“Och, I was dreamin’ of my mam,” Sullivan said as he slipped on his trousers over his dirty flannel underdrawers. “Sometimes, I start to forget what she looks like! But there she was, runnin’ hither to me. I was comin’ home in my dream, can ya believe it? I was comin’ home.” “ ’Tis a fine dream, lad, but time to wake up now.” Riley didn’t let on how similar — and how bittersweet — his own dreams of Ireland had been since he’d left three years before. “And be sure to shake your shoes,” he said on his way out of the tent. “Best not let the poisonous vermin infestin’ this place get ya.” Sullivan was a skinny young man with wide green eyes as vibrant as grass after freshly fallen rain. His unruly red hair and the fuzz on his ruddy cheeks made him seem younger than his eighteen years. Riley himself had had that look once, until he learned b etter. The lad was about the age Riley was when he first joined the British Army twelve years before. Riley had earned his sergeant stripes serving in the Royal Artillery and had high hopes back then of making something of himself, but in the military, as in everything else, the English treated the Irish like chattel. He soon discovered that a Connemara man like himself would never stand a fair chance of promotion on his merits. The English never let him forget that Paddies were great cannon fodder. Riley s till remembered the hardships he’d undergone, and he wanted to spare Sullivan some of the heartaches that boyish fancies — and follies — could bring. Under the command of the Yankee general, Zachary Taylor, Riley quickly learned that being in the US Army was no different.
He pushed through the worn - out canvas flap into the rosy light and took a de ep breath of the fresh morning air. The change in weather was a blessing. Most of his service had been spent in the coastal village of Corpus Christi, where he’d suffered blisterin g humid days under the scorching sun and keen, wet nights in a leaky tent. Here, on the northern bank of the Río Grande, he’d have to get used to the sudden changes in temperature. One day could burn as hot as living fire, and the next a bitterly cold nort her could freeze a man to death in his sle ep. He made the sign of the cross and said a prayer before r eporting for roll call. A gang of wild geese flew low above him. He followed their V - shaped line with his eyes south across the Río Grande where the red - tiled roofs and white buildings of the Mexican city of Matamoros peeked through the thickets. Hearing the church bells echoing across the river, scarcely two hundred yards wide, Riley wished he were inside the warm walls, among the swirling scents of melted candle wax, incense, and flowers like the churches back home. The Yanks ridiculed the Cathol ic faith and spurned the Irish as savage fanatics, forcing Protestant services on Catholic soldiers. Their disdain for his religion made Riley’s blood boil. He couldn’t rightly remember his last mass, his last confession, and he longed for the words of com fort only a man of the cloth could give. He hoped prayers would be enough for now. In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. He hoped Jesus and His Holy Mother would understand. Amen. “ Anois , Sullivan, what’s ke epin’ ya?” he called out, putting on his cap. His eye was caught by what seemed another odd bit of weather — he mistook it at first for patches of snow, until he realized it was paper, hundreds of leaflets rustling about in the wind, fla pping between the tents. As the soldiers emerged from their tents, they bent down to examine the leaflets, muttering among themselves. Riley brushed the dirt off one he found stuck on a nearby bush. The Commander - in - Chief of the Mexican Army to the English and Irish under the orders of the American General Taylor: Know Ye: That the Government of the United States is committing r epeated acts of barbarous aggression against the magnanimous Mexican nation; that the Government which exists under the flag of the stars is unworthy of the designation of Christian. Recollec t that you were born in Great Britain, that the American Government looks with coldness upon the powerful flag of England and is provoking to rupture the warlike people to whom it belongs, President Polk boldly manifesting a desire to take possession of Or egon as he has already done Texas. Now then, come with all confidence to the Mexican ranks, and I guarantee you, upon my honor, good treatment and that all of your expense shall be defrayed until your arrival in the beautiful capital of Mexico.
