The air smelled of the noon meal, and Riley caught a whiff of beans and frying meat, handmade tortillas, and the pungent p eppers so relished by the Mexicans and used too generously in their cooking. His throat spat fire like the barrel of a cannon whenever he tried their salsas. The Mexican Army had no mess tents. Soldiers nourished themselves thanks to the civilians selling food from doorways — tamales, enchiladas, tacos — home - cooked meals, freshly made. He walked past the tree - lined central square and the ch urch, Nuestra Señora del Refugio, Our Lady of Refuge, a title that aptly captured how he felt attending mass there. Their pronunciation of the familiar Latin mass differed, but their humility and devotion for the Creator matched that of his own people, he thought. The general’s headquarters were located at the best hotel in town, with elegant arches and a red - tiled roof. The guards standing at the entrance st epped aside to let Riley enter. He was escorted across a brilliant courtyard full of lush green plants, cheer ful fountains, and canaries chirping merrily in cages. Riley liked the design of the buildings in Spanish fashion. Nothing but high walls could be seen from the outside, but the inside was protected and safe, a private Eden that closed its doors on the out side world. General Ampudia looked entirely out of humor as Riley entered. He made no effort to hide his displeasure at being r eplaced as commander - in - chief by General Arista, regarding his demotion as a personal affront. Riley didn’t know why the minister of war had made this decision, but the transfer of power at this crucial time had further delayed their assault on the Yankees, and time was on Taylor’s side. Discord and rivalry among the Mexicans could only increase that advantage. “Lieutenant Riley, please come in,” General Mejía said. “May I introduce you to our new commander, Major General Mariano Arista?” As Arista’s new d eputy, Mejía seemed pleased with the new change in command. “An honor, sir,” Riley said after snapping a salute. He had heard that Arista had distinguished himself as one of Mexico’s best cavalry officers. “At ease, Lieutenant Riley. I’m pleased to meet you. Both General Ampudia and General Mejía say we can trust you,” General Arista said in English, and Riley remembered hearing that the forty - three - year - old general had lived in the United States for a time before returning to serve in
Mexico’s military. What surprised him most was the general’s freckled complexion and red hair. If it weren’t for his Mexican accent, he could pass for an Irishman. “ ’Tis an honor to serve the great R epublic of Mexico,” Riley said. “We are going to war, Lieutenant,” General Arista said. “We are going to run the Yanquis off our land once and for all.” “Aye, sir,” Riley said. “That we will.” General Ampudia approached Riley with a pat on the back. He said something in Spanish, and General Mejía quickly translated. “General Ampudia says that you have improved our artillery and have been of great service to our country.” “I’m only doin’ my duty, sir,” Riley said. He didn’t want to say anything about the state of their weapons. As if reading his thoughts, General Arista said, “The Yanquis, despite their flaws, have a magnificent army to be sure, and the latest weapons of war. Our training may be insufficient and our weapons in need of r eplacing, but we Mexicans fight like devils when aroused, and make no mistake, Lieutenant Riley — the presence of the Yanquis on our own land has more than provoked us.” Arista beckoned for Ampudia to hand him the pile of papers sitting on his desk and then turned back to Riley again. “Now, you must be wondering why I’ve summoned you. Since you have served in the ranks of the enemy, your keen observations and recommendatio ns are of utmost value to us, and we will do our best to take your counsel into account. But now, we require your assistance in another matter.” He handed Riley one of the papers and said, “General Ampudia had great success when he penned a pamphlet addres sed to your countrymen. As a result, I’m employing the same tactic. There’s widespread discontent in the American ranks, and I aim to exploit that. You’re to deliver these pamphlets tonight to your countrymen and all foreign soldiers in the Yanqui ranks. T hey must make their choice before we attack.” All three generals keenly watched Riley as he read through the pamphlet General Arista had given him. It was a fine letter, urging the Irish and other immigrant soldiers to abandon their ranks, and promising them land grants based on their rank, of three h undred and twenty acres or more. He thought about Maloney, Flanagan, O’Brien, and the rest of his countrymen who shared the same dream as he — to have a piece of land to call their own. Was it possible that it was finally within reach?
