Riley said nothing. He had led his men to their deaths, and now he would be forced to watch them turned into rope dancers. He would never be able to forget it, not if he lived to be a hundred. “I shall die as a San Patricio ought to die,” Dalton said, “with the satisfaction of havin’ done my duty well under your command. That shall be my soldier’s glory.” “Aye, that you have, indeed. You have fought bravely and loyally under the green banner.” Riley made out the glistening of tears in his friend’s eyes. And his own chest throbbed as if his heart had been r eplaced by a handful of stinging nettles. “You will make sure they bury me proper, won’t ya?” Dalton said. At his trial, he had asked the court to be buried in consecrated ground, and his request had been granted. But one never knew what the Yanks would do or not do in the end. Still, Riley nodded. “I will make sure of it, Pat, I promise.” The guards came for them early in the morning. Some of the men had drifted off into listless sle ep. Others, like Riley, had sat vigil all night. He had prayed to every saint he knew, even Saint
George, the patron saint of soldiers. He had begged God to spare the lives of his men, but when he heard the footst eps outside the cell, he knew it was not to be. “Rise and shine, batallion of traitors,” one of the guards said as he unlocked the cell. “The day you have been waiting for is here.” They broke them up into two lines, those going to the gallows and those meant for the muleteer’s whip. Riley cringed at seeing how short his line was compared to the other one. Only seven in his line, sixteen in the other. Riley pushed his way up to Dalton and the two men grasped hands. Dalton stifled a sob. “Promise me, John,” he said, holding Riley tighter. “Promise me that when this is over, you won’t think about this day. That you won’t carry the burden of our deaths — ” “Move, traitors, move!” the guard said, hitting Riley with the butt of his musket so hard he had to struggle to regain his breath. “And you, fall in line!” They marched them all out of their prison, down the corridors where the sounds of their shuffling feet and dragging metal chains echoed against the damp walls. They took them outside and proceeded to San Jacinto Plaza in the heart of San Ángel. Daylight ha d broken, and the rain had ceased, but the cobblestones were wet and slippery beneath their feet. Riley held his head up but didn’t look at anyone in particular. The square was full of people, even at this hour. Yankee soldiers stood around the perimeter, their faces filled with mockery and hatred, clearly looking forward to the grotesque spectacle that was about to unfold. He looked away and his eyes fell on the hundreds of Mexican villagers holding rosaries and chanting silent prayers, the women — young and old — wrapped in shawls and pleading for him, for his men. “Perdónenlos,” the women cried out, their arms raised in supplication. “¡Tengan piedad por los Colorados!” He searched their faces but did not find Ximena’s. And wasn’t it better that way? Best for her not to see him like this. “God have pity on us,” Dalton said. Riley turned his head at the sound of his friend’s voice and there, looming before him, were the gallows with sixteen nooses hanging down, swaying in the morning breeze. There was no platform, no trap - door. Eight wagons pulled by mules had been placed unde rneath the nooses, waiting. “Courage, my brave brothers!” Riley said. “Courage!” But his own knees were already trembling. Hezekiah Akles broke forth in tears.
“Curse ye, curse ye all!” James Mills cried. “Quiet now!” one of the guards said, pulling on the chains and forcing them to continue their march forward. Riley winced as the wrist chains ate into his flesh, knowing this was only the beginning. General Twiggs came out to the plaza on his horse, and at the sight of him everyone fell silent. “We’ll start with you first,” he said, looking at Riley but indicating his line with the other six men who were to be flogged. Riley could feel the horse’s hot breath and saw a hint of his reflection in its glossy brown eye. He looked away. When this was over, he would never want to look at his reflection again. “Thomas Riley, Hezekiah Akles, James Mills, John Bartley, John Bowers, Alexander Mc Kee, and John Riley,” General Twiggs said. “You have been found guilty of desertion and have been sentenced to receive fifty lashes and to be branded with the letter D for deserter. We will now proceed.” He ordered his sergeants to take Riley and the six other men to the stand of ash trees where a small group of priests stood chanting prayers as they held a large crucifix high in the air. One by one the seven prisoners were freed from their chains and stripped of their ragged shirts and coats, and with torsos now exposed, each man was tied to a tree. The muleteers came to stand behind each man, their rawhide whips at the ready. Riley caught sight of the whips, with their long - knotted tails quivering like rattlesnakes ready to strike. He took a de ep breath as the muleteer behind him measured the distance between his bare back and the whip. Saint Patrick, protect me. Twiggs shouted the order to begin. As the whips whistled through the air in unison and tore through human skin, the cries of the men echoed against the buildings. Birds flew out of the trees and fled. Riley had never known such pain. It felt as if he were being skinned alive. He bit his lip and tasted blood but didn’t cry out. Some of the San Patricios fainted, others begged for mercy. Through the wailing and the praying, and the cracking of the whips, Riley latched on to the sound of Twiggs’s voice counting the lashes one by one as they landed. Drifting in and out of darkness, he felt himself succumbing to the pain. He thought of his son and could hear his voice calling him, Don’t leave me, Dadaí. He willed himself to come back. At one point, Twiggs pretended to have lost count and nine long lashes went by before he began to count again. “Forty - one, forty - two, forty - three...”
