Flight of the Earls (38 page)

Now, with several weeks of a treacherous journey through unforgiving lands behind them, they arrived at Plan del Rio, where they were set to gather forces and prepare for the impending assault.

The thrill of their prior battle wins fading, the restlessness about what lay ahead swept through the American camp, sprawled with tents, horses, artillery, and thousands of troops.

For Seamus, his memories of Veracruz were bittersweet. His killing caused him nightmares, but his exploits also spread throughout camp, and he had earned favor with Sergeant O'Malley and, more important, Captain Lee.

This strained his relationship with Pierce, who struggled to reframe how the stories were told. When his fellow soldiers mocked him for being on his knees and begging for his life, he insisted he had been knocked to the ground. Seamus supported his friend's version, though it didn't seem to diminish Pierce's jealous ranting.

So when Seamus was summoned to be part of a special mission with Captain Lee, he didn't bother mentioning it to Pierce. Instead Seamus grabbed his haversack, a day's rations, his rifle, and slipped out in the early morning.

This time, there were only four of them: Sergeant O'Malley, Captain Lee, and a lieutenant Seamus had never met before. The ground was black, jagged, and dotted with cacti, chaparral, and mesquite.

Seamus's sense of worth had grown through his recent experiences and even more so now as he stood with the others listening to the directions from the charismatic captain.

Captain Lee removed his gloves, unfolded a map, and rolled it out across a tall boulder. “Over there at the crest of this butte may lie as many as six thousand enemy troops, of which at least some we are certain to encounter during our patrol today. This territory has been deemed impassable by our leadership, including our own General Scott, but I believe otherwise. It will be our assignment to prove this point by identifying a clear path. If we are successful in doing so, it would provide the U.S. Army with a considerable means of surprise.”

Sergeant O'Malley tightened a strap on Seamus's pack.

“Of course,” continued the captain with his measured drawl, “if one of us is discovered through the course of this assignment, this advantage would be nullified. We must avoid capture or even being noticed at all costs.”

The captain folded the map back together and placed it in his pocket, then snapped the button tight. “Many lives will depend on this success. Am I understood?”

“Yes sir,” Seamus said in chorus with the others.

Without further discourse, they began to climb up the hardened terrain over rocky ledges, sharp crags, and across ice-slick surfaces. Seamus couldn't imagine how they'd make it through themselves, let alone an army. But it was clear by the goatlike ascent of the captain he was determined to find a way.

Spreading out in a wide canvas behind the captain, they each struggled to keep pace with their leader's inhumane progress. After a few hours Seamus had lost view of the other two trailing men and to his eyes, Captain Lee was as small as a jackrabbit up ahead in the distance. Panic started to set in as Seamus knew he had lost his bearing with the geography blending together, and his only hope was to keep the captain in his sights.

The chase continued for a couple more hours, with Seamus fearing even to take a break for water. He had lost contact on several occasions, only to be relieved to spot the captain's hat bobbing above a bush or boulder.

Suddenly, the officer came to a stop and dove behind a large fallen tree. Seamus slipped behind a bush himself and felt helpless as three Mexican soldiers came into view within yards of where the captain was hiding. In amazement, he watched as they came up to the log, sat down, and unpacked their lunches.

There was a noise behind Seamus and realizing he was completely exposed from the flank, he lost his nerve and hurtled down an embankment toward a grove of trees. Once in the shade of cover, he looked back to see who was behind him as his chest rose and fell, desperate for air.

Another noise. Twigs cracking. He wasn't alone.

There was nothing ahead except for short manzanita bushes, and with no other direction to go, there was only one choice.

He ran with all abandon.

Blindly. Tripping. Back to his feet. Forward again. Arms flailing.

It was hard to know for how long. It was difficult to know the distance. But when Seamus finally stopped, one thing was certain: He was completely lost.

Panning around, he strained to identify something that would provide a clue. There were some mountain peaks off in the distance, but he couldn't recall which direction they were in reference to his camp. Was it to the east or west of that range? Or was it south?

Seamus sat down on a boulder, then pulled out dry tack from his pack and ate it as he sipped from his canteen. On the ground by his boots, two scorpions scuttled by and he raised his legs until they passed.

As he glanced up at the mountain peaks again, he noticed the sun was sliding down behind them. He figured he had only thirty minutes of daylight remaining. He'd have to press on.

Seamus stood and swung his pack around his shoulder. When he bent down to reach for his rifle, he heard a clicking noise and turned slowly to see three Mexicans pointing pistols at him.

For soldiers, they wore peculiar uniforms. They were like robes, all white, with a leather sash, and they had straw-woven, broad-rimmed hats on their heads. Their faces were dark skinned, with bushy mustaches and browned teeth.

“Buenos dias, amigo,”
said the gray-haired one with a clouded eye. He nodded to another who responded by retrieving Seamus's rifle and patting him down for weapons.

“¿Habla Español, no?”

Seamus shook his head.

“¿Perdido, sí?”
He spoke slowly. “Choo lost?”

“Are you Mexican army?” Seamus asked.

“¿Soldados?”
The Mexican laughed. “
Sí
. You could say so, my friend.”

At the same time a dull thud was heard, pain streaked through Seamus's head and then everything went black.

When his eyes opened again, the world was upside down and moving violently.

Strapped across a burro, with his head on one side, his feet on the other, and his hands tied behind his back, Seamus awoke to throbbing pain in his head.

He craned his neck up as far as he could and saw he was being led into a place that seemed pulled from an artist's painting. It was a mountain village, framed by spectacular snow-topped granite peaks, towering green forests, and dabbed throughout was a brilliant bloom of spring wildflowers.

