A Ballad of Love and Glory(84)
She wondered what kind of journey lay before her. Would they be plundering and killing their way home? What atrocities would she be forced to witness? If more slaughter and devastation awaited her, wasn’t she heading the wrong way? She turned her head to look at San Luis Potosí, but only the steeples and bell towers of the churches were visible now. She thought of John, of how he had almost lost his life right at this spot from sunstroke and the fatigue of that nightmarish retreat. But he had lived. He was still alive. Then she thought about her dream. How could she not warn him? He’d made it clear that there was no future for them anymore, and she might be foolish to go looking for him, but how could she start a new life with her child when its father’s life was in peril? Didn’t her child deserve a father? Shouldn’t she at least try?
“I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular. “I’m heading the wrong way.”
They all turned to look at her. She dismounted the horse and handed the reins back to Canales.
“Take it,” he said. “It’s one of the horses Joaquín gave us.”
She nodded her thanks, then looked at Cheno, who approached her on his horse. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “I’ll look after your rancho, Ximena, and when you’re ready, it will be there waiting for you.”
“Adiós, Cheno.” She looked at the guerrillas and said, “Vayan con Dios.”
She remounted the horse, turned it around, and cantered back to the city, her eyes fixed upon the cathedral steeple where the priests were making preparations for their visit to Mexico City.
Part Three The Heart of Mexico
31
July 1847
Mexico City
The Port of Vera Cruz had surrendered to the Yankees at the end of March, and in April, Santa Anna’s army collided with Scott’s at the Battle of Cerro Gordo in the hills of Vera Cruz. Though the Mexicans managed to inflict a good deal of damage, the Yankees still bested them in battle, and Riley had found himself once again on the run with his men and his Mexican comrades-at-arms, leaving behind more than one thousand of their dead on the battlefield, thirty-three field pieces, ammunition, and a chest with twenty thousand dollars from which the soldiers’ wages were to be paid.
To Riley, Cerro Gordo had been a clearer defeat than Buena Vista—this time, there was no doubt that the Yanks had emerged victorious, forcing Santa Anna to abandon the battlefield at panic speed on horseback after his personal carriage was riddled with bullets and his spare wooden leg fell into the enemy’s possession. Scattering in every direction in a disordered mass, Santa Anna’s forces had then made their way to Mexico City. Riley had no choice but to follow. As long as the Yankees had possession of Vera Cruz and its port, there was no way to get home but to keep on fighting.
In Mexico City, Santa Anna occupied himself with arrangements to defend the capital, but he faced the same obstacles as before—insufficient funds, limited supplies and munitions, and lack of support from the Mexican states and the clergy. After his disastrous defeat in Vera Cruz, he’d also lost the confidence of some of his followers, and his rivals, especially Generals Ampudia and Valencia, wasted no time in renewing their intrigues and sowing dissent. Riley watched as Santa Anna, undeterred by his subordinates’ plotting, took the reins of the presidency once again and made the defense of the capital his priority. Soon fortifications were being constructed and martial law imposed, forcing males between the ages of sixteen and sixty to report for military duty. Riley was not surprised when, in no time at all, Santa Anna had accumulated twenty-five thousand soldiers under his command. Now he was focused on raising funds and support, invoking the patriotism and zeal of the city residents, urging them to devote their fortunes and their honor in defense of Mexico.
On his end, Riley welcomed more deserters into the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, including a few foreigners who’d been residing in the capital, but he needed more men. Aware that many of the prisoners of war in the Mexican prison cells were Irish, Germans, Poles, and American deserters, he decided to seek them out and recruit them. At the Santiago Tlatelolco Prison, Riley and Patrick Dalton went from cell to cell, observing the men before addressing any of them. The Yankee prisoners would most likely not heed his calling, and though Santa Anna had given him a written order empowering him to take any American prisoner into the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, he wanted only men he could trust, who would become San Patricios of their own free will.
Eighteen of the foreign-born prisoners had petitioned the British consul general in Mexico to help them. These were the ones Riley most wanted to talk to. Since the British consul would do nothing for them, joining the Mexican ranks was their only hope for now, and he would make sure they understood that.
At the third cell, Patrick Dalton stopped and pointed to one of the men sitting on the ground. “That’s one of the eighteen,” he said as he pointed, “Matthew Doyle. And there’s Patrick Casey over there, Henry Ockter, and Roger Hogan.”
After glancing at the men, Riley decided to address them. “Good afternoon, brave fellas,” he said in a deep, loud voice, so all the prisoners could hear. “I’m Captain John Riley, and this is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Patrick Dalton. We’re here to offer ye assistance.”
One of the Yankees spat on the ground. “I want nothing from the likes of you, traitors.”