I send you all my love, Nelly Nelly’s letter had arrived after Riley s eparated himself from the Yanks, but Maloney had lined up for him at mail call. The Mexican northern frontier seemed so far away from her and everyone he loved, and hearing her need for him was all the more painful. But return to Ireland was impossible. What else to do then but to stay and earn his lieutenant’s wages? He picked up the writing materials he’d purchased and finished his letter in r eply to her: The war has begun. When Mexico is victorious, I will send for you and Johnny and your parents. In this country we’ll begin a new life as proud landowners. Can you fancy that, my dearest one? It shall be so. I promise you. Please, remember me to Johnny. Tel l him when he gets here, I will have a fine horse waiting for him. He urged her to write back to him, though he wasn’t sure where he would be in a week, let alone, six months hence. When he was done, he walked over to the church. Mexican postmasters were unreliable with mail within the r epublic, but even more so from another country, and he could not risk losing his wife’s remittance. Thanks to the parish priest, he learned a better w ay was through the Catholic Church. Addressed to Father Peter from padre Felipe, it would be nigh on three months before his wife would receive it at the chapel, but it was the surest way. “Tell me, my son, you have troubles?” padre Felipe said as he stood outside the door of the sacristy, watering geraniums in the flowerpots. He set down the watering can as Riley approached. “Good afternoon, padre,” Riley said as he climbed the st eps. He removed his shako and kissed the priest’s hand. “I am tryin’ to es cape gloomy thoughts, but alas, they’ve taken possession of me. I think of my wife. If anythin’ happens to me in the upcomin’ battle — ” “God will protect you,” padre Felipe said. “You, John Riley, are here to defend a Catholic nation from protestantes bárbaros. Our Lord and savior, Jesus Christ, watch you.”
“Thank you, padre,” Riley said as he handed over the letter. “If God has other plans, will you write to my wife and inform her of my fate?” The priest shook his head. “When battle over, you write to your wife and inform of our victory.” “Would you give me your blessin’, padre?” Riley knelt down, hoping the priest’s prayer would provide him the strength he needed to face whatever fate awaited him. On the banks of the river the following day, Riley watched the Yankee forces form ranks. The reinforcements and equipment General Arista requested from the capital had yet to arrive, but unable to wait any longer, he’d taken 4,400 troops with him to cross the river farther downstream and cut off Taylor on the road to Point Isabel. The balance of his troops, including Riley’s battery, had remained in Matamoros under the command of General Mejía to guard the ferry crossings and to man the defenses along the r iver. At the council of war, Riley had proposed that the best course of action would be to surround Fort Texas while Taylor and most of his forces were still inside. But General Arista believed it was too great an undertaking now that construction on the fort ha d been completed. Its high, sturdy walls and de ep moat prevented the Mexican infantry and cavalry from infiltrating it. They could besiege the fort with cannon fire, but as Riley had pointed out, the Mexican cannons couldn’t penetrate the walls. In an effo rt to protect Matamoros from Taylor’s 18 - pounders, Arista had decided instead to lure the Yankee forces away from the city and attack them out in the open field. And so General Arista had forced Taylor out of Fort Texas by blocking his supply line. Short o f needed rations to feed his troops, the Yankee general was now marching away from his camp and heading east to his d epot. Arista had put all his faith in his cavalry. The Mexican mounted troops had equestrian skills unlike any Riley had ever seen, to be sure, especially with their lassos. In addition to their carbines and pistols, they also carried long lances, which, though outmoded, they used quite effectively. But confronting the enemy in an open field might prove disastrous. Recalling the artillery drills he had witnessed from the scaffolds of the Yankee fort, Riley feared that once in the open, the Yankees would have all the space they needed to execute the drills they’d been perfecting for months with their highly maneuverable batteries. Containing the Yankees in one place and storming the fort with all of them inside might prove to be a missed opportunity they would come to regret. Through his field glasses, Riley observed the small garrison Taylor had left behind to man Fort Texas. He spotted Engineer Captain Mansfield, rubbing his chin as he inspected the fort he had designed. Up on the redans, Major Brown and Lieutenant Braxton Br agg were checking the
