A Ballad of Love and Glory(95)

“What’s this you’re hiding?” one of the Yankees said. “Hand it over, Mick.” He pointed his bayonet at Riley and held out his hand. When he didn’t move, the Yank pressed the tip of his bayonet on Riley’s breast. “Now, Mick!”

Reluctantly, Riley untied his bloodstained banner from his waist and handed it over. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see what the Yank was going to do with the colors of his battalion.

The sound of their laughter nettled him. Unable to contain himself, he opened his eyes to see the Yankee maggot waving the green banner around, and then pretending to wipe his arse with it. Riley tried to scramble to his feet, but the pain in his leg and the irons made him fall back to the ground.

“Arrah, ignore the scoundrel,” Dalton said.

But Riley couldn’t. “You sonofabitch! Curse you to hell!” he yelled at the soldier, seething at the man’s disrespect for the holy banner of Saint Patrick.

The Yank threw the banner to the ground and marched toward Riley with his musket pointing straight at him. “What did you call me, Mick?”

“I said you’re a sonofabitch,” Riley yelled again. An officer standing watch ordered the soldier to lower his weapon.

“Death will come to them soon enough,” the officer said. “But it’ll be in a place where everyone can watch.”

“Just kill me now,” Riley said. “And let my men go. ’Tis me you want, is it not?”

The officer sneered. “It isn’t just you we want, John Riley. Every single one of you will pay for what you did to our comrades.”

Riley glanced at the monastery, wondering if Ximena was still inside. As part of the hospital corps, the Yankees wouldn’t harm her, that he knew. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, but he couldn’t. Instead, he spent the night listening to the rain, and the moans of the wounded and dying. He looked at his men, lying on the ground under the torrential rain, yielding to their fatigue, and said, “Forgive me.”



* * *



In the morning, Riley was roused by the clattering of a horse’s hooves at a brisk trot. He watched as a Yankee officer rode into the courtyard, dismounted, and disappeared into the monastery where the Yanks had camped out in the night, sheltered from the rain. Later, the man emerged and approached the prisoners.

Riley nudged Dalton to wake up. “They’ve come for us.”

“I’m Captain George Davis,” the officer said as he stood before them. “You’re hereby under my custody. You’re to remain as prisoners of the United States Army and will be transported to your prisons under my supervision.”

On the captain’s orders, the prisoners were divided into two groups and then chained. Riley watched as his men were separated, one column on its way to Tacubaya, the other heading to San ángel. Riley contented himself knowing that Patrick Dalton would be coming with him. He sighed in relief when Francis O’Conner was finally loaded onto a wagon on his way to get medical treatment. As for him, he knew that his wound wouldn’t be treated. The Yanks wouldn’t show mercy to him, and he accepted that.

Captain Davis gave the order to march. As his column was led forth to the village of San ángel, Riley turned to watch the other column and said a silent farewell to the forty-three men being taken to Tacubaya to await their fate. He doubted he would ever see them again. “God be with you, my brothers, until we meet again. Erin Go Bragh!”

“Erin Go Bragh!” they replied and gave Riley a final salute, and then all he could hear was the clanking of heavy chains as they were taken away.





35


August 1847

Mexico City

“His Excellency will see you now,” the attendant said. Ximena stood up, smoothed her skirt, and followed him down a large hall of the Palacio Nacional. He paused before two huge wooden doors and knocked softly.

From inside, a voice said, “Enter.”

At hearing that voice, the anger she had been trying to suppress flared up. She took a deep breath to calm herself and walked into the office. Santa Anna sat before his desk and watched her approach. There were several men in the room, all of them dressed in their finest military uniforms, their numerous metals glinting in the light. Here they were, clean and well fed, drinking brandy and puffing on their Cuban cigars while her husband and his men were locked up in prison, hungry and thirsty, cold and miserable.

“Ximena, querida, come in, come in,” Santa Anna said. Grabbing his cane, he stood up and came over to embrace her. Ximena didn’t look at the other generals, some of whom she’d met at the dinner party, others on the battlefield or the hospital tents. Their imposing presence shook her confidence, and she couldn’t lose that now.

“General, I apologize for disrupting your busy schedule,” she said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“Of course, my dear. How could I not make time to see you. Now, you know my generals, don’t you? Gentlemen, may I present se?ora Ximena, wife of Major Juan Riley.”

“I am sorry about the fate that has befallen Major Riley and his men,” General Ampudia said.

“Don’t worry, se?ora Riley,” General Bravo said. “It should be a consolation for you to know that our commander will make sure we get the San Patricios back.”

“Thank you, sirs. Thank you for your words of encouragement.” She turned to Santa Anna and said, “May I speak with you in private, sir?”