A Sinister Splendor

by Mike Blakely

  Ampudia’s surrender disgusted Riley and his men. Many other Mexican officers agreed, some labeling their general a coward. As for the exact terms of the surrender, Riley had heard only rumors, and those tidbits of information had come to him in Spanish, a language still mostly mysterious to him. But now he had been summoned by his commander, Colonel Francisco Moreno. Moreno, because he spoke English, had been chosen by Ampudia to negotiate terms with the Americans. He would know the details of the agreement with Taylor.

  Riley placed his kepi on his head, left his tent, and marched to the cathedral-turned-ammunition-depot in the middle of the Citadel. All around him soldiers rushed about like ants, preparing to leave the Citadel and march south under armistice terms that were still unclear to him. Men loaded wagons, hitched mules, and shouted at one another in Spanish.

  Through this chaos, Riley strode into the cathedral, down the nave, to a little stone room behind the chancel, which Colonel Moreno had chosen for his headquarters. His profound worry made him plod more slowly as he approached the room. Since hearing of the surrender, two questions had haunted him: Had Taylor demanded that all U.S. deserters in the Mexican ranks be handed over? If so, had Ampudia agreed to give them up?

  An affirmative answer to both questions meant almost certain execution for him and his men. Hanging? Firing squad? The dread weighed heavily upon his heart and mind. Yet there was hope. There was always hope. Perhaps the colonel had good news.

  He found the doorway open and saw Moreno at his desk, writing. He knocked on the pine door.

  “Begging your pardon, Colonel, sir. Captain Riley, reporting as ordered.”

  Moreno pointed at a chair but did not look up from the report he penned furiously, like a mad composer finishing his opus.

  Riley sat and waited and worried. Finally the colonel completed his chore and swiveled in his chair to face his subordinate.

  “Captain Riley,” he began, “I wish to brief you in English on the details of the surrender and the resulting armistice so that you may inform your men what awaits them on this less-than-proud day.”

  Riley nodded. “A gesture most appreciated, sir.”

  “As you probably know, I was chosen as one of the officers to negotiate with the Americans.”

  “An honor to your professionalism, sir.”

  Moreno chuckled. “And to the fact that I happen to speak English, no?” He rose and paced the small room. “It was an experience not without intrigue, I assure you. Across the table, the American negotiators included General William Worth himself. Also a colonel named Jefferson Davis—a former senator from Mississippi and commander of a volunteer regiment. He was among the first to breach the defenses of La Teneria. And finally, Major General James P. Henderson, the governor of Texas and commander of a regiment of Texan volunteers.”

  “General Taylor was not present?” Riley asked.

  “Only at the end, when the negotiations had been completed. The Americans provided a translator. I am satisfied that they were not aware of my fluency in the English language. This gave our committee a slight advantage over theirs. I spoke only Spanish during the negotiations.”

  “Canny.”

  “It was General Ampudia’s idea. I will confide in you, Captain Riley, that I did not approve of the general’s decision to surrender. But that sly old war dog … As a negotiator of terms … Well, let us just say that Ampudia got quite a bargain from Taylor.”

  “A bargain?” Riley hoped the deal did not include deserters from the U.S. ranks.

  “The Army of the North will withdraw honorably from Monterrey—southward to San Luis Potosi. Our men will retain their personal arms and ammunition. But, alas, we are allowed to keep only one battery of six cannon. We must leave the big guns of the Citadel behind.”

  Riley groaned. “A tribute to our marksmanship, sir.”

  Moreno nodded. “Claro. There will be an armistice of eight weeks.”

  Riley’s eyebrows raised. “Very generous. How did General Ampudia manage this?” He was still hoping that he and his men had not been made pawns in this exchange.

  Colonel Moreno leaned forward with a wry grin. “Ampudia told Taylor that an American envoy has been welcomed into the city of Mexico to negotiate peace with the government!”

  “Is it true?”

  “No, it is a complete fabrication!” Moreno laughed. “While we took our coffee, I overheard Colonel Davis say to General Worth that the war was over! The fool!”

