On the evening of August 19, Riley stood on the parapets peering through the sultry darkness. Earlier that day, they’d heard an exchange of artillery fire and later learned that General Valencia had engaged the enemy. According to the expresses from Genera l Santa Anna, Valencia had disobeyed orders and had taken it upon himself to confront the Yanks two miles beyond his assigned position at Padierna. Santa Anna ordered Valencia to pull back to San Ángel and send his artillery to Churubusco. Valencia refused , opting instead to stay put. That evening, word reached them that the outcome of the duel between Valencia and the Yanks had ended with the withdrawal of the enemy. Now everyone was cheering and getting drunk. But as Riley watched the lightning flash acro ss the sky and heard the thunder rumble as loud as a cannonade, he felt uneasy. He turned northwest, in the direction of Mexico City, and thought of Ximena. She’d followed him here with the hospital corps, and he wished she had stayed in the safety of the city. He had pleaded with her to sit this battle out, despite knowing he was bei ng a hypocrite. When she’d asked him to do the same, he’d said he was honor - bound. So am I , she’d r eplied.
“The calm before the storm,” Dalton said as he came to stand beside him. “Gives me the jitters. I’d rather be fightin’ already.” Lightning burst above them, illuminating the two empty roads leading to the monastery. Riley gave an in voluntary shudder when the thunder slammed against the walls. He patted Dalton on the back and said, “Be patient, my boy. The battle will get to us soon enough, and you’ll get your chance to give the Yankees thunder.” “And God willin’, we will carry the day,” Dalton said. “Aye, indeed,” Riley said, leaning against the parapets. The wind picked up, and the rustling of the cornfields put him on edge. “ ’Tis late, and you should get some sle ep.” “I can’t sle ep. Not with the racket the sky is makin’. But come inside, eh? The rain’s startin’.” “The rain doesn’t bother me none,” Riley said. He took a de ep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of wet earth and stone. “I would be a happy man to lay my eyes upon the green fields of Erin again, wouldn’t ya?” Dalton said. “Aye. Perhaps one day we will finally be able to go home. Help set it free.” “And Ximena? What if she isn’t happy there, findin’ herself in an unfamiliar land, sufferin’ the dismal winters, so far from her country where the sky is brighter. Don’t Mexicans and cactus flourish best in sunshine?” Riley laughed. “Aye. But as long as we’re together, we will find happiness wherever we are. Ireland needs us, Pat. When this war is over, we have to go back and fight for her.” “ ’Twould be an honor to fight there by your side,” Dalton said. “God willin’, Pat. Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Riley said. He turned his eyes to the road below, as Dalton walked away with brisk st eps. The storm finally arrived in all its violence. Riley stood there in the howling wind and pelting rain, and as the strikes o f lightning scattered across the sky and the thunder gave a long roar, he knew that no one could possibly be out and about in this torrent, not even the Yankees would be stirring this evening. Thankful that at least tonight there was nothing to fear from t he enemy, he turned to go indoors, cursing under his breath as he became aware of how drenched he was, how heavy his uniform felt, with its thick, sopping fabric wrapped so tightly around him, suffocating him. For the first time in his life, he wished to b e free of it. He made his way to the interior of the monastery, where some of the chambers had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Ximena was there now, pr eparing for the carnage that would
soon ensue. He should have been selfish, forced her to stay away from the battlefield this time and remain in the city. She was now his wife, and she was with child, and it was his duty to protect them both. When she spotted him, she ran out of the room to him. There in the darkened corridor, he took her in his arms and held on to her with all his might. “You’re wet,” she said. “Come, you must change out of your uniform.” “I love you, Ximena,” he said, kissing her. “Come what may, know that I will always love you.” “And I, you,” she said, returning his kiss. She grabbed his hand and walked them both to the window. Mexico City was there, beyond the wet darkness. A vivid flash of lightning illuminated her face, and he could see she spoke in earnest when she said, “We could leave tonight. There’s still time.” He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her thickening waist. They stood there looking at the incessant rain befouling the roads, knowing full well that they would both stay and fight for the future of