cannons and taking the range of the Mexican batteries. As the Río Grande flowed between them, Riley remembered Bragg’s nativism and found himself pleased to be the West Pointer’s opponent. Could he have forgiven himself if he’d fought on the same side and been his accomplice in crime? “How many left?” John Little asked. Riley handed him the field glasses. “About five hundred infantry and artillery forces. He’s left Major Brown in charge. Do you see that vile fella, Braxton Bragg, up on the redans?” “Aye, he’s lookin’ our way now,” Little said, handing back the field glasses to Riley. “Looks as if someone stuck a thornbush up his arse.” Riley trained his field glasses on Bragg, taking pleasure in the disappointment the Yank must have been feeling that his light artillery couldn’t be employed in an artillery exchange across the river. His 6 - pounders didn’t have the range needed, nor could they be maneuvered on the ramparts as they were on the field. What did he feel at seeing the Irish gunners under Riley’s command pointing Mexican cannons right at him? “When do we strike?” Flanagan asked. “When do we cut the Yanks to pieces?” “Hold your hour,” Riley said, panning to the east with his field glasses. He could see nothing but the dense thickets of cane growing along the river. He wished he could be there to witness General Arista’s army interc ept Taylor. It was only a matter of ti me. After weeks and weeks of a standoff with the armies eyeing each other from opposite sides of the river, both forces were now on the same side, in proximity of each other, ready to be put to the test. “Arrah, I loathe waitin’,” Quinn said. “Makes me nervous everythin’ will go arseways on us.” Riley looked at his gunners eagerly awaiting his orders, most of them scarcely drilled and unaccustomed to fire. He wished there had been more time to bring them to a higher standard of instruction and better precision, but they were strong, capable men wh o had learned to work well. Riley patted Quinn on the back. “Faith, you’ll light those matches soon enough,” he promised. Two days later, on May 3, at the first tinge of sunrise, Riley’s battery, along with the rest of the Mexican artillery, rammed round shot down their cannons, lanyards at the ready. The Yankee fort was hushed and still, its bugles not yet sounding reveille. The day before, news reached them that General Arista’s plans had gone awry. With insufficient boats at their disposal, it had taken his troops twentyfour hours to cross the river, and by the time all his forces and artillery pieces had landed on the oppos ite side, Taylor’s troops had already gotten past them. Now that Taylor had reached the safety of Point Isabel, General Arista
had no choice but to wait for Taylor’s inevitable return to Fort Texas, and this time the Mexican forces would be ready to interc ept his advance. In the meantime, to lure Taylor out of the d epot and force him to countermarch, Arista had ordered the bombard ment of the Yankee fort to commence. The officers pointed their swords at Fort Texas and gave the order everyone had been waiting for: “¡Fuego!” The Mexican cannons belched and recoiled as the crews jumped to the side. Round shot screeched across the river, shattering the tranquility of the early morn. Riley watched the first shots slam into the walls of the fort, sending the Yanks scrambling into the shelters. Through the haze, he could see the residents who remained in Matamoros coming out to cheer heartily from their rooftops and on the streets. “¡Viva México!” they shouted. The church bells began ringing and bugles joined in with their calls as the Mexican cannons showered metal rain on the Yankee fort. “¡Fuego!” Riley and the other officers shouted again. Just like he’d taught them, Riley’s crew swabbed the cannons, reloaded, and fired