Chapter 10

10

April 1846

Matamoros, Río Grande

Just as morning’s review ended, the new brigadier general summoned Riley to his headquarters. In the last twelve days since he’d joined their ranks, Riley had been busy helping train the gunners not just to operate the cannons but to maneuver them around the eld. Unfortunately, the cannons in the Mexican arsenal were twenty-year-old relics, and some were obsolete. The round shot used was inferior and its range too short. But the most pressing problem was that the Mexicans didn’t have heavy-caliber guns, their biggest being 12-pounders. He knew that the wal s of the Yankee fort, which he helped build with his own hands, could not be penetrated by the cannons the Mexicans had at their disposal.

As he made his way to meet General Arista, Riley thought about how familiar Matamoros was to him now. The city was laid out in blocks, and General Ampudia had marched the troops in long parades up and down the streets to fool the Yankees into thinking the Mexican force was more massive than it actual y was. This was how Riley had come to learn his way around the city.The outer fringes of Matamoros had dirt streets and crude huts made of tal cane and thatched roofs, with frail wal s and no windows, not unlike the wretched cabins of Irish peasants, except that instead of the potato garden and cabbage patch, here they grew beans, tomatoes, and maize for their tortil as. The inner part of the town, where the higher classes lived, had cobblestoned streets, houses made of sunbaked clay bricks, which the Mexicans cal ed adobe, with

tiled roofs as red as the sunset. The whitewashed buildings near and around the plaza had massive wal s with large windows grated top to bottom with ironwork, al of it woven with red bougainvil ea.

The air smel ed of the noon meal, and Riley caught a whi of beans and frying meat, handmade tortil as, and the pungent peppers so relished by the Mexicans and used too generously in their cooking. His throat spat re like the barrel of a cannon whenever he tried their salsas. The Mexican Army had no mess tents. Soldiers nourished themselves thanks to the civilians sel ing food from doorways—tamales, enchiladas, tacos—home-cooked meals, freshly made.

He walked past the tree-lined central square and the church, Nuestra Señora del Refugio, Our Lady of Refuge, a title that aptly captured how he felt attending mass there. Their pronunciation of the familiar Latin mass di ered, but their humility and devotion for the Creator matched that of his own people, he thought.

The general’s headquarters were located at the best hotel in town, with elegant arches and a red-tiled roof. The guards standing at the entrance stepped aside to let Riley enter. He was escorted across a bril iant courtyard ful of lush green plants, cheerful fountains, and canaries chirping merrily in cages. Riley liked the design of the buildings in Spanish fashion. Nothing but high wal s could be seen from the outside, but the inside was protected and safe, a private Eden that closed its doors on the outside world.

General Ampudia looked entirely out of humor as Riley entered. He made no e ort to hide his displeasure at being replaced as commander-in-chief by General Arista, regarding his demotion as a personal a ront. Riley didn’t know why the minister of war had made this decision, but the transfer of power at this crucial time had further delayed their assault on the Yankees, and time was on Taylor’s side. Discord and rivalry among the Mexicans could only increase that advantage.

“Lieutenant Riley, please come in,” General Mejía said. “May I introduce you to our new commander, Major General Mariano Arista?” As Arista’s new deputy, Mejía seemed pleased with the new change in command.

“An honor, sir,” Riley said after snapping a salute. He had heard that Arista had distinguished himself as one of Mexico’s best cavalry o cers.

“At ease, Lieutenant Riley. I’m pleased to meet you. Both General Ampudia and General Mejía say we can trust you,” General Arista said in English, and Riley remembered hearing that the forty-three-year-old general had lived in the United States for a time before returning to serve in Mexico’s military. What surprised him most was the general’s freckled complexion and red hair. If it weren’t for his Mexican accent, he could pass for an Irishman.

“ ’Tis an honor to serve the great Republic of Mexico,” Riley said.

“We are going to war, Lieutenant,” General Arista said. “We are going to run the Yanquis o our land once and for al .”

“Aye, sir,” Riley said. “That we wil .”

General Ampudia approached Riley with a pat on the back. He said something in Spanish, and General Mejía quickly translated.

“General Ampudia says that you have improved our artil ery and have been of great service to our country.”

“I’m only doin’ my duty, sir,” Riley said. He didn’t want to say anything about the state of their weapons.

As if reading his thoughts, General Arista said, “The Yanquis, despite their aws, have a magni cent army to be sure, and the latest weapons of war. Our training may be insu cient and our weapons in need of replacing, but we Mexicans ght like devils when aroused, and make no mistake, Lieutenant Riley

—the presence of the Yanquis on our own land has more than provoked us.”

Arista beckoned for Ampudia to hand him the pile of papers sitting on his desk and then turned back to Riley again. “Now, you must be wondering why I’ve summoned you. Since you have served in the ranks of the enemy, your keen observations and recommendations are of utmost value to us, and we wil do our best to take your counsel into account. But now, we require your assistance in another matter.” He handed Riley one of the papers and said, “General Ampudia had great success when he penned a pamphlet addressed to your countrymen. As a result, I’m employing the same tactic. There’s widespread discontent in the American ranks, and I aim to exploit that. You’re to deliver these pamphlets tonight to your countrymen and al foreign soldiers in the Yanqui ranks. They must make their choice before we attack.”