  Riley tried to smile, but the worry over his fate, and that of his men, would not allow the expression. “About my men, sir. What is to become of us?” He saw Moreno look him in the eye. The colonel’s grin melted away, and he seemed to read on Riley’s face the dread he felt in his guts.

  “You will surrender the Citadel with the rest of the defenders. In fact, it is almost time.”

  “And then, sir? What then?”

  The realization seemed to slap Moreno in the face. “Dios, Capitan! You don’t think we would hand you over to the Americans! Nunca! You fought bravely for three days with little food and sleep. You engaged and killed the enemy with great skill. You are Mexican soldiers now.”

  “And General Taylor agreed to this?”

  “To be honest, the topic did not even arise. You are safe, Capitan. Your men will not be molested.”

  Riley bolted to his feet, the great weight lifting from his shoulders. “I must inform my men, sir.” He felt an unexpected tear well up in one eye.

  “Wait, Riley. There is another matter. Mexico’s most cursed blessing, Santa Anna—or perhaps he is a blessed curse—has somehow returned to power to the south. He is raising an army to meet the American invaders.” Moreno turned to gesture toward his desk. “I have just written a letter to General Santa Anna, extolling the skill and professional behavior of your men. I have recommended to him that you be placed in command of a battalion of immigrants recruited from the American ranks. This is what you wanted, was it not?”

  Riley came to attention, pride forcing the last of the dread from his heart and soul. “That it is, Colonel, sir! That has been my fondest hope for myself and my men since I left the bloody heretics of the north!”

  Moreno chuckled at his enthusiasm. “Steady, Capitan. General Santa Anna will have to approve. And, he is Santa Anna. One never knows what the old cripple might be thinking. We will see. For now, you are dismissed. Prepare your men to evacuate the Citadel and repair to the main plaza of Monterrey.”

  Riley saluted. “Thank you, Colonel! You will never regret your recommendation!” He made an about-face and strode from the room feeling more buoyant than he could have imagined upon entering. A tingling sensation shot up his neck and formed his lips into a fierce and menacing smile.

  * * *

  The exodus from the Citadel had gone smoothly yesterday. A regiment of American regulars had swept into the fort as soon as Moreno’s men had vacated it. They had run the American flag up the pole to the tune of a twenty-eight-gun salute—one shot for each state in the United States.

  Now, a day later, Riley stood shoulder to shoulder with his fellow defenders—the better part of Ampudia’s Army of the North, formed up by regiments in the public square of Monterrey. The plaza still smelled of corpses and carrion, though most of the dead bodies had been removed and the carcasses burned. The stench did nothing to ease his nerves. He had begun to feel uncomfortable again about his safety, and that of his men.

  Riley looked up at cheering American soldiers lining the rooftops of buildings all around the plaza. Some brandished weapons and screamed oaths at the conquered army below them. He turned his back to the cathedral towers and looked west. There, on top of the post office, stood the legendary Texas Ranger Sam Walker, with several of his hard-bitten men. Riley had been told that Walker had refused General Taylor’s order to withdraw from the plaza the last night of the battle. He had spent the night in the post office—a place that had once served as his jail.

  The Rangers looked menacing, but he fe
ared the soldiers of the Fifth Infantry more than the Texans. He had not only deserted them but also fired upon them from the Citadel. He hoped General Taylor could control his victorious troops. Riley believed what he had been told—that Taylor had made no demand for deserters. Still, he felt uneasy. He knew his men stood out among the Mexicans. The former U.S. deserters were one hundred strong. Some sported blazing red hair. All were fair-skinned and sunburned. For these reasons, the Mexicans had begun to call them los colorados—the red ones.

  How many American soldiers would love to take a shot at a deserter who had hurled bushels of grape and canister into their ranks?

  Stand firm, Captain. Show neither weakness nor fear.

  At length, drums rolled and bugles blared. Captain Riley took a seat on a caisson hitched to a limber behind a team of half-starved horses. The cavalry filed out of the plaza first, followed by infantry units. Finally, the artillery regiments began to roll.

