any movement. Sentries were on the lookout for deserters, and maybe even Bragg or Twiggs was out there, looking for a little diversion. The Río Grande roared below as he struggled through a thick tangle of shrubs and cane near the water’s edge. His uniform was soaked with rain, but no matter, he would be in the river soon. Still, his heart palpitated so hard he could feel it. He turned to see the pickets farther away, pointing their muskets at a flock of honking geese that had suddenly taken off into the air, as if to give Riley a chance. With a quick sign of the cross, he plunged into the river. With all the strength he could muster, he began to swim across. The current was strong, but his determination was stronger. Through the water’s noisy roar, he thought he heard shouting, then musket fire. He stopped for nothing till he gained the other bank.
* * *
Water pooled at his feet. Two Mexican soldiers approached him, muskets raised. Riley didn’t speak the Spanish tongue and didn’t know if the soldiers spoke English. Not that his Irishman’s brogue would be easy to understand.
With their muskets, they motioned for him to follow. Flanked by a soldier on either side, Riley walked down the muddy street that turned to cobblestone as they reached the heart of the city. Rectangular houses made of unbaked brick lined the streets, stretching as far as he could see, their roofs bright with red tiles or thatched with palm and cane. Their facades were plastered with white lime and bore sturdy double doors and tall iron-barred windows.
As he sidestepped the muddy rain puddles and animal droppings, Riley could feel the stares of the local people as they hurried by on foot or atop donkeys and oxcarts. A woman poked her head out the window of a dry goods store to stare at him with rude curiosity. She took in his Yankee uniform and spat as he passed. He kept his eyes ahead, grateful when the rain suddenly stopped, and sunbeams pierced through the clouds. He wondered how much time he had before he was missed at the camp.
They passed by the church fronting the public square. It was a fine old church and higher than most of the buildings. Riley pointed to it and said, “Ecclesia,” hoping the soldiers could understand his Latin, but they shook their heads and kept walking. They took him directly to the general’s headquarters, where Riley found himself standing before the general-in-chief of the Mexican Army and an assortment of other officers. Though the general seemed unfazed by his appearance, Riley wished he looked less like a cur dog left out in the rain. He towered over the general, and yet he felt small. In his early forties, General Ampudia stood proudly in a brilliant blue uniform adorned with golden epaulets. From beneath his thick, dark brows, he examined Riley from head to toe while twirling his long mustache, as if trying to guess his intentions. Another general drew near, and General Ampudia said something to him in Spanish. Then both turned to Riley.
“I am General Mejía. My commander welcomes you to Mexico, Private. Who are you and why are you here?”
“Private John Riley, sir,” he said, snapping a salute. He spoke slowly and carefully. “I’m here to seek consolation in your church, if you grant me permission to do so, sir.”