I remain your loving wife, Nelly The letter had arrived at the cathedral in late December. Riley hadn’t received new correspondence from his wife since Matamoros, but he suspected, even before she’d confirmed this to be true, that whatever letters she’d sent since had been lost. Her words weighed on him, but he found comfort in knowing that at least his letters were reaching her, and most important, the remittances. At times of crisis, the price of food was inflated to outrageous amounts and money was needed more than ever. He finished his next letter to her just when marching orders were given, and once again sent her everything he could. With a heavy heart, Riley pr epared himself to do his soldier’s duty, hoping that this would be the last campaign. Mexico needed to
win this next battle. Then he could finally have the land that was promised him, and he could send for his loved ones. It was with this thought that Riley took his place among the columns on January 28. As the San Patricios and the Mexican troops formed ranks in the public square and along the street leading north, the potosinos cheered for them, waving and tossing flowers from their balconies. It was time to face the enemy. Riding on his caisson alongside capitán Moreno and Patrick Dalton, Riley held his green silk banner high as the people chanted, “¡Viva México! ¡Vivan los San Patricios!” He turned to look at his men. Their eyes glittered from beneath their caps as they wav ed back at the residents of San Luis Potosí, who throughout the last three months had treated them with generosity and respect. The journey north to the hacienda of Encarnación would be long and arduous. Two hundred and sixty miles, most of it unsettled land. The army had little in terms of provisions, but Santa Anna’s plan was for them to seize the supplies the Yanks had with them . Riley was ill at ease about the risk the commander was taking, for the consequences would be great. If they didn’t get their hands on those provisions, it could prove their undoing. Bugles announced the arrival of Santa Anna, and Riley turned to see him approach on horseback and making his way through the ranks as the men parted for him. He was there to see the lead units off and give them a few words of encouragement until they met u p again. He himself would be leaving in a few days with his staff and the rest of the infantry and cavalry, and he’d insisted that Ximena ride with him in his handsome carriage, along with his chaplain and secretary. “¡Soldados!” Santa Anna addressed them. “The ind ependence, the honor, and the destiny of the nation d epend at this moment on your decisions! My friends, what days of glory await us! Hurry forth in the defense of your country. The cause we sustain is a holy one. Never have we struggled more for justice, because we fight for honor and religion, for our wives and children!” As he delivered his speech, he galloped up and down the columns, waving his hat. The troops received his remarks with enthusiasm. “¡Vencer o morir!” the commander yelled, concluding his eloquent speech. To conquer or die. The cheers of the civilians and the troops echoed among the buildings, and Riley cheered along with them. Their banners floated in the wind, and the military bands struck u p an inspiring tune. Then Santa Anna brought his horse before Riley’s caisson to examine the glittering green banner. He smiled in approval. “Teniente Riley,” he said, “la victoria será nuestra.” “Así será, mi general,” Riley said, saluting his commander.
“¡Libertad para la R epública Mexicana!” Santa Anna said, as he read out the words on Riley’s banner. Then in a louder voice, he said it again, and Riley and the San Patricios shouted along with him. “Liberty for the Mexican R epublic. Erin Go Bragh! ” Amid the cheers from the crowd, Santa Anna gave marching orders and the troops began to move out. While the Saint Patrick’s Battalion waited their turn, Ximena emerged from the crowd and approached Riley. Her troubled look made him get down from the caisso n and go over to her side. She’d been behaving queerly the last few days but wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. “What’s unsettlin’ your mind, lass?” “Take care of yourself, John,” she said, her voice grave, her eyes heavy with worry. “I will. Don’t fret about me none. I’ll be grand.” She shook her head, and as she looked intensely at him, her face paled and her eyes widened, as if she were seeing something no one but she could see. Grabbing his hands, she blurted out, “Ke ep your eyes open!” Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd. As the columns began to move out, Riley wondered what she’d meant by that. They left the city behind, and the cheers grew fainter and fainter. Riley’s cannons glinted in the sun as the horse wagons that carried them lurched forward, across the terrain. He turned to look behind him. It was hard to see the city through the cloud of dust the army had left in its wake, but the ste eple and tower of the cathedral and temple rose high above San Luis Potosí. Riley said a silent prayer and thought of Ximena, of the strolls they’d taken around the plaza, of how she’d been by his side as he formed the Saint Patrick’s Battalion. That she would be following a few days behind him in Santa Anna’s carriage eased his worries. At least this time, she wouldn’t suffer a brutal march. They trudged northward past cultivated fields, then miserable desert. There hadn’t been enough carts and mules to transport all of the food supplies, and so each man had to carry his own week’s worth of rations. Some ate through theirs quickly. Others, not knowing any better, had thrown some away at the beginning of the march to lighten their loads. They soon regretted it when they were forced to subsist on half - rations of corn biscuits and strips of dried beef, piloncillo and pinole, and whatever the camp women could forage in the brush as their days turned into weeks. When they were finally nearing the hacienda of Encarnación, a norther came roaring upon them one night with furious speed, and the soldiers and camp women, tentless and exposed,
