The bugles sounded the advance, and the infantry and the cavalry moved out. Then, finally the artillery rolled out down the cobblestoned street to the rhythm of drums and the blaring of bugles. Riley k ept his eyes looking forward and tried not to look at t he people as they w ept and waved goodbye. “¡Adios, Colorados! God be with you,” they said as they waved their handkerchiefs at Riley and his men. Los Colorados, the red ones, was what the civilians had called them ever since Matamoros due to the men’s hair and ruddy complexion. As they approached the outer edge of the city, the Yanks came into view. Riley held himself erect and k ept his eyes glued on the sierras up ahead. But from the corner of his eye, he could see them. On either side of the road, the Yanks stood, watching as t he artillery columns marched past. At least half of the Mexican artillery was composed of deserters from the US Army, and Riley heard the Yanks hissing insults at him and his countrymen. Fear gripped him. If the Yankees offered them some violence, would he be able to protect his men? Riley did his best to ignore their r eproaches. As he took in the Yanks’ disheveled appearance, their dirty, tattered uniforms, the fatigue and shock in their eyes, he cursed General Ampudia’s rash decision to give up the city. They could have beaten the Ya nks, he was sure of it. And now,
here they were in full retreat. There was nothing he could do about the insults being hurled at him as the Yanks realized that he — John Riley, a deserter — had been behind the cannons pouring grape and shell on them from the citadel. “You goddamn traitors!” “Damn you, turncoats!” “Irish sons of bitches!” He recognized some soldiers from his old unit, Captain Merrill standing beside them. Riley looked away then, not wanting to make eye contact with his former commanding officer. But he heard someone, perhaps even the captain himself, yell, “I’m gonna shoot this cowardly cur!” He fought the impulse to lower his face and hide his eyes beneath the brim of his shako. Instead, he thought of Ximena, her soft lips, her warm breath on his face. He clung to her image even more when, on the other side of the road, Braxton Bragg, James Du ncan, and the other artillery officers stood by. From the looks they were now giving him, and the way they gripped the hilt of their swords, Riley knew that they would gladly bury the blade into his heart if given the chance. He thought it was unfortunate that during the battle, Bragg’s crew had been fighting within the city, too far from the citadel and Riley’s guns. He would have loved to have had another shot at the pompous Yankee. Bragg spat toward Riley, “I should have run you through when I had the chance back in Matamoros, Mick!” And I you , Riley thought as the columns left the Yanks and their maledictions behind in a cloud of dust. The interminable days passed, one after the other, as they toiled along through dry country to San Luis Potosí, half - dead from starvation and exhaustion, ravaged by illness and despair. Vultures circled above them. Soldiers fainted beneath the weight of th eir weapons and knapsacks, falling out of the marching columns to be left behind on the roadside. Some tossed aside their arms and cartridge boxes, discarded their useless equipment, their clothing. Cases of ammunition and supplies were abandoned when one by one the pack mules and the oxen pulling the carts broke down from the rigors of the miserable march. The road was littered with dead or dying soldiers, ruined horses and mules. But the worst sight was of the women and children accompanying the men. They remained on the ground where they collapsed, and Riley could hear their wails of sorrow and despair, see their hands reaching out as the artillery marched past them, their features distorted in a painful surrender to death. He willed himself not to look a t their woebegone expressions, their tongues, blackened and swollen. He’d wished
they’d stayed home, that they hadn’t followed their husbands only to suffer a miserable fate. But by now he’d learned that Mexican women — mothers, wives, daughters — accompanied their men whithersoever they went, even if it meant dying of sunstroke, hunger, or thirst alongside them. Choking on dust and grit, he k ept his mind fixed on the road ahead and the city that lay beyond, as his fair skin blistered under the unforgiving sun. They trudged past dry arroyos and uncultivated land, arid lands capes lacking pasturage for the animals. W ith dust devils swirling around them in the hot wind, Riley searched for a patch of greenery to rest the eye upon, something to break the dreary sameness. His mind tormented him with images of raindrops sliding down blades of clover, morning dew quivering on cabbage leaves, ice glittering on yew boughs. At about sundown, bugles sounded the halt and the exhausted columns dispersed and settled in for the night off the side of the road. Riley went in search of Ximena at the rear, where the wounded and the weak struggled to ke ep up. He wished he could have sp ared her the march through this parched desolation. He found her wrapping cactus pads sliced in half on the wounds of those being carried in the wagons, but they were too numerous, dying by the dozen each day from lack of medicine and from other privations . Some, driven by desperation, had committed suicide, but most were succumbing to hunger and thirst. She had neither food nor water to give them. None of them did. And his canteen was empty by now. When he saw Ximena, his concern grew. Despite her large straw hat, her face was dusty and begrimed, her eyes red and sunken, her lips parched and blistered. He could see the remnants of a trail of dried tears on both cheeks. “ ’Tis no point in cryin’,” he said as he untied the buckskin strings and removed her hat. Then he gently wiped her face with his handkerchief. “Water is a precious commodity at the moment, and you shouldn’t give your tears to the desert.” She wrapped her rebozo around her, and the anger and defiance he usually saw in her eyes had been r eplaced with resignation. He carefully folded her into his arms. She was so thin now, he was afraid he might break her. He wished he had something to give he r that would erase the haunted look in her eyes. “It is a terrible way to die, John,” she said. “This hunger, I feel like a... a zopilote is eating me inside.” “Zopilote?” She pointed in the distance, where the sky was thick with buzzards circling over the dead they had left behind.
