“Get on with you then, Mick,” the sentry said, “if you don’t want to end up like the rest of your traitorous kind.” With one last glance at the church, Riley turned around and hurried back to his tent as the rain began to let up. Along the way, something caught his eye. A man hanging by his thumbs from a tree limb, his toes barely touching the ground. He rushed over to Maloney. He reached for the rope, and the old man jerked out of the way, crying in pain as he did so. “Stop! You’ll get punished, you will.” Riley glanced at the patrolling sentries. One would surely look toward them, in only a matter of time. “But why?” Riley asked, immediately regretting it. Did it matter why? “Duncan got into a passion because I didn’t salute him proper,” Maloney said through clenched teeth. Sweat dripped from his face, the letters branded on his forehead were scabbing and stood out hideously. He looked toward the river and said, “If ’twasn’t f or my ignorance of swimmin’, I’d do it, you know? I’d be long gone by now.” “And end up like Sullivan?” Riley asked. Maloney nodded. “Aye, even the bottom of the river is better than here. Look, lad, I know honorin’ your oaths is important to ya, and I may be an ignorant spalpeen that knows more about pickin’ spuds than military laws, but I do know well enough that a con tract binds both parties. Won’t you at least go see for yourself what the Mexicans are all about? For Franky?” The sentries drew nearer. “God give you strength, Jimmy, a chara ,” Riley said, before quickly parting. “You’ll come back for me, won’t ya? I’ll fight with you through sunshine and storm. ’Tis a promise!” Maloney shouted after him. Up ahead, Braxton Bragg, James Duncan, and other West Point officers swashed across the campground. Something Bragg said roused laughter. Riley’s face heated, his jaw clenched. When Bragg fixed his spiteful dark eyes upon Riley, and his lips curled with in solence, Riley knew the West Pointer meant mischief. What if Maloney was right? He ducked behind the tents and headed straight to his commanding officer’s quarters. After a proper salute, he asked for permission to speak. He knew that the Yanks looked down at his religion, but it was the best lie he could come up with at the moment.
“Permission to leave camp, sir,” Riley said. “Word is a priest will be holdin’ services yonder north at a local farm. I’d like to ask a prayer of him for my dead tentmate.” Riley held himself straight and still as if frozen inside his American blue uniform . Lying to his commander made his body itch, worse than if he’d just gathered a field of fuzzy corn. He looked straight ahead at the wall behind Merrill, lest his eyes betray him. “General Taylor was clear about the consequences of deserting, was he not?” “Aye, sir.” The captain studied Riley for a few seconds. “You’re a good soldier, Private Riley,” he said at last. “What a pity that your countrymen cannot see the error of their ways.” Riley thought of Maloney hanging by his thumbs on that tree, of Franky Sullivan at the bottom of the river, of the church and the bells that called to him. He clenched his fists and unclenched them. Steady , he told himself. Steady . He held his breath as he watched Merrill sign the paper that would get him past the guards. “Don’t disappoint me, Private,” Captain Merrill said, handing him the pass. Dismissed, Riley headed through the rain to the perimeter of the camp, the pass tucked safely in his pocket. He quickened his pace, feeling Merrill watching him from his quarters. There was no priest giving mass at any nearby farmhouse, and his lie would b e found out soon enough. He passed by tents, the parade grounds, the cannons that pointed at Matamoros. When he reached the perimeter, he took out the pass and handed it to the sentries. Taking in the lands cape outside the camp, he remained alert for any movement. Sentries were on the lookout for deserters, and maybe even Bragg or Twiggs was out there, looking for a little diversion. The Río Grande roared below as he struggled through a th ick tangle of shrubs and cane near the water’s edge. His uniform was soaked with rain, but no matter, he would be in the river soon. Still, his heart palpitated so hard he could feel it. He turned to see the pickets farther away, pointing their muskets at a flock of honking geese that had suddenly taken off into the air, as if to give Riley a chance. With a quick sign of the cross, he plunged into the river. With all the strength he could muster, he began to s wim across. The current was strong, but his determination was stronger. Through the water’s noisy roar, he thought he heard shouting, then musket fire. He stopped for nothing till he gained the other bank. Water pooled at his feet. Two Mexican soldiers approached him, muskets raised. Riley didn’t speak the Spanish tongue and didn’t know if the soldiers spoke English. Not that his Irishman’s brogue would be easy to understand.
