A Ballad of Love and Glory(30)
Riley scanned the darkness for the right crossing. Sharpshooters were out there with instructions to shoot first and ask questions later.
“May the Virgin Mother keep and guard you,” Murphy said. “Tell our countrymen we’ll be here, ready to help them.”
“Keep your eyes open and your ears alert, boys,” Riley said as he stepped into the water. “And pray Saint Patrick is lookin’ out for us tonight.”
One of the Mexican soldiers handed him the sack with the freshly printed leaflets wrapped tightly in oilcloth, and he put them in his knapsack. Be wise then, and just, and honorable, and take no part in murdering us who have no unkind feelings for you, the general had written. Throw away your arms and come to us, and we will embrace you as true friends and Christians.
As he stood at the riverbank, Riley thought of the generosity of fifty-seven dollars a month, and the acres of land the Mexicans were offering him for his allegiance—how it would help him reunite with his family. Once again at the edge of this fierce river, a familiar fear arose. But he had never been surer that a life of dignity and prosperity awaited his countrymen. Eager to deliver those tidings, he threw himself into the current and swam hard and fast.
11
April 1846
Fort Texas, Río Grande
Hiding amid the cane on the other side, Riley shook off the water as best he could. The pamphlets in his knapsack had been wrapped well enough to stay dry. As he pushed through the foliage, his thick woolen uniform clung uncomfortably to his body. Glancing with gratitude at the cloudy sky that kept the moon hidden, he made his way to the camp’s dwindling fires. The air smelled of smoke and roasting corn, and scattered laughter rang out. One of the regimental bands was playing “Oft, in the Stilly Night.”
“Who goes there?” a deep voice challenged from the other side of the thickets.
Riley stopped walking and cursed under his breath as he reached for his knife. An old man emerged from behind the twisted mesquite branches and into the dim light. Dressed in disheveled trousers and a white linen shirt, one would mistake him for a bootlegger, but in another second Riley realized it was General Taylor. “Who are you?”
Riley wondered what in blazes the general was doing at this late hour walking around the camp by himself.
“Private Sullivan, sir.” Would the old man remember him?
“And what do you think you’re doing, Private, fumbling about in the dark?”
Riley didn’t know what to say but was relieved to see no recognition of him, one of thousands in his ranks surely.
“Not deserting, are you?” the general said, spitting out his chewing tobacco.
“No, sir.”
And then, perhaps realizing that Riley was heading toward the camp, the general said, “Oh, I see. I see. Snuck off to see the wenches, didn’t you?”
Riley remembered the camp followers, the whores, and liquor peddlers always near, enticing soldiers to spend their wages on pleasure and vice. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Riley said, relieved at the general’s assumption. “The nights are long and lonely.”
“But that’s the soldier’s lot, isn’t it?” Taylor looked up at the bright piece of moon that was now peeping forth through the clouds. Riley wondered about the general’s wife, the family waiting for him at his plantation in Louisiana. Surely the old man got lonely as well. “Ah,” the general said, looking keenly at him, “now that I can see your face, I reckon I know you. You got into a scuffle with Lieutenant Bragg, didn’t you?”
“Aye, sir.” Riley clutched the knife tighter. He didn’t want to use it, but he would if he had to.
“Well, I trust you’re staying out of his way, Private,” the general said. “Now get on with you. It isn’t safe for you to be out and about. You might be mistaken for a deserter, and you know what the consequence of that would be.”
“Aye, sir. I know it right well.” The image of Franky Sullivan suddenly returned to him, along with the old anger. He turned on his heel and proceeded toward the tents, not even bothering to reply to the general when he wished him a good night.
* * *
Maloney spotted Riley first as he neared the gleaming light of the campfire. “Bejesus!” he said. “Look who’s come back—?”
“Whist, whist!” Riley urged hastily as he rushed to join them. “You’ll give me away, shriekin’ like a banshee.”
Realizing his folly, Maloney beckoned everyone closer in to block Riley from view. Soldiers passed by now and then, and Riley was ill at ease thinking that one of them might be a Yankee from his own former unit and go running to Captain Merrill. He scooted closer to the fire, thankful for a bit of heat on a still-wet uniform.
“I didn’t expect to see ya,” Flanagan said.
“And what are you doin’ here, John Riley? Riskin’ your life to come back here. Not joinin’ the Yanks again, are you?” O’Brien said.
“Never!” Riley said. “I brin’ ye good tidings, boys. There’s a better life to be had yonder across the Río Grande, and I’ve come to brin’ ye with me.” He took out the pamphlets from his sack and handed one to each. Then remembering that most didn’t know how to read, he quickly told them what was written there.