A Ballad of Love and Glory(98)

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Throughout the next few days, news reached them in their prison. The trials of the San Patricios held in Tacubaya had begun, and an armistice had been agreed upon, forbidding either country from fortifying their defenses and strengthening their armies. The exchange of prisoners and the wounded would soon be carried out, but Riley knew without a doubt that Santa Anna wouldn’t be able to negotiate with Scott for their freedom. No, Scott would be sure to make examples of them.

Then their own trials began. One by one, the San Patricios imprisoned in San ángel were sentenced to hang—not death by firing squad as defined by the Articles of War—but to hang at the gallows as if they were lowly spies or rapists. Every single one of them received the death penalty. None of the claims they had made in their defense had swayed the Yankees. When Patrick Dalton received his sentence, Riley was close to tears. He needed to be strong, for all of them, but after that, he couldn’t look his friend in the eye.

On September 5, Riley was the last of the men to be summoned. As the guard was placing the chains around his hands, Riley observed his men, who were leaning dejectedly against the walls.

The guards pushed him out of the warehouse, and even though Riley knew the verdict that awaited him, he still said a silent prayer. “God, have mercy on me. Let me live long enough to see my son once more and my unborn child.”

He took a deep breath and tried to hold himself together as best he could, though the pain in his leg caused him to limp and his forehead broke into a sweat. When they pushed him into the room that had been turned into a courthouse, and Riley faced his judges, the wound on his leg opened again, and blood was seeping through his already bloodstained Mexican uniform.

Riley could feel the room’s gaze on him. He spotted Duncan sitting in the front row and saw the blatant hatred in his eyes, the same contempt with which Braxton Bragg would have looked at him if he were here. Colonel Bennet Riley was serving as judge. Riley hated sharing a surname with this man, a child of Irish parents but born and reared in America. A Catholic, but a Yank through and through. Riley knew not to expect any sympathy from the colonel. He knew the colonel would be harder on a true Irishman like Riley. Many American-born Irish were like that—turning against their own kind, pretending they had nothing in common with the folk from the ould sod. General Scott knew what he was doing when he appointed Bennet Riley to oversee the trials. On the outside, it would seem like the San Patricios were getting a fair trial, presided over by someone of Irish descent, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Sure enough, Colonel Bennet Riley stood and looked him up and down, taking in his major’s dark-blue Mexican uniform, the braided epaulets, the medal of honor, the insignia of his rank. The colonel sneered with contempt and called the trial to order.

Riley kept his face impassive as Captain Ridgely read the accusations against him.

“Private John Riley of K Company, Fifth Infantry, you have been accused of deserting service to the United States on the twelfth of April, 1846. You are accused of joining the Mexican ranks and taking up arms against the United States Army in the battle of Churubusco. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Riley replied. His voice sounded sure and steady.

Murmurs broke out and many in the audience yelled, “Liar!” and “Traitor!”

The colonel called the courtroom back to order. Several men were called to testify on Riley’s character, among them his former commander, Captain Merrill. Riley remembered that rainy Sunday morning, the day after Sullivan’s death, when he had made his decision to desert. He had thought Captain Merrill would be resentful that it was under his watch that Riley had deserted, but he saw no hatred in the captain’s eyes. If anything, what he saw was respect, maybe even a hint of pity, because he, too, seemed to know what the verdict would be.

“Private John Riley was a man of good character and an excellent soldier,” Captain Merrill said. “I don’t recollect ever having to punish him in any way.”

Riley nodded a silent thanks and prepared to give his own statement. He knew full well that his reasons for deserting mattered naught to them, but he wasn’t going to make it quick and easy for the Yanks to sentence him to death. No, he was going to make them wait, and he was going to give them a piece of his mind.

“On April twelfth, after my tentmate, Franky Sullivan, was murdered in cold blood, I was in need of comfort from the Lord and his Holy Mother, so I asked the good Captain Merrill here to give me permission to attend mass. On the way thither, I was thereupon taken prisoner by Mexican lancers who dragged me across the Río Grande against my will.” He heard the hisses, saw the shaking of heads. Of course, they didn’t believe a word he was saying, but he continued. “There in the town of Matamoros I was imprisoned, and for nineteen days I lived on nothin’ but bread and water and the good grace of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Finally, General Ampudia came to my prison cell and gave me three choices.” Riley stopped then and looked around the room. “The Mexican general said I could die by facin’ the American firin’ squad or his own firin’ squad, or I could join his army. I, of course, refused to take up arms against the United States, not after I had been treated so kindly and respectfully by my American comrades and superiors. Not after bein’ promised the opportunity to move up in rank. And especially not after bein’ recompensed with a whole seven dollars in wages to send back home every month. So the Mexican general said to think things over. I was kept prisoner, with my hands tied behind my back all the way to the city of Linares.”