Germans, French, Poles, and individuals of other nations! S eparate yourselves from the Yankees, and do not contribute to defend a robbery and usurpation which, be assured, the civilized nations of Europe look upon with utmost indignation. Come, therefore, and array yourselves under the tricolor flag, in confidence that the God of Armies protects it, and it will protect you, equally with the English. PEDRO DE AMPUDIA FRANCISCO R. MORENO Adjutant of the commander - in - chief Headquarters upon the road to Matamoros April 2, 1846 Riley looked at the opposite shore. The Mexicans had labored all night, throwing up breastworks, extending trenches, adding more sandbag barriers and emplacements. They mostly worked under cover of darkness, unlike the Yankees who were building a fort upon this disputed land in broad daylight. Riley wondered why the Mexicans hadn’t attacked the minute Taylor and his 3,900 troops marched into view. In their hesitation, they’d allowed the Army of Occupation too many advantages: control of their port at Point Isabel on the gulf, a foothold on land within striking reach of Matamoros, construction on a redoubt and a six - bastioned fortress, and the planting of the Stars and Stripes in soil they claimed was theirs. Peasants even brought provisions by the crate — egg s, milk, and cheese; fruits, bread, and meat — sold to the soldiers and officers who could afford them. Mexican civilians were helping the Yankee army become even stronger, providing other goods such as mules and horses. He had seen the local men wearing not hing but white pantaloons rolled up to their knees or simple breechclouts; the women with no bonnet, just a frayed shawl over their heads, homespun blouses that barely covered their bosoms and short, raggedy skirts that revealed their unstockinged legs; an d children barefoot and without a stitch upon them — Riley wondered if their poverty made them behave thus. He had personal knowledge that for a hungry family, patriotism was a luxury. Do not contribute to defend a robbery and usurpation... the Mexican general had written in the leaflet. This brewing conflict wasn’t just a border dispute. Riley had heard about the Yankees’ territorial ambition beyond Texas, their desire for a bigger piece of Mexico’s northern lands, such as Upper California and New Mexico. It was their destiny, the Yankees believed, a decree from Heaven to build an empire to the Pacific Ocean. So, unable to get Mexico to sell the coveted territory, here were the Yankees now, ready to take hold of the land by force.
“What’s that yoke there?” Sullivan said as he finally emerged. Riley handed him the leaflet. “What’s it say?” he asked, holding the leaflet upside down. Many of the Irish in the army were humble tillers of the soil like Sullivan, men with no learning who’d never held a musket before, only a miserable hoe or spade to tend their fields. These were the men the United States government was enlisting in its ran ks by the thousands, fresh off ships arriving daily from Ireland and other impoverished and unstable lands. “ ’Tis from the Mexicans.” Riley surveyed the campground and didn’t like what he saw. From the expression on the faces of the Yanks, he knew he ought to act quickly. “Toss it away,” he told Sullivan, who dropped the paper as if it had scalded him. “Don’t y ou get caught with it. And for the love of Heaven, don’t draw attention to yourself!” As they hurried for morning roll call, Sullivan struggled to ke ep up. Riley, at six - foot - two, easily outpaced his tentmate, who looked like a child playing soldier. Around the campground Riley could see many of his countrymen and other foreign soldiers lin gering in groups, clutching the leaflets in their hands. He wanted to tell them what he’d just told Sullivan, but knowing the price of lateness, he k ept on moving. So far, he was one of the lucky ones who’d es caped the punishments Yankee officers were keen on inflicting upon his kind, especially since desertions were on the rise. Ever since their arrival a week earlier, men had been throwing themselves into the Río Grande and swimming across, some ending up in the Mexican ranks. After losing fourteen men in a single night, General Taylor immediately ordered his sentries to shoot an yone caught deserting. Those leaflets, enticing more men to desert, would fuel the distrust and hatred Yanks already felt for the foreigners in their ranks. “What did that leaflet say?” Sullivan hurried to catch up, holding his government - issued musket as if it were a shovel. “Bother yourself no more about it, lad. Focus on the day ahead and don’t invite trouble.” “Arrah, just tell me! Everyone but me will know what’s goin’ on. The Yanks already treat me like a half - witted spalpeen.” Riley stopped and turned to Sullivan. He remembered his parish priest, Father Myles, God rest his soul, who had taught him to read and write. The Penal Laws imposed on Irish Catholics denied many, especially landless peasants, the opportunity for schooling , and if it hadn’t been for the kindness of the priest, Riley would understand the Mexicans’ proclamation no better than his tentmate. “As I said, ’tis from the Mexicans. They’re keen on havin’ us break our vows to the Yanks. Join their ranks.”
