In the solemn glow of the little piece of tallow candle he’d managed to procure, he reread the last sentence and thought of Patrick. He wished he hadn’t witnessed the hanging. He wanted to
remember his friend as he was before the gallows, a loyal and courageous fellow, a man who deserved better, so much better. With a shaking hand, he resumed his writing. You may possibly have thought strange at my not writing to you before, but there being no communication between Mexico and the United States, it was impossible for me to address you before now, but as I am at present a prisoner of war by the Americans, it is impossible for me to state facts as they are, but in my next letter, I will give you a full and true account of the war as it has progressed. If you will remember my last words to you and Thomas Chambers when last we parted, which was if God spared me I would again attain my former rank or die. My situation is such that it is impossible for me to give you a better account at present but have patience for my next. In all my letter I forgot to tell you under what banner we fought so bravely. It was that glorious Emblem of native rights, that being the banner which should have floated over our native Soil many years ago, it was St. Patrick, the Harp of Erin, the Shamrock upon a green field. The days turned into weeks. Every day, Riley and the other prisoners were let out at seven in the morning and put to hard labor. One day, one of his men, Roger Duhan, managed to es cape from the prison. His wife smuggled him out by dressing him as a woman. Such a feat could only work on a little fellow like Duhan. He was slight enough to fit into the women’s clothes his wife had smuggled in. With a Mexican shawl wrapped around his head and shoulders to obscure his face, he’d snuck past the Yankee guards. Whe n his absence was discovered, they imposed further restrictions on visits, and Riley saw Ximena even less. It shamed him to admit, but he was glad that she wouldn’t be obliged to look at his hideous face, his filthy body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed or changed his underclothes. Fleas and lice were bad bedfellows and tormented him every night. No, he didn’t want his beloved to see him like this, such a poor excuse of a man. But on the first of December, padre Sebastián brought him the tidin gs of the birth of his daughter, Patricia. When they wouldn’t let Ximena visit him to show him the babe, he cursed the Yanks once again and w ept with misery. On December 22, the Yankees released five hundred Mexican prisoners, but they refused to release the San Patricios. Riley and his men were forced to spend Christmas in prison. They weren’t even allowed to receive visitors on that special day, and Riley’s h opes of finally meeting his daughter and seeing how she fared were dashed. A few days after Christmas, the Yankees came for them. For a moment, Riley and the others thought that perchance their luck had turned. Perhaps the Yanks would let them go and they would be able to welcome the New Year as free men. But it wasn’t to be. He and the other
unhappy wretches were merely being transferred to another prison, to Chapult epec Castle where security was tighter and the prison cells more miserable. Through the thick walls, Riley and his men could barely hear the sound of firecrackers and rockets, of music and cheering as the people welcomed 1848. The church bells in the city tolled heavily, and Riley felt the familiar desire to be once again inside h is parish chapel. He betook himself to a dark corner and closed his eyes, but he could hear his men whispering among themselves. “What will this year hold for us, ye think?” John Bartley said. “Whatever ’tis, can it be worse than this?” Hezekiah Akles r eplied. “Aye, it can. We miserable creatures can die within these prison walls and be buried in unmarked graves,” Alexander Mc Kee said. Riley wished he could say something to his men — to encourage them, raise their downcast spirits, show them a way out of their despair. But he had lost his will to lead. Someone came to sit beside him in his dark corner and said, “I know right well you’re awake, Major. Is it ignorin’ us, you are?” It was James Mills, the only one left of the men who’d fought alongside him since Matamoros. That first battle felt so long ago, and there was nothing left but bygone hopes of glory and distinction. “What in blazes is the matter with ya, John Riley? I know you’re hurtin’ over our dead comrades, but when will ya stop actin’ as if we’re all dead? Look around ya, Major. Some of us are still here.” “Leave him be, Mills,” Peter O’Brien said. “ ’Tis plain that cock will never fight again.” “Hold your tongue, you eejit!” Mills yelled. He patted Riley on the back and whispered, “ ’Twill be a black day for us, Major, when we know for sure the Yankees have indeed broke your fightin’ spirit.” Riley had lost all relish for fighting. The yearning of his heart was to get out of that damp prison and es cape the darkness that was consuming him. With no r eply forthcoming from Charles O’Malley, he set out to write another letter, this time to the Briti sh consul in Mexico City. Your Excellency, with opportunity of writing to you hoping that your honour will take compassion on me as a British subject as I am unfortunate to be here in prison, I write hoping that you will do your utmost with General Scott... on the conditions that I d o not take arms against them, and that I shall go to my home, that is the old country...