away. After the first shots, the Yankees recovered from the surprise and hastened to r eply to their fire. Now it was Riley’s crew’s turn to duck as Braxton Bragg’s gun belched. Through the grayish haze and fragments of twigs and leaves swirling about, Riley trained his field gl asses on Bragg’s gun, took the range, aimed, and yelled, “¡Fuego!” The exchange of fire was thunderous. Riley winced as he heard the Yankees’ shots crashing into the town, tearing their way through the houses, blasting the streets. His crew returned fire on Bragg’s battery again, determined to unseat his cannon. The bombardment continued for another hour, with one Mexican cannon being taken out of commission and three of its crew members killed. Riley’s battery suffered one injury from Bragg’s cannon — Flanagan was wounded by an exploding shell that ricocheted from the ground and tore into his abdomen. He was rushed to the makeshift hospital. General Mejía ordered some of the cannons to be r epositioned and better protected. The Yanks, unable to take out another of the Mexican cannons, attempted to set Matamoros ablaze. Riley watched as they hurled hot shot at the heart of the town, the shells t earing through the terracotta - tiled roofs, the adobe and stone walls, but to his relief the buildings didn’t ignite. The Yanks had failed to heat the shells to a high enough temperature. Riley took great pleasure in seeing Bragg’s disappointment. Six hours after the bombardment began, the Yankee guns went silent, and Riley assumed they were being careful with their limited supplies. The Mexicans continued to deliver their iron
shower with little damage to the Yankee fort. Two of their guns had been dismounted, but not Bragg’s. As Riley had predicted, most of the Mexican shells got lodged in the earthen walls, causing little injury. Other shots fell short of their targets. The sh ots that landed inside the fort exploded upward, so the Yankees simply dropped to the ground to avoid being injured. But it was the noise they were after, not carnage, and thus the firing continued. Riley hoped by now Taylor had decided to leave the d epot and make haste to the fort. But it was not to be. An express was received from General Arista that Taylor still remained at his d epot. Firing on the Yankee fort would resume the next morning. It was almost fifteen hours before the firing finally ceased. The troops’ eyes were red and burning from the day’s smoke, the air reeking of exploding gunpowder. Riley was grateful that because of the smoke, at least they hadn’t been attacked by the mosquitoes that tormented them day after day. With no time to waste, he accompanied General Mejía and the engineers to c onduct an inspection of the damage. The general ordered the troops to r epair the sandbag fortifications and breastworks. The night was hot and humid, and the mosquitoes returned in swarms, but the troops labored incessantly. Beyond r epair were three of the guns the Yankees had knocked out of commission, and one howitzer that had cracked during firing. Riley could hear the Yankees making their own r epairs. He knew their fort had sustained little injury, but he hoped they’d at least suffered a good number of casualties. Before succumbing to exhaustion, Riley and Maloney made their way to the makeshift hospital to look in on Flanagan. Taking out a handkerchief, Riley wiped the smoke and grime off his face. His ears were still ringing. “You believe the lassie and her grandmother can save poor Charlie?” Maloney asked. He coughed for a spell before continuing on. The smoke from the cannons was still heavy and hovered over the town in a stinking cloud, making the air taste like burnt gunpow der. Riley thought about the rush of blood pouring out of Flanagan and how he’d hastened to press on his stomach to stop the flow. “His life is in God’s hands. I don’t know. I saw the unlucky fella get hit.” Even before they entered the hospital, they heard the groans of those who’d been wounded during the cannonade. Luckily, there were few, and their injuries didn’t seem grave, not like Flanagan’s. They found him on a nearby cot being tended by Ximena, with p adre Felipe standing on the other side giving him his last absolution. Flanagan was drenched in sweat, speaking in the Irish tongue, “ M’iníon, is cailín maith thú agus sól’as do d’athair .”