“What they offerin’? Will they be kinder to us than the Yanks?” “I wouldn’t bet on it. Mexicans want trouble, that’s all. And don’t you forget that anyone caught desertin’ will be shot on the spot. So it doesn’t matter what the offer be. ’Tis not worth the risk.” Riley started off again. “But, Riley — ” “Enough, lad!” Up ahead, German soldiers were gathering the leaflets and throwing them into a fire pit as Lieutenants Braxton Bragg and James Duncan shouted orders, hitting them with the flat side of their sabers. “Come on, sauerkrauts, make haste!” Riley snapped a salute and was about to go on his way, but Bragg stopped him. “Where do you potatoheads think you’re going?” “To our formation, sir,” Riley said. “Not until you help pick up the leaflets, Mick,” Bragg said. “Now!” Riley glanced at the other soldiers around him, scrambling after the papers flapping in the wind, getting their uniforms full of dust and soot, which would surely earn them a punishment once they got to their ranks. “Now, Mick!” Bragg yelled, striking Riley across his shoulder blades with the side of his saber. Hiding any flicker of emotion on his face, Riley knelt to the ground, and Sullivan did the same. Steady now . As he gathered the leaflets, he stole a glance at Bragg’s special - issue uniform and freshly polished boots made to order. Bragg and Duncan were artillery officers, members of the army’s elite, second only to the engineers. They displayed the powder stains on their uniforms with arrogance and strutted arou nd the campground yelling and insulting the immigrant soldiers in the infantry and the dragoons. Many of the officers were from the US Military Academy at West Point, and most had no more battlefield experience than the men they bullied and insulted. The w orst of these loathsome fellows was Bragg, who was a genius in the field but a monster in the campground. Many of Riley’s countrymen had been flogged or beaten at Bragg’s orders. Holding a leaflet in his hand, Riley felt the Mexican general’s words tugging at him. Come therefore, and array yourselves under the tricolor flag ... How much were the Mexicans willing to pay an Irish soldier seasoned in the British Army? Surely more than the Yanks. A year and a half before, Riley had been laboring in Mackinac Island in Michigan, but no matter how many hours he spent hauling timber an d loading barrels of pelts onto barges, he couldn’t save enough
money for his family’s passage to America. His employer had treated him well enough, but he’d been stingy with the wages, and Riley scarcely had enough to scrape by on. After hearing the blaring of the bugles and the pounding cannons during morning drills coming from the nearby Yankee military encampment, Riley had wondered if the army might be the surest way to fulfill his promise of sending for his family. American newspapers told of an impending war between the United States and Great Britain for control of Oregon and the Pacific Northwest, and the thought that this was his chance to fight against the British and thereby redeem himself for his years as a redcoat gave Riley that extra incentive to enlist. He had always felt guilty for joining the very army that k ept Ireland subdued; fighting against them alongside the Yanks would have given him great personal satisfaction. To his dismay, the enemy he would be fighting had turned out to be not Britain but Mexico, a Catholic nation. When he signed his name on the Yanks’ muster rolls, Riley was promised that he would see his seven dollars in monthly wages increase with every promotion. By now it was plain the Yanks would never see him as more than a common soldier. Like with the English, he’d never be more than cannon fodder. Might the Mexicans see him differently? He shook away those thoughts again. With a grin, he realized that the Mexican general knew what he was doing after all. The leaflets had put notions into his head, notions he needed to put right back out of mind to focus on the day ahead, just like he’d to ld Franky Sullivan to do. He threw the last of the leaflets into the fire Bragg was stoking. ’Tis not worth the risk . After the men fell into their ranks, Captain Merrill yelled at them about the leaflets. Half of Riley’s unit, Company K of the Fifth Infantry, was composed of Irish, German, Italian, and Scottish immigrants — the very soldiers the Mexican leaflets were targe ting. “I better not catch any of you with those damn papers from the filthy Mexican greasers,” Captain Merrill said. “And anyone thinking of deserting tonight will find their grave in the Río Grande.” Riley remained impassive to the insults Merrill hurled at them before moving on to the roll. Hollers of “aye” and “here” came after each name was called out by the duty sergeants. “Maloney, James.” Now silence followed. Riley glanced at his tentmate. Sulli van and Maloney, an older soldier, had gotten themselves half gone with whiskey the night previous. They would’ve k ept at it longer if Riley hadn’t stopped their drunken carousing and sent Maloney staggering back to his own tent. “Maloney, James!” the serg eant called louder, and when no one answered, he detailed two corporals to search the tents for him. Just as roll call ended, they returned dragging Maloney, passed out and clearly unfit for duty.