Weeks later, Riley opened the letter containing the British consul’s r eply. I wouldn’t fail to speak to the General on your behalf, were there any chance of my being of service to you, but I see none at the present moment. Riley read those lines again and again. The bastards! Of course he’d known, even when he composed the letter, that it was useless to ask the British for help, just like it had been useless to write to his former employer. He leaned against the wall of his cell and crumpled the letter in his hand. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh. Though he tried to block Patrick Dalton out of his mind, every time he closed his eyes, he saw his friend hanging from the noose like a marionette. And for what? No, he mustn’t think that. Even though the war was over, and he knew the Saint Patrick’s Battalion had fought on the losing side, they had still fought on the right side and had proved their mettle. Long ago he’d dreamed that one day he could take the Sain t Patrick’s Battalion to Ireland and fight for its ind ependence. But like most of his dreams, perhaps that one was also destined never to be realized. Their daughter was two months old when Ximena was finally allowed to visit him. The iron bars between them didn’t permit him to hold Patricia, but he could touch her little feet, stroke her black wispy hair, feel her fingers wrap around his. The sight of h is daughter was a great comfort to his flagging spirit. When he saw her yawn, he smiled at her little pink mouth formed in an O. Then she opened her eyes and gazed at him, and in the dim light of the torch, her eyes shone like two sapphires. “My pretty jewel,” he said. Riley and Ximena stood watching their daughter as she fell asle ep, rocking in her mother’s arms. “Beggin’ your pardon I wasn’t there for you, Ximena,” he said. “It grieves me I couldn’t be there by your side to welcome our daughter into the world.” “You don’t owe me an apology, John. Soon, this will all be over and we will finally be together again. Now that Mexico has officially surrendered — ” “What are you sayin’, lass?” “You haven’t heard? It happened last week, on February second. It is done. The so - called treaty of ‘peace and friendship’ has been agreed upon in the villa of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Everything Polk desired is now his. Henceforth, we Mexicans must acc ept the Rí o Bravo as the legitimate boundary.” “So the Yanks now own all the land north of the river?”
She nodded. “And New Mexico and Alta California and its ports. Mexico is now half the country it used to be. Imagine that. My rancho is officially in the United States now. The border has crossed me.” “The land is still yours,” he said. She scoffed. “You believe they will let me ke ep it? The Yanquis will do anything in their power to take away the lands of the Mexican families living there, just like they did to us in Texas, mark my words. Those living in the stolen territory will be forced from their homes. We lost the war, John. The new map of Mexico will remind us forever of our terrible loss. Of our country devoured.” “And Santa Anna? What’s become of him?” “He’s requested the government’s permission to leave the country and go into exile.” “With him gone, we’ll be hard - pressed to get the new Mexican leaders to honor the promises made to me and my men,” Riley said. “The war is lost, and not one battle did we win. Not once did we taste the sweetness of glory.” She reached through the iron bars and grabbed his hand. “We have our love. Our future is the battle that matters most. As long as we have each other, we will win. We can rebuild our lives.” “I’m still in prison,” he said. “What kind of future can I offer you and Patricia?” “The treaty requires for the prisoners of war to be freed as soon as it’s ratified. That means you and your men will be released! Do not despair, mi amor. I will wait for you, John Riley. The day you get out of here, our daughter and I will take you home. Soon, we will be together, and together we will decide what our future will be.” He thought of her words as time rolled on. In late May, when the Mexican government finally ratified the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo and ceded half its territory to the United States, he felt betrayed. Scott didn’t consider him or the other San Patricios a s prisoners of war, and although all other prisoners were released as mandated by the treaty, Riley and his men were transferred yet again to another fortress in the capital — the citadel. A rumor was afloat that the deserters would be sent to New Orleans in due course, whence they would be drummed out of service. Riley gave faith to the rumors. He wanted to be drummed out of service far away from this city, so that Ximena wouldn’t see him being shamed yet again. On the first of June, Riley awakened to the distant sound of marching footst eps. The door of the cell creaked open, and Lieutenant Gibson, along with some of his infantrymen, marched in. “On your feet, traitors.”
