A Ballad of Love and Glory(93)
General Rincón ordered the troops at the monastery to their positions. “The Yanquis must not get past us,” he said.
There were a little more than a thousand Mexican soldiers inside the monastery, plus Riley’s battalion up on the parapets. He glanced at the four 8-pounders and wondered how long they could hold out against the Yanks. Santa Anna’s orders were to hold the position at all costs—and fighting to the death was what he and his countrymen would be obliged to do. Getting caught by the Yanks was not an option for them.
At around noon, they watched as hundreds of Mexican soldiers ran toward them, and then past the monastery, fleeing as fast as their feet could carry them across the Churubusco bridge, trampling each other in the horrible disorder. They were Santa Anna’s troops, which meant the Yanks were not far behind.
A few moments later, the San Patricios started yelling, “The Yankees are comin’!” as they pointed at the enemy charging up the road toward the monastery in pursuit of the Mexicans. Riley glanced at his men. They knew full well what the sight meant for them. The Yanks were winning, and if the battle were lost, the San Patricios could be captured in this monastery.
But he wouldn’t let them.
He raised his banner high above his battery, in plain sight of the Yanks. He made the sign of the cross and prayed a quick Hail Mary.
“Steady men,” he said as he and his men watched the Yanks get closer and closer.
“We fight to the death,” Patrick Dalton said.
“To the death!” the men repeated.
“Hold your fire,” Riley said. Down below, across the rain-soaked fields, the Yanks charged the monastery at full speed, General Twiggs in the lead. When no more than sixty yards stood between them and his guns, Riley finally opened fire upon the enemy. Their aim was true and steady, and they didn’t waste a single shot. All around him were the screams of Twiggs’s men below, the shrill of the musket balls as they whistled through the air, the roaring of the cannons, the cries of the enemy’s horses and the moans of the dying. The Yanks returned fire, and bullets whistled past Riley. From the parapets, his men fell over the railings to their deaths, but he kept his eyes on the troops below and kept firing, tearing into the columns of the enemy. At the sight of General Twiggs, Riley thought of Franky Sullivan. This was the day when he would avenge his tentmate. “Aim for the officers!” he yelled, turning his gun in the direction of Twiggs. To his disappointment, Braxton Bragg was not part of the Mexico City campaign, but he spotted James Duncan and the other West Pointers who had made his and his countrymen’s life hell, and turned a gun on them too. Without their leaders and no one to give the orders, the enemy troops would be lost.
He watched as the Yankee soldiers dispersed, some diving into the boggy cornfields surrounding the monastery, but the Yankees returned fire and Riley saw more of his men fall. Wasting no time, he ordered his gunners to fire against the Yankee artillery and maintain the cannonading. He had them pinned down. As long as he had ammunition, the Yanks were going nowhere.
* * *
Three hours later, Yankees lay dead in heaps in the muddy fields below. Everywhere Riley looked there was blood. Though they had managed to repulse General Twiggs’s division, the Yankees had taken the bridge and were now turning all their guns and musket fire toward the monastery. The Mexicans, running out of ammunition, had sent a request to Santa Anna for more, but when it arrived, it turned out to be the wrong cartridges. The powder and musket balls fit only the .75-caliber muskets of the San Patricios, but not Rincón’s and Anaya’s brigades. Riley knew that it wouldn’t take long for the Yanks to realize the situation.
Sure enough, the Yanks lost no time. As soon as they noticed the lessening of fire from the Mexican side, they renewed their attack from all sides. From up on the parapets, Riley could see the Yankee cannons being moved to a better position and aimed directly at him and his men.
“Everybody down!” Riley yelled.
He took cover just in time. After the blast, more San Patricios lay dead and three of their four cannons had been rendered useless. His green banner flapped in the wind, ripped and stained with smoke and powder.
“Riley, get us inside!” Dalton yelled through the noise. He had reached the last of his ammunition, and so had his men. But Riley wouldn’t give up, not until he loaded up the last of the cannon with grape and fired his last shot. Suddenly, a spark ignited the last of their powder and burst into flames. Captain O’Leary and three other San Patricios were enveloped in flames. Riley and the other gunners rushed at them with blankets, wet from last night’s rain.
“Take them inside, quick!” Riley ordered. He turned back to the remaining working cannon and ordered his gunners to load it with the last of their grape. The blast shook the walls of the monastery. Several more Yankees fell in a heap, but still they kept coming, their bayonets at the ready. Then his cannons finally went silent. Riley tore down the green banner riddled with bullet holes and blackened with smoke. This banner might very well be his shroud. Tying it around his waist, he yelled, “Inside!”
He and his men grabbed their muskets and rushed into the monastery to join the soldiers inside. They pushed furniture to barricade the doors, but the Yanks were not to be stopped and soon pushed their way in, crashing through the doors, surging past the last bullets of the Mexicans’ muskets. They were too many, and as Riley fired his musket, he knew that there weren’t enough bullets to stop the Yanks. Seeing some of his officers mortally wounded, General Rincón yelled, “Retreat!” and the Mexicans and the San Patricios ran up to the second floor, with the Yankees at their heels, shooting at them from behind.