Al three generals keenly watched Riley as he read through the pamphlet General Arista had given him. It was a ne letter, urging the Irish and other immigrant soldiers to abandon their ranks, and promising them land grants based on their rank, of three hundred and twenty acres or more. He thought about Maloney, Flanagan, O’Brien, and the rest of his countrymen who shared the same dream as he—to have a piece of land to cal their own. Was it possible that it was nal y within reach?

“By this time tomorrow hostilities shal be underway,” General Arista told Riley after he had nished reading.

The general went on to inform him of the plans he’d set in motion even before reaching Matamoros. A few days before, he’d given the command for a covert crossing of the river, whereupon General Torrejón led 1,600 of the Mexican forces—cavalry and infantry—across the Río Grande upstream from the Yankee camp completely unnoticed, with the ultimate goal of disrupting communications and convoys between Fort Texas and its supply depot at Point Isabel. By the time rumors of the maneuver had reached General Taylor, the Mexican troops were safely resting on the north shore. Arista’s spies alerted him that Taylor was set to dispatch two cavalry patrols that evening to nd evidence of the crossing and intercept the Mexicans. Now Riley understood why he must hasten to deliver the pamphlets. By this time the fol owing day, if blood was shed, the war would have commenced.

“I wish to see your countrymen ghting alongside us, as our Catholic brethren, and not on the receiving end of our guns,” General Arista said.

“I wil cal upon my countrymen,” Riley said as he looked at the three generals. “And personal y oversee the safe passage across the river of those who choose to come with me.”

“Very wel , Lieutenant,” General Arista said. “Tonight then, you shal be our messenger.”

“May I o er a suggestion, sir, by your leave?”

“Of course, Lieutenant, you have my permission to speak freely.”

“Would the general consider formin’ the deserters into a company of gunners? ’Twil give them an extra enticement to come.”

“An excel ent suggestion!” General Arista said.

“Indeed, it is,” General Mejía said. “You and I can train anyone who fol ows you across the river to man our eld pieces.”

“Now, Godspeed, teniente Riley,” Arista said. “Bring al your countrymen to us. Tel them we wil receive them with open arms.”

After he was dismissed, Riley returned to the barracks to seek out the men—

deserters like himself—to tel them of the plans. He chose three of them, John Little, James Mil s, and John Murphy, to accompany him.

He never thought he would don the hated Yankee uniform again, but that evening found him buttoning his old army jacket. Maybe Saint Patrick had prevented him from tossing it in disgust, as he had been inclined to do upon receiving his new Mexican uniform, for clearly, its usefulness hadn’t ended.

“Faith, you look like a Yank,” Murphy said as Riley approached them, clad in American blue.

“Let’s hope I don’t get caught,” Riley answered. He was glad the men were ready for action.

“ ’Tis a dangerous thing you’re doin’, Lieutenant,” Mil s said. “Let us accompany you. I know my way around the camp as if it were my own potato garden.”

“And I can be as quiet as a fox stealin’ hens,” Murphy said.

“I’m a fair swimmer,” Little said. “I can carry two fel as on my back if need be.”Riley shook his head. “Níl, I need ye on this side, boys, waitin’ by the river to help the ones who swim across.”

Two Mexican soldiers escorted them from their barracks toward the edge of the river. As night gathered around them, they traversed the streets, and he could hear families inside their homes, their merry laughter ringing out through the open windows as they shared their evening meal. He wondered how soon it might be his turn to partake of such moments with his family.

The aroma of meat and tortil as wafted toward them as they passed a smal adobe house where a señora was sel ing food from her doorway. Behind her, an

old woman knelt before a hot at stone, patting tortil as into shape. Riley’s stomach rumbled. He thought of his new favorite meal, tamales, a kind of meat pie wrapped in corn husks. As they passed another house, his mouth watered as he smel ed the pan dulce a woman was sel ing, and the tantalizing whi of cinnamon made him almost stop to purchase one. He regretted that his preoccupation with the night’s plan had kept him from supper. With one deep breath, he set aside his cravings as he veered toward the river. On the northern bank, the Yankee camp was stil astir, and he sensed that his timing was right. He was taking a great risk going at this hour, before tattoo, when everyone was stil awake, but he needed his former messmates gathered together. It would do him no good to sneak into the camp when they were al sleeping in their tents.

Riley scanned the darkness for the right crossing. Sharpshooters were out there with instructions to shoot rst and ask questions later.

“May the Virgin Mother keep and guard you,” Murphy said. “Tel our countrymen we’l be here, ready to help them.”

“Keep your eyes open and your ears alert, boys,” Riley said as he stepped into the water. “And pray Saint Patrick is lookin’ out for us tonight.”

One of the Mexican soldiers handed him the sack with the freshly printed lea ets wrapped tightly in oilcloth, and he put them in his knapsack. Be wise then, and just, and honorable, and take no part in murdering us who have no unkind feelings for you, the general had written. Throw away your arms and come to us, and we will embrace you as true friends and Christians.

As he stood at the riverbank, Riley thought of the generosity of fty-seven dol ars a month, and the acres of land the Mexicans were o ering him for his al egiance—how it would help him reunite with his family. Once again at the edge of this erce river, a familiar fear arose. But he had never been surer that a life of dignity and prosperity awaited his countrymen. Eager to deliver those tidings, he threw himself into the current and swam hard and fast.