General Scott. Since Mexico had no navy, Scott had been able to sail down the Gulf of Mexico completely uncontested. “I will drive the Yanquis back into the water to drown like I did with the French,” Santa Anna boasted. “The French took one of my legs, and the Yanquis might take the other, but we will send them back into the Gulf where they can feed the sharks.” Applause erupted in the room. The general ordered the chiefs to pr epare their units for the march. He was d eparting the following day with his staff and a small detachment. He was leaving half of his forces in San Luis Potosí to reorganize and the other ha lf was marching out by the week’s end under the command of Generals Ampudia and Vásquez. The Saint Patrick’s Battalion was to be part of this group. Riley thought of his men who were still lying on the cots at the convent. What would they say when he told them that in a few days, they needed to be up and ready to follow him to the coast to join the Mexican Army of the East? What would they say when he told them that he had lost his desire to fight? That perhaps it was time for the Saint Patrick’s Battalion to be disbanded and its green banner lowered from its staff. He was tired of seeing his men suffer all manner of privations and enjoy none of the glory he’d promised them. He decided that, after the meeting, he would ask to be relieved of his duty to the Mexicans, thereby being spared of any further indignity. He would ask for his back pay and all that was promised him, though he feared those glorious acres of Mexican soil w ouldn’t be his if he left. But did it matter anymore? Nelly was gone and her feet would never walk upon their own land, as he’d promised her. But at the conclusion of the meeting, Santa Anna called Riley forward. “Teniente Riley, por favor.” He motioned Riley to stand beside him, along with Captains Moreno and Álvarez, Bachelor, and St ephenson. Riley wondered what was happening as applause erupt ed in the room once more. Riley was shocked to learn that Santa Anna was awarding him and the others a medal of honor, a promotion, and with that, a pay raise. “Captain?” Riley looked at General Santa Anna, at the chiefs and officers around the room, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “For your courage and daring bravery in La Angostura,” General Mejía said, translating for the general. “Thank you for your service to la R epública Mexicana, Captain Riley.” Santa Anna pinned on the medal in the shape of a white cross. As Riley shook his hand, he wondered if perhaps he’d misjudged his commander. Had Santa Anna truly believed in good faith that in yielding the field to the Yankees he was saving his men? Instead of an act of weakness and cowardice, had it been one of honor? He looked into the general’s eyes, searching for an answer. He wanted to believe, to renew his faith in his dreams and believe that
they were not simply foolish fancies. But after the council meeting ended and he returned to the barracks, the burden of doubt and regret returned to weigh heavily on him. He didn’t go to Ximena that night as he’d promised he would. He remained in the barracks with his men, Patrick Dalton by his side. It was only with Dalton that he could be completely honest. “I’ve deserted once. I could do it again,” Riley told him. They were seated on a bale of hay, observing some of the other San Patricios who were gathered around campfires, roasting maize and singing Irish ballads while drinking pulque and mezcal. “I could leave tonight. Ride into the darkness, find a way to get back to my son.” “Do not speak of resignation, Captain! You would betray the oath you’ve made to this country? This country which has welcomed you — us — with open arms?” “We’re on the losin’ side,” Riley said. “Both here and back in our homeland,” Dalton r eplied. “At least here, they’ve made you a captain. If that is what losin’ looks like in this country, aren’t you better off stayin’ here, then?” “Aye, I’ve dreamed of this day ever since the British put me in their muster rolls. It took three armies for it to finally come true, but what price must I pay for military glory?” “ ’Tis mournin’ your wife you are. And you mustn’t let your guilt unsettle your mind. There’s no blame to you, John, a chara . You were a responsible husband and did your best to maintain her. The English are starvin’ our people so they can finally be rid of us Irish. Even if you were there, you wouldn’t have been able to save her. Besides, if your wish is to go home, our genera l has given you the means to do it.” Riley looked at his friend. “What are you sayin’?” “He’s marchin’ us to the east coast, isn’t he? To the water, the port. There are ships there! The Yankees have blockaded all of the Mexican ports, so if you wish to get back to Ireland, then fight them you must. Once they are defeated, you’ll be that much closer to home. You see, Captain, there’s no need to desert. No need to quit the Saint Patrick’s Battalion in despair.” He put an arm around Riley and said, “And, as your friend and second - in - command, I refuse to believe that all your mettle is truly gone. ” In the morning, he sought Ximena in the convent. They st epped out into the sunny courtyard, away from the foul odor of the makeshift hospital and the wretched sounds of human misery, and sat on a bench under the orange trees where the white blossoms cascad ed around them, releasing their sweetness into the spring breeze. The murmur of bees was the only sound to be heard, and they sat there for a spell in silence, the air thick with the scent of nectar. Riley wished they could stay there forever.