huddled together seeking protection from the keen winds and freezing rain that soon turned to snow. The little wood they had gathered was wet, and what few flames they managed to coax from it were suffocated by the snow. The commanders and officers who had tents didn’t fare any better. As Riley lay inside the tent he shared with Dalton, buttoned up to the neck, numb from the intense cold and wishing he had an overcoat, the canvas flapped and whipped all around them. He felt that at any moment the wind would yank the tent off the face of the earth and hurl it into the heavens with the two of them still inside. As the norther raged unabated, he wondered if the dire weather was an omen. Was God trying to tell them something? Drifting in and out of a troubled slumber, he dreamed he was back in Clifden, trudging through the frozen field down to his snow - dusted cottage. This time when he opened the door, seeking the warmth inside, the turf fire had gone out completely, and the wi nter winds were moaning through every corner. He stood by the door watching Nelly asle ep in their straw bed, and she turned to look at him, her gray eyes as dreary as the wintry sky. Her bluish lips opened and spoke to him in a mournful voice. “Come here, avourneen. Come lie with me.” She opened her arms and Riley wanted nothing more than to put his head on her bosom and sle ep. He slid into the bed beside her, seeking comfort from his wife’s warm body, but she was cold, so cold, like a maiden made of ice. She gripped him fiercely and wo uldn’t let go. “Sle ep now, avourneen,” she said, and her breath was an icy blast of wind. Then, he heard another voice. From far away. “Open your eyes, John!” He groaned in his sle ep, but Ximena’s voice was calling him from somewhere in his dream. When he awoke, he found tears frozen on his cheeks. Felt a cold he’d never felt before. His joints were stiff, and he couldn’t feel his legs. He huddled closer to his second - in - command, who was also awake and clutching the ridge pole holding up their rattling tent while the storm howled about and beat against the canvas walls. Dalton handed Riley his flask of mezcal and said, “Have a wee drop, Lieutenant. ’Twill ke ep your soul from freezin’ on ya.” They sat vigil for the balance of the night, praying for the fury of the tempest to subside and for the blessed light of the sun to shine on them once more. Morning broke at length, and Riley was one of the first out of the tents. The trees glistened with ice glitter. Dry frigid air stung his face. The norther had abated altogether, but as he walked around the encampment, he realized that his
nightmare had been nothing to what other men had suffered during that night of agony. As the troops shook off the snow from their colorful sarapes, they found four hundred Mexican men still squatting on the ground, wrapped in their sarapes, their eyes clos ed, their arms tightly wrapped around themselves. Eternal sle ep had claimed them. “Heavens!” Dalton said as Riley approached him. “These poor wights, freezin’ down to the very marrow in their bones.” Riley nodded, blowing some warm air into his hands. “Did we lose any of ours?” “Two,” Patrick said. “Cooney and O’Brien.” “Cooney from Cavan and O’Brien from Tipperary?” “Aye, the very ones.” Riley shook his head. “Two good soldiers, and O’Brien was a great man to tell a story.” He made the sign of the cross. “May God ke ep their souls.” “Perhaps they didn’t suffer. Just drifted off to sle ep and didn’t wake.” Riley thought about his dream. Was that why he’d heard Ximena’s voice urging him to wake up? If she hadn’t, would he now be one of those stiffened corpses? By February 17, when the troops finally arrived in Encarnación, having covered two hundred and sixty miles in three weeks, they’d lost about a quarter of the army to hunger, thirst, fatigue, exposure to the elements, or desertion. Riley mourned the loss of four more of his men, whom he and Dalton buried on the side of the road, covering their graves with cacti to ke ep the wild beasts from digging up their bodies. Three days later, when Santa Anna arrived in his carriage and ordered the troops to line up for review, he was not pleased with their reduction. Riley was glad to see that the commander set out to raise the morale of the soldiers who were still standing. What the men needed, besides rest and food, were words of encouragement from their leader. “¡Soldados! The enemy is waiting for us in Agua Nueva,” Santa Anna said to his troops. “The operations of the enemy demand that we should move at once upon his principal line. Privations of all kinds surround us due to the neglect shown toward us by those who should provide your pay and provisions. But when has misery ever debilitated your spirits or weakened your enthusiasm? The Mexican soldier is well known for his frugality and patience under suffering. My friends, let us purge from our soil the stranger who has dared to profane it with his presence. Let us show the North Americans that Mexico will always be ours. ¡Viva la R epública!”
