The people now resigned themselves to the disgrace of a Yanqui occupation. Many abandoned their homes and left the capital, carrying with them their meager belongings. Ximena watched the Yanqui soldiers doing in the capital what they had done in Matamoros, sacking the churches, erecting whipping posts to punish any Mexicans who rebelled. All night long, the Yanquis gambled, danced, and drank anywhere they pleased in the city. More taverns and billiard halls opened up, along with brothels where many impoveri shed Mexican women went to sell their honor to feed their families. Others took to the streets to ask for alms. Food and other necessities became scarce, and the people struggled to secure what was needed to survive, especially after the arrival of more Ya nqui forces, including the vicious Rangers and other volunteers with their pistols, bowie knives, and rough manners.
Pushing aside her worries for the gloomy future of her country, Ximena focused on the only things that were still important to her — her child and helping her husband and the surviving San Patricios. To make matters worse, only a few days after taking possession of the city, General Scott had John and the other branded San Patricios transferred to the Acordada Prison in the city. She was not allowed to see him, but in the Mexican newspaper El R epublicano , she read about the ordeal that he and his men were going through. She learned that they had been chained up by their arms so that they couldn’t lie down, with iron collars around their necks. And they were suffering from hunger, for the little food that they received was barely enough to sustain them. “We hope that General Scott won’t be deaf to our request and will consider that not even the laws of war permit inhuman chastisement. The light of the age has proscribed all cruel treatment,” the article read. Ximena didn’t stop asking for help. She swallowed her pride and went to higher officials, as well as to señora Rubio and the wealthy señoras who had shown their support to the San Patricios. She accompanied padre Sebastián and other priests to speak once m ore to the archbishop, who, in turn, put pressure on General Scott to ease up on the prisoners and permit visitations. As a result, Scott finally granted permission for the imprisoned San Patricios to receive visitors. Ximena didn’t know what to expect when she arrived at the Acordada Prison, not far from the Alameda where she and John had often strolled. As she and the other visitors were escorted to the second floor cells where the San Patricios were imprisoned, she to ld herself that she wouldn’t cry, not in front of John. But at the sight of him behind bars, she couldn’t prevent the tears from welling up. She stood to the side as the other visitors passed her and went to the cells. John was stretched out on a straw mat in the farthest corner of the second cell, hiding in the shadows. Unlike the other men, who were happy to receive visitors, John didn’t seem pleased. He k ept his face hidden and turned to the wall, taking no notice of the visitors. While the prisoners wer e not wearing the iron collars described in the newspaper, they were indeed shackled and dressed in rags, each with a straw mat and thin blanket offering no protection from the damp walls and floors. After drying her tears, she finally approached his cell. Grabbing hold of the cold bars that stood between them, she called out to him. He turned slowly to face her. His eyes were hidden by his hair, which was getting long and shaggy. Why wouldn’t he come to her? Why was he just lying on his petate, unmoving? Wasn’t he happy to see her? “John,” she said. “Please. We haven’t much time.” He finally stood up and came over to her. He was thinner than he’d ever been, and though still tall, he seemed to have shrunk somehow. She’d never seen him so dirty and slovenly. He
slouched as he walked, and he put his hands over his face as if to shield himself from an unrelenting wind. But there was no wind. Just her. Why would he need to hide from her? “You ought not to have come, darlin’,” he said at last, still hiding his face behind his hands, and she could see only his haggard - looking eyes. She felt the pain as his words registered in her mind. She had waited so long, fought so hard to make this mome nt happen. And now to hear him say those words to her. But she knew he didn’t mean them. She could hear what he hadn’t said, and she understood. “Nothing has changed between us, John. I love you. No matter what they’ve done to you. I will always love you, come what may.” He finally dropped his hands, and he stood facing her. The room was dimly lit by the torches hanging on the walls, and there were sinister shadows everywhere, but as the torch light flickered on his face, she could see what he didn’t want her to see — not hi s pallid flesh or his sunken cheeks, but the burns still red and scabbing, the two - inch D’ s marring his handsome face. The Yanquis had inflicted a great violation upon him. For the rest of his life, he would carry these scars, and in time, the physical ones would fade, but the scars on his soul might not. She wouldn’t let them win. She would he lp restore his traumatized spirit and guide him to feeling whole again. She put her hand through the bars, reaching for him. She wanted to touch him, hold him, but he took a st ep back from her, and she had no choice but to retract her hand. “Don’t be afraid of me, mi amor.” He got closer to her and put his forehead against the bars. He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have.” “Shhh. You don’t need to apologize, John. What they’ve done to you — ” She stopped herself. There was so much that she wanted to say, but she knew that time was brief and the Yanqui guards were listening to their every word. She reached for the parcel she ha d brought. She handed it to him and watched as he took out a jar of calendula salve she’d made for his wounds and a cotton shirt, the first she’d ever stitched with her own hands. He traced the shamrock embroidered over the left pocket with green silk thre ad. “ ’Tis truly a fine shirt,” he said. “But they won’t let me ke ep it.” “They will. The officer promised me they would.” He looked at her and smiled. “Thank you, darlin’. ’Tis so good to see you. And how is the babe?” He put his hands through the bars to touch her huge belly, running his hands gently up and down. Suddenly, the baby kicked hard, as if saying hello to its fath er. Finally, his impassive face
lifted into a genuine smile. There he was, her John. So he was not completely broken, as she’d feared. “He’s a fighter, this one,” he said proudly. “Just like his papá,” she said. “Time’s up!” the head guard called out. “All visitors will now be escorted out. Please make your way to the stairs.” They reached for each other through the bars, clutching tight, afraid to let go. “Don’t concern yourself about me, mi amor. I’ll be fine. Our child will be fine. Just concentrate on staying alive. For me. For us.” He kissed her hands and then released her. A guard came up behind her and yelled at her to move. As she hurried out of the prison, she realized she hadn’t told him about the Irish and German soldiers still deserting the Yanqui army and heading to Querétaro to join the San Patricios who had es caped Churubusco. Even with John in prison, even with so many of his men hanged at the gallows, the Saint Patrick’s Battalion still lived on. October 1847 Mexico City October 21, 1847 Respected Sir, I have taken the liberty of writing to you hoping that you are in good health as I am at present, thank God for it. I have had the honor of fighting in all the battles that Mexico has had with the United States, and by my good conduct and hard fighting, I have attained the rank of major. I suppose from the accounts you have seen in the United States papers, you have formed a very poor opinion of Mexico and its government, but be not obscured by the prejudice of a nation, which is at war with Mexico, for a m ore hospitable or friendly people there exists not in the face of the earth, that is to a foreigner and especially to an Irishman and a Catholic. So it grieves me to have to inform you of the deaths of fifty of my best and bravest men who have been hanged by the Americans for no other reason than fighting manfully against them, especially my first lieutenant, Patrick Dalton, whose loss I de eply regret... Riley put the pen down, unable to continue. Writing a letter to his former employer in Michigan, Charles O’Malley, had seemed a good recourse, but now he couldn’t be sure. O’Malley was the only acquaintance Riley had in the United States, and surely, a man in his position might be able to speak on his behalf. O’Malley had always looked out for his countrymen.