A Ballad of Love and Glory(47)
“This is a fine city,” Quinn said, looking over the parapets. “Wouldn’t you want to live here, Lieutenant?”
“Aye, ’tis a magical place, to be sure,” Riley said. “Nature was not stingy bestowin’ charm and fertility upon it.” He loved the picturesque location of Monterrey, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre range, which wrapped around it on three sides, each massive mountain carved in distinctive shapes by the elements. The one to the east looked like a horse’s saddle, the mountain on the west like bishops wearing miters. Two high hills on the west side, Independence and Federation, served as the gateposts to the city, with Fort Soldado on the peak of one and the Bishop’s Palace on the other, which the engineers had also fortified. He could see the giant tricolored Mexican flag waving above the Bishop’s Palace. The glittering blue Río Santa Catarina embracing the city’s southern and eastern perimeters served as a natural moat offering protection from a siege. Past the white city wall, the cathedral’s spire soared above the terracotta roofs, and by the cluster of trees, Riley could identify the central plaza where he loved to stroll in the evenings.
“When we can finally send for our families, I hope they love this city as much as we do,” Quinn said.
“Aye, I’ll warrant they will,” Riley said, patting him on the back. “I told my wife all about Monterrey in my letters. And about the haciendas over yonder. One day, should it please God, we will have one of our own.”
As the men gazed at the noble haciendas on the outskirts of the city, they fancied themselves living there, surrounded by rich corn and sugarcane fields and orchards bearing figs, pomegranates, and avocados. Riley knew that, just like him, his men longed to own fine arable land. The English had taken it all back home.
The fresh air of the early morn was sweet and crisp. He inhaled deeply, realizing that soon they would be smelling nothing but burnt gunpowder and the stench of death. The bells of the cathedral rang the hour, reminding him of the work to be done. “Now, men, the day is wearin’ on. That ditch won’t dig itself. On ye go.”
Down below, the troops were in the process of fortifying the black fortress, digging a ditch around it where a drawbridge had been installed and finishing an eleven-foot wall to protect it from artillery shot. Once the battle began, the gunners in the citadel would face the enemy on their own with no hope for reinforcements.
Riley took out the writing materials he’d brought with him and set out on a new task. The day previous, General Ampudia had asked his assistance in composing another letter to the Irish and other foreigners in the enemy’s ranks. As soon as Taylor’s forces got close enough to the city, the Mexicans would flood his encampment with new leaflets.
“Is that the letter to our countrymen?” John Little asked as he came back up to the ramparts.
“Aye, ’tis,” Riley said.
“Will they come, you think? The Irish.”
“And the Germans, and the Scots, and maybe even the slaves who wish to have their freedom.”
“I wish the whole lot of them would come and leave Taylor with half his army,” Little said.
“I have no desire to point our guns at our own countrymen,” Riley said. “We’re givin’ them a choice. ’Tis up to them if they wish to remain in the ranks of the Protestant heretics, sufferin’ from little thanks and scanty pay.”
Riley inspected the guns gleaming in the sunlight and loaded with canister shot. He surveyed the vast plains below for any signs of the enemy, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in the horizon, just a herdsman with his flock of white goats. Riley read his words once more. It is well known that the war carried on to the Republic of Mexico by the government of the United States of America is unjust, illegal, and anti-Christian, for which reason no one ought to contribute to it… He held the white paper up in the air and imagined it being carried by the wind over the fresh green of the planted fields to the enemy’s camp. Soon more of his countrymen would come, and he’d be ready to receive them. His eyes returned to the road ahead, scanning the horizon.
* * *
Once they were done for the day, Riley and his men made their way back to the city, Riley on his horse, the men clattering behind him on mule-drawn carts. At the bridge over the arroyo Santa Lucía, which marked the entrance to the city center, they paused before the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the patroness of Mexico. She was a comforting sight to behold. It was fascinating to him how similar and yet so different the Catholic faith was in these lands. They combined Catholicism with the spiritual beliefs of the ancient native tribes, just like in Ireland, where old Celtic beliefs had been incorporated into Catholicism. Seeing this offered Riley a sense of home and familiarity.
Once they crossed the bridge into the city, Riley was pleased to see the troops building breastworks and redoubts, digging trenches, fortifying civilian homes and public buildings. All the streets were being barricaded. The flat roofs of the stone houses were perfect for snipers to shoot anyone exposed on the cobblestoned streets, and sandbags had been piled on the housetops for protection. Even the cathedral was playing a role by serving as the army’s main magazine, though Riley disliked the thought of God’s holy house being filled with cases of gunpowder and musket balls. The whole city was being turned into a fortress, though none of it took away from its magnificence.