It was Ximena who broke the silence. “You are leaving. Without me,” she said, matter - of - factly. There was no r eproach in her voice. Only a quiet acc eptance. For a second, he wished she would yell at him, sting him with hateful words. He reached into his pocket and handed her the letter from Father Peter. He had no voice to say, “My wife is dead.” So he let her read the letter and see for herself the graveyard of woe he was carrying in his heart. After she finished reading, she handed it back to him and fixed her gaze upon the ground. “I know you blame yourself for her death. But you did the best you can, do you not see?” She looked tenderly at him and said, “John, you must not permit your guilt to eat at your soul. You are a good, honorable man. And I — ” Her voice choked, and she swallowed the words. Instead, she cupped his face with her hands and kissed his cheek, sighing in resignation. She stood to leave, but when she began to walk away, he grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him. “I love you,” he said. “Perhaps ’tis cruel of me to say it, when I have to leave you, but I want you to know that I do love you, Ximena.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I love you as well,” she said, her voice raw. But then she pulled her hand from his and wiped her eyes. “But if you think to love me is a sin for which you must do penitencia, then I prefer you do not love me, John Riley.” With that, she left him to his grief, and as he listened to the buzzing of the bees around him, the ache in his heart pulsed and throbbed as if he’d stumbled upon their hive, and the tears finally came. During the days that remained in the city, Riley did nothing but pr epare the San Patricios for the march ahead. To his surprise, new deserters from the Yankee ranks arrived — despite their loss at Buena Vista — and he r eplenished his unit. The enthusiasm of th e new recruits made him realize that he was honor - bound to the Saint Patrick’s Battalion. He gave himself completely to his busy schedule, avoiding Ximena as much as he could. He could always count on Patrick Dalton to do the daily drills, but he was capta in now, he told her, and he had his duties to fulfill. Yet she was never out of his mind. Even as he shouted orders to his men, he would think about when he had made love to her out in the open land as dusk faded into night, and he longed to have her in hi s arms again. But then he would think of Nelly, of not being there by her side when she took her last breath. What right did he have now to happiness? Giving up his love for Ximena would have to be his penance. How else could he atone for what he’d done?
March 1847 San Luis Potosí Ximena sat under the shade of an orange tree in the convent’s courtyard, listening to the sounds in the plaza as the troops pr epared to march out of the city. When she heard the bugles ordering the regiments to move out and the potosinos cheering and shouti ng their farewells, she closed her eyes and held back the tears. She pictured John at the head of the columns, rolling out on the horse - drawn caissons as the Saint Patrick’s Battalion moved on, their banner high in the air. After a time, an eerie silence fell upon the city, even the persistent buzzing of the bees disappeared, as if all life had come to a standstill and there was no one left in San Luis Potosí but her. She was startled by the sudden tolling of the convent bell s calling the nuns to evening vespers and sending swallows darting through the courtyard. She wrapped herself in her rebozo and followed the melancholy sound. The hours, days, weeks passed in a blur, one after the other, until she no longer knew what day it was. She busied herself tending to the invalids, and little by little the convent’s corridors grew emptier as they left — either walking out on their own or ca rried out feetfirst through the door. One day she received a letter from Santa Anna at the convent, with news confirming the rumors that had reached them — the port city of Vera Cruz had fallen after sustaining a four - day siege from Scott’s forces. Day and night the Yanqui cannons, howitzers, an d mortars had bombarded the city until it finally succumbed. Scott refused permission to evacuate once the siege began and hundreds of the city’s residents perished, mostly women and children.