He devoured the precious creamy - white flower petals she handed him. They weren’t enough to appease the hunger consuming them. “Perhaps tomorrow, we will find somethin’ more... If tomorrow comes,” he said, savoring the last of the flowers. He looked at the va st barren land in resignation, imagining his unmarked grave in this lone desert, a coyote howling over it. “We’re goin’ to die here, aren’t we?” The utter defeat in his own voice affrighted him. She heard it, too, and she wrapped her arms around him. He crushed her against him. “Don’t give up on me, you hear?” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me to the buzzards.” “¡Nunca! I will not leave you behind, soldier.” She stood on her toes and reached for him, nibbled on his earlobe as delicately as she’d nibbled on the yucca flowers, and the bolt of desire that ran through his body jolted his heart, made it palpitate with renewed strength, breathed life back into him.
“I want you, Ximena,” he growled, pulling her against him. “May God in Heaven pity me, but if I’m goin’ to die, then let it be in your arms.” He lowered her onto the ground and pulled up her skirt, and she tugged at his trousers. She clung to him with all her strength, matching his rhythm, both of them consumed by another kind of hunger. For two weeks, half - dead with fatigue, he and Ximena trudged on, along with the remnants of Santa Anna’s army, braving hunger and thirst, freezing rain and scorching sun, sickness and despair, but each night, they found solace in each other’s arms, their l ovemaking urgent and desperate, as if it were their last day on earth. But mostly they simply held each other, making sure they were both still breathing come dawn. Finally, the city of San Luis Potosí came into view. With barely enough strength to stand, on the verge of desperation, Riley looked upon the beautiful domes of the Templo del Carmen in the distance. For a moment he allowed himself to rejoice, but his elation turned to fear. Was his mind playing tricks on him again? Was he seeing a mirage? The scorching sun beat down on him. His brain was a potato crisping on a gridiron. His tongue was swollen, and he could no longer spit. He scarcely k new what to think — was he alive or burning in hell, paying for his infidelity? As he squinted at the bright light, the city blurred and the ground opened beneath his feet. He heard Ximena calling his name, but his tongue was too heavy to speak. The last thi ng he remembered was the sound of the cathedral bells and the sight of pigeons taking flight. He wanted to follow them, let his spirit soar into the clouds above... When he woke up, he didn’t know where he was. He was lying on a cot in a corridor, amid rows of other cots and straw mats filled with the living skeletons of Santa Anna’s troops. They were coughing and moaning, crying and praying. Ximena was sitting by his side, dozing on a chair. She seemed utterly fatigued, her skin sunburned, her lips parched. “Ximena?” he whispered, hating to wake her. She opened her eyes. They were swollen, her cheeks pale and hollow. “How do you feel, John?” She reached to grab his hands. Hers were calloused and rough to the touch, but he clung to them, let the warmth of her skin se ep into his. He felt faint and had a pain in his head. “Where am I?” he said, rubbing his eyes, struggling to recover his senses. “In the convent.” She handed him a cup of tea, and he sipped from it. Between the march, the battle, and the retreat, fifteen thousand men had perished or vanished, she told him, and the nuns had taken in what remained of Santa Anna’s army. “How long have I been here?” “Two days.”
“How — ?” “We barely made it to the city. You were very deshidratado, cariño,” Ximena said, brushing his hair back. “But you’re better now.” He looked at her and the memories came rushing back, the two of them intertwined, clinging to each other out in the merciless desert. What had he done? She bent over him to give him another sip of tea, and when her breath fanned his brow, his body became a s taut as the strings of a fiddle, and he knew he could never have enough of her. “What news is stirrin’?” he asked. “Santa Anna is leaving for Mexico City. There is a civil war in the capital. Can you believe it, John? While we were fighting for our lives, the caudillos began another insurrección. Blood is spilling on the streets of the capital, the moderados against th e radicales. What madness is this? Even now, instead of uniting to fight our enemy, we are fighting each other!” “And unite now you must,” Patrick Dalton said as he walked down the corridor toward them. Riley couldn’t believe how happy he was to see his friend. “Pat, you are well! And the men?” Dalton came to stand beside the cot. “We lost many, but you are alive, and so is the Saint Patrick’s Battalion.” Riley peeled the blanket off and made to get up. “You should rest,” Ximena said. “No, there’s no time,” Dalton said, helping Riley up. “The commander has called a council of war. Things have taken another turn. The Yankee general Winfield Scott has landed on the shores of Vera Cruz with nine thousand soldiers and is about to besiege th e port city.” “Perhaps we deserve to lose,” Ximena said. “Since our own leaders are in capable of creating peace, only disturbios, they deserve to have no country left to rule!” “Whist, lass. Don’t say such things,” Riley said as he put on his uniform jacket. “Mexico is a young nation and not yet used to its newborn freedom. Twenty - five years of ind ependence isn’t sufficient time for your leaders to figure out the best way to gove rn. One day they’ll realize that they must stand together, and that the blood of the Mexican people should flow only on the battlefield r epellin’ invaders, not takin’ up arms against each other.” He made his way down the corridor, stopping to check on the twelve men who had spent the night in there with him. “They will be fine in a day or two,” Ximena reassured him. She looked at the cot farther down the corridor and shook her head. “Cheno is there fighting for his life.”