With their muskets, they motioned for him to follow. Flanked by a soldier on either side, Riley walked down the muddy street that turned to cobblestone as they reached the heart of the city. Rectangular houses made of unbaked brick lined the streets, stret ching as far as he could see, their roofs bright with red tiles or thatched with palm and cane. Their facades were plastered with white lime and bore sturdy double doors and tall iron - barred windows. As he sidest epped the muddy rain puddles and animal droppings, Riley could feel the stares of the local people as they hurried by on foot or atop donkeys and oxcarts. A woman poked her head out the window of a dry goods store to stare at him with rude curi osity. She took in his Yankee uniform and spat as he passed. He k ept his eyes ahead, grateful when the rain suddenly stopped, and sunbeams pierced through the clouds. He wondered how much time he had before he was missed at the camp. They passed by the church fronting the public square. It was a fine old church and higher than most of the buildings. Riley pointed to it and said, “Ecclesia,” hoping the soldiers could understand his Latin, but they shook their heads and k ept walking. The y took him directly to the general’s headquarters, where Riley found himself standing before the general - in - chief of the Mexican Army and an assortment of other officers. Though the general seemed unfazed by his appearance, Riley wished he looked less like a cur dog left out in the rain. He towered over the general, and yet he felt small. In his early forties, General Ampudia stood proudly in a brilliant blue uniform adorned with golden epaulets. From beneath his thick, dark brows, he examined Riley from head to toe while twirling his long mustache, as if trying to guess his intentions. Another general drew near, and Ge neral Ampudia said something to him in Spanish. Then both turned to Riley. “I am General Mejía. My commander welcomes you to Mexico, Private. Who are you and why are you here?” “Private John Riley, sir,” he said, snapping a salute. He spoke slowly and carefully. “I’m here to seek consolation in your church, if you grant me permission to do so, sir.” General Mejía translated and exchanged glances with General Ampudia. “The doors of our church are open to anyone who seeks the comfort of our Lord and Savior,” General Ampudia said, through Mejía. “I’m well aware the Yanqui heretics don’t allow you Irish t o practice your faith.” “I’m much obliged, sir,” he said. And then, the voice of Franky Sullivan pleading for mercy, his body bobbing in the water, rose up in his mind, and he decided to speak plainly about what else drove him here. “If I may, I desire also to meet the man who wr ote the leaflet. I wish to know if he speaks in earnest.”
General Mejía translated his words and General Ampudia motioned for Riley to take a seat. This was a new experience for him, being invited to sit and have a conversation with his superiors. Usually, his commanding officers in both the British and the Yanke e armies simply issued commands for him to obey. “The commander meant every word in that pamphlet,” General Mejía said. General Ampudia pulled on his thick goatee, observing him through keen eyes. Riley nodded. “Too many of my countrymen have perished in the river. My tentmate was shot and killed whilst tryin’ to come here. I must know that he didn’t die in vain.” “I can assure you, Private Riley, that the deaths of your countrymen do weigh on me,” General Ampudia said. “The young man you speak of would have made a great soldier in our ranks, I’m sure of it. May he rest in peace, along with all who have perished try ing to swear their allegiance to Mexico. “President Polk has made it quite clear how much he covets Mexico’s rich lands and ports in its northwestern territories. That’s how he won the presidency, did he not? He’ll go to any lengths to reach his objective of westward expansion and continue the abhorrent institution of slavery. Mexico is a young nation and not as wealthy as the United States, but we will do everything in our power to main tain our territorial integrity!” Noticing General Mejía’s lack of breath from having to translate his tirade, General Ampudia paused and cleared his throat before continuing. “Enough about that. Let us now talk about you, Private Riley. You strike me as a man who does not belong in a priv ate’s uniform. What type of military experience do you have?” “I was a sergeant in the Royal Artillery, sir.” Ampudia’s eyes lit up. He told Riley that he had been an artillery officer in the campaigns during the Texas Rebellion. He’d been in Mexico’s service over twenty years, and beside fighting the Texians, he’d defended Mexico against French invaders as well. The general went on to ask Riley about the artillery tactics he’d acquired under Her Majesty’s service, and Riley knew the questions were meant to test him. He answered carefully and the general seemed pleased. “I’ve never been to England,” General Ampudia said, “but the British certainly know how to fight a war.” “Aye,” Riley affirmed, but he thought of Braxton Bragg, the man he both hated and envied. “Is the general familiar with the Yanks’ flyin’ artillery?”
