Chapter 4

4

April 1846

Fort Texas, Río Grande

In the morning, word spread quickly—despite the harsh punishments the day before, or maybe due to them, more soldiers had deserted in the night, including men from Riley’s own unit. As he walked to the eld hospital, detailed by his commander to retrieve Maloney and talk some sense into him, Riley saw more foreign-born soldiers bucked and gagged or made to ride “the horse.” He sang Sul ivan’s ditty under his breath. If the Yankee o cers kept it up, they’d end up actual y helping the Mexicans l their ranks with deserters.

He found Maloney sunk in peaceful slumber on a dirty cot. Riley looked around at the dozens of soldiers, il from the wretched diarrhea, fever, pneumonia, snakebites, or other maladies. He crossed himself and asked Jesus and his Holy Mother to watch over them. He smiled bitterly as he recal ed the recruiting o cers of the US Army promising their enlisted men a wholesome diet, comfortable quarters, and the nest medical care.

Maloney’s branded forehead was violently in amed, his usual y mirthful face now wan and blanched of its good-natured color. How could he disturb the poor man’s dream where there was no pain and su ering? Captain Merrill be damned. He quietly pul ed a stool up to the old man’s cot. He took out a letter he received at mail cal two days earlier, though his wife had sent it more than three months before. That morning he’d woken up long before reveil e sounded to read and reread Nel y’s words, admiring her e ort to write a good hand.

26, Dec’ 1845

Dear husband,

I pray to God that whin you receive me letter you’re good of health and spirit.

Johnny and I pray for you every night, and we fancy the day when we can finally be together. I received your letter and your remitance, and my heart lep to me throat wid delight to know you have not desarted us, John, darlin’.

We’ve had many a dark day to be sure, but this Christmas was darker than most because you weren’t here with us in these unsartin times. I miss you terribly, John. How many more Christmas holidays will we be apart?

Nothing grieves me more than being separated from you. I’m afeard of what’s to come if our next harvest fails again. The commissioners can’t figure out why the potatoes rotted undher the ground. Was there something evil in the fog that rolled over our potato gardens? Did the English lay a curse upon our soil to starve us out? Is it a punishment from the heavens above? My heart longs for you so much, a stór, sometimes I think it will rot widin me, just like our praties. Please, my love, all I ax is that you do what you can to send us the means to ship off. Let nothing prevint you from sending for me and Johnny and me parents. Every night I lie awake, fancying myself riding on the waves of the Atlantic and into your arms.

Your wife who loves you deeply,

Nelly

He knew wel enough that she was right to worry. If the potato crops failed at the next harvest, Ireland would once again be faced with the scarcity it had witnessed in times past. Hadn’t he been born in such times? He stil remembered the hunger and the stench of death that overtook his hometown until the potato once again returned, keeping his people fed but never satis ed.

As a lad, hearing the stories of Irish heroes that Father Myles would tel him, or seeing heroes like Daniel O’Connel , or even rebel groups such as the Ribbonmen ghting on behalf of Ireland, had made him hope that one day he would be a hero, too, and save his country. But then he became a father and realized that heroism doesn’t feed your family.

He needed to get them out of Ireland, that much was clear. But Nel y wouldn’t leave without her parents, though he feared they were too old to bear the voyage. And where would he get the money to send for them al ?

“What troubles you, John Riley?”

His comrade’s voice startled him. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “How are you keepin’, ould rascal?”

“Never mind me,” Maloney said. “I asked you a question, I did. I know ’tis no music to a man to recite al his woe, but you can’t keep it inside, hurtin’ ya.

Go on, then. You can tel me, you can.”

Riley felt ashamed at seeing the concern in the older man’s face, that even after the brutal punishment in icted upon him, he was more worried about what troubled Riley. No, what right do I have to unload my sorrows on my comrade, especially when the ould man has just suffered more than he ought?

Riley shook his head. “Don’t distress yourself about me none. I’ve nothin’ to tel . I’m here to fetch ya. Captain Merril said ’tis time.”

Maloney cursed under his breath. “Is it wantin’ to kil me, he is? I’d rather be a deserter, a turncoat, than remain here a blessed minute more.”

“Hold your tongue, you fool!” Riley said, wondering if anyone had heard him. Didn’t he know that would only make things harder for him?

“See here, boy, I watched my missus and daughter ravaged by disease in that rat-infested ship that carried me here. When their bodies were thrown overboard with the rubbish into the Atlantic, I wanted to join them in their watery grave.

But suicide is a sin, so, in faith, I remained alive. And al for what, to end up in hel al the same?”

Riley looked at Maloney’s graying hair, his face as wrinkled and sunken as a dried gooseberry, though at least his eyes had not grown dim with age and he stil had al his teeth. At sixty- ve, his comrade should know better than to disobey orders, to neglect his soldier’s duty.

“I ought to remind you of the words you pledged, the contract you signed?

