“Executed?” he said. “By firing squad?” She nodded. “Yes, executed. They pay big price for freedom.” “Freedom comes at a cost,” Little said. “Aye, I would give up my own life to set our unhappy country free,” Riley said. “A toast for Ireland’s freedom then,” Maloney said, raising his mug again. “And if die we must, then may we all die in Ireland and meet merrily in Heaven!” The men raised their mugs and shouted, “ Bás in Éirinn! ” The bells began to toll, and Riley took his leave from his friends. He walked over to the sacristy, which was serving as the general’s headquarters, to take his place alongside the officers gathered by the cathedral. They stood at attention in front of the sacristy and watched as Ampudia was escorted out by his staff who were carrying torches. Riley and the other officers followed behind their commander in a parade that made its way to the center of the plaza where the troops and townspeople had congregated . The color guard led the way, and the military band played a battle song while civilians and soldiers alike saluted the flag as it passed. Once they arrived at the plaza, the tricolor was handed to Ampudia, who raised it high into the air and turned to ad dress the crowd standing before him. Thousands more had flooded the streets and the balconies and rooftops of the surrounding buildings. He rang a bell several times, and a quiet descended upon the crowd as they waited for him to begin El Grito. “¡Mexicanos!” Ampudia yelled as loudly as he could. “¡Vivan nuestros héroes que nos dieron paz y libertad! ¡Viva Hidalgo! ¡Viva Morelos! ¡Viva Allende! ¡Viva la ind ependencia nacional! ¡Viva México!”
The crowd cheered and shouted, “¡Viva!” and “¡Bravo!” again and again. Ampudia rang a bell, and soon, all the bells in the city — from the cathedral down to the smallest chapel — began to toll. Rockets were launched into the air and burst above them. Ampudia w aved the flag from side to side as the band played another battle song, and the people sang as loud and proud as they could. Riley couldn’t take his eyes off the green, white, and red banner. By now he’d learned what the colors meant — the green for ind epend ence, the white for the purity of the Catholic faith, the red for unity, the eagle and the serpent for their Aztec heritage. He fancied what Ireland’s flag would one day look like — perhaps a tricolor banner as well, one made of the finest silk — with green for the land, white for the peace that would follow English rule, and pale blue for Saint Patrick. And in the center, perhaps a shamrock and the Harp of Erin. He hoped he would be there when the flag finally flew above Irish soil. The general finished his speech, and the crowd cheered once again. Riley couldn’t understand all of the general’s remarks, but from the little he did grasp, he knew the commander spoke of protecting Monterrey at all costs. His speech aroused the people’s p atriotism and fueled their enthusiasm for revenge and their desire for glory. The cathedral couldn’t fit everyone in the city, and so the priests came out to give mass in the open air. Thousands knelt and prayed, civilians and soldiers side by side. Riley loved the sound of their voices rising together to the very heavens, to ask God for His protection and His blessing in the battle to come. After mass, a fandango was held in the main plaza. Gleams of moonlight shone through the palm trees, and torches and lights illuminated the whirl of figures spinning to the fiddles and guitars. Riley pushed through the throng until he finally spotted his m en dancing away with the local women. He saw Maloney twirling Ximena round and round, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with glee. Riley smiled at the delightful scene. He had never seen Maloney this happy. He had a light heel, and so did Ximena, danc ing with the same indefatigable vigor she did everything else. Listening to the sounds of jollity, Riley knew this night was a gift to be treasured. The following day, they would go back to fretting about the war, but at least for this one moment, the musi c and laughter were a gentle shower washing away their worries of the coming strife. A lively waltz began, and Maloney spotted Riley and waved him over. “There you are, lad, come and take my place. These old bones can’t ke ep up with my lovely partner. Off with ye and enjoy the music!” Riley hesitated before he took Ximena in his arms, and guilt soon pricked him. Nelly loved to dance. He was as graceful as a she ep dancing on its hind legs, but she had always managed to pull him out to dance whenever there was a