As he listened, Riley realized the poor man thought the young widow was his daughter. Of course, she didn’t understand a word he said, but she spoke to him tenderly, as a daughter would speak to her ailing father. Her back was to Riley and Maloney, but sensing their presence, she turned around. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she wiped at them with her soiled apron, leaving a streak of Flanagan’s blood on her face. Maloney went to her and wiped the blood off with his handkerchief. “Och, lassie, let me sit here with my friend. You deserve a bit of rest.” She nodded and st epped away from the cot. “I’m sorry, teniente Riley,” she said as she came to talk to him. “I do what I can, but the shell cut his... intestinos. So I sent for the padre.” Her teary eyes were amber - colored, with flecks that glistened like shards of sunbeams. Riley tore his gaze away and looked down at Flanagan’s abdomen, where blood soaked through the bandages. “Thank you, lass. We will sit with him then,” he said. “Stay with him ’til the end.” “I am sorry,” she said again, looking at Riley and Maloney. “I wish I do more.” “You’ve done enough,” Riley said. “You gave him peace.” She excused herself and went to help her grandmother with the other wounded. “John, Jimmy, is that ye, boys?” Flanagan said. His voice was hoarse, and Riley leaned closer to his cot, taking his countryman’s hands in his. They were cold and limp, his life draining out of him. “Whist. Don’t exert yourself, Charlie, be easy. We shall do aught we can to save ya,” Riley said. Flanagan shook his head. “My time has come. I’m ready to meet God. But you ke ep fightin’ those Yanks, John Riley. Show them what we Irish are made of. Make them regret what they did to us, and to Franky.” “I’ll never stop fightin’, not until we win this war.” “You’re a credit to your countrymen, John Riley. Don’t let anyone — ” Suddenly, Flanagan began shaking and Riley called for Ximena. Together they witnessed him take his last breath. Padre Felipe made the sign of the cross over his body and prayed for him in Latin. “ Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam . I won’t let his death be in vain,” Riley said. “Heavens be his bed,” Maloney said, then broke forth in tears.
Ximena put an arm around the old man. She looked at Riley, and for a moment, he wished to feel her arm around him as well, for her intoxicating scent of sweet green herbs and smoky incense to wrap around him. He wanted to bury his face in the nook of her n eck and cry with abandon, the way Maloney was doing now. “I appreciate your kindness,” he said, taking a de ep breath. He was a lieutenant and couldn’t indulge in sorrow and lamentation. This was war, and he was bound to lose good men. He couldn’t fall asunder with every loss. But hadn’t it been he who had convin ced Flanagan to risk life and limb for Mexico? And yet, couldn’t the same thing have happened to him with the Yankees? The bombardment continued for the next two days, with the Mexicans unable to lure Taylor out of the d epot. Word from Arista arrived informing them that Taylor had sent a group of Texas Rangers to sneak past the Mexican troops to reach his garrison at the f ort. The Rangers had shot their way past the Mexican sentries guarding a post near the camp, killing six. Although Arista couldn’t be certain if the Rangers had managed to return to the d epot, judging from Taylor’s refusal to leave, it appeared they’d acco mplished their mission. Riley was sure they had succeeded and that intelligence the Rangers delivered to Taylor was the reason why he was in no haste to rush to Fort Texas. By now Taylor must have been well apprised that the Mexican guns were scarcely caus ing damage to his fort, making him confident the garrison could hold out. “What are General Arista’s orders?” Riley asked General Mejía. “We are intensifying our attack on the fort. He is sending General Ampudia with some forces and four field pieces to bombard it from the north bank while we continue shelling it from the south.” The crossfire continued, with Mexican artillery firing on the Yankee fort from several directions, but it remained unbreachable. Riley had warned his men to pr epare for a long siege, but he could tell their spirits had deflated, bombarding the foe when the y didn’t have enough fir epower to cause any damage. If only General Arista would stop waiting for Taylor to make his move so he could interc ept him on the road. Riley believed that if the general brought the entire force of his troops upon the Yankee fort instead of having General Mejía and General Ampudia attackin g from two sides, perhaps then they could capture the fort and conclude the standoff. But as Riley feared, news arrived that a shipment of supplies and new recruits had arrived at Point Isabel. Taylor finally had the numbers he needed to feel confident about emerging from his shelter. On May 8, when they received word that Taylor was on his way to Fort Texas with his