Then, before his eyes, Riley saw Nelly. She was white, thin as mist, and she held out her arms to him. I’ve been waitin’ for you, John... He shook the apparition away and felt the pain again, so excruciating he struggled to breathe, to not succumb to the solemn darkness. He opened his eyes and saw the crowd around him, and then there she was, Ximena, standing next to the priests clustered nearby. Was she real? Was he imagining her as well? “Forty - nine... fifty!” General Twiggs shouted. Riley sagged against the tree, gulping for air. There was a roaring in his ears, and he struggled to stay conscious. Wasting no time, Twiggs gave the order to continue and seven soldiers approached the prisoners , each carrying a branding iron heated a fiery red and glowing with the letter D . They held them inches away from the prisoners’ faces, and Riley could smell the smoke, feel the intense heat. “Hold them down!” Twiggs said. “Mercy, have mercy!” Ximena yelled, her shawl flapping in the wind like wings, and Riley thought he was seeing an angel, just as the left side of his face was pushed against the rough bark of the tree and a soldier pressed the hissing hot iron into his rig ht cheek. When it entered his flesh, a searing pain, like a jolt of lightning, made his body jerk, his muscles clenching in agony. “Aaaaghhhhh!” The smell of burnt flesh, his own flesh. Riley wished he could bash his head against the tree trunk and put an end to his agony. “Please, enough. ¡Basta!” said the priests as they rushed over to his side. “Wait a minute,” Twiggs said as he dismounted from his horse. He approached Riley and ordered his sergeant to reheat the iron. “The D is upside down,” Twiggs said. “Do it again and do it right this time, even if you have to burn his damn head off!” “The man has suffered enough,” padre Sebastián beseeched him. “Please, have mercy.” “Let him go!” Riley heard Ximena say. “His punishment has been carried out. Let it be enough, I beg you.” “I’ve been ordered to brand this traitor with a letter D — not an upside - down letter — and by God I will do it!” Twiggs said. “Now, bring the iron and do it right, man!” Riley was unable to speak. The Yankees grabbed him and pushed his burnt right cheek into the bark of the tree, and when the red hot iron was pressed into his other cheek, he bellowed in anguish until darkness finally overtook him.
When he came to, Riley realized he’d been dragged across the square with the six others and made to stand in front of the gallows. He was dripping wet, and a Yankee stood above him holding an empty pail. “Wake up, sle epyhead. Wake up,” he said. Riley didn’t shake off the water. He sighed in relief as the cold water soothed the burning on his face for a few precious seconds before it came back again in full force, the pain radiating from his cheeks, pulsing throughout his entire body and soul. The odor of burnt flesh drifted in the wind, and his face felt as if it were melting. He wanted to tear off his skin with his own hands, but he was back in chains and couldn’t move. As his face swelled, his vision blurred, and he could scarcely make out the figures of the men at the gallows, standing two by two on wagons. The mules in front of each wagon jerked side to side, and the men almost lost their balance. Soldiers climbed up o n each wagon and placed white hoods around the prisoners’ heads. The nooses were secured on their necks just as the priests finished moving down the wagons offering the last rites to the unfortunate souls whose fate was to die so far from home. Suddenly, Riley yelled, “ Erin Go Bragh! ” “ Erin Go Bragh! ” the condemned men r epeated. Twiggs gave the order, and the mules pulled the wagons forward, leaving the sixteen men swinging violently in the air, their bodies twitching and jerking. Since there was no trapdoor, the fall hadn’t broken the men’s necks, denying them a quick death. One by one they became still, all but Patrick Dalton, who continued to convulse for several minutes longer. Riley couldn’t unfix his gaze from his friend as he choked to death. At last, Dalton stopped quivering and was still. The silence of surrender, of death , hung over the plaza. Forgive me, Pat . Riley broke forth in tears, which stung his burned, swollen flesh. I’m sorry to the heart, I am, that your life should end with such little dignity . He could barely see as one by one the bodies were taken down. Seven of them, including Dalton’s, were loaded into a wagon for the priests to bear them away and give them a proper burial. The other nine of his men were to be buried there, under the gallows, and Riley and the six other whipped and branded men were forced to dig their graves. Some of the Mexican men demanded that Twiggs allow them to do the digging, that the prisoners had suffered enough. But Twiggs wouldn’t listen. He could scarcely stand, but Riley dug fast and hard. He was the reason his men were dead. From the moment he had put out the call to his countrymen and the other foreign - born soldiers, he had sentenced them to their fate. Now his soul was stained by their blood. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.
To humiliate them further, the pipers on the opposite side of the square began to play “The Rogue’s March” as Riley and the others were dragged back into the jail with an iron collar around their necks. He heard his name being called. Turning around, he sa w Ximena only a few paces back, trying to get past the soldiers. He couldn’t make her out, for his face had swelled so much that his eyes were closing up on him. But he would recognize her voice anywhere. She was here. He hadn’t just imagined her. S eptember 1847 Chapult epec, outskirts of Mexico City Padre Sebastián had advised her to not go, that she had seen enough. But Ximena knew that if she didn’t, she would always regret it. “Think of your child,” he’d said. “Think of the distress.” But she hadn’t listened. She was John’s wife, and since he could n’t be there to say goodbye to his men, she would go in his stead. So the morning of S eptember 13, she accompanied the priest to bid farewell to the remaining San Patricios who had been sentenced to death. The day before, four of them had been hanged in the village of Mixcoac, and now the rest would be as well, while the latest battle of the war was taking place on the grounds of Chapult epec Castle and at the toll gates of the city. Outlined by the golden light of dawn, the twenty - nine San Patricios stood beneath the gallows on mule - drawn carts. Unlike the sixteen men hang ed in San Ángel, however, these San Patricios didn’t have their heads covered by white hoods. Their feet and hands were bound, but their eyes could plainly see what the Yanks wanted them to see — Chapult epec Castle in the distance, under siege. Colonel Harney said, “When the American flag flies above that castle, that is when you will meet your fate.” “You can stick your filthy little rag where the sun don’t shine,” one of the condemned men said. The San Patricios laughed. Ximena wanted to cry at the sound of their laughter. Even this close to death, the men could still find a reason to laugh, teasing the colonel, trying to rile him up.