“Destiny? ’Tis English greed runnin’ through those veins of theirs, as thick as buttermilk,” Sullivan snickered. “And a bad dose of superiority they’ve inherited,” Riley added. He thought about the English, of how they’d conquered territories all over the world to fill the royal coffers, and the way they’d plundered and raped and killed to prove their dominion. The U nited States was England’s child after all. Even though the Yanks had rebelled against the English and defeated them in battle six decades before, the insatiable lust for power and egotism of their forefathers had already been bred into them. The Yanks spoke of the Mexicans as being nothing more than ignorant, filthy semisavages, a miserable mongrel race. Riley had heard this before about his own people, descendants of kings and chieftains, but Ireland was a conquered land after all. He looked across at Matamoros and wondered if Mexico would soon face the same fate. “ ’Tis Mexico’s bad luck to have the United States as its neighbor,” he said. “Just as ’twas our bad luck to have England loomin’ across the Irish Sea.” Not wasting any time, General Ampudia sent one of his officers with a parley flag and an order for General Taylor to decamp his army, withdraw from Mexican territory, and return whence he came. He gave them twenty - four hours. General Taylor responded that his orders were to stay put, and if Ampudia commenced hostilities, the war would rest on his shoulders, not Taylor’s. He then ordered the navy to blockade the port and to seize any vessels carrying supplies for the Mexican troops. News of the standoff fill ed the camp with anxiety over the Mexicans’ next move.
Talk around the campfire that night turned to the deserters. Not the unhappy wretches who didn’t make it, but the ones who did. “I heard the Mexicans pay good wages,” O’Brien said. “We might not have to wait donkey’s years before we see our relations again.” “And they treat the Irish as equals, not cattle,” Maloney said, touching his forehead. “And don’t we Irish know how it feels to be driven forth from our land by Protestant invaders?” “The Mexicans are Catholic,” Flanagan said. “Is it shootin’ our Catholic brethren, we are now?” “ ’Twill soil our souls right enough,” Quinn said. “How many more buckin’ and gaggin’s? How many more brandin’s ought we to put up with?” Sullivan asked. Riley listened quietly, contributing no opinions. When he stood up to retire to his tent, Maloney called after him. “Unholy war is nigh, John Riley. Which side will you be on when it starts?” “I saw you, brave fella,” Quinn chimed in, “standin’ up to that dirty li’l maggot, Lieutenant Bragg. Seein’ ya put the blaggard in his place made my day. If not for the general, I bet you would’ve knocked the bejabbers out of him.” “Faith, you would’ve knocked a grinder or two at least!” Flanagan said, laughing. “Look here, John Riley. I know I was wrong about you, I was. If you lead us in the crossin’, I’ll follow ya. We all will, won’t we, boys?” “Aye, aye,” the men said, nodding. Riley glanced at his countrymen and wondered which of them would be gone the next day. “I won’t be castin’ my lot with Mexico. I’m stayin’ here with my regiment, but ye are all free to make your choice.” He sensed their disappointment and added, “May Saint Patrick protect ye.” He thought of the oath that bound him to the US Army, of his duties as a husband and father — promises made before God. A soldier obeys orders, hadn’t he learned that already in the British Army? How many times was he obliged to do things he didn’t approve of? Despicable things that stained his soul, that no amount of Paternosters or Ave Marias would ever serve to absolve h im of. He still remembered the utter shame he felt at going up and down the Irish countryside with the redcoats to make sure that his countrymen obeyed the whims of their English landlords, helping to reinforce the police and bailiffs as they evicted the p oor tenants, tore down cottages, tossed entire families