“¡Viva!” the troops cheered. Despite the harsh conditions the men found themselves in, they were ready for a fight. That evening, while he and Ximena had supper together, Riley told her about the storm and the frozen men. “I heard you callin’ me,” he said. Then, remembering the expression on her face before he left, he asked, “How did you know that was goin’ to happen?” “I wish to know,” she said. “I almost died from cólera when I was twelve. My Nana saved me. Since then, I have strange dreams sometimes. Visions of things to come.” “In my dream, Nelly was frozen. What does that signify, lass? Have you seen her in your visions?” “No,” she said. “I only dreamed of the storm. Men frozen. That night I knew I needed to wake you before it was too late.” When he retired to his tent, he lay awake, his mind uneasy until the day finally dawned. In the morning after they broke camp, Santa Anna addressed his troops once again to lift up their spirits. It was his fifty - third birthday, and with great enthusiasm, he led his army forward on the march to Taylor’s camp, thirty - five miles distant. Riley w as once again impressed with how fast the Mexican soldiers could march. The Saint Patrick’s Battalion lagged behind, their artillery caissons bouncing along the uneven roads full of gopher holes, the wheels sinking into the sandy soil. The crew had to constantly help the mule drivers pull the wheels out, and Riley and Dalton and the other officers were walking behind the heavy field pieces with their men to spare the mules the extra weight. At the end of the day, as they trudged along the mountain pass, everyone’s enthusiasm dropped with the temperature. They continued past nightfall, and by the time they gained the summit, Riley thought that the men around him no longer looked alive. They he aded down the slippery slope on the other side of the mountain, the path treacherous for the artillery caissons and supply wagons, and it wasn’t until a few hours before dawn that Santa Anna called for a halt. They were six miles away from the enemy troops . “You will need all your strength today, boys,” Riley said as he and his men huddled together around the small fire they managed to get going. With no supper to be had, most had drifted off to sle ep as soon as they came to a halt. The night was too well adv anced to pitch his tent, and Riley was too haunted by his dream to allow himself to close his eyes. As he listened to the icy wind whispering around him, he thought of Nelly. Wrestling with the gloom trying to take possession of him, he glanced at Dalton, sitting on the ground a few feet away. He was one of
the few who were still awake. He was a sturdy fellow and even now, despite what they had just gone through, Dalton seemed to be doing better than the rest of them. But upon careful inspection, Riley saw the fatigue in his friend’s eyes. He was fighting off sle ep, just as Riley was. “Rest now, Pat, a chara . Today you’ll need to have your wits about ya.” “Aye, but you should do the same, eh?” Riley nodded and put his head against his knapsack, but there was no wink of sle ep to be had. Instead, he k ept a careful watch over his sle eping men and thought of the fight that awaited them. Above all, they must avoid getting captured. He would see to it that the Yanks didn’t get their hands on the Saint Patrick’s Battalion. At dawn, even before the officers began shouting their commands for the troops to move out, Riley was ready. As the army advanced to the Yankee camp in Agua Nueva, they saw clouds of smoke on the horizon. It seemed that upon hearing of Santa Anna’s approach, the Yanks had abandoned their position in the valley below and had set their stores of supplies on fire. Riley cursed under his breath. Counting on Taylor’s food supplies to ke ep them going, they’d gone through the last of the ration s. Now the meals they’d been hoping for had been burned to ashes. Santa Anna seemed to have the same concerns and proceeded to rally the spirits of his men. But this time, the troops were too deflated to join the general in his cheers for the motherland. They observed the smoke in the distance, knowing that there would b e no food coming, no nourishment for their fatigued bodies. Santa Anna claimed that the smoke was proof that the Yankees had fled in fear. “Let us make haste then! Victory is near!” In his enthusiasm, the general ignored their wretched state and forced the half - starved army to take up the line of march without even a chance to refill their water gourds or water their horses. Instead, he gave the bugle call for a quick march. The army trudged ahead for thirteen miles due north, finally reaching the narrow pass known as La Angostura, near an hacienda called San Juan de la Buena Vista, where the Yankees had decided to make a stand. Riley scanned the defensive position the Yankees had taken on an irregular plain surrounded by the ste ep Sierra Madre range to the east and arroyos to the west. He surmised there were no more than five thousand troops. The Mexican forces had dropped to fou rteen thousand, but the Yanks were well fed and well rested and had the advantage of having better positions on the broad plateau and in the hills. Old Zach knew what he was doing. Protected by the ravines, high ridges, and de ep gullies crisscrossing the p lateau, the Yanks were using the lands cape in their favor. The narrow gorges prevented Santa Anna from spreading out his forces for maximum
