A Ballad of Love and Glory(94)
One of the Mexican soldiers raised a white flag. Riley raised his musket and without thinking twice shot the Mexican soldier’s hand, splattering the white flag with blood.
“We’re not givin’ up, you hear me?” Riley yelled at the Mexican soldiers. “If you have no valor to fight with, then fight from the shame of cowardice. But fight we must, to the death. ?Hasta la muerte!”
Only a few had anything left to fire at the Yanks, and when that was spent, the only thing to do was to fight with whatever they had. Riley charged at the Yanks with nothing but his bare fists, and his men did the same. Dalton fought bravely by his side, but they were pushed back, retreating up the steps of the monastery. The Mexicans raised two more white flags, and the San Patricios quickly tore them down. “To the death!” they yelled. “To the death!”
Panic-stricken, the Mexican soldiers rushed past them to seek a way out of the monastery. The battle was over, and Riley knew they weren’t going to stay around to be killed. Santa Anna’s orders to fight to the death be damned. They disappeared down the corridors and left the San Patricios to their fate.
“Go!” Dalton yelled at Riley. He pointed to a door in the back hall, where some of the Mexicans were making a dash to the river. “Go to her! Grab her and get out of here!”
Riley hesitated.
“Go to her, now!” Dalton said.
Thinking of Ximena, Riley did as his friend said, hastening to the makeshift hospital. There was a way out of the monastery there, and he knew this was his only chance to take it.
“John!”
He saw Ximena on the other end of the corridor, calling to him. But as he was dragged down the corridor with the throng, he turned and saw his countrymen being felled one by one by the Yankees charging at them with their muskets and bayonets, yelling like demons. And how could he, John Riley, their leader, save himself and leave his men in their moment of need? What manner of man would he be then? He looked back at her. Forgive me, Ximena, he thought, then turned his course and ran back to Dalton’s side just as a Yankee was aiming at his friend. As he pushed Dalton out of the way, a bullet tore through Riley’s leg, and he dropped to the ground on his knees.
“John!” Dalton yelled, rushing to help him move out of harm’s way. A bullet whistled past Riley’s ear, and then another.
“Leave me!” Riley said, blood soaking through his uniform. “Go! Save yourself.” But Dalton wouldn’t move, and then it was too late.
The gunshots finally stopped. Riley turned to see a white flag in the air. It was being raised by a Yankee officer. Why would a Yank raise the white flag for them? Why not just kill them all?
“Enough!” the captain said, raising the flag even higher. He ordered his men down and then looked at the eighty-five San Patricios and the Mexican soldiers lying on the floor and leaning against walls. “I, Captain James Smith, hereby declare that you are now all prisoners of war of the United States Army.”
General Twiggs then entered the monastery, and Generals Rincón and Anaya both lowered their swords in surrender. “Where is your ammunition, Generals?” Twiggs asked.
General Anaya looked at him and said, “If we had ammunition, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”
The Yankee general ordered his men to search the premises and as he looked around the monastery, his eyes fell on Riley. As recognition set in, his eyes filled with hatred and disdain.
“The jig is up for us,” Riley said, looking up at his friend.
“There’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness,” Dalton said, repeating Riley’s words from long ago. “I do believe we’ve crossed that line, Major. We should have run.”
* * *
It began to rain again later that evening, and Riley was thankful for the raindrops. After disarming them, Twiggs had forced the San Patricios and the other prisoners out into the monastery’s courtyard, and for hours they had sat on the hard ground suffering from want of food and water. Riley stuck out his tongue and savored the bit of moisture that soothed his parched throat.
He couldn’t move, sitting on the ground in irons while the wound on his leg continued to bleed through the handkerchief he’d tied around it. He could feel his strength fading away. He wasn’t the only one who was injured; all around him were incapacitated San Patricios with varying degrees of injuries. He could hear their moans, their cries. Their prayers grew fainter and fainter as their bodies weakened and a gloom settled over them as they pondered their fate. A few feet away from him, Francis O’Conner lay on the ground, unconscious and groaning. Both of his legs had been blown off by enemy cannon. Twiggs refused to give O’Conner medical treatment, and Riley feared that his countryman wouldn’t live to see another day.
But perhaps it was better that way. The Yanks had them now and would show no mercy. Not after today’s battle. Not after all the Yankee soldiers and officers Riley and his gunners had killed.
Sentries walked among the prisoners, kicking them, mocking them, enticing them to try to escape. They needed a reason to shoot them in cold blood. But Riley and his men were spent, and none of them moved. Instead, they sat under the rain, and Riley wondered if they knew they were doomed. The Mexican prisoners would probably be exchanged, but what would happen to him and his men? The Yanks would never forgive them for switching sides and would always consider them traitors.