Chapter 20

20

September 1846

Monterrey, Nuevo León

In the end, the battle lasted three days.

Through his eld glasses, Riley bore witness to the surrender of the citadel.

After the capitulation of Monterrey, it was decided that he and the other Irish volunteers should abandon the black fortress. They came into the city and hid in civilian homes, out of sight of the Yankee general. Though the terms of the capitulation had protected Riley and the others from fal ing into the hands of the enemy, it was better that they not be present during the surrender of the strongest position in the city. Taylor might demand that every deserter be turned over to him. So now, at eleven in the morning, Riley and his gunners, along with the city’s inhabitants, were obliged to watch from the rooftops as the Mexican ag was lowered and eight cannon blasts cut through the air, a nal salute to the Mexican colors. The smoke rose in the wind and was carried o across the plains toward the towering mountains.

When General Ampudia had cal ed back the troops two nights earlier, ordering that they abandon their posts and retreat to the main plaza, Riley knew it was fol y to concentrate al the forces in the center of the city. His fel ow foreign soldiers, as wel as his Mexican comrades, believed that the army could hold o the attack and defend Monterrey. But the general wouldn’t give ear to them.

Being a half mile away in the citadel, Riley didn’t get to witness the ghting within the city, he only knew what he and his battery had done on the plain where they were stationed. For three days, Riley and his gunners had red the

cannons from the citadel relentlessly, tearing into the blue columns marching double-quick time toward Monterrey. They kil ed or wounded many who came within range, forcing the Yanks to march over their fal en comrades as they rushed to attack the city. With his own eyes, he saw the dozens and dozens of mangled bodies scattered across the plain, soldiers whom he and his gunners had stopped dead in their tracks with their canister shot. The Mexican lancers nished o whatever troops Riley’s men had managed to disperse, spearing the enemy while Riley’s guns kept sweeping the plain, raining metal on those who tried to hide in the corn elds. The vultures and the coyotes did the rest.

But Taylor’s troops had pushed past into the city through the other points of entry, taking the northeastern part of Monterrey the rst day, the western part the second. They took possession of the higher ground—Fort Tenería, Fort Diablo, and the Bishop’s Palace—and the Mexican troops had ed, their own guns turned against them. On the third night, orders came to the gun crews at the citadel to hold their re and hang the white ag from the ramparts.

Dismayed that Ampudia was seeking to arrange a twenty-four-hour armistice with Taylor, the batteries in the black fortress tarried in fol owing the order. The citadel cannons had been the rst to open re, and they were the last to grow silent. Riley’s only consolation was that the Yanks never took the citadel.

Later, after General Ampudia had sent one of his o cers to solicit a parley, he claimed that in doing so he was putting an end to the distress of Monterrey’s citizens and preventing their slaughter. The cathedral was l ed with ammunition and one more blast from the enemy’s cannons would have blown it to pieces, kil ing countless innocent people. Ampudia claimed it was for their sake that he was compromising Mexico’s honor. The truth was that the general had greatly underestimated the Yanks and had been outwitted.

Now here they were, witnessing the humiliation of the enemy’s colors being hoisted up on the sta to y over Monterrey. A cannon was red by the Yankees, then another and another. Al around him, cannons belched and recoiled in salute of the twenty-eight states of the American constel ation. Riley watched as the Mexicans marched out of the citadel, and the Yankee troops marched in shouting their hurrahs and playing their patriotic tunes. He could scarcely hear

the music, but in his head, “Yankee Doodle” played again and again, mocking him.

Afterward, Riley made his way to the hospital to check on his wounded men and speak with Maloney. Questions swirled in his head. What would his countrymen say about the capitulation of Monterrey? Would they regret joining the Mexican ranks? Would they blame him? As his horse forced its way over the rubble littering the streets and shel fragments, Riley couldn’t help but mourn the injury in icted upon this beautiful city, the white stone streets stained red, the fal en trees, homes with crumbled wal s and doors riddled with bul ets, shattered windows and ruined balconies. The grief-stricken civilians were walking about, searching for their loved ones while others were loading what they could of their possessions onto their mules or their own backs. Riley wished to close his eyes to the devastation. What had been gained from these calamities

—a premature surrender of the city?

At least the terms of the surrender had spared him and his men from their worst fear—being captured by the Yanks, which would have meant sure death.

General Taylor had agreed that al Mexican forces would be al owed to withdraw from the city with their arms and a six-gun battery. He agreed to not pursue the Mexican troops for eight weeks. So Riley and his men would be al owed to march out of the city in the ranks of the Mexican Army of the North. At least for now, the deserters were safe.