“It has been brought to my attention. And we suspect our artillery cannot rival the enemy’s! But one can never be sure. What are your thoughts, Private?” After Riley finished describing in detail his observations of the Yankees’ artillery, the Mexican commander became pensive. Suddenly, he stood up, and Riley did the same. General Mejía got to his feet as well and listened attentively as his commander spoke to him. General Ampudia seemed excited about something and did not take his eyes off Riley while his interpreter translated his words. General Mejía looked at Riley and said, “General Pedro de Ampudia, commander - in - chief of the Army of the North, would like to offer you a commission as first lieutenant in the Mexican ranks. Do you acc ept, Private Riley?” Riley was taken aback. First lieutenant? He hadn’t heard of any deserter who had joined the Mexican ranks being given a commission. Were the Mexicans making a jest of him? He peered into the general’s eyes to see if there was mockery there. But he could se e plain the general’s admiration as he looked upon Riley with keen interest. “Here you will find that even though you are a foreigner, Mexico will welcome you with open arms. Just look at me,” General Ampudia said, puffing out his barrel chest. “Cuban by birth, and yet here I am as the commander - inchief of the Mexican Army of the N orth! Here in Mexico, you will find what you’ve been searching for, Private Riley. Well, what do you say?” Just then, the church bells started ringing, announcing the noon hour. Riley listened to the bells, never taking his eyes off the men before him. Perhaps the general was right. Perhaps he was not. Either way, Riley needed time to think. And to get to churc h. “With your leave, sir, may I go to church before givin’ you my r eply?” “Of course,” General Ampudia said, motioning to the soldiers by the door to escort Riley out. “May you find the peace and comfort you seek, Private.” When Riley st epped outside the headquarters, the day had turned bright and sunny, with no sign remaining of the morning showers. His uniform was still damp, but by the time he reached the church, the hot Mexican sun had done its work. The soldiers escorted him to the doors and then waited there while he went inside. He took a de ep breath, savoring the serene quietude. The church was much bigger than the one back home, grander and more splendidly decorated, but just as welcoming. His eyes adjusted to the dimness inside and he felt thankful for the absence of bright lig ht. He had never gotten used to the glare of the sun in this land of suffocating heat.
Hundreds of candles burned against the cold walls, illuminating paintings and life - size wax figures of the Savior and saints standing on pedestals, the silver embroidery and beads of their garments glimmering in the candlelight. Sunlight streamed through the stained - glass windows and fell upon the walls in colored patches. He knelt at the feet of the Holy Mother and made the sign of the cross. The tears for Franky Sullivan finally gushed forth. If only he’d given the lad his blessing. If o nly he’d come with him like he’d asked, perhaps the poor boy would still be alive. From his pocket, he took out the shamrock Sullivan had whittled and rubbed it with his fingertips. You were right, Franky, a chara. Here, you would’ve been a hero. A priest came into the church from the back door and entered the confessional. Riley recognized him as the priest who had prayed over the dead deserter. He stood and dried his eyes and followed after the priest. He knelt and made the sign of the cross. “ In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen ,” the priest said. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over seven months since I confessed.” He wondered if the priest spoke English and if he would be able to understand him at all. “Speak my son, God listens,” the voice inside the confessional said in soft, careful English. Riley sighed in relief. “I am guilty of lettin’ my friend die, for I wasn’t there to protect him and ke ep him safe.” He closed his eyes and told the priest about the previous morning, the fear in Sullivan’s voice. His own impotence. “You no blame for he dying, son. He is with God now.” “He was scarce eighteen, Father, with his whole life ahead of him.” “Your friend in a better place, and he watch you now, like you watch him before.” Riley wiped the tears from his eyes. If only he could give faith to that. “You more troubles, son? Speak. Here is house of God.” “I have been offered a commission as first lieutenant in the Mexican ranks. If I acc ept, I will become a deserter. I will become a man who betrays his oaths. I don’t want to be that manner of man, Father.” “The Yanquis no treat Irishmen good. The heréticos protestantes deny you practice your faith! Remember, son, the one true promise is to God, no to Yanquis.”