bagpipe or fiddle present. Ximena noticed his hesitation and smiled in understanding. “We go sit?” She turned to walk away from the dance floor to the bench where Maloney waited. Riley grabbed her elbow and said, “I’m not very good at this, but I’d like to try for a bit, if you don’t mind me st eppin’ on ya?” She laughed and came willingly into his arms. She didn’t make a fuss when he trod on her tiny feet or when they collided against other couples. He was too nervous to concentrate, whereas she was graceful and swaying like a nocturnal desert flower unfurling in the sultry night. He could feel the warmth of her body, see the delicate curve of her neck, the valley between her breasts peeking through the lace - trimmed ruffles of her white blouse, the torchlight casting a silver glow on her black plaited hair. He became warm and flushed, as if he’d eaten a handful of piquín p eppers, and as she looked at him with her lovely honeyed eyes, the burning glow spread through his body from the inside out. Forgive me, Nelly. He tried to recall what his wife looked like, and for a moment, just a brief moment, all he could see were the cold swirling mists that had enveloped her that cheerless morning he’d walked away. He’d turned to look back and seen nothing but white. He let go of Ximena so quickly, she nearly lost her balance. “Beg your pardon, lass. I didn’t mean to — ” “No worry, teniente Riley,” she said, composing herself. She wrapped her rebozo over her head and shoulders, her face in shadow. “It’s a nice evening, but I go to sle ep now. Buenas noches.” Upon hearing the hurt in her voice, he reached for her and said, “Wait a blessed minute, lass.” But she disappeared into the throng, and he didn’t have the courage to follow. Maloney came to stand beside him. “Och, small blame to you, laddie. You’re only human after all.” Riley turned to look at his friend. “Let’s have a drop together, ould fella. I’m buyin’.” He had avoided the taverns, but that night, he and Maloney found an empty table at the cantina across from the plaza. As the musicians played their sorrowful ballads and laments, Riley took a swig of tequila. And then another. A liquid ray of Mexican sunsh ine. “Easy now. You’ll get tipsy, you will,” Maloney said, putting the bottle on his side of the table. “ ’Tis Ind ependence Day, a day to celebrate!” Riley held his mug out to Maloney and k ept it there in the air. The old man refused to refill it. Riley put his empty mug down and sighed. He knew his friend was right, and he was ashamed the tables had turned. It was now Maloney who
was ke eping him from getting de ep in liquor. “ ’Tis a drop of comfort, isn’t that what Franky used to say?” “Poor creature you are, John Riley, that your whole soul is tortured by what couldn’t be helped,” Maloney said. “Faith, even a blind fella would take a fancy to that lassie. The sight of her fills one with the same delight as the first shovel of upturned e arth after a hard winter.” Riley knew what he meant. Like the breath of spring, her voice, her smell, her very essence, made him feel there was hope in the world. He shook his head. “I left a wife back home, left her to shed many a bitter tear for me, I did. And now I’m disrespectin ’ her. Betrayin’ her. Fightin’ someone else’s war. Hankerin’ for another woman — Arrah!” Riley grabbed the bottle from the old man and refilled his mug, but midway to his mouth he stopped and threw the liquid over his shoulder in defeat and stood up. “I best stop makin’ a holy show of myself and turn in. I’ll see you in the morrow.” He avoided Ximena for the next few days. He didn’t have courage enough to see her, so he gave up his quarters in the private residences where the officers were lodging and stayed in the citadel with the other gunners. Using his canteen as a pillow, he lay stretched beside the cannons, rolled in a coarse multicolored Mexican blanket damp from midnight dew. The night was keen, and he shivered as he looked at the sky above, trying to find answers written in the heavens. He wrote letters to Nelly by the feeble glimmer of a tin lantern but tore them up and let the pieces flutter in the wind. What could he tell her that wouldn’t be a lie? That he missed her, that he longed for her? Even as he wrote down those very words, his ey es k ept drifting to the ste eple of the cathedral in the distance, knowing Ximena was in the hospital nearby. It took every ounce of willpower to not climb down the citadel and ride his horse the half mile into the city, down the cobblestones that would lea d to her. No, he couldn’t write to his wife and tell her half - truths. What manner of man had he become? One who betrayed his soul and suffered his wife to hold on to false promises? He couldn’t be that manner of man. “Forgive me, Nelly,” he said as he tore up yet another letter and watched the pieces swirl away in the wind toward the peaks of the dark stone mountains scratching at the sky. He looked at the moon and fancied himself in Clifden, walking through a dark mis ty field upon a solitary lane. His cottage stood against a slope at the bottom of the glen, and guided by the stars glowing above him, he traversed the land of his youth, jumping across a stream whose silvery waters disappeared into the d epths of the windi ng valley and the rolling hills beyond, and just as the sle epy cottage came into view, he paused to look at it, the stone walls softened in the moonlight, splendid in the quietude of the night. He continued down the slope until he found himself standing be fore the door. Placing his hand against it, he hesitated, too much of a coward
