Chapter 14

14

May 1846

Matamoros, Río Grande

15, Feb’ 1846

Beloved husband,

I received your letter and remitance. It soothes the hurt in my heart to know you are in good health. God continue to bless and presarve you, a stór. It has been sich a hard winter here in Clifden. Since the blight killed almost half of our lumpers from last year, we had no choice but to eat our seed potatoes.

I’m afeard there isn’t much left to plant. But we’ll soon put in the ground what remains and pray that the rot will not return again this year.

Otherwise, we’ll be slaving at the spade for naught. Some of our nabours who have the means have had enough and spake of going out to America. But most of our parish are too poor for that, as you well know. I’m afeard there will be hungry months until the next harvest, but we have survived bitther bad times in the past and with the grace of God things will improve. Johnny, Mammy, and Daddy all send you their blessings. You would be proud of our Johnny. He is a strong boy and he loves the horses like yourself. We are looking forward to the time we can make the crossing to be with you. I know you’re working hard for us. Pray send us word of how you are keeping.

I send you all my love,

Nelly

Nel y’s letter had arrived after Riley separated himself from the Yanks, but Maloney had lined up for him at mail cal . The Mexican northern frontier seemed so far away from her and everyone he loved, and hearing her need for him was al the more painful. But return to Ireland was impossible. What else to do then but to stay and earn his lieutenant’s wages? He picked up the writing materials he’d purchased and nished his letter in reply to her: The war has begun. When Mexico is victorious, I will send for you and Johnny and your parents. In this country we’ll begin a new life as proud landowners. Can you fancy that, my dearest one? It shall be so. I promise you. Please, remember me to Johnny.

Tell him when he gets here, I will have a fine horse waiting for him. He urged her to write back to him, though he wasn’t sure where he would be in a week, let alone, six months hence.

When he was done, he walked over to the church. Mexican postmasters were unreliable with mail within the republic, but even more so from another country, and he could not risk losing his wife’s remittance. Thanks to the parish priest, he learned a better way was through the Catholic Church. Addressed to Father Peter from padre Felipe, it would be nigh on three months before his wife would receive it at the chapel, but it was the surest way.

“Tel me, my son, you have troubles?” padre Felipe said as he stood outside the door of the sacristy, watering geraniums in the owerpots. He set down the watering can as Riley approached.

“Good afternoon, padre,” Riley said as he climbed the steps. He removed his shako and kissed the priest’s hand. “I am tryin’ to escape gloomy thoughts, but alas, they’ve taken possession of me. I think of my wife. If anythin’ happens to me in the upcomin’ battle—”

“God wil protect you,” padre Felipe said. “You, John Riley, are here to defend a Catholic nation from protestantes bárbaros. Our Lord and savior, Jesus Christ, watch you.”

“Thank you, padre,” Riley said as he handed over the letter. “If God has other plans, wil you write to my wife and inform her of my fate?”

The priest shook his head. “When battle over, you write to your wife and inform of our victory.”

“Would you give me your blessin’, padre?”

Riley knelt down, hoping the priest’s prayer would provide him the strength he needed to face whatever fate awaited him.

On the banks of the river the fol owing day, Riley watched the Yankee forces form ranks. The reinforcements and equipment General Arista requested from the capital had yet to arrive, but unable to wait any longer, he’d taken 4,400

troops with him to cross the river farther downstream and cut o Taylor on the road to Point Isabel. The balance of his troops, including Riley’s battery, had remained in Matamoros under the command of General Mejía to guard the ferry crossings and to man the defenses along the river.

At the council of war, Riley had proposed that the best course of action would be to surround Fort Texas while Taylor and most of his forces were stil inside. But General Arista believed it was too great an undertaking now that construction on the fort had been completed. Its high, sturdy wal s and deep moat prevented the Mexican infantry and cavalry from in ltrating it. They could besiege the fort with cannon re, but as Riley had pointed out, the Mexican cannons couldn’t penetrate the wal s. In an e ort to protect Matamoros from Taylor’s 18-pounders, Arista had decided instead to lure the Yankee forces away from the city and attack them out in the open eld. And so General Arista had forced Taylor out of Fort Texas by blocking his supply line. Short of needed rations to feed his troops, the Yankee general was now marching away from his camp and heading east to his depot.

