A Ballad of Love and Glory(79)

He and Dalton left the convent. The brightness of the day hurt his eyes, and it wasn’t long before his head was splitting. When Dalton urged him to stop and rest, Riley refused. No, he needed to be strong. He needed to be a leader. Dalton insisted and pushed him onto a bench in the public square.

“I’m grand, Pat,” Riley said. “Let us go to the barracks. I must change and take this beard off me. See to the men.”

“In a minute,” Dalton said. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Riley. “Tidin’s arrived for you whilst we were away. The priest at the cathedral asked me to deliver it to you. ’Twas sent to him by another priest in Matamoros, he said.”

Riley looked at the cathedral on the other side of the plaza. His hands shook as he took the letter. Dalton patted his shoulder and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me a holler if you need anythin’, my friend.”

With trembling hands, Riley opened the letter. He recognized the hand immediately. It was from his parish priest.


30, Oct’ 1846

Dear John,

It is with a heavy heart that I must be the bearer of bad tidings. The typhus fever visited your family and came upon Nelly and her parents quite sudden and violent. God took pity on the afflicted and took them to His side without letting them linger in their suffering. God, in his benevolence, has spared Johnny. Let your mind be easy in knowing that I am looking after your boy and will do my best to help him survive this hunger and pestilence scourging the land. He will remain with me until you deem ready for him to embark on the voyage to Mexico, if that is still your desire. The state of the country is such that I do not recommend you return yet awhile. My condolences to you, my son. I imagine your heart must be torn in pieces, but do not despair. Put your trust in our Lord.

I send you my blessings,

Rev. Peter



Riley stumbled into the cathedral with barely enough strength to make it to the nearest pew. He sat in the cool, dim interior surrounded by candles and wanted to cry, but no tears would come, as if the arid landscape he had barely survived had gotten inside him, and his dreams, his hopes, his very being had dried up and withered. Jesus hanging on his crucifix looked down upon him, and Riley wished to be punished for his betrayal of the most sacred oath he had ever made—to care for his wife. He’d nothing to give her when they married but an uncertain future. And now, Nelly was dead; she’d been dead for more than five months. And if Father Peter hadn’t taken in Johnny, the lad would probably be dead by now too.

He had never felt so alone. So far from his homeland. So far from its gentle rain and rolling mists. So far from the son he’d left to seek his fortune on the other side of the Atlantic. He ought never to have left. Now he found himself adrift, a stranger in a strange country, without a way home. He’d failed his wife and now he was a man with the burden of another broken oath upon him. He fell to his knees and shook with violent grief.





29


March 1847

San Luis Potosí

At the council of war, Riley didn’t hear much of what was said. General Mejía, as usual, translated for him, until he noticed Riley’s state of mind. “Are you unwell, teniente Riley?”

“I’m grand,” Riley said, not wanting to distract him from the meeting. There was no point in him being here anymore. What was he doing oceans away from where he should’ve been all this time—back in his homeland with his loved ones? Hadn’t he almost died of thirst and hunger in Mexico? He’d been braving death here, so why not do so back home? What had he gained by leaving Ireland except becoming a wanderer upon the earth?

He’d admired the Mexicans for doing what the Irish couldn’t—gaining their freedom. He’d wanted to help them keep it. But what if they didn’t deserve it? What if his admiration for them had colored things falsely? Santa Anna had literally marched his troops to their deaths. The general still stood by his decision to abandon the battlefield and dared to continue to declare a false victory for Mexico, claiming as proof the colors and guns he’d taken from his foe and the Yankee corpses he’d left on the battlefield. Could the general live with the falsehoods he was making to his own people just to preserve his image as their liberator?

Riley could still taste the bitterness of their shameful defeat. And now, without even giving the troops a chance to recover, Santa Anna was planning to march them all the way to the city of the True Cross—Vera Cruz—to confront General Scott. Since Mexico had no navy, Scott had been able to sail down the Gulf of Mexico completely uncontested.

“I will drive the Yanquis back into the water to drown like I did with the French,” Santa Anna boasted. “The French took one of my legs, and the Yanquis might take the other, but we will send them back into the Gulf where they can feed the sharks.”

Applause erupted in the room. The general ordered the chiefs to prepare their units for the march. He was departing the following day with his staff and a small detachment. He was leaving half of his forces in San Luis Potosí to reorganize and the other half was marching out by the week’s end under the command of Generals Ampudia and Vásquez. The Saint Patrick’s Battalion was to be part of this group. Riley thought of his men who were still lying on the cots at the convent. What would they say when he told them that in a few days, they needed to be up and ready to follow him to the coast to join the Mexican Army of the East? What would they say when he told them that he had lost his desire to fight? That perhaps it was time for the Saint Patrick’s Battalion to be disbanded and its green banner lowered from its staff. He was tired of seeing his men suffer all manner of privations and enjoy none of the glory he’d promised them.