  He hadn’t been shot yet. Maybe his luck would hold.

  Lieutenant Patrick Dalton stepped up to Riley’s side and marched along as Riley rode.

  “Have you seen the men of your former regiment, sir?”

  “Do not speak of it, Lieutenant. Think of camping this evening along a clear mountain brook.”

  Dalton took several steps, his eyes glancing nervously up at the Americans on the rooftops. “Aye,” he said at length. “As a lad I once traveled up the River Slaney into the Wicklow Mountains. Did you ever see the Wicklows, Captain?”

  “I ne’er did,” Riley admitted. “I was a Galway lad with no means to wander.”

  “There are trout to catch in the River Slaney. Would that I could camp there this evening.”

  As the limber he rode bumped along over the cobblestones of the Calle de Monterrey, he began to feel more at ease. The bill of his kepi hid the color of his face from the Americans on the rooftops above him. He remembered strolling along this tree-lined thoroughfare before the battle. How beautiful and shady the street had seemed. Now the trees were all blasted to splinters and the homes and shops scarred by cannon fire aimed down the street at the Americans. So much grape had been hurled down Calle de Monterrey that the fronts of the houses looked as if plows had been pulled across them.

  He trundled slowly onward until Calle de Monterrey became the Saltillo road. The homes and shops of the town gave way to fields and farmhouses—most of them also ravaged by artillery fire. Here, Riley found both sides of the road lined four deep with American soldiers. The dread began to sink into his stomach again as a psalm echoed, from somewhere long ago and far away, in his head: Who rises up for me against the wicked? Who stands up for me against evil-doers? If the Lord had not been my help, my soul would soon have dwelt in the land of silence.

  This he needed to hear just now, for he began to pass by the men of the Fifth Infantry, to his right. The very regiment he had joined on Mackinac Island and deserted on the Rio Grande. The men were no longer on rooftops but alongside the road, at eye level. There was no hiding under his brim now.

  Help me, Lord.

  “Hey! By God, if that ain’t Riley!” yelled some soldier among the Americans.

  Riley kept his eyes trained forward as he felt his jaw tighten.

  “The dastard!”

  “You turncoat!”

  “Traitor!”

  “Treason! Hang him!”

  “Hang them all! The whole sorry Irish lot!”

  The din of angry voices grew around him, melding hisses, huzzahs, and howls.

  Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …

  Riley’s heart pounded furiously to the rhythm of clopping hooves.

  “May God help us,” said Lieutenant Dalton.

  “Keep your eyes straight ahead, Patrick!” Riley replied.

  At length, the Fifth Infantry fell behind the procession, but then along came the ranks of the Third Artillery. These men also jeered at the deserters, for Riley and his men had poured heavy fire into their ranks from the Citadel. His nerve now bolstered by surviving the wrath of the Fifth Infantry, Riley allowed his eyes to dart among the men of the Third Artillery. He searched out and found Braxton Bragg, for the immigrant-hater sat ahorse that lifted him high above the rank and file.

  Staring now at Captain Bragg, Riley waited until the sadistic nativist officer locked eyes with him. Each man glared at the other as Riley rolled past. From Bragg, Riley expected to hear all manner of curses and threats, but the American only scowled and remained silent. His lips formed an angry snarl, but Riley thought he could actually make out a hint of respect—perhaps even a modicum of fear—in Bragg’s eyes.

  He broke the staredown and looked forward through the dust of the marchers ahead of him. Up the road, he saw mountains looming. He thought now only of that clear mountain stream that awaited him.

  Beside him, he heard Lieutenant Patrick Dalton heave a great sigh. “’Tis our own little flight of the wild geese, Captain.”

  “Aye. And lucky we are to have survived it.”

  “To fight another day.”

  Riley nodded. “And with the luck of the Irish and the blessing of General Santa Anna, we will fight again under our own banner. The flag of Saint Patrick!” He smiled, the weight of Monterrey now rolling from his shoulders like cannonballs down a hillside.