Arista had put al his faith in his cavalry. The Mexican mounted troops had equestrian skil s unlike any Riley had ever seen, to be sure, especial y with their lassos. In addition to their carbines and pistols, they also carried long lances, which, though outmoded, they used quite e ectively. But confronting the enemy in an open eld might prove disastrous. Recal ing the artil ery dril s he had witnessed from the sca olds of the Yankee fort, Riley feared that once in the open, the Yankees would have al the space they needed to execute the dril s they’d been perfecting for months with their highly maneuverable batteries.

Containing the Yankees in one place and storming the fort with al of them inside might prove to be a missed opportunity they would come to regret.

Through his eld glasses, Riley observed the smal garrison Taylor had left behind to man Fort Texas. He spotted Engineer Captain Mans eld, rubbing his chin as he inspected the fort he had designed. Up on the redans, Major Brown and Lieutenant Braxton Bragg were checking the cannons and taking the range of the Mexican batteries. As the Río Grande owed between them, Riley remembered Bragg’s nativism and found himself pleased to be the West Pointer’s opponent. Could he have forgiven himself if he’d fought on the same side and been his accomplice in crime?

“How many left?” John Little asked.

Riley handed him the eld glasses. “About ve hundred infantry and artil ery forces. He’s left Major Brown in charge. Do you see that vile fel a, Braxton Bragg, up on the redans?”

“Aye, he’s lookin’ our way now,” Little said, handing back the eld glasses to Riley. “Looks as if someone stuck a thornbush up his arse.”

Riley trained his eld glasses on Bragg, taking pleasure in the disappointment the Yank must have been feeling that his light artil ery couldn’t be employed in an artil ery exchange across the river. His 6-pounders didn’t have the range needed, nor could they be maneuvered on the ramparts as they were on the eld.

What did he feel at seeing the Irish gunners under Riley’s command pointing Mexican cannons right at him?

“When do we strike?” Flanagan asked. “When do we cut the Yanks to pieces?”

“Hold your hour,” Riley said, panning to the east with his eld glasses. He could see nothing but the dense thickets of cane growing along the river. He wished he could be there to witness General Arista’s army intercept Taylor. It was only a matter of time. After weeks and weeks of a stando with the armies eyeing each other from opposite sides of the river, both forces were now on the same side, in proximity of each other, ready to be put to the test.

“Arrah, I loathe waitin’,” Quinn said. “Makes me nervous everythin’ wil go arseways on us.”

Riley looked at his gunners eagerly awaiting his orders, most of them scarcely dril ed and unaccustomed to re. He wished there had been more time to bring them to a higher standard of instruction and better precision, but they were strong, capable men who had learned to work wel . Riley patted Quinn on the back. “Faith, you’l light those matches soon enough,” he promised.

Two days later, on May 3, at the rst tinge of sunrise, Riley’s battery, along with the rest of the Mexican artil ery, rammed round shot down their cannons, lanyards at the ready. The Yankee fort was hushed and stil , its bugles not yet sounding reveil e.

The day before, news reached them that General Arista’s plans had gone awry. With insu cient boats at their disposal, it had taken his troops twenty-four hours to cross the river, and by the time al his forces and artil ery pieces had landed on the opposite side, Taylor’s troops had already gotten past them. Now that Taylor had reached the safety of Point Isabel, General Arista had no choice but to wait for Taylor’s inevitable return to Fort Texas, and this time the Mexican forces would be ready to intercept his advance. In the meantime, to lure Taylor out of the depot and force him to countermarch, Arista had ordered the bombardment of the Yankee fort to commence.