Even from where he stood, Riley saw plain enough that the sergeant’s condition was grave. It was a miracle he hadn’t perished during the retreat, considering his already weakened state after the battle. His comrades had managed to carry him on a makeshift litter, sometimes even on their shoulders, until they made it to the city. Juan Cortina was a fierce fighter and as loyal and d ependable as Mexican sunshine. “Go mind your friend, lass,” Riley said. “And I shall see you tonight.” He and Dalton left the convent. The brightness of the day hurt his eyes, and it wasn’t long before his head was splitting. When Dalton urged him to stop and rest, Riley refused. No, he needed to be strong. He needed to be a leader. Dalton insisted and push ed him onto a bench in the public square. “I’m grand, Pat,” Riley said. “Let us go to the barracks. I must change and take this beard off me. See to the men.” “In a minute,” Dalton said. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Riley. “Tidin’s arrived for you whilst we were away. The priest at the cathedral asked me to deliver it to you. ’Twas sent to him by another priest in Matamoros, he said.” Riley looked at the cathedral on the other side of the plaza. His hands shook as he took the letter. Dalton patted his shoulder and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me a holler if you need anythin’, my friend.” With trembling hands, Riley opened the letter. He recognized the hand immediately. It was from his parish priest. 30, Oct’ 1846 Dear John, It is with a heavy heart that I must be the bearer of bad tidings. The typhus fever visited your family and came upon Nelly and her parents quite sudden and violent. God took pity on the afflicted and took them to His side without le tting them linger in t heir suffering. God, in his bene volence, has spared Johnny. Let your mind be easy in knowing that I am looking after your boy and will do my best to help him survive this hunger and pestilence scourging the land. He will remain with me until you deem ready for him to embark on the voyage to Mexico, if that is still your desire. The state of the country is such that I do not recommend you return yet awhile. My condolences to you, my son. I imagine your heart must be torn in pieces, but do not despair. Put yo ur trust in our Lord. I send you my blessings, Rev. Peter
Riley stumbled into the cathedral with barely enough strength to make it to the nearest pew. He sat in the cool, dim interior surrounded by candles and wanted to cry, but no tears would come, as if the arid lands cape he had barely survived had gotten insid e him, and his dreams, his hopes, his very being had dried up and withered. Jesus hanging on his crucifix looked down upon him, and Riley wished to be punished for his betrayal of the most sacred oath he had ever made — to care for his wife. He’d nothing to give her when they married but an uncertain future. And now, Nelly was dead; she’d been dead for more than five months. And if Father Peter hadn’t taken in Johnny, the lad would probably be dead by now too. He had never felt so alone. So far from his homeland. So far from its gentle rain and rolling mists. So far from the son he’d left to seek his fortune on the other side of the Atlantic. He ought never to have left. Now he found himself adrift, a stranger i n a strange country, without a way home. He’d failed his wife and now he was a man with the burden of another broken oath upon him. He fell to his knees and shook with violent grief. March 1847 San Luis Potosí At the council of war, Riley didn’t hear much of what was said. General Mejía, as usual, translated for him, until he noticed Riley’s state of mind. “Are you unwell, teniente Riley?” “I’m grand,” Riley said, not wanting to distract him from the meeting. There was no point in him being here anymore. What was he doing oceans away from where he should’ve been all this time — back in his homeland with his loved ones? Hadn’t he almost died of thirst and hunger in Mexico? He’d been braving death here, so why not do so back home? What had he gained by leaving Ireland exc ept becoming a wanderer upon the earth? He’d admired the Mexicans for doing what the Irish couldn’t — gaining their freedom. He’d wanted to help them ke ep it. But what if they didn’t deserve it? What if his admiration for them had colored things falsely? Santa Anna had literally marched his troops to their deaths. The general still stood by his decision to abandon the battlefield and dared to continue to declare a false victory for Mexico, claiming as proof the colors and guns he’d taken from his foe and the Yankee corpses he’d left on the battlefi eld. Could the general live with the falsehoods he was making to his own people just to preserve his image as their liberator? Riley could still taste the bitterness of their shameful defeat. And now, without even giving the troops a chance to recover, Santa Anna was planning to march them all the way to the city of the True Cross — Vera Cruz — to confront .