Mexico, a future they might not live to see. In the morning, Riley awoke to the sound of cannon fire in the distance. The smoke billowed over Valencia’s location, but they were too far away to know what was happening. The firing didn’t last, and Riley and the fourteen hundred men positioned at the mo nastery anxiously awaited news of the confrontation. They didn’t have long to wait. During the night’s deluge, with the rumble and thunder of the sky masking their movements, the Yanks had found a way to cut across the field of sharp volcanic rock, which t he Mexicans had insisted was impassable, and had led a surprise attack on General Valencia’s forces at first light, surrounding his entire command from three different directions. His position had collapsed in less than twenty minutes and his twenty - three guns had fallen into the hands of the enemy. Santa Anna was furious and had given the order for Valencia to be shot on the spot for disobeying orders, so Valencia was now on the run and his army was no more. After Valencia’s defeat, the Yanks had raced nor theast to attack the main Mexican force. According to Santa Anna’s express, the Yanks had taken possession of the main roads leading to and from Churubusco and would soon be closing in on his troops. Later that morning, Santa Anna himself appeared. Unable to r epel the invaders, he was pulling his troops back within the walls of Mexico City, and the men in the monastery were to hold the Churubusco bridge and the monastery at all costs to give his forces the chance to retreat across the river. With that, he returned to oversee his men.
General Rincón ordered the troops at the monastery to their positions. “The Yanquis must not get past us,” he said. There were a little more than a thousand Mexican soldiers inside the monastery, plus Riley’s battalion up on the parapets. He glanced at the four 8 - pounders and wondered how long they could hold out against the Yanks. Santa Anna’s orders were to hold the position at all costs — and fighting to the death was what he and his countrymen would be obliged to do. Getting caught by the Yanks was not an option for them. At around noon, they watched as hundreds of Mexican soldiers ran toward them, and then past the monastery, fleeing as fast as their feet could carry them across the Churubusco bridge, trampling each other in the horrible disorder. They were Santa Anna’s tr oops, which meant the Yanks were not far behind. A few moments later, the San Patricios started yelling, “The Yankees are comin’!” as they pointed at the enemy charging up the road toward the monastery in pursuit of the Mexicans. Riley glanced at his men. They knew full well what the sight meant for them . The Yanks were winning, and if the battle were lost, the San Patricios could be captured in this monastery. But he wouldn’t let them. He raised his banner high above his battery, in plain sight of the Yanks. He made the sign of the cross and prayed a quick Hail Mary. “Steady men,” he said as he and his men watched the Yanks get closer and closer. “We fight to the death,” Patrick Dalton said. “To the death!” the men r epeated. “Hold your fire,” Riley said. Down below, across the rain - soaked fields, the Yanks charged the monastery at full speed, General Twiggs in the lead. When no more than sixty yards stood between them and his guns, Riley finally opened fire upon the enemy. The ir aim was true and steady, and they didn’t waste a single shot. All around him were the screams of Twiggs’s men below, the shrill of the musket balls as they whistled through the air, the roaring of the cannons, the cries of the enemy’s horses and the moa ns of the dying. The Yanks returned fire, and bullets whistled past Riley. From the parapets, his men fell over the railings to their deaths, but he k ept his eyes on the troops below and k ept firing, tearing into the columns of the enemy. At the sight of General Twiggs, Riley thought of Franky Sul livan. This was the day when he would avenge his tentmate. “Aim for the officers!” he yelled, turning his gun in the direction of Twiggs. To his disappointment, Braxton Bragg was not part of the Mexico City campaign, but he spotted James Duncan and the oth er West Pointers who had made his and his countrymen’s life hell,
