Chapter 37

37

September 1847

Mexico City

“He is going to hang, hija,” padre Sebastián said, coming to sit beside her on the pew. “They al are.”

He had gone out that morning seeking news of John and his men. Every day he’d inquired on Ximena’s behalf because no one would tel her when John would be court-martialed. And now it had nal y happened, that very day, and like everyone else, he’d been given the death sentence.

She looked at the altar, at la Virgen de Guadalupe, at the shafts of broken sunshine streaming through the church’s stained-glass windows. “Hang?

Hanged by the very men who have cal ed Mexicans barbarians and savages? Who are the savages now? Damn them. Damn them al to hel !”

“Lo siento, hija,” padre Sebastián said. “But please, do not blaspheme in front of la Virgen.”

Ximena took a deep breath and composed herself as best she could. No, no, he couldn’t be hanged, not after everything he had gone through, after everything they had sacri ced, fought for. “I won’t let them,” she said. “I won’t let that happen.” She got up and took her leave. “Que tenga buen día, padrecito.”

“Pero ¿adónde va, hija?” padre Sebastián cal ed out.

She emerged from the Catedral Metropolitana into the bright day and pushed her way through the throng. Where could she go? Santa Anna was once again in the midst of political turmoil. Due to the armistice he had agreed to with the Yanquis, he’d been accused of being a traitor, not only by the people

but also by government o cials, including the governor of the state of Mexico.

Although the armies had exchanged prisoners, Santa Anna didn’t have Yanqui prisoners of high enough rank to exchange for his own o cers, let alone John.

Scott wouldn’t give him up, even if Santa Anna had had a Yanqui major in his possession. Who could save John and the other San Patricios from that horrible fate?When she naly reached the Alameda, she was assailed by memories of strol ing hand in hand with John. As they listened to the rustling of the trees and felt the caresses of the cool breeze, they had planned a future together that now would never happen. Not if the Yanquis got away with murder.

No, she wouldn’t al ow it!

She hired a coach to drive her to the British consulate. She had little money to spare, but her feet were swol en from al the walking and she needed to sit. Surely the British would help. After everything they had done to the Irish, surely they would have mercy now and do what they didn’t do for them back in their homeland—save them. She wished now she had gone home to x her hair, changed into her muslin dress, and exchanged her old rebozo for the mantil a John had given her on their wedding day. Appearances determined whether you were listened to or not. As she climbed up the steps to the consulate, she stopped and pinched her cheeks for some color, then licked her lips and smoothed her hair. She wished she had gloves, a parasol, anything that would elevate her in the eyes of the consul. What would he think of her coming into his o ce in such disarray? She should have also donned the beautiful brooch Santa Anna had given her, but this was a matter of life and death, gloves and brooch be damned.

The guard held the door open for her, and she forced herself to slow her pace as she entered, pausing to thank him. She gazed at the ornate wal s, the marble oors, the imposing pil ars.

“May I help you, madam?” a kind-looking older gentleman said as he approached her.

She forced a smile.

“Yes, please, sir. I must see the British consul. I have a matter of great importance to discuss. Please, it’s very urgent.”

“May I ask who is cal ing?” he said, guiding her to the waiting area.

“Señora Ximena Benítez y Catalán.”

He motioned for her to have a seat while he headed through a pair of wooden doors.

There were a few people sitting there, gentlemen reading the paper, smoking their cigars with such calm and ease that it made her angry just to look at them.

Final y, the doors opened, and the clerk motioned for her to fol ow him. He escorted her into an o ce where a middle-aged man sat behind a mahogany desk. His face was impassive, though she could see the curiosity in his eyes as he took in her disheveled appearance.

“Forgive me for interrupting your duties, sir,” Ximena said, grateful that in the time she had known John, she had much improved her command of the English language. “But I must speak to you about a matter of great importance.”

“Percy Doyle at your service. Please, madam, have a seat. Your English is excel ent, though clearly you are not a British subject. I am afraid I might not be able to assist you in my capacity as British consul.”

She sat down, relieved to get o her feet. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m here to speak on behalf of the Irish soldiers imprisoned by the United States Army, sir. They have been sentenced to hang.”

There was no response from the man, and Ximena could tel by his demeanor that he already knew. He looked at her, as if wondering how she t into al of this.

“They are subjects of Great Britain,” she said, “and as such, is it to be assumed that the British consul wil solicit a pardon from the North Americans?”

He pul ed his seat back as if to stand up, but didn’t.

“Yes, madam, the British government is wel aware of the situation regarding the Irish soldiers, and I assure you if I could be of assistance, I certainly would o er it. But as it is, alas, there is naught to be done for them.”

“They are going to hang, sir,” Ximena said, feeling her body shudder.

“It is a rather complicated situation, and one cannot expect a… ah… lady of your station to understand. Rest assured that I would look into the matter if I knew there was anything that could be done. At the moment, I do not believe there is.”

“They’re British subjects,” Ximena said again. “Does that mean nothing to your government?”

“They are wild and reckless,” he replied. “Those soldiers gave their word to the Americans, just as many of them gave their word to the English. They went back on their word, and now it has come to this. You cannot expect the British government to support those who show no honor or loyalty. Now, if you excuse me, madam, I have another matter to attend to.”

Ximena stood. She could see that he didn’t care at al about the fate of John and his men. They were not worth his e ort. John had told her how the English had treated them back home. Now she understood the hatred in his voice whenever he spoke of them.

“You must know, sir, that one of them is my husband.” There, she said it. She had thought it best not to reveal this, but it was the only thing she could think of. He looked at her and frowned. “I beg your pardon, madam?”

“John Riley, sir, is my husband. We were wed here, in this city, before the battle.”

“I assume it was a Catholic wedding, madam. Do you have legal proof of this wedding?”

“Padre Sebastián—”

“Forgive me, madam, but I don’t think marriage to a Mexican citizen wil save your husband from the gal ows. The Americans wil not care.”

He didn’t say it but she heard it clearly. And neither do we.

“I am with child, sir. I’m carrying John Riley’s child. Please, wil you not speak in his favor for my child’s sake!” She al owed her shawl to drop o her shoulders and stood so that he could see her protruding bel y.

He coughed in discomfort at her lack of propriety and looked away. “I wil see what I can do,” he said, but she knew he would do nothing. “Now, if you wil excuse me…” He picked up a stack of papers and motioned for the clerk to guide her out.

The old man held out his hand to her, and she was grateful. Her legs were shaking, her body throbbed, as if she’d col ided against a thicket of cacti.

Suddenly, there was a kicking inside her. Her child, pressing its little elbows and

knees against the wal s of her bel y. She stood outside the building and placed her hand over her bel y, feeling the life she held inside her. Did her child know that its father was in danger? What was her baby trying to tel her? When Joaquín died, she’d dreamed of his death and just stood by, afraid of her visions. Not this time. She closed her eyes and said, “For you, my child, I’l do it for you.” She rushed down the steps and hurried up the street. She would go to the archbishop and whoever else might help the San Patricios. She would not return home until she knew that John’s life, and the lives of his men, would be spared.