A Ballad of Love and Glory(99)
He went on and on, describing the ordeal he had suffered. He was actually beginning to enjoy himself, his lies becoming more outlandish. He’d never told a better cock-and-bull story before. He saw the people in the audience squirming, the judges’s faces turning redder and redder. Finally, during a pause in his storytelling, the colonel said, “Are you ready to close your statement, Private?”
Riley still wasn’t ready to give them the satisfaction of sentencing him to death and being done with the trial so they could enjoy their dinner. And how dare he call him Private when he knew damn well what his rank was? Riley shook his head and continued with his story. “And so ’twas, that many days later—after much sufferin’ and anguish—I was sentenced to be executed by Ampudia’s firin’ squad, after which, I was to have my head fried in hog’s grease and hung at the public square. But just when I was about to face death itself and put my defeated soul in the hands of the Lord, the other Mexican general, Arista, arrived to halt the execution. He gave me one more chance to take up arms in defense of Mexico.” Riley heard the audience’s whispers. The words traitor, liar, coward made his blood boil, and so he gave up the performance and brought his statement to a close.
“So I was given a choice, and I made it,” he said, his voice louder, his tone serious. “I decided that instead of bein’ sentenced to death and have my head fried, I would rather serve as a commissioned officer in the ranks of the Republic of Mexico. There, as you can see,” he said, standing proudly and showing off his gilded shoulder straps and medal of honor, “I obtained the rank of major because of my skills and bravery on the field of battle—and because the Mexicans valued me and respected me in a way you Goddamned Yankees sonsofbitches never did!”
The audience was in an uproar. The colonel called the court to order but no one paid him any heed. He banged his gavel again and again. Riley tried to keep his face expressionless, but he couldn’t help himself, and a grin spread across his face. He watched as the judges shouted among themselves.
Then Colonel Riley stood, waited until everyone quieted down, and said: “After deliberation, the court finds the prisoner Private John Riley, of Company K, Fifth Infantry, guilty as charged, and does therefore sentence him to be hanged by the neck until he is dead!”
37
September 1847
Mexico City
“He is going to hang, hija,” padre Sebastián said, coming to sit beside her on the pew. “They all are.”
He had gone out that morning seeking news of John and his men. Every day he’d inquired on Ximena’s behalf because no one would tell her when John would be court-martialed. And now it had finally happened, that very day, and like everyone else, he’d been given the death sentence.
She looked at the altar, at la Virgen de Guadalupe, at the shafts of broken sunshine streaming through the church’s stained-glass windows. “Hang? Hanged by the very men who have called Mexicans barbarians and savages? Who are the savages now? Damn them. Damn them all to hell!”
“Lo siento, hija,” padre Sebastián said. “But please, do not blaspheme in front of la Virgen.”
Ximena took a deep breath and composed herself as best she could. No, no, he couldn’t be hanged, not after everything he had gone through, after everything they had sacrificed, fought for. “I won’t let them,” she said. “I won’t let that happen.” She got up and took her leave. “Que tenga buen día, padrecito.”
“Pero ?adónde va, hija?” padre Sebastián called out.
She emerged from the Catedral Metropolitana into the bright day and pushed her way through the throng. Where could she go? Santa Anna was once again in the midst of political turmoil. Due to the armistice he had agreed to with the Yanquis, he’d been accused of being a traitor, not only by the people but also by government officials, including the governor of the state of Mexico. Although the armies had exchanged prisoners, Santa Anna didn’t have Yanqui prisoners of high enough rank to exchange for his own officers, let alone John. Scott wouldn’t give him up, even if Santa Anna had had a Yanqui major in his possession. Who could save John and the other San Patricios from that horrible fate?
When she finally reached the Alameda, she was assailed by memories of strolling hand in hand with John. As they listened to the rustling of the trees and felt the caresses of the cool breeze, they had planned a future together that now would never happen. Not if the Yanquis got away with murder.
No, she wouldn’t allow it!
She hired a coach to drive her to the British consulate. She had little money to spare, but her feet were swollen from all the walking and she needed to sit. Surely the British would help. After everything they had done to the Irish, surely they would have mercy now and do what they didn’t do for them back in their homeland—save them. She wished now she had gone home to fix her hair, changed into her muslin dress, and exchanged her old rebozo for the mantilla John had given her on their wedding day. Appearances determined whether you were listened to or not. As she climbed up the steps to the consulate, she stopped and pinched her cheeks for some color, then licked her lips and smoothed her hair. She wished she had gloves, a parasol, anything that would elevate her in the eyes of the consul. What would he think of her coming into his office in such disarray? She should have also donned the beautiful brooch Santa Anna had given her, but this was a matter of life and death, gloves and brooch be damned.