and turned a gun on them too. Without their leaders and no one to give the orders, the enemy troops would be lost. He watched as the Yankee soldiers dispersed, some diving into the boggy cornfields surrounding the monastery, but the Yankees returned fire and Riley saw more of his men fall. Wasting no time, he ordered his gunners to fire against the Yankee artillery and maintain the cannonading. He had them pinned down. As long as he had ammunition, the Yanks were going nowhere. Three hours later, Yankees lay dead in heaps in the muddy fields below. Everywhere Riley looked there was blood. Though they had managed to r epulse General Twiggs’s division, the Yankees had taken the bridge and were now turning all their guns and musket fi re toward the monastery. The Mexicans, running out of ammunition, had sent a request to Santa Anna for more, but when it arrived, it turned out to be the wrong cartridges. The powder and musket balls fit only the .75 - caliber muskets of the San Patricios, but not Rincón’s and Anaya’s brigades. Riley knew that it wouldn’t take long for the Yanks to realize the situation. Sure enough, the Yanks lost no time. As soon as they noticed the lessening of fire from the Mexican side, they renewed their attack from all sides. From up on the parapets, Riley could see the Yankee cannons being moved to a better position and aimed direc tly at him and his men. “Everybody down!” Riley yelled. He took cover just in time. After the blast, more San Patricios lay dead and three of their four cannons had been rendered useless. His green banner flapped in the wind, ripped and stained with smoke and powder. “Riley, get us inside!” Dalton yelled through the noise. He had reached the last of his ammunition, and so had his men. But Riley wouldn’t give up, not until he loaded up the last of the cannon with grape and fired his last shot. Suddenly, a spark ignited the last of their powder and burst into flames. Captain O’Leary and three other San Patricios were enveloped in flames. Riley and the other gunners rushed at them with blankets, wet from last night’s rain. “Take them inside, quick!” Riley ordered. He turned back to the remaining working cannon and ordered his gunners to load it with the last of their grape. The blast shook the walls of the monastery. Several more Yankees fell in a heap, but still they k ept c oming, their bayonets at the ready. Then his cannons finally went silent. Riley tore down the green banner riddled with bullet holes and blackened with smoke. This banner might very well be his shroud. Tying it around his waist, he yelled, “Inside!” He and his men grabbed their muskets and rushed into the monastery to join the soldiers inside. They pushed furniture to barricade the doors, but the Yanks were not to be stopped and soon pushed their way in, crashing through the doors, surging past the la st bullets of the
Mexicans’ muskets. They were too many, and as Riley fired his musket, he knew that there weren’t enough bullets to stop the Yanks. Seeing some of his officers mortally wounded, General Rincón yelled, “Retreat!” and the Mexicans and the San Patricios ran up to the second floor, with the Yankees at their heels, shooting at them from behind. One of the Mexican soldiers raised a white flag. Riley raised his musket and without thinking twice shot the Mexican soldier’s hand, splattering the white flag with blood. “We’re not givin’ up, you hear me?” Riley yelled at the Mexican soldiers. “If you have no valor to fight with, then fight from the shame of cowardice. But fight we must, to the death. ¡Hasta la muerte!” Only a few had anything left to fire at the Yanks, and when that was spent, the only thing to do was to fight with whatever they had. Riley charged at the Yanks with nothing but his bare fists, and his men did the same. Dalton fought bravely by his side, b ut they were pushed back, retreating up the st eps of the monastery. The Mexicans raised two more white flags, and the San Patricios quickly tore them down. “To the death!” they yelled. “To the death!” Panic - stricken, the Mexican soldiers rushed past them to seek a way out of the monastery. The battle was over, and Riley knew they weren’t going to stay around to be killed. Santa Anna’s orders to fight to the death be damned. They disappeared down the cor ridors and left the San Patricios to their fate. “Go!” Dalton yelled at Riley. He pointed to a door in the back hall, where some of the Mexicans were making a dash to the river. “Go to her! Grab her and get out of here!” Riley hesitated. “Go to her, now!” Dalton said. Thinking of Ximena, Riley did as his friend said, hastening to the makeshift hospital. There was a way out of the monastery there, and he knew this was his only chance to take it. “John!” He saw Ximena on the other end of the corridor, calling to him. But as he was dragged down the corridor with the throng, he turned and saw his countrymen being felled one by one by the Yankees charging at them with their muskets and bayonets, yelling like demons. And how could he, John Riley, their leader, save himself and leave his men in their moment of need? What manner of man would he be then? He looked back at her. Forgive me, Ximena , he thought, then turned his course and ran back to Dalton’s side just as a Yankee was aiming at his friend. As he