As he neared the cathedral, a crowd of civilians were gathered around it. Riley winced at the sight of the destruction in icted upon this holy place of God, with its damaged clock tower and marred facade. But then he realized what the crowd was looking at. The Texas Rangers, violating the terms of the truce, were ling in and out of the cathedral on their horses as if it were nothing more than a stable.

They came out carrying cruci xes, sacred vessels, wax gures of the Virgin Mother and Child, and religious paintings. One of them was dressed in the sacred vestments, another was banging on the organ inside, pealing forth the most grotesque sounds. The townspeople pleaded for them to stop. The priests

and monks on their knees, with a cruci x in hand, begged them to cease their barbarity and respect the house of the Lord. They simply laughed and continued their plundering.

Riley now knew how his people must have felt when Oliver Cromwel invaded Ireland two centuries earlier, desecrating its churches, using them as stables. The seething rage. The impotence. He heard someone shouting.

“Ye infernal scoundrels! ’Tis sacrilege what you’re doin’! May the curse of God be upon ye!”

Even before he turned to look, he knew who it was. Maloney emerged from the crowd with a musket in hand and rushed at the Rangers. Riley tried to stop him but couldn’t get through the onlookers quickly enough. Before he could reach his friend, Maloney red at the Rangers, kil ing one of them. The Rangers trained their deadly six-shooters on the old man, pouring their bul ets into him until they were spent. Riley halted his horse and watched as Maloney’s blood spread over the ground. The Rangers reloaded and pointed their Colt revolvers at the onlookers.

“Who’s next?” they yel ed. “Who wants to try to stop us?”

The crowd ed, and Riley took advantage of the chaos to try to turn his horse around before the Rangers spotted him. Suddenly, Ximena was there. Seeing Maloney slain on the ground, she screamed. She pushed her way through the crowd, hastening to where he lay, but Riley rushed to intercept her. The Rangers would kil her. He knew it, and when he blocked her path and she looked up at him, she seemed to know it, too, for she reached for his hand. He pul ed her up onto his horse and together they gal oped away.

When they reached the Río Santa Catarina, they dismounted and she broke down, sobbing.

“Whist, lass, whist. We’l make them pay for this. I swear it.”

They sat by the riverbank and leaned against a boulder; the Sierra Madre range towered over them. Riley realized he no longer wished to live in this city, never wanted to return. Ximena stopped crying but wouldn’t utter a word. She stared at the river in dreary stil ness and scarcely seemed to breathe. It a righted him so much that he cupped her chin and turned her face to his.

“Look at me, lass,” he said. “I know you loved the ould fel a. He loved you as wel , and he wouldn’t be happy to see you fal in’ asunder on account of him.

He’d want you to be strong, to carry on. You hear me?”

She nodded gently. He pul ed her into his arms, and it was as if he were gathering an armful of wild lavender and other fragrant herbs, for her delicate aroma was a healing balm on his spirit. They sat there by the river watching the current swirl and glide past them. A crane swooped overhead and uttered over the surface of the water, and Riley felt the gust of its apping wings stirring the air. They beheld its ight as it ascended, weaving through the clouds tinged in gold from the afternoon sun until it was just a speck in the sky.

“We wil lose the war now, yes? The land is lost. And my husband and grandmother are gone, and now Jimmy is gone too.”

“Nay. We’ve lost a battle, not the war. We wil carry on, keep ghtin’ in their honor.”

She turned to face him, and he took out his handkerchief and wiped the lingering tears on her face. Her eyes red with sorrow. Her hair disheveled. And yet, she shone with a erce beauty that overwhelmed him.

She cupped his face, her ngers caressing his cheeks, tracing the outline of his bottom lip. With a groan, his mouth fel on hers, and she responded with the same ardor. He could taste the salt in her tears, the bitterness of her grief, then it al faded into the honeyed sweetness of her desire for him.

He tore away from her, suddenly gasping for breath. “Arrah! We mustn’t. ’Tis wrong—”

She took o the red rosary beads she wore around her neck and put her ngers over them, her voice serene and comforting, like a warm embrace. “Creo en Dios, Padre todopoderoso, creador del cielo y de la tierra…”

He leaned his forehead against hers and took her hands and the beads into his. “Et in Iesum Christum, Filium eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine…”

They held each other in mutual sorrow, whispering their prayers over the rosary, until they could feel Maloney’s spirit take ight. A peace settled over them. He held her in his arms a little longer until nal y they found the strength to get up and bury their dead.