We’re bound to this country, whether we like it or not. Bein’ a turncoat would be a disgrace to you, to your f—” He caught himself just in time. He was going to say family, but Maloney had no one. “To your countryfolk,” he said instead.

Maloney pointed to his branded forehead. “To perdition with the contract!

They made pledges to us, too, didn’t they?” He pointed at a soldier a few cots away. “That German fel a had his skul laid open with a sword because he’s ignorant of the English tongue and didn’t understand his commander’s orders.

That Irish laddie is out of his senses, lashin’ on his bed because an o cer bound him hand and foot and threw him into a lthy pond til he was nearly drowned.

The Yanks won’t abide by their oaths, so why should we?”

“Because our vows ought to mean somethin’, and we must go through with what we’ve undertaken.”

Maloney spat on the ground. “I can honor the ones I make to Jesus and Saint Patrick then, eh? But the Yanks can kiss my arse. ’Tis a thousand pities I cannot swim a stroke, for if I could, I would be a Mexican soldier by now. And you, John Riley, you were once faithful to the sassenachs, and where has your obedience got ya, eh? What a misguided creature you are. Maybe one day you’l learn where you belong.”

Riley stood to leave. “ ’Tis fol y to think things wil be better over yonder, ould fel a. I ought to know. As you say, I’ve been in two armies now, and they’re both the same. What in blazes makes you think ’twil be di erent with the Mexicans? I’ve not the least notion to trade what little I have now for a fate less certain. Now get yourself dressed. Captain Merril expects ya for duty. And mind that you do it right this time.”

Distracted helping Maloney back to his tent, Riley didn’t see Lieutenant Bragg and his companions heading toward them from across the camp until it was too late.“Privates,” Bragg said. “Is there a reason why you didn’t salute your superiors?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sirs. We didn’t see ye, sirs,” Maloney said, as both he and Riley stopped and saluted the o cers.

“You didn’t see us?” Bragg said.

“The swel in’ on his face has a ected his eyesight, sir,” Riley said.

“And what’s your excuse, Mick?” Bragg stood closer, his spit on Riley’s chin.

Riley was thankful to have the advantage of the lieutenant in height, hence it was Bragg who had to look up at him, not the other way around.

“Shal I teach you to pay attention?” Bragg turned to his companions, Duncan and two other artil erists, who immediately grabbed Riley’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Riley tried to break free from their grasp. “Stand down, Mick!” Bragg said, hitting Riley in the stomach with the hilt of his sword.

“And not a word of insolence from you, if you know what’s good for you.”

Riley doubled over, gasping for breath. Maloney rushed to his side to help him stand up, but Riley shrugged him o . “Don’t ya meddle in this,” he whispered, knowing Maloney was in no condition for more punishment. The old man reluctantly retreated into the crowd that had gathered around them.

Riley looked at the soldiers huddled in a circle, witnessing his humiliation. He was a seasoned veteran, not a young fel ow like Sul ivan, or an old drunk like Maloney, yet there was naught he could do to prevent this bul yragging and keep his dignity as a soldier from being trampled upon. He held himself together and checked his anger. Just then, he caught sight of a piece of paper by Bragg’s foot.

The letter from Nel y. It’d fal en out of his pocket. Bragg fol owed his gaze and spotted the paper. He bent and picked it up.

“What’s this? Stil carrying around the lea ets from the greasers, are you?

After I made you burn them.” Bragg nodded to his companions. “Strip him!”

“ ’Tis not a lea et! I’m no traitor, sir,” Riley said as he struggled against the artil erists’ grasp. “I’l take whatever punishment you want, but give it back.”

Bragg snickered as he held the letter between his hands, and in that second, Riley knew he was about to tear it to pieces. One of his arms broke free from Duncan’s grasp, and Riley lunged at Bragg. The o cer staggered back just in time and jabbed his saber at Riley’s breast. “Insolent fool, how dare—!”

“What in God’s name is going on?” General Taylor’s voice boomed suddenly from behind Riley. He turned to see the general dismounting his mare. Next to him, his second-in-command, Colonel Twiggs, watched from atop his horse.

“This scoundrel here has given me impudence, sir,” Bragg said. “He even dared to physical y attack me.”

Riley remained silent, but he stood straight and held his head high. He was going to be punished, he knew that. There was no point in defending himself, but he wasn’t going to be defeated.

“Is this true, Private?” General Taylor said. “You attacked a superior o cer?”

“Aye, sir, ’tis true sir. But—”

“He’s carrying a lea et from the Mexicans,” Bragg said, waving the paper around.

“ ’Tis no lea et, sir! But a letter.”

“He’s lying,” Bragg said, about to tear it to pieces.

“General Taylor, sir!” Riley said, his voice urgent. “If you please, sir, may I have it back?”

