A Ballad of Love and Glory(22)

He took a deep breath, savoring the serene quietude. The church was much bigger than the one back home, grander and more splendidly decorated, but just as welcoming. His eyes adjusted to the dimness inside and he felt thankful for the absence of bright light. He had never gotten used to the glare of the sun in this land of suffocating heat.

Hundreds of candles burned against the cold walls, illuminating paintings and life-size wax figures of the Savior and saints standing on pedestals, the silver embroidery and beads of their garments glimmering in the candlelight. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows and fell upon the walls in colored patches. He knelt at the feet of the Holy Mother and made the sign of the cross. The tears for Franky Sullivan finally gushed forth. If only he’d given the lad his blessing. If only he’d come with him like he’d asked, perhaps the poor boy would still be alive. From his pocket, he took out the shamrock Sullivan had whittled and rubbed it with his fingertips. You were right, Franky, a chara. Here, you would’ve been a hero.

A priest came into the church from the back door and entered the confessional. Riley recognized him as the priest who had prayed over the dead deserter. He stood and dried his eyes and followed after the priest. He knelt and made the sign of the cross.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,” the priest said.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over seven months since I confessed.” He wondered if the priest spoke English and if he would be able to understand him at all.

“Speak my son, God listens,” the voice inside the confessional said in soft, careful English. Riley sighed in relief.

“I am guilty of lettin’ my friend die, for I wasn’t there to protect him and keep him safe.” He closed his eyes and told the priest about the previous morning, the fear in Sullivan’s voice. His own impotence.

“You no blame for he dying, son. He is with God now.”

“He was scarce eighteen, Father, with his whole life ahead of him.”

“Your friend in a better place, and he watch you now, like you watch him before.”

Riley wiped the tears from his eyes. If only he could give faith to that.

“You more troubles, son? Speak. Here is house of God.”

“I have been offered a commission as first lieutenant in the Mexican ranks. If I accept, I will become a deserter. I will become a man who betrays his oaths. I don’t want to be that manner of man, Father.”

“The Yanquis no treat Irishmen good. The heréticos protestantes deny you practice your faith! Remember, son, the one true promise is to God, no to Yanquis.”

Riley remained quiet. He thought about what Maloney had said. The Yanks had made an oath to them, and they were the first to break it. If there was no sanctity to their oath, no validity, was he then no longer bound to observe his own?

“If promise is no good, it no can bind you. What your heart say to do, son? In your heart you find God’s will. Listen, make right choice.”

“Thank you, Father. Will you say mass in honor of my friend? His name was Sullivan, Franky Sullivan.”

“Yes, son. Go in peace. Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti. Amen.”

“Amen.” Riley finished making the sign of the cross and headed out of the door. The soldiers followed behind him. He could hear the burbling of the Río Grande, and that was where he headed. He stood by the bank, the water rolling beneath him, and looked across at the camp. He could see the Yanks going about their day. Had his absence been noticed by now? He turned back to look at the Mexican soldiers who were waiting patiently and wondered if they’d been instructed to shoot him if he decided to swim back to the camp. But he wasn’t a prisoner. He’d come here of his own free will and would leave the same way he came. He could return to the camp, to his tent, to his unit, and continue on as if nothing had happened. No one would be the wiser. Only he would know he’d swum across the Río Grande twice, and naught else had come of it. But was that what he wanted?

He took out the pass Captain Merrill had given him that morning. It was a little blurry, but still legible enough to get him past the guards and into the fort. He walked to the river’s edge and glanced once more at the Yankee camp. He remembered when he’d left Clifden, fired by an ambition to give his family a life of dignity and prosperity without having to sell his soul to the British Army. To finally earn enough money to buy his own bit of land and never again be answerable to the whims of a landlord. He’d crossed an ocean then to cast his lot on this side of the Atlantic. In Canada, he’d not found what he was looking for, and he’d crossed a lake to search for opportunities in Michigan. Now, he had crossed a river, and the dreams were still there, just beyond his grasp, waiting to be realized, waiting for him to make his choice.

Riley let the pass fall from his fingers and watched as the bold sweep of the current carried it away, just like it had Franky Sullivan. His decision now made, he walked back to the general’s headquarters to accept his commission as first lieutenant in the Mexican Army of the North.





8


April 1846

Rancho Los Meste?os, Río Bravo

The pecking of raindrops on the roof roused Ximena. Joaquín’s side of the bed was empty. In the darkness, she spotted him puffing on a cigarette by the open window, the white curtains and smoke billowing about him as if he were half man, half specter, and she wondered if she was dreaming. A gust of wind filled the room with the scent of spring rain—sweet grasses, mud, wet hay. She breathed it all in, her mind now fully awake.