Riley remained quiet. He thought about what Maloney had said. The Yanks had made an oath to them, and they were the first to break it. If there was no sanctity to their oath, no validity, was he then no longer bound to observe his own? “If promise is no good, it no can bind you. What your heart say to do, son? In your heart you find God’s will. Listen, make right choice.” “Thank you, Father. Will you say mass in honor of my friend? His name was Sullivan, Franky Sullivan.” “Yes, son. Go in peace. Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti. Amen .” “Amen.” Riley finished making the sign of the cross and headed out of the door. The soldiers followed behind him. He could hear the burbling of the Río Grande, and that was where he headed. He stood by the bank, the water rolling beneath him, and looked ac ross at the camp. He could see the Yanks going about their day. Had his absence been noticed by now? He turned back to look at the Mexican soldiers who were waiting patiently and wondered if they’d been instructed to shoot him if he decided to swim back to the camp. But he wasn’t a prisoner. He’d come here of his own free will and would leave the same way he came. He could return to the camp, to his tent, to his unit, and continue on as if nothing had happened. No one would be the wiser. Only he would know he’d swum across the Río Grande twice, and naught else had come of it. But was that what he wanted? He took out the pass Captain Merrill had given him that morning. It was a little blurry, but still legible enough to get him past the guards and into the fort. He walked to the river’s edge and glanced once more at the Yankee camp. He remembered when he’d left Clifden, fired by an ambition to give his family a life of dignity and prosperity without having to sell his soul to the British Army. To finally earn enough money to buy his own bit of land and never again be answerable to the whims of a landlord. He ’d crossed an ocean then to cast his lot on this side of the Atlantic. In Canada, he’d not found what he was looking for, and he’d crossed a lake to search for opportunities in Michigan. Now, he had crossed a river, and the dreams were still there, just be yond his grasp, waiting to be realized, waiting for him to make his choice. Riley let the pass fall from his fingers and watched as the bold swe ep of the current carried it away, just like it had Franky Sullivan. His decision now made, he walked back to the general’s headquarters to acc ept his commission as first lieutenant in the Mexican Army of the North. April 1846 Rancho Los Mesteños, Río Bravo
The pecking of raindrops on the roof roused Ximena. Joaquín’s side of the bed was empty. In the darkness, she spotted him puffing on a cigarette by the open window, the white curtains and smoke billowing about him as if he were half man, half specter, and she wondered if she was dreaming. A gust of wind filled the room with the scent of spring rain — sweet grasses, mud, wet hay. She breathed it all in, her mind now fully awake. She heard Joaquín sigh in resignation. She went over to him and peered outside. Far into the wet darkness, in the direction of the west entrance to the rancho, she could see lights flickering on and off, in a pattern she couldn’t understand but knew was no t random. These were signals guerrillas used to communicate with each other. Torchlights by night, smoke signals by day. Joaquín turned to get dressed. “What do they want?” “Tú sabes,” he said. He put on his boots, strapped on his spurs, and came to kiss the top of her head. “I must carry out my sacred duty to protect our frontier,” he said, r epeating Juan Cortina’s words. She wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him. “Whatever happens out there, there will be no turning back.” “Así es, mi amor. But what choice do we have?” He bent to kiss her, soft and gentle at first, but then, he pressed her against him and his kiss de epened. Urgent. Pleading. She reached for him, but he groaned and tore himself away.