The o cers pointed their swords at Fort Texas and gave the order everyone had been waiting for: “¡Fuego!”

The Mexican cannons belched and recoiled as the crews jumped to the side.

Round shot screeched across the river, shattering the tranquility of the early morn. Riley watched the rst shots slam into the wal s of the fort, sending the Yanks scrambling into the shelters. Through the haze, he could see the residents who remained in Matamoros coming out to cheer heartily from their rooftops and on the streets. “¡Viva México!” they shouted. The church bel s began ringing and bugles joined in with their cal s as the Mexican cannons showered metal rain on the Yankee fort.

“¡Fuego!” Riley and the other o cers shouted again. Just like he’d taught them, Riley’s crew swabbed the cannons, reloaded, and red away. After the rst

shots, the Yankees recovered from the surprise and hastened to reply to their re.

Now it was Riley’s crew’s turn to duck as Braxton Bragg’s gun belched.

Through the grayish haze and fragments of twigs and leaves swirling about, Riley trained his eld glasses on Bragg’s gun, took the range, aimed, and yel ed,

“¡Fuego!”

The exchange of re was thunderous. Riley winced as he heard the Yankees’

shots crashing into the town, tearing their way through the houses, blasting the streets. His crew returned re on Bragg’s battery again, determined to unseat his cannon.

The bombardment continued for another hour, with one Mexican cannon being taken out of commission and three of its crew members kil ed. Riley’s battery su ered one injury from Bragg’s cannon—Flanagan was wounded by an exploding shel that ricocheted from the ground and tore into his abdomen. He was rushed to the makeshift hospital.

General Mejía ordered some of the cannons to be repositioned and better protected. The Yanks, unable to take out another of the Mexican cannons, attempted to set Matamoros ablaze. Riley watched as they hurled hot shot at the heart of the town, the shel s tearing through the terracotta-tiled roofs, the adobe and stone wal s, but to his relief the buildings didn’t ignite. The Yanks had failed to heat the shel s to a high enough temperature. Riley took great pleasure in seeing Bragg’s disappointment.

Six hours after the bombardment began, the Yankee guns went silent, and Riley assumed they were being careful with their limited supplies. The Mexicans continued to deliver their iron shower with little damage to the Yankee fort. Two of their guns had been dismounted, but not Bragg’s. As Riley had predicted, most of the Mexican shel s got lodged in the earthen wal s, causing little injury.

Other shots fel short of their targets. The shots that landed inside the fort exploded upward, so the Yankees simply dropped to the ground to avoid being injured. But it was the noise they were after, not carnage, and thus the ring continued. Riley hoped by now Taylor had decided to leave the depot and make haste to the fort.

But it was not to be.

An express was received from General Arista that Taylor stil remained at his depot. Firing on the Yankee fort would resume the next morning. It was almost fteen hours before the ring nal y ceased. The troops’ eyes were red and burning from the day’s smoke, the air reeking of exploding gunpowder. Riley was grateful that because of the smoke, at least they hadn’t been attacked by the mosquitoes that tormented them day after day. With no time to waste, he accompanied General Mejía and the engineers to conduct an inspection of the damage. The general ordered the troops to repair the sandbag forti cations and breastworks. The night was hot and humid, and the mosquitoes returned in swarms, but the troops labored incessantly. Beyond repair were three of the guns the Yankees had knocked out of commission, and one howitzer that had cracked during ring. Riley could hear the Yankees making their own repairs. He knew their fort had sustained little injury, but he hoped they’d at least su ered a good number of casualties.

Before succumbing to exhaustion, Riley and Maloney made their way to the makeshift hospital to look in on Flanagan. Taking out a handkerchief, Riley wiped the smoke and grime o his face. His ears were stil ringing.

“You believe the lassie and her grandmother can save poor Charlie?” Maloney asked. He coughed for a spel before continuing on. The smoke from the cannons was stil heavy and hovered over the town in a stinking cloud, making the air taste like burnt gunpowder.