Riley and the other prisoners scrambled to their feet. He couldn’t take his eyes off the muskets the infantrymen held over their shoulders. “Whither are we bound?” he asked. Could it be true then, that they would be shipped to New Orleans? “Well, if you aren’t the luckiest Paddies I’ve ever seen,” Gibson said with disdain. “Isn’t that so, boys?” The infantrymen nodded. One of them spat on the ground. “If I were in charge, I would have left you here to rot,” Lieutenant Gibson said. Taking out a letter from his pocket, he proceeded to read the men’s names one by one. Hezekiah Akles, John Bartley, Thomas Cassady, John Chambers, John Daly, James Kelly, Ale xander Mc Kee, Martin Miles, James Miller, James Mills, Peter O’Brien, John Wilton, Samuel Thomas, Edward Ward, Charles Williams, and John Riley. “The prisoners in confinement at the citadel, known as the San Patricios, will be immediately discharged.” Riley looked at the men and saw the glee in their eyes. He was the only one not pleased by the news. Discharged immediately? Here, in Mexico City, not New Orleans . He touched his cheeks, then let his long hair fall over his face. Today, I will be released. Today, I will have to face Ximena and the world and whatever fate awaits us. “But first things first,” Gibson said. He motioned to his men to st ep forward. They grabbed the prisoners, and Riley struggled to break free from their hold. “Get your filthy Yankee hands off me!” Riley said, his hands clenched in fists. Gibson pulled out a razor and said, “Not yet. We wouldn’t want you going out there looking like apes, would we?” Riley was about to protest, but he didn’t want to sabotage his men’s chance to get out of the cells, and so he held his tongue and swallowed his pride. They pushed him down onto a stool and took scissors to his hair. He k ept his eyes fixed on the ground an d watched as his hair fell to the floor. There was no hiding behind it now. The first thing Ximena would see would be his branded cheeks, his marred face. Gibson was deliberately brutal with the razor, and Riley bit his tongue when the razor nicked his scalp. “Well, what do you think, boys? Did I miss my calling as a barber?” The Yankees laughed. Riley glanced at James Mills, and by the expression on his face, he knew what he looked like. He rubbed his head, felt the sharp stubble, saw the streaks of blood on his palm. As if it wasn’t enough that his face had been destroyed. Now he had to go out in to the city with a bloody scalp. And Ximena, how could he go before her looking like this?
“Next!” Gibson yelled, pushing Riley off the stool after he finished shaving off his beard. After getting unchained, the prisoners were escorted out of the cell, down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the bright sunlight. Outside the citadel, the American soldiers yelled and protested the prisoners’ release. Riley squinted in the bright lig ht as he and his men stumbled out of the fortress. The Yankee band played “The Rogue’s March,” which felt like a slap in the face as he was shamefully drummed out of service. Poor old soldier, poor old soldier, He’ll be tarred and feathered and sent to Hell, Because he wouldn’t soldier well. There were Mexicans everywhere crying and cheering for them. The Catholic priests stood in a line. “Come with us, Colorados,” they said to the prisoners. “We will take care of you. Vengan.” Then there she was with their daughter in her arms, standing next to padre Sebastián. “John!” He turned to look at her. He wanted, more than anything, to run to her side, scoop her up in his arms. Instead, Riley drew away from the priests and his men, away from the woman and the daughter he loved — for he was a stain upon them now. “John!” Ximena said again, and he turned once more to see her pushing her way through the throng. “Where are you going, mi amor?” she said as she caught up to him. “You deserve more,” he said. He had felt hideous in the dark, and he knew he was even more so in the bright light of day. “All I want is you, John Riley, and nothing that has happened will change that. Now come, let me take you home.” The priests took in his men to give them shelter and food, and Riley allowed Ximena to take him to the small house where she’d lived alone during his time in prison. When Riley crossed the threshold, he scanned the room, not saying a word. It was a simple one - room adobe house with unplastered walls and a hardpacked earthen floor, a curtain hanging from the rafters that s eparated the bed from the rest of the house. A small kitchen table with two chairs was in a corner, next to a crude stove and a bucket fill ed with water. A small altar was tucked into a corner, with a bowl of water, flowers, and two candles burning feebly against the soot - stained wall. She had once been the proud owner of a ranch. Now she was barely surviving in the slums of this city where h e had left her to fend for herself. “Why don’t you wash up while I make you dinner?” she said, handing him the bucket of water. The babe had fallen asle ep, and she placed her in a crate that was padded with a blanket. “You must be hungry.”