pushed Dalton out of the way, a bullet tore through Riley’s leg, and he dropped to the ground on his knees. “John!” Dalton yelled, rushing to help him move out of harm’s way. A bullet whistled past Riley’s ear, and then another. “Leave me!” Riley said, blood soaking through his uniform. “Go! Save yourself.” But Dalton wouldn’t move, and then it was too late. The gunshots finally stopped. Riley turned to see a white flag in the air. It was being raised by a Yankee officer. Why would a Yank raise the white flag for them? Why not just kill them all? “Enough!” the captain said, raising the flag even higher. He ordered his men down and then looked at the eighty - five San Patricios and the Mexican soldiers lying on the floor and leaning against walls. “I, Captain James Smith, hereby declare that you are now all prisoners of war of the United States Army.” General Twiggs then entered the monastery, and Generals Rincón and Anaya both lowered their swords in surrender. “Where is your ammunition, Generals?” Twiggs asked. General Anaya looked at him and said, “If we had ammunition, you wouldn’t be standing here now.” The Yankee general ordered his men to search the premises and as he looked around the monastery, his eyes fell on Riley. As recognition set in, his eyes filled with hatred and disdain. “The jig is up for us,” Riley said, looking up at his friend. “There’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness,” Dalton said, r epeating Riley’s words from long ago. “I do believe we’ve crossed that line, Major. We should have run.” It began to rain again later that evening, and Riley was thankful for the raindrops. After disarming them, Twiggs had forced the San Patricios and the other prisoners out into the monastery’s courtyard, and for hours they had sat on the hard ground sufferi ng from want of food and water. Riley stuck out his tongue and savored the bit of moisture that soothed his parched throat. He couldn’t move, sitting on the ground in irons while the wound on his leg continued to bleed through the handkerchief he’d tied around it. He could feel his strength fading away. He wasn’t the only one who was injured; all around him were in capacitated S an Patricios with varying degrees of injuries. He could hear their moans, their cries. Their prayers grew fainter and fainter as their bodies weakened and a gloom settled over them as they pondered their fate. A few feet away from him, Francis O’Conner lay on the ground, unconscious and groaning. Both of his legs
had been blown off by enemy cannon. Twiggs refused to give O’Conner medical treatment, and Riley feared that his countryman wouldn’t live to see another day. But perhaps it was better that way. The Yanks had them now and would show no mercy. Not after today’s battle. Not after all the Yankee soldiers and officers Riley and his gunners had killed. Sentries walked among the prisoners, kicking them, mocking them, enticing them to try to es cape. They needed a reason to shoot them in cold blood. But Riley and his men were spent, and none of them moved. Instead, they sat under the rain, and Riley wondere d if they knew they were doomed. The Mexican prisoners would probably be exchanged, but what would happen to him and his men? The Yanks would never forgive them for switching sides and would always consider them traitors. “What’s this you’re hiding?” one of the Yankees said. “Hand it over, Mick.” He pointed his bayonet at Riley and held out his hand. When he didn’t move, the Yank pressed the tip of his bayonet on Riley’s breast. “Now, Mick!” Reluctantly, Riley untied his bloodstained banner from his waist and handed it over. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see what the Yank was going to do with the colors of his battalion. The sound of their laughter nettled him. Unable to contain himself, he opened his eyes to see the Yankee maggot waving the green banner around, and then pretending to wipe his arse with it. Riley tried to scramble to his feet, but the pain in his leg and t he irons made him fall back to the ground. “Arrah, ignore the scoundrel,” Dalton said. But Riley couldn’t. “You sonofabitch! Curse you to hell!” he yelled at the soldier, seething at the man’s disrespect for the holy banner of Saint Patrick. The Yank threw the banner to the ground and marched toward Riley with his musket pointing straight at him. “What did you call me, Mick?” “I said you’re a sonofabitch,” Riley yelled again. An officer standing watch ordered the soldier to lower his weapon. “Death will come to them soon enough,” the officer said. “But it’ll be in a place where everyone can watch.” “Just kill me now,” Riley said. “And let my men go. ’Tis me you want, is it not?” The officer sneered. “It isn’t just you we want, John Riley. Every single one of you will pay for what you did to our comrades.”