“Nothing but useless drunks, these red - faced foreigners,” one of the corporals said. “Should we teach them a lesson, Captain?” Captain Merrill looked at the pitiful sight of Maloney and poked him with his boot. Wake up, ould fella, Riley begged under his breath. Captain Merrill signaled his subordinates to tie Maloney’s hands and feet. They dragged him across the drill field, where a branding iron with the letters HD — habitual drunkard — was put into the coals to heat. Punishment for drunkenness was usually a mark on the hip or buttocks, but Maloney was an immigrant. Suddenly awake now, Maloney squirmed like a caterpillar. The iron was destined for his forehead. The corporals held him down on the ground while a sergeant brandished the red - hot iron clo se to Maloney’s face, taunting him. “Let me catch any of you drunk and your fate will be the same,” Captain Merrill said. “Shite, they can’t do that,” Sullivan said, taking a st ep out of rank. Riley grabbed his elbow and pulled him back. “There’s naught to be done.” Sullivan shook his head. “How can you stand aside and do nothin’?” In dismay, Riley watched as Sullivan st epped out of line and shouted, “Let him alone!” “Get this insolent sonofabitch out of here!” Captain Merrill yelled. “Buck and gag him.” “Riley, do somethin’!” Sullivan pleaded as he was dragged away. Riley tightened his fists. Do somethin’? What could he do? Half of his unit were immigrants like himself — with the same anger in their faces, the same impotence. Like them, Riley remained silent. He wished that fool of a boy had known well enough to do the same. It took all of Riley’s willpower not to look as a piercing scream ripped through the ranks. The smell of Maloney’s burning flesh drifted over to him. Riley felt his anger burning hotter. He thought of Nelly and their son, Johnny. For them, I’m doin’ this for them . Maloney’s screams stopped suddenly, and finally, Riley turned to look. The pain of the branding overcoming him, the poor fellow now lay on the ground, immobile. At least for a little while, he would be at rest. Captain Merrill ordered him carried to the hospital tent and then called everyone to attention. Riley made the sign of the cross for the second time that day. “Holy Saint Patrick, please give me strength.” After a breakfast of weevil - infested hardtack and pickled pork, which he downed with a pint of uninviting black coffee, Riley fell in for drill and spent hours
under the merciless sun marching and learning maneuvers as they pr epared for the approaching war. With his musket braced against his right shoulder and his head erect, Riley wheeled with his unit across the dusty ground. Flawlessly executed rotations and d rills that usually gave him pride were marred today by the smell of burnt human flesh. Brigadier General Taylor sat sidesaddle on his old mare surveying the troops, a straw hat on his large head, dressed plainly in linen trousers, a dusty green coat, and common army shoes. The sixty - one - year - old Taylor wasn’t a typical general at all. He did n’t put on airs, and Riley had often seen him laughing and chatting with various of his men, regardless of rank. More than once, the general had saved an immigrant soldier from being punished by a nativist officer. As a veteran of several wars, Taylor had the kind of wisdom that came only from the battlefield, but with none of the vulgar pride of the other officers, such as Braxton Bragg and James Duncan. Riley heard it rumored that the general hadn’t supported President Polk’s push to annex Texas and harbo red doubts about the claims Texas and the president made about its boundary. But orders were orders, and Taylor remained true to his duties as the commander - in - chief of the Army of Occupation. Riley had admired General Taylor up until his shoot - on - sight or ders. The Articles of War clearly stated that desertion was not punishable by death when the country wasn’t at war. Sullivan and other soldiers were seated on the dirt throughout the campground, their legs drawn up and their arms tied around them, with a stick placed under their bent knees and a gag stuffed into their mouths. Other soldiers had been condemned to spend t he day upon a wooden sawhorse with their hands tied behind their backs and irons on their feet. The poor wretches would fall off and be forced back on again and again until they wished they were dead. And some of them got their wish. Back in Corpus Christi , Riley saw a soldier fall off the “horse” and snap his neck. With his hands tied behind his back, the unlucky man had been unable to break the momentum of the fall. After setting up camp opposite Matamoros, Engineer Captain Mansfield designed a massive six - bastioned fort with ramparts, gunpowder magazines, and bombproof shelters, and construction of the stronghold was now underway. When finished, cannons would be plac ed on the arrow - shaped bastions and a ditch would surround the entire complex. Those on fatigue duty had to excavate the dirt and haul it up to the scaffolds; others, like Riley, shaped the earthen walls while engineers bawled their instructions from down below. Sweaty and shirtless, his whole body caked in mud, Riley watched the fifteen - feet - thick walls slowly take shape while he and his comrades broiled under the sun. Up on the scaffolds, he could at least enjoy the slight tang of briny air carried on the occasional breeze drifting in from the Gulf of Mexico some twenty miles distant, and he had a fine view of
the open country. Beyond the dense chaparral were cultivated fields, fig and pomegranate orchards, patches of corn, and the grasslands dotted with horned cattle and sh epherds with goats and she ep. Observing the Río Grande winding its way through the thicke ts, he realized it was the most crooked river he’d ever seen. It twisted and doubled back on itself so much that even a wagon could traverse the land faster than a boat. The winding path of its muddy waters created peninsulas that jutted out like fingers. General Taylor had chosen one of these long fingers for his camp, knowing they would be protected from ground assaults on three sides. But surely the location also had disadvantages — the river walled them in as much as protected them, making them vulnerable to a siege. Riley turned away from the river to the fields where the Yankee artillery drills were taking place. With his collection of 6 - , 12 - , and 18 - pounders, Taylor had at his disposal a magnificent artillery, especially of the lighter variety, what they called the “flying artillery,” which could red eploy immediately to wherever they were needed. From the scaffolds, Riley spotted Bragg’s crews and couldn’t help but marvel at the dazzling speed with which the gunners and drivers could hitch the 6 - pounder guns to thei r team of horses, move to a new position, unhitch, and fire with deadly aim at an astonishing range of 1,500 yards. The man was truly an excellent artillery officer. Riley was loath to admit how much pleasure it gave him to watch Bragg’s gun crews at batte ry drill whirling the cannons around the field with such rapidity and precision. He looked with disappointment at his muddy hands, knowing there was much more they were capable of besides shaping earthen walls. When evening came, Riley called on Captain Merrill at his tent and, after saluting his commanding officer, said, “Permission to relieve Private Sullivan from the buck - and - gag, sir.” Captain Merrill looked at him intently from behind his desk. Riley held himself at attention, his face a blank. Any flicker of resentment, anger, or defiance would surely earn him his own buck - and - gag, or worse. “You’re a good soldier, Private Riley. Never given me any trouble at all. Perhaps you can convince your countrymen to do the same?” “Aye, sir.” “Very well. Go and show Private Sullivan how to be an exemplary soldier such as yourself. Dismissed.” “Sir!” Riley saluted his commander and left his quarters to rush to the drill field. In the waning light, Riley could see the lad’s face severely sunburned and his lips cracked and bloodied. It wasn’t Sullivan’s first time getting bucked and gagged, but Riley prayed it would be
his last. Had he finally realized the folly of trying to be a hero? He removed the gag and gave him water from his canteen. “Here, take a little sup,” Riley said. “Easy, now.” Sullivan coughed from gulping it down too fast. He hadn’t had a drink for ten hours. Just like the Yanks, the sun showed no mercy. Riley put water on his handkerchief and wiped Sullivan’s face to offer him a little relief. “ Go raibh maith agat ,” Sullivan said, then he broke into tears. “No need to thank me, little fella. ’Tis over now,” Riley said as he removed the ropes from Sullivan’s hands and feet. He tried getting him to stand up. Sullivan dried his tears with his sleeve and allowed Riley to lift him. Riley was careful to go slow, b ut still Sullivan cried out in pain as he took a st ep forward. “I can’t,” he