When she finally reached the Alameda, she was assailed by memories of strolling hand in hand with John. As they listened to the rustling of the trees and felt the caresses of the cool breeze, they had planned a future together that now would never happen. Not if the Yanquis got away with murder. No, she wouldn’t allow it! She hired a coach to drive her to the British consulate. She had little money to spare, but her feet were swollen from all the walking and she needed to sit. Surely the British would help. After everything they had done to the Irish, surely they would have mercy now and do what they didn’t do for them back in their homeland — save them. She wished now she had gone home to fix her hair, changed into her muslin dress, and exchanged her old rebozo for the mantilla John had given her on their wedding day. Appeara nces determined whether you were listened to or not. As she climbed up the st eps to the consulate, she stopped and pinched her cheeks for some color, then licked her lips and smoothed her hair. She wished she had gloves, a parasol, anything that would elev ate her in the eyes of the consul. What would he think of her coming into his office in such disarray? She should have also donned the beautiful brooch Santa Anna had given her, but this was a matter of life and death, gloves and brooch be damned.
The guard held the door open for her, and she forced herself to slow her pace as she entered, pausing to thank him. She gazed at the ornate walls, the marble floors, the imposing pillars. “May I help you, madam?” a kind - looking older gentleman said as he approached her. She forced a smile. “Yes, please, sir. I must see the British consul. I have a matter of great importance to discuss. Please, it’s very urgent.” “May I ask who is calling?” he said, guiding her to the waiting area. “Señora Ximena Benítez y Catalán.” He motioned for her to have a seat while he headed through a pair of wooden doors. There were a few people sitting there, gentlemen reading the paper, smoking their cigars with such calm and ease that it made her angry just to look at them. Finally, the doors opened, and the clerk motioned for her to follow him. He escorted her into an office where a middle - aged man sat behind a mahogany desk. His face was impassive, though she could see the curiosity in his eyes as he took in her disheveled appearance. “Forgive me for interrupting your duties, sir,” Ximena said, grateful that in the time she had known John, she had much improved her command of the English language. “But I must speak to you about a matter of great importance.” “Percy Doyle at your service. Please, madam, have a seat. Your English is excellent, though clearly you are not a British subject. I am afraid I might not be able to assist you in my capacity as British consul.” She sat down, relieved to get off her feet. Taking a de ep breath, she said, “I’m here to speak on behalf of the Irish soldiers imprisoned by the United States Army, sir. They have been sentenced to hang.” There was no response from the man, and Ximena could tell by his demeanor that he already knew. He looked at her, as if wondering how she fit into all of this. “They are subjects of Great Britain,” she said, “and as such, is it to be assumed that the British consul will solicit a pardon from the North Americans?” He pulled his seat back as if to stand up, but didn’t. “Yes, madam, the British government is well aware of the situation regarding the Irish soldiers, and I assure you if I could be of assistance, I certainly would offer it. But as it is, alas, there is naught to be done for them.”
“They are going to hang, sir,” Ximena said, feeling her body shudder. “It is a rather complicated situation, and one cannot expect a... ah... lady of your station to understand. Rest assured that I would look into the matter if I knew there was anything that could be done. At the moment, I do not believe there is.” “They’re British subjects,” Ximena said again. “Does that mean nothing to your government?” “They are wild and reckless,” he r eplied. “Those soldiers gave their word to the Americans, just as many of them gave their word to the English. They went back on their word, and now it has come to this. You cannot expect the British government to support those who show no honor or loyalty. Now, if you excuse me, madam, I have another matter to attend to.” Ximena stood. She could see that he didn’t care at all about the fate of John and his men. They were not worth his effort. John had told her how the English had treated them back home. Now she understood the hatred in his voice whenever he spoke of them. “You must know, sir, that one of them is my husband.” There, she said it. She had thought it best not to reveal this, but it was the only thing she could think of. He looked at her and frowned. “I beg your pardon, madam?” “John Riley, sir, is my husband. We were wed here, in this city, before the battle.” “I assume it was a Catholic wedding, madam. Do you have legal proof of this wedding?” “Padre Sebastián — ” “Forgive me, madam, but I don’t think marriage to a Mexican citizen will save your husband from the gallows. The Americans will not care.” He didn’t say it but she heard it clearly. And neither do we. “I am with child, sir. I’m carrying John Riley’s child. Please, will you not speak in his favor for my child’s sake!” She allowed her shawl to drop off her shoulders and stood so that he could see her protruding belly. He coughed in discomfort at her lack of propriety and looked away. “I will see what I can do,” he said, but she knew he would do nothing. “Now, if you will excuse me...” He picked up a stack of papers and motioned for the clerk to guide her out. The old man held out his hand to her, and she was grateful. Her legs were shaking, her body throbbed, as if she’d collided against a thicket of cacti. Suddenly, there was a kicking inside her. Her child, pressing its little elbows and
knees against the walls of her belly. She stood outside the building and placed her hand over her belly, feeling the life she held inside her. Did her child know that its father was in danger? What was her baby trying to tell her? When Joaquín died, she’d dreamed of his death and just stood by, afraid of her visions. Not this time. She closed her eyes and said, “For you, my child, I’ll do it for you.” She rushed down the st eps and hurried up the street. She would go to the archbishop and whoever else might help the San Patricios. She would not return home until she knew that John’s life, and the lives of his men, would be spared. S eptember 1847 Mexico City The next morning, Ximena went to the private residence of señora Rubio in the village of Tacubaya, almost nine kilometers from the capital and near the Yanqui headquarters. Padre Sebastián had arranged for her to meet there with señora Rubio and four other ladies from the aristocracy who had created and signed a petition in defense of Riley and his men. Together they were determined to deliver the petition to Scott. When Ximena and her five veiled companions were finally escorted to the general’s headquarters, señora Rubio asked Ximena to address the general since she was John’s wife and spoke English. Ximena was surprised and nervous, but she tried not to show it. Th ese high society women were dressed in velvets and silks, delicate lace mantillas fastened together with diamond brooches, their necks and ears adorned with exquisite pearls. In truth, in her simple muslin dress, Ximena looked more like their maid than the wife of the leader of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, but she wouldn’t let that intimidate her. These women were willing to use their prestige and fortunes to help her husband and his men. “Come in, come in,” General Scott said to the group. He was a giant, grayhaired man, large in height and weight, his uniform stretched tightly across his girth. Ximena felt dwarfed by him. Extra chairs were brought into his office for the six of them, and confined in the small space with the imposing Yanqui general, Ximena was careful not to st ep on the ladies’ fine dresses. When Scott requested an interpreter, she spoke up. “There will be no need.”