effect, squeezing them into a confined space only forty paces wide, with gullies on one side and bluffs on the other. The commander sent out his officers with a parley flag to demand Taylor’s immediate surrender, giving him an hour to do so. Riley knew the Yankee general wouldn’t back down. Within the hour, his fears were confirmed when General Mejía read Taylor’s note al oud and then translated it for the commander. “In r eply to your note of this date, summoning me to surrender my forces at discretion, I beg leave to say that I decline acceding to your request.” “Be it so, then,” Santa Anna said. Then the council of war set out to devise a plan of attack. “I know they have the weaponry and the ideal terrain, but we have the numbers,” Santa Anna r epeated when Riley and some of the officers pointed out the disadvant age of their position. “We will fight with our bare fists, if we must. But we will be victorious.” He ordered his officers to maneuver their regiments into position. Under the direction of the chief of artillery, Riley scanned the area and chose the best location they could find for the three heavy guns that would be manned by the Saint Patrick’s Battal ion. He and his men spent several hours dragging the three cannons — two 24 - pounders and one 6 - pounder — up the ridge. In shifts, his men worked the ropes tied to the cast - iron guns. By afternoon, standing on the high ground, Riley inspected the cannons and th e cases of shot, shell, and canister. Peering over the rim of the ridge, where his cannons commanded the plateau, he beheld the Yankee army moving their eighteen artillery pieces into position and spotted Braxton Bragg’s battery. At the sight of the Yankee scoundrel, Riley hoped this time he could finally blast him to perdition. “Are you ready for this, Lieutenant?” Dalton said as he came to stand beside him. Riley ran his hand along the cold metal surface of one of his cannons. “Aye, indeed,” Riley said. “I’ve been ready. Fág an Bealach .” Together, they stuck their banner in the ground and watched as the flag of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion unfurled in the breeze, a vivid green against the azure of the sky. March 1847 Buena Vista/La Angostura In the morning, Ximena was awoken by the Mexican bugles calling the troops to fall in. The soldiers had not had any rations, for there were none. The military bands from each brigade played loudly as Santa Anna positioned his forces to begin the attack. Xi mena knew the noise and fanfare were meant to intimidate the Yanquis. She watched the men drop to their knees as the priests walked along the lines to offer their blessings, incense wafting into the air. From far away she could see John and the San Patrici os kneeling by their cannons, waiting for their benedictions. She spotted Juan Cortina with the cavalry, their lances lowered as the priests
sprinkled them with holy water. Their prayers rose in unison to the heavens. Then Santa Anna addressed the troops, and she strained to hear his remarks. “I glory in the consciousness of being at the head of an army of heroes, who not only know how to fight bravely but to suffer patiently both hunger and thirst, a sacrifice required of you by our nation.” The cheers went up into the air. “¡Viva la R epública!” echoed against the mountain range, and then one by one the units took their positions. When Santa Anna gave the order, the military bands sounded the charge and the fighting commenced. Along with the other soldaderas, Ximena remained on the ridge overlooking the battle grounds. As the cannons and muskets crashed and roared, and the crack of the rifles and the clanging hooves of the cavalry reverberated over the battlefield, she thought o f the worst storms she’d witnessed in San Antonio de Béxar and the Río Bravo region, when the clapping thunder and vivid flashes of lightning seemed to be splitting the heavens above. She’d never imagined she would one day witness storms even worse than those — with gunpowder flashes and bombs exploding, with a hail of cannon balls falling upon the battlefield. This darkening storm was deadlier and more sinister than any created by nature. For this one was man - made, forged by greed, vanity, tyranny.