“Hang in there, lass. We will soon arrive in the city.” “Ampudia gave up Monterrey to protect the people and the soldiers. But this is hell. Too much death. Here on this road. Not in battle, with honor.” “Aye, it would’ve been better. No soldier ever wants to die in a humiliatin’ retreat. I had always hoped that when my time came, I’d die fightin’ for my country, in the glory of death on a battlefield. Not like this, fatigued beyond conc eption and on the v erge of starvin’, so close to despair. No, not like this.” They looked at the setting sun, the silhouettes of the shrubs and cacti stark against the crimson sky. Up and down the dirt road, he could see the flickering campfires of each corps, a short distan ce from one another. The fires were small, for there was not much firewood to be found exc ept for clumps of scraggly sagebrush. The cavalry had been forced to burn their lance handles and the infantry the butts of their muskets. “Walk with me?” he asked her. They made their way beyond the camps, de eper into the vastness of the land. A colony of bats flew across the sky looking for food. Riley wondered if they would have better luck finding nourishment from the arid brushland than the troops would. Ximena took a de ep breath and sighed. She turned to him, caressed his face, and he winced at her touch, his scorched skin not able to bear it. “The sun has no mercy for you,” she said. “ ’Tis a hard place for us Irish to be sure. I’ve never seen so much of the sun.” “Come.” She led him to a nearby spiky plant and took out her knife. He’d seen her use this aloe to treat the burns of the wounded. She cut off a leaf and sliced it open, revealing a clear gel inside, which she rubbed on his face and neck. Instantly, the bu rning on his skin was soothed. He licked a drop of the gel by his mouth and quickly spit it out. It was so bitter. “You can eat it,” she said. “But I need to wash.” She cut more of it and put them inside her bag. She turned to look back at the wagons full of sick soldiers, at the unsheltered troops sle eping off the side of the road. “If my Nana was here, she know how to save them.” “Nay, she wouldn’t have attended to them better than you are under the circumstances. Those men are in want of nourishment and drink.” He thought about the small parties that had been dispatched to search for water. “Word is tomorrow we will finally reach a well. We can satisfy our thirst. Water our horses. You can wash wounds and make your remedies.” “I hope we get there,” she said. “So many men give up and die. This is like Matamoros?”
“Aye. ’Twas a dreadful march. But this one is worse — we’re carryin’ the heavy burden of a second defeat and humiliation. ’Tis twice as hard. And what distresses me more is the heavy sorrow of havin’ lost yet another friend, of havin’ buried him — uncoffined, poor fella! — in a place I’ll never return to and where he’ll remain forever in a forgotten grave. Who will say a prayer for him? Who will brin’ him flowers?” She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “He watches over us. His spirit is here with us. His body is in Monterrey, not his soul.” He contemplated her words for a moment. He looked into her eyes, and they sought each other’s lips. Their kiss was tender at first, soft, and cautious, but then, Ximena gripped him closer to her with a strength he thought she no longer possessed. Her breas ts pressed against his thick uniform. He growled under his breath as his mouth matched her hunger for hunger, want for want. She tasted as if she’d been drenched in seawater, her lips parting for him like the shell of an oyster, beckoning him inside. He wa nted to take her, right here, in the middle of nowhere. Instead, he tore away. “Ximena, listen to — ” “Shhh.” She put a finger on his lips to silence him. “When the war is over, you be with your wife and son, and I go to my rancho. I promise. But now, there is a war, and I am alone. And you are alone, too, no?” “I don’t want to hurt you, lass.” She spread out her shawl on the ground, and then pulled her blouse down beyond her shoulders, her breasts luminous from the silver glow of the stars above. Sweet Jesus . His knees weakened, from desire or hunger or both. He groaned and pulled her blouse back up and held her. That was all he would allow himself to do. The noises from the camp faded away, and all that remained was the two of them under the brilliance of the night sky. If only he could love her as she ought to be loved, but he was not free to do so. October 1846 San Luis Potosí It took three brutal weeks for the Army of the North to cover the three hundred miles from Monterrey to San Luis Potosí, and the troops staggered into the city scarcely alive. But there was no time to settle down and recover from their toilsome journey. Th e remnants of Ampudia’s army were lined up at the plaza for review. There they were greeted by the new
commander of the Mexican Army — General Antonio López de Santa Anna, who was back in the country after being exiled in Cuba. Riley observed Santa Anna as he surveyed the troops, seated on a handsome stallion, proud and erect, his silver stirrups and high saddle inlaid with gold glinting in the sunlight. He was dressed in a resplendent blue and red uniform embroidered with gold t hread and decorated with epaulets and medals. From what Riley had heard, Santa Anna had not only led the Mexican Army against the Spaniards, the French, and the Texians, but had also been president of Mexico eight different times. A hero to some and a scou ndrel to others, he was in his early fifties, with his entire career marked by intrigue and corruption. But the one thing everyone agreed on was his valor on the battlefield, and he had a wooden leg to prove it. After the review, Santa Anna called a meeting with his council of war, where he berated Ampudia for the loss of Monterrey. General Mejía didn’t translate for Riley all that was said, but there was no need. The commander was in a furious passion. Ampudia sp oke quickly and, from what Riley could catch of the Spanish, was simply r epeating what he’d told the troops back in Monterrey — that he’d surrendered to prevent further injury to innocent people. Though Riley believed his words had merit, he suspected that Ampudia had not been worried solely for the people’s safety. No, first and foremost, the general had saved himself. “It was an honorable capitulation,” Ampudia insisted.