As they traveled farther, with the strangers obviously unconcerned for Seamus's indignity and discomfort, the road became cobbled and earthen-shaded mercantile buildings sprung up on either side.

From his limited vantage point and lack of mobility, Seamus could only see one of his ambushers who was leading the burro with a rope. But he heard the voices of other men as they exchanged pleasantries and greetings with the residents they were passing.

After being taunted by boys playing in the street who rapped at Seamus's ankles with slender rods, they finally arrived at their destination and the animal was tied to a post. Seamus was loosened and lifted to his feet. The blood rushed to his head so quickly he stumbled.

“Esta aqui, amigo,”
said the tallest, with a broad smile.

Two of them gripped his arms from either side, and they walked past a couple of armed soldiers who nodded at them as they entered through the shuttered doors of an adobe brick building.

Seamus recognized the smell of liquor and beer as soon as he entered the room, which had all the appearances and sounds of a tavern. There were a couple dozen men scattered throughout the place—relaxing at tables, sipping glasses, with some engaging in what appeared to be a serious game of cards. Some Mexican
señoritas
were serving drinks and consorting with the guests, who, for the most part, were dressed in the uniforms of United States soldiers.

Seamus could tell by their faces and voices that many, if not all, were of Irish heritage. In the corner sitting on a crate, a Mexican man with an eye patch strummed a guitar as he warbled a sad, Spanish melody.

One of the captors cut the rope from his hands, while the other two seemed to be in stern negotiations with a Mexican officer, presumably haggling over the ransom.

As Seamus rubbed his sore wrists, a woman with dark skin, brown eyes, and a large mole on her cheek approached with a seductive sway. “They bring handsome boy. You seat. I see you thirsty.”

She took his hand and sat him in a chair at a table where a grizzled American soldier appeared to be waiting for him. The man uncorked a bottle and filled up two shot glasses, sliding one over to Seamus.

“Welcome to Paradise.” The soldier held up his glass in a toast.

“What is this?” Seamus picked up his glass and gave it a wary sniff.

“Tequila. Made from the cactus you see all around. It's got a pleasant kick to it I think you'll find to your liking.”

“Why am I here?” Seamus asked.

“First. My apologies for the
bandidos
. They haven't quite got the hospitality part down. It's not what Major Reilly had in mind at all. But for a few pesos, they're rather capable at rounding up rabbit soldiers.”

“I didn't defect,” Seamus said defiantly.

“Of course you didn't, lad. None of us in this room have. We just had bigger plans than dying for the Yanks.” He pursed his lips, gave a whistle, and held up his hand. “Gabriela. Could you bring our soldier here something to eat?”

Seamus emptied the shot glass in one snap and winced. It tasted different but went down just like whiskey.

The man lifted the clear bottle and refilled it without asking. “What's your name, son?”

He thought for a moment about refusing to answer. “Seamus.”

Gabriela put a plate on the table. There was some meat, which appeared to be pork, and some round flat pieces of bread.

“Tortillas,” the soldier said.

“No for you,
Señor
Doyle.” She slapped playfully at the man's hand as he reached to the plate to grab one.

“I think Gabriella likes you,” Doyle said. “Go ahead. Eat your food.”

“¿Como se llama?”
Gabriella asked Doyle.

“His name is Seamus,” Doyle said. “Yes. She likes you.”

Gabriela circled behind Seamus and her fingers dragged through his hair. When she hit the lump on his head, he flinched.

“Oh, you head hurt bad? I make better for you. I come back.” She left and Seamus couldn't help but watch her as she shifted away.

“Yes.” Doyle nodded. “Gabriella always makes it better.”

Seamus leaned forward across the table. “How do I get out of here?”

Doyle chuckled. He pushed the plate of food in front of Seamus. “Eat, boy. You're going to need this.”

Wanting at first to throw the plate on the ground, Seamus looked down and the smells got to him. He put a piece of the meat in his mouth and chewed, and then grabbed one of the tortillas and shoveled it in as well. He figured it must have been because he was so hungry, but it tasted as good as anything he had eaten, and it fixed the aching in his stomach.

A roll of laughter came from a table at the far end of the room, where several American soldiers looked on as one of the señoritas danced voluptuously on a chair.

Gabriela returned and set a bowl of water on the table and dipped a hand cloth into it. Seamus observed as she wrung it out, allowing the excess water to drip before placing the warm cloth on the bump at the back of his head.

“The San Patricios,” Doyle said. “You've heard of them, eh?”

“I have.” Seamus dragged the last tortilla across the plate to sop up what juices remained.

“It's the Irish army of the Mexican Republic. They're Catholic people, you know? The Mexicans.”

“So I've heard.” Seamus leaned back in his chair as Gabriella rubbed his shoulders.

“They pay better,” Doyle said, “a better cause. Here we're Irish kings rather than maggots in America. Mark my words, son. You'll be thanking those bandidos the rest of your life.”

The doors burst open and in came a brawny boy with long, flowing red hair, a sunburned face, and wearing a Mexican uniform. In his hand, hanging from an iron pole was a green flag with a gold harp. “
Erin go bragh,
laddies,” he shouted. “The battle's coming to us.”

There was a mix of cheers and groans in response, and the Irish soldier vanished from the room as quickly as he arrived.

Seamus sipped from his glass and accepted a cigar from Doyle, who had lit it for him.

“My boy no fight.” Gabriela wrapped her arms around Seamus and kissed him on the cheek.

The Mexican guitarist began to play loudly and sang to some woman of his distant memory. Seamus couldn't understand a single word, but it spoke to him nonetheless.