A Ballad of Love and Glory(31)

“Holy Mother of God,” O’Brien said. “Up to three hundred and twenty acres of land? You speak in earnest, my boy?”

“Fancy that? Me, a landowner, for the first time in my life,” Quinn said.

“Aye. Every single one of ye fellas could be landowners,” Riley said. “All your days of drudgery will be behind ye. There’ll be no more absentee landlords, no more redcoats and police comin’ to tumble your roofs and turn ye out of your fields, no more Yankees to mistreat ye and make ye rue the day ye crossed the Atlantic. Ye’ll have land and can practice your faith as ye will.”

“Tell us about the Mexicans. Have they shown themselves better Christians than the Yanks?” Quinn asked.

“Aye,” Riley said. “They’ve offered me friendship and their confidence. They appreciate my skills and recompense my hard work and insight. They’ve even made me a lieutenant, I tell ye. And if ye come with me, that’s how ye shall be treated as well.”

“?’Tis a big risk,” Flanagan said. “And if we’re caught, the Yanks will show us no more mercy than they showed Franky Sullivan.”

“The Río Grande is a graveyard now,” O’Brien said.

“Listen now, boys,” Riley said. “The war’s upon us, and I don’t want ye on the other side of my guns but beside me in the Mexican artillery. I cannot bear the bitterness of my soul at the thought of spillin’ your blood! The Mexicans have agreed to let me train ye all as battery gunners. Ye won’t be common foot soldiers but cannoneers!”

The men looked at one another and said nothing.

“By the holy fists of the blessed Saint Patrick, mind what I’m sayin’, eh? Ye all can die here, too, in infantry blue. Ye’ll have a better chance with the Mexicans. Beyond on the other side of the river, ye’ll be surrounded by people who’ll treat ye with respect, who’ll offer ye friendship and call ye brothers and Catholics. Not savages. Not Micks or potatoheads. Not deserters or traitors.”

Riley stood up. He still had to distribute the pamphlets around the camp, but he needed to wait until everyone settled in for the night. “Meet me by the river in one hour. Upriver, near the ferry crossin’ by the Mexican fort. My Mexican friends will be waitin’ with my men on the other side, ready to help.” He looked at Maloney, who’d said nary a word the whole time. “And you, ould fella, you told me to come back for ya, and I have. Sunshine and storm, remember?”

“Aye. I know well enough you’re here for me.” Maloney took a swig of whiskey, looked at the fire, and said, “But Riley, this poor ould creature of five and sixty hasn’t—”

“—lost his mettle yet,” Riley finished for him. “I’ll meet you at the river then, eh?”

He retreated into the shadows to wait until the bugles sounded their call to quarters and watched his former messmates retire to their tents. The camp was soon still but for the night patrol. He was a tall man, an easy target, but Riley was quick on his feet and he made no sounds as he wound his way down each company street. He carefully placed short stacks of leaflets on the ground in front of the tents as he went. He’d let the wind do the rest.

When he was finished, he retreated to the riverbank. It was harder to see where he was stepping, but he listened to the roaring of the river and followed the sound until finally, his feet were on the shore. At first, he saw only the deserted shoreline. Had he convinced no one?

“Riley, over here!” someone whispered. He turned just in time to see eight of his former mates step out of the tall cane where they’d been hiding. Flanagan, Quinn, O’Brien, and a few others. But no Maloney.

As if reading his thoughts, Quinn said, “The poor creature is in terror of the river.”

Riley didn’t say anything. He guided them down to the riverbank, his eyes straining in the darkness. Were sharpshooters watching them right now, just waiting to shoot them as soon as they started swimming?

“Swim as hard as ye can,” Riley said. “The river is calm from above but mind the strong undercurrents. Don’t look back. Don’t hesitate. Our friends await ye on the other side. Understand?”

“Aye,” the men said.

He watched as one by one the men entered the river and started swimming across. Preserve them, holy Saint Patrick.

With the last of them in the river, Riley turned quickly back toward the camp. He knew where Maloney’s tent was. He also knew that he had befriended his tentmate, a German immigrant, Private Kirsch, a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars. Like all Germans, he received the same bad treatment from the Yanks. Riley would take them both across if Kirsch would follow.

As he neared Maloney’s tent, four sentries marched past it, their muskets at their sides. Riley barely had time to throw himself on the ground. Once they were far away he continued cautiously. He hadn’t taken but three paces when he tripped over something heavy. It took him a moment to realize it was a slave sleeping on the dirt outside his master’s tent. The young man stared at Riley, too scared to make a sound.

Finger to his lips, Riley motioned for him to follow him out of earshot. He handed him a pamphlet, but suspecting the man couldn’t read, he whispered its contents. “You’d be a free man,” Riley said, pointing to the river. “The Yanks don’t allow your kind into their muster rolls, but the Mexicans will. Freedom and glory await you on the other side if you join us.”