“By this time tomorrow hostilities shall be underway,” General Arista told Riley after he had finished reading. The general went on to inform him of the plans he’d set in motion even before reaching Matamoros. A few days before, he’d given the command for a covert crossing of the river, whereupon General Torrejón led 1,600 of the Mexican forces — cavalry and infantry — across the Río Grande upstream from the Yankee camp completely unnoticed, with the ultimate goal of disrupting communications and convoys between Fort Texas and its supply d epot at Point Isabel. By the time rumors of the maneuver had reached General Taylor , the Mexican troops were safely resting on the north shore. Arista’s spies alerted him that Taylor was set to dispatch two cavalry patrols that evening to find evidence of the crossing and interc ept the Mexicans. Now Riley understood why he must hasten to deliver the pamphlets. By this time the following day, if blood was shed, the war would have commenced. “I wish to see your countrymen fighting alongside us, as our Catholic brethren, and not on the receiving end of our guns,” General Arista said. “I will call upon my countrymen,” Riley said as he looked at the three generals. “And personally oversee the safe passage across the river of those who choose to come with me.” “Very well, Lieutenant,” General Arista said. “Tonight then, you shall be our messenger.” “May I offer a suggestion, sir, by your leave?” “Of course, Lieutenant, you have my permission to speak freely.” “Would the general consider formin’ the deserters into a company of gunners? ’Twill give them an extra enticement to come.” “An excellent suggestion!” General Arista said. “Indeed, it is,” General Mejía said. “You and I can train anyone who follows you across the river to man our field pieces.” “Now, Godspeed, teniente Riley,” Arista said. “Bring all your countrymen to us. Tell them we will receive them with open arms.” After he was dismissed, Riley returned to the barracks to seek out the men — deserters like himself — to tell them of the plans. He chose three of them, John Little, James Mills, and John Murphy, to accompany him. He never thought he would don the hated Yankee uniform again, but that evening found him buttoning his old army jacket. Maybe Saint Patrick had prevented him from tossing it in disgust,
as he had been inclined to do upon receiving his new Mexican uniform, for clearly, its usefulness hadn’t ended. “Faith, you look like a Yank,” Murphy said as Riley approached them, clad in American blue. “Let’s hope I don’t get caught,” Riley answered. He was glad the men were ready for action. “ ’Tis a dangerous thing you’re doin’, Lieutenant,” Mills said. “Let us accompany you. I know my way around the camp as if it were my own potato garden.” “And I can be as quiet as a fox stealin’ hens,” Murphy said. “I’m a fair swimmer,” Little said. “I can carry two fellas on my back if need be.” Riley shook his head. “ Níl , I need ye on this side, boys, waitin’ by the river to help the ones who swim across.” Two Mexican soldiers escorted them from their barracks toward the edge of the river. As night gathered around them, they traversed the streets, and he could hear families inside their homes, their merry laughter ringing out through the open windows as they shared their evening meal. He wondered how soon it might be his turn to partake of such moments with his family. The aroma of meat and tortillas wafted toward them as they passed a small adobe house where a señora was selling food from her doorway. Behind her, an old woman knelt before a hot flat stone, patting tortillas into shape. Riley’s stomach rumbled. He thought of his new favorite meal, tamales, a kind of meat pie wrapped in corn husks. As they passed another house, his mouth watered as he smelled the pan du lce a woman was selling, and the tantalizing whiff of cinnamon made him almost stop to purchase one. He regretted that his preoccupation with the night’s plan had k ept him from supper. With one de ep breath, he set aside his cravings as he veered toward the river. On the northern bank, the Yankee camp was still astir, and he sensed that his timing was right. He was taking a great risk going at this hour, before tattoo, when everyone was still awake, but he needed his former messmates gathered together. It wo uld do him no good to sneak into the camp when they were all sle eping in their tents. Riley scanned the darkness for the right crossing. Sharpshooters were out there with instructions to shoot first and ask questions later. “May the Virgin Mother ke ep and guard you,” Murphy said. “Tell our countrymen we’ll be here, ready to help them.” “Ke ep your eyes open and your ears alert, boys,” Riley said as he st epped into the water. “And pray Saint Patrick is lookin’ out for us tonight.”
One of the Mexican soldiers handed him the sack with the freshly printed leaflets wrapped tightly in oilcloth, and he put them in his knapsack. Be wise then, and just, and honorable, and take no part in murdering us who have no unkind feelings for you , the general had written. Throw away your arms and come to us, and we will embrace you as true friends and Christians. As he stood at the riverbank, Riley thought of the generosity of fifty - seven dollars a month, and the acres of land the Mexicans were offering him for his allegiance — how it would help him reunite with his family. Once again at the edge of this fierce river , a familiar fear arose. But he had never been surer that a life of dignity and prosperity awaited his countrymen. Eager to deliver those tidings, he threw himself into the current and swam hard and fast. April 1846 Fort Texas, Río Grande Hiding amid the cane on the other side, Riley shook off the water as best he could. The pamphlets in his knapsack had been wrapped well enough to stay dry. As he pushed through the foliage, his thick woolen uniform clung uncomfortably to his body. Glancing with gratitude at the cloudy sky that k ept the moon hidden, he made his way to the camp’s dwindling fires. The air smelled of smoke and roasting corn, and scattered laughter rang out. One of the regimental bands was playing “Oft, in the Stilly Night.” “Who goes there?” a de ep voice challenged from the other side of the thickets. Riley stopped walking and cursed under his breath as he reached for his knife. An old man emerged from behind the twisted mesquite branches and into the dim light. Dressed in disheveled trousers and a white linen shirt, one would mistake him for a bootlegg er, but in another second Riley realized it was General Taylor. “Who are you?” Riley wondered what in blazes the general was doing at this late hour walking around the camp by himself. “Private Sullivan, sir.” Would the old man remember him? “And what do you think you’re doing, Private, fumbling about in the dark?” Riley didn’t know what to say but was relieved to see no recognition of him, one of thousands in his ranks surely. “Not deserting, are you?” the general said, spitting out his chewing tobacco. “No, sir.” And then, perhaps realizing that Riley was heading toward the camp, the general said, “Oh, I see. I see. Snuck off to see the wenches, didn’t you?”