out to the high road for a life of beggary and ruin. He still remembered that brutal episode in Clare a year after he’d joined the army when a group of tenants was driven off their land to make room for cattle. They’d protested and beaten back the constabu lary. He’d been part of the division called in to quell the disturbances. Taking their marching orders from the local landlord, they burned out the farmers and shot two men who had resisted. And these were his people. Poor men and women who were just like his family and friends from Clifden. He, John Riley of the unhappy county of Galway, had worn the red. Now he wore the blue. And soon, he would go into Mexico and help the Yanks bespoil the Mexican people of their lands and bring them into submission. But wasn’t life like that? A powerful nation will always hunger for more power. And they will always find men like himself — starving wretches, so far from home and country and desperate to do right by their families — to do the dirty work. Sitting on his cot, cleaning his smoothbore flintlock musket for the next day’s inspection, Riley heard whispers and spurts of merry laughter from outside. Were his comrades laughing at him? They could mock him all they wanted. He had nothing to prove to t hem. He owed them nothing. If they wanted to risk their lives swimming across the river — not even knowing if things would be better yonder — that was on them. The bugles gave the signal, and Sullivan came into the tent as the others dispersed. Usually, they w ould spend the last few minutes before lights - out talking about their dreams for the future, but that night Sullivan crawled under his blanket with nary a word from his lips. Riley reckoned he was cross with him again. Just as well , he thought. He was tired of trying to make the little fellow understand how life truly worked. Just then, sharp yips — like the bugles of the Mexicans — made Sullivan sit up on his cot, clutching his musket. “Don’t be alarmed,” Riley said. “ ’Tis only a coyote.” Sullivan nodded but didn’t lie down. In the mellow ray of a tallow candle, he perused the leaflet he pulled out from under his bedroll. “Is it mad you are? Didn’t I tell you not to carry that around!” Riley said. Sullivan looked at it intently, as if he had suddenly learned how to read, but then handed it to Riley. “Will ya read it to me?” Holding its faded words close to the candle, Riley read the leaflet slowly but softly, wary of anyone lurking about. Tonight, extra sharpshooting guards stood alert to catch deserters — with orders to fire on sight. When he got to the last
paragraph of the leaflet, he felt compelled to read it twice. S eparate yourselves from the Yankees, and do not contribute to defend a robbery and usurpation... Had he joined an army about to attack a Catholic nation? Would the Yanks do to the Mexicans what the English had done to his people? He handed the pamphlet back to Sullivan and blew out the candle, his thoughts churning in his head. “The Yanks promised me adventure full of fun and frolic and plenty of fine whiskey,” Sullivan said a few minutes later. “They promised me roast beef and pretty black - eyed señoritas,” he continued, with a bitter laugh. “But they’re the biggest liars this si de of perdition! I didn’t leave Ireland and my family to end up in this Yankee pisshole.” Riley had his own version of the Yanks’ false promises. He could “earn back his sergeant’s chevrons,” they said. Rise through the ranks. Obtain US citizenship and good wages to pay for his family’s passage through the golden door. He thought about his wife and son. It’d been three years since he’d seen them. Johnny was almost thirteen and would soon be a little man, yet Riley wasn’t there to guide him and teach him all he ought to know. That thought gave him the most sorrow. He closed his eyes and willed hi mself to sle ep. He was drifting off when he heard a rustling in the dark. Franky Sullivan was getting dressed. “Don’t do it, lad,” he said in the darkness. “Come with me,” Sullivan said softly, kneeling beside his cot. “We can do it together. Look out for each other!” “I cannot.” “Those miserable sinners told us false. How can you stay?” Riley didn’t answer. “Very well then. I’m goin’. Will ya give me your blessin’?” “I need scarcely remind you that there are pickets out there ready to shoot anythin’ that moves,” Riley said instead. “How far d’ya think you’ll get? And if they don’t get ya, the river will. ’Tis a mighty current and will pull you under when you least exp ect it.” Sullivan sat back down on his cot with a sigh. “I can’t do this no more.” “Don’t let your passion lead you astray, lad. These sonsabitches are all strung up, itchin’ for the war to start, so they’ve nothin’ better to do but to amuse