said, leaning all his weight on Riley. “Can’t feel my legs!” “One st ep at a time, lad. I won’t let you fall. Promise.” They hobbled toward the mess tent, Riley practically carrying his tentmate. “And Jimmy?” Riley remembered Maloney’s screams, the smell of burning flesh. “He’s in the hospital tent now. Perhaps we’ll see him in the morrow. Don’t fret about him. He’s a tough bugger. But for the love of God, will ya stop gettin’ yourself into a pickle, Franky Sul livan? Ke ep your eyes open and your mouth shut. ’Tis all you can do.” “You sound like my da,” Sullivan said. “Your ould fella is a wise man — ” “Wise?” Sullivan said, stopping to catch his breath. “Nay. I was reared by a coward, I was. Never stood up for his family. Just let those dirty English maggots take everythin’ from us.” “Nothin’ he could’ve said or done would’ve changed things. He was tryin’ to protect his family. Just like I’m wantin’ to do.” “Is that why you took the Queen’s shilling? Why you became a traitor to your own people?” Riley remembered the day he’d enlisted at a military garrison in Galway. He was about to turn eighteen, but he lied, saying he was nineteen. His son had just been born, and the only way to feed him and ke ep a roof over his head was to serve in the Royal Ar my and don the hated redcoat, even if it meant being looked upon as a traitor by his own countrymen. While Ireland lay prostrate at the feet of its English conquerors, the only two options Riley had were to tend
the fields of an absentee landlord or become a soldier in the British ranks. He was serving the bastards either way, but at least in the military, he’d earn his bread while learning skills he could use when another Irish rising finally came. He traded his scythe for a musket and made his choice. “Everythin’ I’ve done is for my family. Perhaps one day when you have your own babby you’ll understand.” “I understand now, John, a chara . I know why you did it, why my da desired me to be quiet and do nothin’. But sometimes that isn’t the answer.” After mess of half - cooked biscuits and boiled ham, which they ate with little relish, Riley and his comrades sat outside the tents smoking pipes and sharing stories of the old country. They lit a fire with the mesquite wood they gathered from the thickets. Some of the men roasted rattlesnakes and jackrabbits they killed earlier that day and passed around the flasks of whiskey they’d purchased from the peddlers . Riley, as usual, sat away from the group, burnishing the pewter metal buttons of his fatigue jacket until the American eagle stamped on each button shone brightly under the warm glow of the fire. He k ept to himself, observing. Listening. Most of the men, like Sullivan, were landless Catholic peasants who’d suffered all manner of ill treatment from the English, and knowing that Riley had been a redcoat, they treated him like an outsider, not one of their own. Save for Sullivan and Maloney, Riley didn’t hav e friends. And that night, with Maloney in the hospital tent, he had only one. Sullivan sat near the fire. His comrades were freely passing him the liquor, thinking it would help, but Riley winced every time the lad took a drink. If they got Sullivan drunk, he would have a tough time rousing him again. And what manner of punishment w as the little fellow in for if he couldn’t perform his drills? Riley thought of Maloney, of the smell of burning flesh, and just as Thomas Quinn was about to hand Sullivan another flask of whiskey, Riley, unable to stop himself, said, “Enough, lad. You’ll go too far in the drink.” “And who are you to tell him what to do? Is it his master you are?” Quinn retorted. “I have a need for a drop of comfort, John, a chara ,” Sullivan said. “Let him be. The poor fella deserves it,” Charlie Flanagan said. “You, John Riley, with the perfect soldierin’ you learned as a redcoat, you’ve never been punished by the Yanks, have ya? Not like the rest of us.” He pointed to the brand on his forehead, hi s entire sullen face illuminated by the firelight, and added: “You don’t know how the lad is feelin’, but I do.” Riley understood his comrade’s anger. He knew that while living in the slums of Philadelphia two years earlier, Flanagan had barely survived the nativist riots that left many Irish Catholic