As he washed the grime off himself with a cloth, he watched as she lit the coals in the brazier and set a clay pot full of beans to reheat. From a basket she took out a small ball of corn dough she’d pr epared earlier and set out to make tortillas. He saw h er knead the dough and form it into small balls, then pick them up one by one and shape them into disks with her hands, slap - slapslapping them into perfect circles, before placing them on the hot griddle. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a fresh ly made tortilla. When he sat at the table, she placed a steaming bowl of beans and a basket full of piping - hot tortillas in front of him. Then she cut a chunk of cheese and pieces of pork cracklings and served him those as well. “Eat,” she said. He tore a piece of tortilla and used it as a spoon to scoop up his beans. She smiled and set out to eat her food. He was grateful that she didn’t ask him a million questions, that she let him be, that she respected his need for silence. But every time she looked at him, his cheeks burned, as if he were being branded all over again. Did she think him hideous? No, he didn’t see disgust in her face. Compassion, yes. But not disgust. Still, the tortilla got stuck in his throat, and he could no longer take anoth er bite. He looked around for a looking glass and saw there was none. Had she removed it so that he couldn’t see his hideousness? Sensing his sudden loss of appetite, Ximena stood up and came to him. She took his hand, pulled the curtain aside, and forced him to sit on the small straw mattress where she’d sl ept alone all these months. When he sat, her humble bed sank under his weight. She kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his eyelids, his mouth, and then she placed a kiss on each of his disfigured c heeks. He turned away. “Don’t soil yourself touchin’ my face with your lips, lass.” “Shhh,” she said, putting a finger on his lips, then she did it all softly again and again, her kisses on his face, a cascade of sweet - scented orange blossoms. She took off her blouse and guided his hands to her breasts. She let out a moan, and that sound of pleasure helped him forget that he was a monster now. She wanted him. Despite everything, she still wanted him. He lowered her onto her back, and she tugged at his pantaloons while he pulled off his shirt. He entered her hard, without holding back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him with all her might, pulling him de eper inside. Her body spasmed with pleasure just as his own body shuddered, and he fell on her, breathing fast and hard. Then, suddenly, his body convulsed again, but in tears. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as he cried on her bosom. He thought about his men hanging from the gallows, of Patrick’s painful death. He thought of the guilt that was eating at him knowing that he, John Riley of County Galway, had led his men to their brutal deaths. He had robbed them of a future, of their families, of the love of a woman.
What right did he have now to such things? What right did he have to love and be loved? To have a future with Ximena? To have a family? I ought to leave her , he thought as his tears finally subsided. He pulled away from her arms and turned away, sat up on the edge of the mattress, and wiped his face dry. “¡Madre mía!” She gasped, and he turned around to look at her, wondering what had affrighted her so, until he realized what it was. His bare back. The skin had been torn open and shredded by the muleteer’s whip. She ran her fingers along his back, tracing every scar that zigzagged and crisscrossed like markings on a queer map, the geography of his pain and humiliation. The wounds of his lacerated flesh had healed, but they still rankled. As did the bitter memories of the Yanks. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed his back again and again as she cried. It was her turn now to convulse in tears, her body shaking from sorrow and helplessness. He wanted to gather her in his arms and tell her that she oughtn’t cry, t hat he didn’t deserve her tears, her anguish. But he didn’t comfort her. He sat, unmoving, remembering that fateful day when Twiggs gave the order to strip and whip him, to brand him like cattle — not once, but twice. Double was his hatred now for the Yanks. He couldn’t tell how long they sat like that, but she finally stopped crying and let go of him. She went to the altar in the corner of the room and placed fresh candles and copal incense before the statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe. She crossed herself and said a silent prayer. Soon, curls of incense filled the room with a piercing fragrance. She reached into her basket and took out herbs and jars and a few other things, and she came back with a tray and told him to lie down. She rubbed his body with almond oil, her hands gliding across his chest, his arms, his legs. His muscles relaxed under her healing touch, the knots unraveling. She mumbled prayers in