to open it just yet. He fancied Nelly sle eping inside, Johnny on his cot by the hearth, the turf fire popping. What would Riley say to them? What would they say to him? He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze upon the pale Mexican moon being swallowed up by a mass of rain clouds thickening above him. He couldn’t allow himself to fancy his first reunion with his family. It all d epended on what manner of man he was by then. A n accomplished one or a broken one. He couldn’t believe how grateful he felt when, at length, a cloud of dust rose in the distance, and he knew the hour had come to fight. It was only then that he could put Ximena out of his thoughts, when, at the blaring of the bugles and the beating of the drums, the soldier inside him took over, his unsettled mind gathered focus, and all he could think of was how to carry out the absolute defeat of the enemy. “Yonder come the Yankees!” the gunners yelled. The troops in the citadel fixed their gaze upon the road, at the growing cloud of dust. Through his field glasses, Riley spotted Taylor’s forces marching toward them. He watched as they came to a halt and a reconnoitering party led by the Yankee general le ft the main columns and approached the city to get a closer view. The general, his staff, and the Texas Rangers had stopped out of range of the citadel’s guns, but even so, Riley yelled the command for his crew to fire in their direction. “Let’s give them a warm welcome, fellas,” he said. He ordered another round and another, his guns spitting fire, followed by the boom of the cannons as loud as thunder, echoing against the mountains. It was a warning. A challenge. A defiance. Through the white smoke rollin g out of his cannon’s mouth, Riley could see Taylor’s party turning around and heading back to the rest of their army. That afternoon, Juan Cortina returned to the city and stopped at the citadel to give notice that the Yankees were camped three miles distant in the grove of pecans at the Bosques de Santo Domingo. Cortina had scattered the new leaflets around the campgroun d to be found and read the next morning. Ampudia had posted sentries along the roads with instructions to escort any deserters seeking to join the Mexican ranks. Riley was pleased to see Sergeant Cortina return safely back to the city. The body of another Mexican spy, Jerónimo Valdez, had been found in the chaparral earlier that day, and Riley knew Ximena would have been devastated if anything had happened to her friend. Throughout the afternoon, he and his battery spotted the enemy forces making reconnaissance, and the Texas Rangers roaming the periphery of the town. Later, the Rangers, always the daredevils, galloped toward them at full speed. Riley suspected they would dodge his fire, but he still gave the command. He’d seen them ride before and knew how fast and agile they could be. Riley’s guns roared warnings, and the Mexican snipers directed their muskets at them, but
the daredevils es caped unscathed, circling the citadel, yelling their Texas cry, before racing back to rejoin the troops. The next day, S eptember 20, Monterrey would be celebrating its twohundred - and - fiftieth anniversary, but on the eve of such an important event, instead of the customary fandangos and celebrations, more families fled the city in haste. Those who remained gat hered silently with the troops in the central square to pray for victory. Riley remained in the citadel, avoiding Ximena. He wouldn’t go into the city that night. It was his punishment. The priests came to bless the guns and to give the garrison their benediction. Riley and his men couldn’t sle ep. From the ramparts of the citadel, they watched the city, eerily silent, as if holding its breath as it waited for the combat to ensue. He thoug ht of Ximena in the hospital. He should have gone to see her, to make things right between them. If anything happened to either of them... No, he refused to think those thoughts. He made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer, for himself, for Ximena , for his wife. S eptember 1846 Monterrey, Nuevo León After the first day of battle, Ximena was up all night supervising the care of the wounded. Toward morning, when her spirit and body could take no more, Dr. Iñigo, the head surgeon, bid her to retire. “Rest, señora, recuperate your strength.” Ximena and the other soldaderas and local women volunteering as hospital aides had spent the early part of the day pr eparing bandages, cleaning tools and sponges, and making poultices and ointments. Later they were tasked with washing and dressing wounds, comforting the living and the dying. So, by the time she was sent to bed, Ximena didn’t argue. She knew she had reached her limit. She dragged herself to a cot in the corridors, not far from the patients in case she was needed. But no sooner had she closed her eyes than she was startled awake by the explosions. The local women had displayed incredible stamina pr eparing for the battle, and yet many ended up huddled in a corner, crying and praying for the bombardment to stop. Ximena wanted to offer them a word of comfort, but she hadn’t the strength. The first day, there hadn’t been many casualties. But on the second day, she knew the tide might change. Maloney rolled over on his cot, covering his ears to block out the sound of the shells raining down. He would have never made an artillerist, he’d said . But Ximena knew it was more than that. It was the agony of war itself the old man couldn’t endure, and she wished she could take him far away from the chaos. She went over to him, coaxing him to get up and help
take out those who’d died during the night. She feared they would need every cot and blanket available by day’s end.