Riley thought about the rush of blood pouring out of Flanagan and how he’d hastened to press on his stomach to stop the ow. “His life is in God’s hands. I don’t know. I saw the unlucky fel a get hit.”

Even before they entered the hospital, they heard the groans of those who’d been wounded during the cannonade. Luckily, there were few, and their injuries didn’t seem grave, not like Flanagan’s. They found him on a nearby cot being tended by Ximena, with padre Felipe standing on the other side giving him his last absolution. Flanagan was drenched in sweat, speaking in the Irish tongue,

“M’iníon, is cailín maith thú agus sól’as do d’athair.”

As he listened, Riley realized the poor man thought the young widow was his daughter. Of course, she didn’t understand a word he said, but she spoke to him tenderly, as a daughter would speak to her ailing father. Her back was to Riley

and Maloney, but sensing their presence, she turned around. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she wiped at them with her soiled apron, leaving a streak of Flanagan’s blood on her face.

Maloney went to her and wiped the blood o with his handkerchief. “Och, lassie, let me sit here with my friend. You deserve a bit of rest.”

She nodded and stepped away from the cot. “I’m sorry, teniente Riley,” she said as she came to talk to him. “I do what I can, but the shel cut his…

intestinos. So I sent for the padre.”

Her teary eyes were amber-colored, with ecks that glistened like shards of sunbeams. Riley tore his gaze away and looked down at Flanagan’s abdomen, where blood soaked through the bandages.

“Thank you, lass. We wil sit with him then,” he said. “Stay with him ’til the end.”

“I am sorry,” she said again, looking at Riley and Maloney. “I wish I do more.”

“You’ve done enough,” Riley said. “You gave him peace.”

She excused herself and went to help her grandmother with the other wounded.

“John, Jimmy, is that ye, boys?” Flanagan said. His voice was hoarse, and Riley leaned closer to his cot, taking his countryman’s hands in his. They were cold and limp, his life draining out of him.

“Whist. Don’t exert yourself, Charlie, be easy. We shal do aught we can to save ya,” Riley said.

Flanagan shook his head. “My time has come. I’m ready to meet God. But you keep ghtin’ those Yanks, John Riley. Show them what we Irish are made of.

Make them regret what they did to us, and to Franky.”

“I’l never stop ghtin’, not until we win this war.”

“You’re a credit to your countrymen, John Riley. Don’t let anyone—”

Suddenly, Flanagan began shaking and Riley cal ed for Ximena. Together they witnessed him take his last breath.

Padre Felipe made the sign of the cross over his body and prayed for him in Latin.

“Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam. I won’t let his death be in vain,” Riley said.

“Heavens be his bed,” Maloney said, then broke forth in tears.

Ximena put an arm around the old man. She looked at Riley, and for a moment, he wished to feel her arm around him as wel , for her intoxicating scent of sweet green herbs and smoky incense to wrap around him. He wanted to bury his face in the nook of her neck and cry with abandon, the way Maloney was doing now.

“I appreciate your kindness,” he said, taking a deep breath. He was a lieutenant and couldn’t indulge in sorrow and lamentation. This was war, and he was bound to lose good men. He couldn’t fal asunder with every loss. But hadn’t it been he who had convinced Flanagan to risk life and limb for Mexico?

And yet, couldn’t the same thing have happened to him with the Yankees?

The bombardment continued for the next two days, with the Mexicans unable to lure Taylor out of the depot. Word from Arista arrived informing them that Taylor had sent a group of Texas Rangers to sneak past the Mexican troops to reach his garrison at the fort. The Rangers had shot their way past the Mexican sentries guarding a post near the camp, kil ing six. Although Arista couldn’t be certain if the Rangers had managed to return to the depot, judging from Taylor’s refusal to leave, it appeared they’d accomplished their mission. Riley was sure they had succeeded and that intel igence the Rangers delivered to Taylor was the reason why he was in no haste to rush to Fort Texas. By now Taylor must have been wel apprised that the Mexican guns were scarcely causing damage to his fort, making him con dent the garrison could hold out.