Riley glanced at the monastery, wondering if Ximena was still inside. As part of the hospital corps, the Yankees wouldn’t harm her, that he knew. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sle ep, but he couldn’t. Instead, he spent the night listening to the rain, and the moans of the wounded and dying. He looked at his men, lying on the ground under the torrential rain, yielding to their fatigue, and said, “Forgive me.” In the morning, Riley was roused by the clattering of a horse’s hooves at a brisk trot. He watched as a Yankee officer rode into the courtyard, dismounted, and disappeared into the monastery where the Yanks had camped out in the night, sheltered from the r ain. Later, the man emerged and approached the prisoners. Riley nudged Dalton to wake up. “They’ve come for us.” “I’m Captain George Davis,” the officer said as he stood before them. “You’re hereby under my custody. You’re to remain as prisoners of the United States Army and will be transported to your prisons under my supervision.” On the captain’s orders, the prisoners were divided into two groups and then chained. Riley watched as his men were s eparated, one column on its way to Tacubaya, the other heading to San Ángel. Riley contented himself knowing that Patrick Dalton would be c oming with him. He sighed in relief when Francis O’Conner was finally loaded onto a wagon on his way to get medical treatment. As for him, he knew that his wound wouldn’t be treated. The Yanks wouldn’t show mercy to him, and he acc epted that. Captain Davis gave the order to march. As his column was led forth to the village of San Ángel, Riley turned to watch the other column and said a silent farewell to the forty - three men being taken to Tacubaya to await their fate. He doubted he would ever s ee them again. “God be with you, my brothers, until we meet again. Erin Go Bragh! ” “ Erin Go Bragh! ” they r eplied and gave Riley a final salute, and then all he could hear was the clanking of heavy chains as they were taken away. August 1847 Mexico City “His Excellency will see you now,” the attendant said. Ximena stood up, smoothed her skirt, and followed him down a large hall of the Palacio Nacional. He paused before two huge wooden doors and knocked softly. From inside, a voice said, “Enter.” At hearing that voice, the anger she had been trying to suppress flared up. She took a de ep breath to calm herself and walked into the office. Santa Anna sat before his desk and watched her approach. There were several men in the room, all of them dressed in their finest military
uniforms, their numerous metals glinting in the light. Here they were, clean and well fed, drinking brandy and puffing on their Cuban cigars while her husband and his men were locked up in prison, hungry and thirsty, cold and miserable. “Ximena, querida, come in, come in,” Santa Anna said. Grabbing his cane, he stood up and came over to embrace her. Ximena didn’t look at the other generals, some of whom she’d met at the dinner party, others on the battlefield or the hospital tents. Their imposing presence shook her confidence, and she couldn’t lose that now. “General, I apologize for disrupting your busy schedule,” she said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.” “Of course, my dear. How could I not make time to see you. Now, you know my generals, don’t you? Gentlemen, may I present señora Ximena, wife of Major Juan Riley.”