“What’s al the fuss?” the general asked. He put out his hand, and Bragg handed over the letter. As he read it, the expression on his weathered face changed, and somehow the compassion in the general’s eyes made Riley’s anger return.

General Taylor handed Riley the letter and then got back on his horse.

“Lieutenant Bragg, let the private go on his way.”

“But, sir!” Bragg said.

Colonel Twiggs looked at Riley, his face puckered and annoyed. “Should we not make an example of him? Have him court-martialed for disobedience and disrespecting an o cer. If you don’t, his countrymen wil be fol owing his example.”

“We need every soldier we have to win Mr. Polk’s War. Don’t you agree, Colonel Twiggs?” General Taylor said. “But, Private, another instance of disrespect and I wil oversee your punishment personal y. Understood?”

“Aye, sir, I do, sir.”

Taylor mounted his old mare and turned to leave, Twiggs fol owing behind him, fuming. Riley stood stil , his eyes on Bragg.

“Watch out, croppie.” The West Pointer cursed under his breath. “This isn’t over yet.”

Riley and Maloney watched Bragg and his companions fol ow Taylor and Twiggs to the o cers’ quarters.

“Och, al the turf in the bog couldn’t warm me to the likes of him,” Maloney said, spitting on the ground. “Don’t let him nettle you, lad. Every dog is bold on his own doorstep.” He turned to Riley and grinned. “As for the general, though… just did you a bit of a favor, he did.”

“What gave you that foolish notion?” No, General Taylor had done him no favor. Bragg would fol ow through on his threat, and Riley needed to be ready.

Throughout the fol owing days, gunshots were heard at al hours. Deserters were steadily bolder, no longer waiting for darkness to brave the river. Seeking what?

Riley wondered. What do they think they’ll find? He held no sentimental notions of life on the other side. But he seemed to be in the minority. Some deserters didn’t make it across, but the ones who did would wave and shout at them from across the river. As Riley toiled under the brutal sun to build the fort, he recognized his comrades, not two hundred yards away.

“Come join us, fel as!” they yel ed. “The Mexicans are treatin’ us as friends!”

The Yanks raised their muskets, but Taylor had ordered men shot only in the act of desertion, not after. So they focused their anger on the foreigners in their ranks—the punishments escalated, and, in turn, so did the desertions. The Negro slaves the Yankee o cers had brought to cook and wait on them soon joined the trend to swim south. Mexican abolition laws made them free as soon as they set foot across the river.

General Taylor ordered round-the-clock work on the eld fort, and Riley and his team on the fatigue details labored day and night. When the redoubt was nished, the wal s held four cannons, 18-pounders, which gleamed in the sunlight as they aimed at the city. One gun pointed straight at the Mexican general’s headquarters.

Ignoring his sore limbs and sunburned skin, Riley carried on. But Engineer Captain Mans eld’s grueling orders pushed some to the brink. Five of the men on fatigue duty, driven by exhaustion, deserted in broad daylight. They tossed their shovels aside and threw themselves into the Río Grande. Before the pickets

could raise their muskets to shoot, four were pul ed underwater and didn’t surface again. The fth was shot down as soon as he emerged on the other side.

Riley saw Maloney’s and Sul ivan’s eyes widen in horror as they worked a few paces from him up on the parapets of the fort. Riley wanted to say, You see the danger now? He took his eyes o the dead man and studied the additional sandbag barriers and earthworks the Mexicans had thrown up the night previous. By now, their emplacements contained several cannons that pointed straight at the camp. But thus far, their guns had remained silent. A rumor was a oat in the camp that the Mexicans were waiting for reinforcements. If that was true, Riley realized they were losing their opportunity since the Yankee army grew more entrenched with each passing day, and General Taylor had plenty of time to strengthen his ranks.

Riley was surprised when Mexican soldiers appeared on the other side of the river, accompanied by a priest, and proceeded to bury the deserter who had been shot down. “Fidelium animae, per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace.

Amen…” The Latin prayer was carried over to him by the breeze, and he savored the familiar words. The proper burial heartened him too.

“The Mexicans are our brethren,” Maloney said, coming to stand next to Riley. “If we die there, we’l at least die as Catholics.”

“And as traitors,” Riley said.

“Or heroes,” Sul ivan shot back, coming to join them.

Riley glanced up the river at the Mexican colors ying from their commander’s headquarters. In the two armies he’d served, o cers had never treated outsiders as friends, much less as equals. Why would the Mexicans be any di erent?

“Quiet, Micks. And back to work!” Captain Mans eld yel ed from down below.

Riley did as he was told, but he pondered what Sul ivan said about heroes.

He remembered his uncle back home, who’d joined the Ribbonmen, a secret society that fought against the Irish tenant farmer’s miserable conditions. Riley remembered the day the redcoats captured them and hanged them from the gal ows. He had been only nine when he gazed up at his uncle dangling from the

rope, raindrops sliding down him like tears. That’s what happens to heroes, Riley thought.