neighborhoods destroyed. He’d enlisted in the US Army seeking protection from the wrath of Protestant mobs, only to encounter the same racist and religious rancor infecting the Yankee ranks. “Here, Franky, ma bouchal, don’t mind him. Have another drink!” Matthew O’Brien said to Sullivan, handing him his flask. “ Sláinte is táinte !” “ Sláinte is táinte! ” the other men said. Riley looked at his messmates, men who, like him, had been forced into military service by circumstance and necessity but who, unlike him, had no desire to do it right. He stood up to leave. He wasn’t going to quarrel with his country men. If they wanted to drink their earnings instead of holding fast to them so they could provide for their families back home, that was their problem. “Och, Riley, ’tis my last drop,” Sullivan said after he downed the whiskey. “Stay here awhile, will ya?” Then as he had every night, he began to sing a patriotic air. Soon, the others joined in too. Riley bethought himself of home. He remembered the hard but manful days working the land with his father and brothers, the stories and songs by the family’s fireside, and visiting Saint Féchín’s holy well with Nelly. What he wouldn’t give now to spend a da y with Johnny riding ponies down Omey Strand, to see his face lit up with boyish glee. He’d been obliged to walk away from them all because he and Nelly were fixed upon having a bit of land to call their own. But at what cost? “A nation once again, a nation once again, and Ireland, long a province, be a nation once again!” As they sang, Riley wondered if Ireland would ever free itself from the shackles of the British crown. Would he ever be able to return and live in the land where he was born and reared, instead of bringing his wife and son here to these foreign shores to s tart a new life in a country that didn’t want them? “Let’s sin’ one more before the bugle sounds tattoo,” Sullivan said. And, as if sensing Riley’s melancholy and nostalgia, he chose a song not from the old country. Instead, he said, “Here’s a ditty I made up today in honor of bein’ bucked and gagged.” Come, all Yankee soldiers, give ear to my song, It is a short ditty, ’twon’t ke ep you long; It’s no use to fret on account of our luck, We can laugh, drink, and sing yet in spite of the buck. Derry down, down, down, derry down. “Sergeant, buck him and gag him,” our officers cry For each triflin’ offense which they happen to spy, Till with buckin’ and gaggin’ of Dick, Pat, and Bill, Faith, the Mexicans’ ranks they will help to fill. Derry, down, down, down, derry down.
The treatment they give us, as all of us know, Is bucking and gagging for whipping the foe; But they are glad to release us when going to fight. They buck us and gag us for malice or spite Derry down, down, down, derry down... It didn’t take long for the men to learn the ditty, and they asked Sullivan to sing it again so that they could join along. Riley, too, joined in. He looked across the fire, at his tentmate, only six years older than his son, and he realized that this skin ny, wide - eyed country boy was the only kin he’d have for now, and this mesquite campfire his only hearth. April 1846 Fort Texas, Río Grande In the morning, word spread quickly — despite the harsh punishments the day before, or maybe due to them, more soldiers had deserted in the night, including men from Riley’s own unit. As he walked to the field hospital, detailed by his commander to retrieve Maloney and talk some sense into him, Riley saw more foreign - born soldiers bucked and gagged or made to ride “the horse.” He sang Sullivan’s ditty under his breath. If the Yankee officers k ept it up, they’d end up actually helping the Mexicans fill their r anks with deserters. He found Maloney sunk in peaceful slumber on a dirty cot. Riley looked around at the dozens of soldiers, ill from the wretched diarrhea, fever, pneumonia, snakebites, or other maladies. He crossed himself and asked Jesus and his Holy Mother to watch over t hem. He smiled bitterly as he recalled the recruiting officers of the US Army promising their enlisted men a wholesome diet, comfortable quarters, and the finest medical care. Maloney’s branded forehead was violently inflamed, his usually mirthful face now wan and blanched of its good - natured color. How could he disturb the poor man’s dream where there was no pain and suffering? Captain Merrill be damned . He quietly pulled a stool up to the old man’s cot. He took out a letter he received at mail call two days earlier, though his wife had sent it more than three months before. That morning he’d woken up long before reveille sounded to read and reread Nelly ’s words, admiring her effort to write a good hand.