A Ballad of Love and Glory(80)

He decided that, after the meeting, he would ask to be relieved of his duty to the Mexicans, thereby being spared of any further indignity. He would ask for his back pay and all that was promised him, though he feared those glorious acres of Mexican soil wouldn’t be his if he left. But did it matter anymore? Nelly was gone and her feet would never walk upon their own land, as he’d promised her.

But at the conclusion of the meeting, Santa Anna called Riley forward. “Teniente Riley, por favor.” He motioned Riley to stand beside him, along with Captains Moreno and álvarez, Bachelor, and Stephenson. Riley wondered what was happening as applause erupted in the room once more. Riley was shocked to learn that Santa Anna was awarding him and the others a medal of honor, a promotion, and with that, a pay raise.

“Captain?” Riley looked at General Santa Anna, at the chiefs and officers around the room, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

“For your courage and daring bravery in La Angostura,” General Mejía said, translating for the general. “Thank you for your service to la República Mexicana, Captain Riley.”

Santa Anna pinned on the medal in the shape of a white cross. As Riley shook his hand, he wondered if perhaps he’d misjudged his commander. Had Santa Anna truly believed in good faith that in yielding the field to the Yankees he was saving his men? Instead of an act of weakness and cowardice, had it been one of honor? He looked into the general’s eyes, searching for an answer. He wanted to believe, to renew his faith in his dreams and believe that they were not simply foolish fancies. But after the council meeting ended and he returned to the barracks, the burden of doubt and regret returned to weigh heavily on him.



* * *



He didn’t go to Ximena that night as he’d promised he would. He remained in the barracks with his men, Patrick Dalton by his side. It was only with Dalton that he could be completely honest.

“I’ve deserted once. I could do it again,” Riley told him. They were seated on a bale of hay, observing some of the other San Patricios who were gathered around campfires, roasting maize and singing Irish ballads while drinking pulque and mezcal. “I could leave tonight. Ride into the darkness, find a way to get back to my son.”

“Do not speak of resignation, Captain! You would betray the oath you’ve made to this country? This country which has welcomed you—us—with open arms?”

“We’re on the losin’ side,” Riley said.

“Both here and back in our homeland,” Dalton replied. “At least here, they’ve made you a captain. If that is what losin’ looks like in this country, aren’t you better off stayin’ here, then?”

“Aye, I’ve dreamed of this day ever since the British put me in their muster rolls. It took three armies for it to finally come true, but what price must I pay for military glory?”

“?’Tis mournin’ your wife you are. And you mustn’t let your guilt unsettle your mind. There’s no blame to you, John, a chara. You were a responsible husband and did your best to maintain her. The English are starvin’ our people so they can finally be rid of us Irish. Even if you were there, you wouldn’t have been able to save her. Besides, if your wish is to go home, our general has given you the means to do it.”

Riley looked at his friend. “What are you sayin’?”

“He’s marchin’ us to the east coast, isn’t he? To the water, the port. There are ships there! The Yankees have blockaded all of the Mexican ports, so if you wish to get back to Ireland, then fight them you must. Once they are defeated, you’ll be that much closer to home. You see, Captain, there’s no need to desert. No need to quit the Saint Patrick’s Battalion in despair.” He put an arm around Riley and said, “And, as your friend and second-in-command, I refuse to believe that all your mettle is truly gone.”



* * *



In the morning, he sought Ximena in the convent. They stepped out into the sunny courtyard, away from the foul odor of the makeshift hospital and the wretched sounds of human misery, and sat on a bench under the orange trees where the white blossoms cascaded around them, releasing their sweetness into the spring breeze. The murmur of bees was the only sound to be heard, and they sat there for a spell in silence, the air thick with the scent of nectar. Riley wished they could stay there forever.

It was Ximena who broke the silence. “You are leaving. Without me,” she said, matter-of-factly. There was no reproach in her voice. Only a quiet acceptance. For a second, he wished she would yell at him, sting him with hateful words.

He reached into his pocket and handed her the letter from Father Peter. He had no voice to say, “My wife is dead.” So he let her read the letter and see for herself the graveyard of woe he was carrying in his heart.

After she finished reading, she handed it back to him and fixed her gaze upon the ground. “I know you blame yourself for her death. But you did the best you can, do you not see?” She looked tenderly at him and said, “John, you must not permit your guilt to eat at your soul. You are a good, honorable man. And I—”

Her voice choked, and she swallowed the words. Instead, she cupped his face with her hands and kissed his cheek, sighing in resignation. She stood to leave, but when she began to walk away, he grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him.