“What are General Arista’s orders?” Riley asked General Mejía.

“We are intensifying our attack on the fort. He is sending General Ampudia with some forces and four eld pieces to bombard it from the north bank while we continue shel ing it from the south.”

The cross re continued, with Mexican artil ery ring on the Yankee fort from several directions, but it remained unbreachable. Riley had warned his men to prepare for a long siege, but he could tel their spirits had de ated, bombarding the foe when they didn’t have enough repower to cause any damage. If only

General Arista would stop waiting for Taylor to make his move so he could intercept him on the road. Riley believed that if the general brought the entire force of his troops upon the Yankee fort instead of having General Mejía and General Ampudia attacking from two sides, perhaps then they could capture the fort and conclude the stando .

But as Riley feared, news arrived that a shipment of supplies and new recruits had arrived at Point Isabel. Taylor nal y had the numbers he needed to feel con dent about emerging from his shelter. On May 8, when they received word that Taylor was on his way to Fort Texas with his troops and supply trains, General Ampudia abandoned his post and took his infantry, sappers, and two cannons to o er Arista support in intercepting Taylor along the road.

The battle was soon underway on the prairie of Palo Alto. Riley and the cannoneers, on their end, continued the bombardment of Fort Texas, making as much noise as possible. When there was a break in their re to let the cannons cool down, the deep booming of large guns eight miles distant could be heard plainly, like the roar of an approaching thunderstorm. Judging from Arista’s gloomy reports to General Mejía and his request that they send more ammunition, Riley knew the odds were not in their favor. If Arista had led the attack with his infantry and cavalry, there would have been a chance. As long as the battle was dominated by artil ery, there was little the Mexicans could do against Taylor’s deadly cannonade, especial y out in the open prairie where the ying artil ery had al the space it needed to maneuver and re its grape and canister on the Mexicans. Unless Arista could nd a way to silence the Yankee cannons, the enemy would continue to blast their way through the Mexican ranks. Hand-to-hand con ict would have evened the odds.

The next day, the battle between Arista’s and Taylor’s forces had changed location to Resaca de la Palma, four miles distant. By the afternoon, the command “Hold your re!” rang out from the Mexican redoubts. Riley knew the outcome of the second battle when he and his crew watched from their batteries as Arista’s troops appeared on the other side of the river, running as if the very devil were chasing them. So desperate were they to retreat, they tried to escape one danger by facing another—defying the dangerous currents of the Río Grande to reach the safety of Matamoros. They threw themselves into the water,

whether or not they could swim. Others tried to cross on horseback, and Riley watched in horror as both men and horses succumbed to the voracity of the river.

Behind them, Taylor’s dragoons were in hot pursuit. Riley and his men stood by their cannons, not pul ing the lanyards lest they kil both friend and foe. They watched as Arista’s disordered, panic-stricken soldiers attempted to cross the river. General Mejía ordered those closest to the water to help the retreating troops, but with insu cient boats to ferry al the men, hundreds dove into the river with their weapons, drowning in the attempt to get away from the mounted riders. Local ranchers appeared with their own boats to help, but there weren’t enough, and the weight of too many men and horses pul ed some of them under. Then ghts erupted on the riverbank as the disorderly masses attempted to board the boats. The last words of the drowning men were either a plea to God or a curse for their enemies. As the miserable fugitives were swept up by the current, Riley could hear the Yankees’ shouts of merriment as they waved their ag from the ramparts.

“Merciful Father…” Maloney said, looking at the frightful whirl of dismay and confusion. Riley could see in his eyes the terror of the night he almost drowned. He needed to get Maloney away from the hubbub in the river.

“Go to the barracks!” Riley commanded him. Knowing the day was lost, he ordered his crew to abandon their batteries, and they al rushed down to the river to save as many as they could from a watery grave.