Spanish, entreating the Virgin, the saints, God himself, to relieve him o f his burden and restore the lost piece of his soul. He surrendered to the sacredness with which she caressed his body with her eagle feather. She took an egg and rubbed it over his body, beginning with his head, down his chest, his arms, the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet. The coolness of the egg against his skin soothed him. He remembered her telling him that eggs absorb negative energy and harm inside the patient. He had a lifetime’s worth of that. She gently sw ept him with the fragrant branches of epazote, and he inhaled and took it de ep inside his being. She asked him to turn over and lie on his stomach. She was extra gentle on his back, touching him with compassion, and he wanted to tell her it no longer hurt, though he wondered if he might be lying. Perhaps his ragged wounds had healed, but he could still feel the pain as if he had been flogged yesterday. Her mo notone voice rose above him in prayer, and he mumbled
along with the words. He thought of the chapel where he’d received his first communion, his parents beaming with pride, Father Myles giving him the holy Host. And after, his friends and relations had gathered for a modest meal but with plenty of poteen tha t his father had made, and dancing and singing, his uncle playing the fiddle for the last time before the English hanged him in the gallows two weeks later. No! He pushed the memory aside and returned to Ximena’s prayers, to let her voice bring him back to the happy memories of his life. He wanted her words to take away the memories that hurt him like the thorns of a cactus buried de ep inside. If she could yank them out, one by one, singe him over an open fire, peel him like a prickly pear, he could finally be free. When she got to the last part of the cleansing, she rolled dried hemp leaves in a corn husk, lit it, and blew the smoke over him. As it hovered above him like a cloud, he thought of his cannons, of his gunners expertly firing at his command, the gunpowder smoke lingering over them, the cheers and hugs they gave each other when they hit their targets, decimating the Yankee ranks. That was how he would remember his men, Patrick Dalton by his side. All of them fighting under the green banner of Saint Patrick. Exhaustion finally overcame him, and he felt himself drifting off to sle ep. He felt comforted, reassured. “I love you, John Riley,” she said as she pulled the blanket over him. She kissed each of his cheeks and tucked him in. “And I you, lass,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her. “My heart will always be yours. Always.” He closed his eyes again, and let sle ep take him. No, he couldn’t leave her. As long as she wanted him, he would stay with her, do right by her and their daughter. He couldn’t let the Yanks destroy their love, destroy his family. But he knew he could no longer stay in this country. He could not make a home upon the soil where his men had been so brutally killed. No, he needed Erin’s shores to heal his spirit and wash away the stain upon his soul. The Road to Vera Cruz They left the capital at daybreak. Ximena turned to catch the last glimpse of it from the window of the diligence pulled by eight mules and guarded by a hired escort, as they traveled along the National Highway. The magnificent Valle de México, flanked by the two snow capped volcanoes and encircled by rugged mountains, was spread out under the pink - tinged sky. She looked at the towers, domes, and spires of the churches pointing to the heavens above, the numerous trees and gardens in and around the city, thei r verdure contrasting with the red roofs of the buildings,
the countryside dotted with sle epy haciendas and lakes as clear and glittery as looking glass. Ximena elbowed John and pointed outside the window to get him to look as well, but instead, he turned up the collar of his cloak to hide his face and closed his eyes, feigning sle ep. He was a big man, and no matter how small he tried to make himself, his long legs took up too much of the insufficient space inside the coach. Ximena couldn’t miss the last glimpse of the valley’s beauty and splendor. These four hundr ed kilometers stretching out before them could be the last she might ever see of her country. But her soul was Mexican and would always be so, and even when her feet no longer touched her native soil, she would always carry Mexico inside her heart. So whil e John and little Patricia sl ept, she poked her head out the window to take it all in. She leaned back in her seat, trying to ke ep her teeth from rattling every time the stagecoach went over a rut or rock on the road. As she listened to the rumble of the wheels, she wished the driver would slow down, and at the same time, she wanted his mule s to go faster so that the passengers would stop looking at John’s branded cheeks with open curiosity. She knew he was feeling self - conscious about their stares, which was why he was feigning sle ep.