troops and supply trains, General Ampudia abandoned his post and took his infantry, sappers, and two cannons to offer Arista support in interc epting Taylor along the road. The battle was soon underway on the prairie of Palo Alto. Riley and the cannoneers, on their end, continued the bombardment of Fort Texas, making as much noise as possible. When there was a break in their fire to let the cannons cool down, the de ep booming of large guns eight miles distant could be heard plainly, like the roar of an approaching thunderstorm. Judging from Arista’s gloomy r eports to General Mejía and his request that they send more ammunition, Riley knew the odds were not in their favor. If A rista had led the attack with his infantry and cavalry, there would have been a chance. As long as the battle was dominated by artillery, there was little the Mexicans could do against Taylor’s deadly cannonade, especially out in the open prairie where the flying artillery had all the space it needed to maneuver and fire its grape and canister on the Mexicans. Unless Arista could find a way to silence the Yankee cannons, the enemy would continue to blast their way through the Mexican ranks. Hand - to - hand con flict would have evened the odds. The next day, the battle between Arista’s and Taylor’s forces had changed location to Resaca de la Palma, four miles distant. By the afternoon, the command “Hold your fire!” rang out from the Mexican redoubts. Riley knew the outcome of the second battle wh en he and his crew watched from their batteries as Arista’s troops appeared on the other side of the river, running as if the very devil were chasing them. So desperate were they to retreat, they tried to es cape one danger by facing another — defying the dan gerous currents of the Río Grande to reach the safety of Matamoros. They threw themselves into the water, whether or not they could swim. Others tried to cross on horseback, and Riley watched in horror as both men and horses succumbed to the voracity of the river. Behind them, Taylor’s dragoons were in hot pursuit. Riley and his men stood by their cannons, not pulling the lanyards lest they kill both friend and foe. They watched as Arista’s disordered, panic - stricken soldiers attempted to cross the river. General Me jía ordered those closest to the water to help the retreating troops, but with insufficient boats to ferry all the men, hundreds dove into the river with their weapons, drowning in the attempt to get away from the mounted riders. Local ranchers appeared wi th their own boats to help, but there weren’t enough, and the weight of too many men and horses pulled some of them under. Then fights erupted on the riverbank as the disorderly masses attempted to board the boats. The last words of the drowning men were e ither a plea to God or a curse for their enemies. As the miserable fugitives were sw ept up by the current, Riley could hear the Yankees’ shouts of merriment as they waved their flag from the ramparts.
“Merciful Father...” Maloney said, looking at the frightful whirl of dismay and confusion. Riley could see in his eyes the terror of the night he almost drowned. He needed to get Maloney away from the hubbub in the river. “Go to the barracks!” Riley commanded him. Knowing the day was lost, he ordered his crew to abandon their batteries, and they all rushed down to the river to save as many as they could from a watery grave. May 1846 Matamoros, Río Bravo Ximena had never seen so much blood. It covered the ground and splattered her legs as she rushed from one cot to another tending to the wounded being brought from the battlefield in supply wagons. They supplicated for water, for mercy, they asked for the p riest, la Virgen de Guadalupe, their mothers. As blood oozed from their wounds, they cried in her arms, clutching her so tightly she had to bite her lip. But it was her ears that hurt the most — for the shrieks of the wounded were as terrible as those of the cannons bombarding the fort across from Matamoros. It was through these men that she learned the outcome of the battles. Their shattered limbs, disfigured faces, and charred skin told stories the soldiers later confirmed. Among their cries and groans, the mutilated men revealed their woeful two days of fighting in the prairie of Palo Alto and in the chaparral of Resaca de la Palma. Again and again, it was the enemy’s artillery they spoke of — the shower of exploding shells that dismembered and killed with im punity. They told of finding body parts in the thorny bushes, burying their dead in the dark, being unable to drink from the water hole tainted red with the blood of their fallen comrades, and vomiting at the smell of burned human flesh as the prairie gras s fires spread, consuming the dead and the wounded lying helpless on the ground. After the hasty retreat of the second battle, she tended to those nearly drowned but fished out of the river just in time. Yet the soldiers’ delirium and fevers, their nightmares, were as difficult to cure as their battle wounds. The makeshift hospitals we re so overcrowded, the injured came to die, not to heal.