themselves with us. We’ll prove our valor soon enough, and by - and - by they’ll realize their ignorance of us Irish. They’ll see we’re damn good soldiers, better than those West Point amadáns .” “I’m just a farmer,” Sullivan said. “And I wasn’t even good at that. If I was, the hunger wouldn’t be hard upon my poor parents now.” “ ’Twasn’t your fault the potatoes rotted, was it now? God willin’, the upcomin’ harvest will be plentiful enough for our people to get by.” He heard Sullivan lying back again on his cot and settling in with a sigh. “Be patient, Franky, a chara . I promise I’ll ke ep ya under my eye, and I’ll see to it you get your share of glory and honor.” When Sullivan finally closed his eyes, Riley stayed alert to the murmur of the Río Grande, the clamor of toads, crickets, and hoot owls echoing in the dark, the barking of dogs in the sle epy city across the river, the melancholy howls of a solitary wolf be yond, and the wailing cry of a jaguar. Then finally Sullivan’s snores joined the chorus, and Riley surrendered at length to his own fatigue. Scarcely had he closed his eyes than he was roused suddenly, not by a bugle call but by musket shots. Seeing Sullivan’s cot empty, he scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the tent, shoes unlaced. The camp was in an uproar, drummers beating the long roll , soldiers running in all directions, muskets at the ready, thinking the Mexicans were upon them. But Riley knew better. He ran to the river, his heart squeezed tight inside his chest. He heard what might have been the squealing of geese, though it was a h uman voice crying out with affright. “Stop, please, I beg ya!” Day was just breaking, and it was hard to see clearly through the wreaths of mist, but he knew without seeing that it was Franky Sullivan. Riley pushed his way past the crowd, and through the reeds; he watched that fool of a boy struggling to swim back to the camp after getting himself caught deserting. On the riverbank, a sentry was pointing his musket right at him. “I made a mistake!” Sullivan said as he struggled to pull himself out by grabbing onto the cane. The sentry lowered his musket, and Sullivan began to wade out of the river. Just then, Colonel Twiggs pulled up his horse beside the sentry and said, “Do your job, soldier!” “But, Colonel — ” “I said do your job!” The sentry raised his musket again and, with a click of the trigger, discharged his load of buck and ball. Riley watched as Sullivan dropped to his knees, the water around him tinged with red.
Soon he was floating downstream, and moments later, he got pulled under, disappearing from sight. “Who’s next?” Twiggs said as he surveyed the soldiers from atop his horse. Riley took a st ep forward, feeling his blood boiling inside him. Twiggs had Sullivan shot down even though he’d begged for mercy. “Easy, now,” Maloney said from behind him. He put a firm hand on Riley’s shoulder and steadied him. “When the proper time comes, we’ll cut their sinnin’ souls out.” “Get to your ranks and be pr epared for a hard day’s work!” General Taylor shouted as he approached the crowd on his mare. “Ampudia is here in Matamoros. War is upon us, and I want this fort finished once and for all.” April 1846 Fort Texas, Río Grande Riley spent the next rainy Sunday poring over Franky Sullivan’s meager belongings. There was no one to send them to. In the months since they’d shared a tent, the lad had never received a letter from his relations. The bells of the church in Matamoros began to toll. Riley turned toward the sonorous sound and felt his heart aching. Gathering up Sullivan’s things, he hurried to the riverbank. He’d loved coming here before General Taylor ordered shoot - on - sight. He misse d watching herons, snowy egrets, and geese and ducks alight along the low banks to play in the shallows. The sight of the Río Grande was now forever changed by the heartless punishment for a boy’s blunder. A soft mist clung to the towers of the church on the other side, and Riley imagined the priest inside pr eparing for mass. For a moment, he fancied himself there, safe in God’s home. He bent down to the muddy ground and quickly dug a hole, putting all of Su llivan’s things inside, exc ept for a crude wooden shamrock the little fellow had whittled himself. A token to remember him by, Riley decided. He said a prayer before throwing the clay back into the hole. “Thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.” “Hey, move away from the river!” Riley turned to see a sentry walking toward him, pointing his musket. “You know what happens to deserters, right?” “Aye, right well I do,” Riley said, taking a few st eps away from the river. He looked at the church. If only he could find a way to get there.