  President

  JAMES K. POLK

  Washington, DC

  October 17, 1846

  What a pleasant surprise, Polk thought. Finally, a man of culture, intelligence, and propriety sat across from him at his desk. The gentleman had only been sitting there a minute or two, engaging in polite small talk, but it didn’t take James K. Polk long to measure the quality of a man.

  This visitor, the honorable Francis M. Dimond, had been summoned from his home in Bristol, Rhode Island, for this most important meeting. Dimond had served as U.S. consul in the city of Veracruz for some time in the past. He was about Polk’s age, maybe a few years older. He had dressed quite appropriately, in black trousers and waistcoat, a white shirt, and a black silk scarf. His wavy brown-and-silver hair seemed to cascade into striking sideburns in the shape of muttonchops. He was quite a handsome man—regal nose, strong chin, high forehead.

  “I explored the Caribbean as a restless youth,” Dimond was saying, a hint of a smile curling his lips. “My first post abroad was as consul at Port-au-Prince.”

  “I was not aware of that,” Polk admitted. “And from there?”

  “I took the position in the consulate at Veracruz, which I found a much more important and intriguing post.”

  Polk nodded. “And how long did you serve in Veracruz, Ambassador Dimond?”

  “Ten years, Mr. President.”

  “Excellent.” Polk placed his fingertips on the desk in front of him, almost as if preparing to play a piano. “Mr. Dimond…” He stared earnestly at the ambassador. “At this point I must impress upon you the most delicate nature of our discussion today. I am obligated to insist that every detail spoken between the two of us must remain absolutely confidential, as a matter of national security.”

  Dimond leaned forward in his chair, a most serious air emanating from his dark eyes. “You may rely upon my utmost discretion, Mr. President. I am well acquainted with the protocols involving the security of our nation.”

  Polk nodded. “Very well.” He kicked his chair backwards and rose to pace behind his desk. “Describe to me, if you can do so from memory, the Mexicans’ military defenses at the port of Veracruz.”

  Dimond interlocked his fingertips like timbers on a log house. “My memory is very clear, Mr. President. You may rely upon its veracity.” He seemed to stare up at the curtain rod behind the president. “Since the French Navy invaded in 1838, some improvements have been made on the defenses protecting the harbor. Hundreds of modern guns are mounted in the city, and more inside the fort of San Juan de Ulúa, situated on the reef in the harbor. Large guns, sir. Up to twenty-four-pounders. And some heavy mortars as well.”

&nb
sp; Polk paused in the steady cadence of his slow pace behind the desk. “Yes, so I’ve gathered. I have been advised against attacking the harbor itself. But what about a landing somewhere along the coast, near Veracruz, yet out of range of the guns in the city?”

  Dimond nodded. “I believe there exists just such a chink in the armor, Mr. President. A few miles south, off the coast, there is a tiny uninhabited island called Sacrificios. Vessels sometimes anchor in the lee of the island during storms. Across from Sacrificios, on the mainland, stretches Collado Beach. I have visited this beach on picnics and such. It is ample enough to land a large army out of range of all the big guns of Veracruz.”

  Polk was looking out through the window now. It appeared to be a beautiful autumn day in Washington, DC. Most of the leaves had already changed colors. He had promised Sarah that they would take a carriage ride to enjoy the fall foliage, but now it was too late. He tore his gaze away from the pane, wheeled, and looked directly at Ambassador Dimond. “And what of the defenses around the rear of the city?”

  “As you know, Mr. President, Veracruz is a walled city in the old Spanish style. The wall and its fortifications begin on the coast to the south of the city, extend all the way around the western limits of the city, and end at the coast to the north of the city. But the old wall is in poor repair. It is mounted with older guns, and many of them are unserviceable.”

  “Do you believe the city could be invested from the rear and forced to surrender?”

  “Because of the strained relations between Mexico and America, I have studied the possibility of such an attack for years. I believe it can be done, Mr. President. However…”

  “Yes?”

  “I have two concerns.”

  Polk sat back down in his chair, in case he should need to take notes. “What are they?”