Flight of the Earls (44 page)

It was at the Battle of Churubusco where Seamus learned he was a fine soldier.

Hoisted atop a castle-like convent in a village not far from Mexico City, he and nearly a hundred of his fellow San Patricios rained heavy artillery fire on the advancing American troops.

For a brief time, there was some belief in the members of this brave Irish battalion of the Mexican Army that they would be successful in further delaying the inevitability of defeat. Short on ammunition, on the brink of starvation, and fighting for a military that was hopelessly overmatched, they were keeping the enemy at bay.

But as the unleashing of incoming American weaponry found its range and began pummeling the fortress with fiery explosions, it became clearer that survival would only exist in the form of surrender.

Seamus was one of the last soldiers to put his weapon down. That was unusual considering he still lacked a purpose for fighting.

Having seen the flesh of his new comrades, boys from home, torn, pierced, and left to burn, he had become hardened to the agonies of battle.

Yet as he gazed out through the rusted bars of his stony prison, toward the vast courtyard in the distance, he was unprepared for the horror of hanging. Orders were sounded, the mules were whipped on their flanks, and bodies fell violently and necks were broken. All that was left was the final sickening dance of the fallen Irish soldiers.

Seamus heard the familiar rattling of the keys at his door. It was his time now. With five empty cots in the cell, his fortunes had run dry.

Entering the room was an American in a black suit with a white collar, bearing a worn leather book in his hand. Seamus figured this would be his last rites. It wasn't the hangman, but the harbinger of what was to come.

Seamus returned his gaze back on his fellow San Patricios dangling from the ropes outside. “Are you here to comfort me?” he said wryly.

“There is only One who can comfort you now, son,” said the man who appeared too hard spent to be a minister. “I'd prefer to hang you and leave you be.”

Seamus spun around. “What?”

“I lost many of my closest friends with you filthy Irish defectors.”

“You're my priest?”

“Just a messenger,” he said. “A pastor without followers is just a man moving his lips.” The man took off his black-brimmed hat and sat on the edge of one of the beds. He pointed for Seamus to sit down across from him.

Seamus was struck by the frankness of his guest, perhaps even amused. With a fragment of shrapnel still lodged in his leg, he sat down gingerly.

“Why'd you do it, son? Why did you fight for the enemy?”

“If I knew that answer . . .” Seamus replied and then he let out a short laugh. “All of my life, I've been losing. Perhaps it's a good ending. My calling. Isn't that what you call it?”

“That's what they tell us,” the pastor replied. His eyes softened. “We spend most of our life doing things for the wrong reasons. Sometimes they can still get us to the right place.”

Seamus put his hands up in the air. “So here am I.”

The minister studied Seamus closely and grinned. “I was hoping I wouldn't like you.”

“C'mon, minister. Get in on it, will you? Read me some of that book and how everything will be all right.”

The pastor tapped on the front of his Bible. “This book? It tells me I'm not to waste pearls on swine.”

Seamus stood. “Perfect. Just perfect. The last breaths of this miserable life and I can't even get a decent good riddance.”

“Sit down.”

Reluctantly, Seamus did as he was ordered.

The pastor clenched Seamus's hand with force. “I've seen you. Lads just like you on every battlefield. Running away. Lost as lost can be. You're short on time, son. This is how it will end, and it won't finish well.”

“What do you know about my life?” said Seamus.

“Life is a fierce wind. What we hold on to is all that matters. I can see you haven't been clinging onto anything.”

“Freedom,” Seamus said. “I'm free.” He panned the cell he was in and laughed at the irony of what was just said.

The minister was unmoved by Seamus's flippancy. “Freedom is only valuable if you use it to make a good choice.”

“What choice would that be?”

“Hmmm. I can see you won't be asking me to pray for you. But how 'bout I pray for someone more deserving of prayer?”

Seamus thought of Clare and bowed his head in shame, unshed tears stinging his eyes.

The pastor put his hand on his shoulder. “Come, son. Who is it, and I'll pray for them. Right here.”

“My sister,” Seamus said ashamed of his tears. “You see my father always said I was worthless. I spent my life proving him right. But my sister. She saw something in me I was never able to find.”

“What's her name?”

“Clare.”

“All right then, friend. We'll pray for Clare.”

“Sir?” Seamus tried to mask his tears.

“Yes, my son?” The gentleness in the man's eyes was a flower in the weeds of his scarred and wrinkled face.

“Could we say a prayer for me as well?”

Seamus had bled himself out of screams.

He was among those of the Saint Patrick's Battalion whose lack of devotion to the cause was determined worthy of a reprieve. Instead of suffering the noose, he would be given an alternative punishment.

Having lost count somewhere beyond the tenth stroke of the mule skinner's skilled whip, Seamus was unaware of how many remained of the fifty prescribed. The lusty cheers from the onlooking crowd had already devolved into hushed murmurs. The sight of flesh hanging from the backs of those receiving their penance had dulled the spirit of celebration.

Seamus figured this was God's cynical response to his prayer.

In some ways he embraced the pain and humiliation as a way to be granted forgiveness for all of his life's mistakes. But this didn't keep him from begging for unconsciousness, a wish which was finally granted.

He didn't know how much time had passed until he drifted aware again, cruelly recovering his circumstances as ugly, twisted faces gaped at him with freakish curiosity.

“Spare that one,” said a woman with a gravelly voice. “He's much too pretty.”

The laughter that followed blended into the cruel sounds of wicked merriment and lust of vengeance. As Seamus struggled to keep the nausea from rising in his throat, he turned his head to see a thick-armed, bearded soldier working the reddish coals of a smoldering fire.

Seamus snapped in an effort to free himself, but there was no slack in the ropes and the pain of the gaping wounds neutered his will to escape.

The soldier lifted an iron brand from the fire and, with a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth, raised the bright red glowing tip close so Seamus could see it was the letter
D
. The blacksmith nodded to a soldier behind who then pushed Seamus's forehead against the back of the tree so he couldn't move.

Blowing smoke out of his cigar, the blacksmith inched the firebrand toward Seamus's cheek. As the iron reached its mark, the searing pain exceeded any of that caused by the muleskinner's craft, and the sickening smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils.

Then Seamus drifted away.

On the outskirts of El Paso del Norte, Seamus arrived on foot to a crossroad and rested on a boulder overseeing a panoramic of whistling and dusty terrain—barren, except for cacti, and speckled with sparse desert shrubbery.

His beard of three weeks had filled in well, growing over the bloody scabs where he had picked away the mark of a defector with the tip of his blunt knife.

He couldn't know for certain, but he suspected the minister had arranged his release from the decrepit prison; yet Seamus hadn't an opportunity to thank the man and wasn't sure he would if given the chance.

All he owned was in a pack he found discarded by death or desertion by some American soldier in a ditch by the side of the road north of Durango. When he retrieved his meager belongings after being released, he was stunned to see his last payroll was intact, though with the collapse of Mexican currency, it would be barely enough to get him past the border.

He pulled out a piece of jerky, which he was told was made from a fallen horse, and a chunk of goat cheese, which he pared with his knife. Having abandoned any evidence of his service in the Mexican Army, he wore the simple clothes of the villagers, which he bought with the proceeds from a short, fortunate run of cards.

It was an unusually hot day in late autumn, and it caused him to lift his hat and wipe away the sweat under his bandana. He amused himself by watching the antics of a lizard scurrying by his feet.

The road that forked ahead was in poor condition, and for a while he had it to himself as he pondered in which direction he would proceed. He made plans only as far as El Paso and never believed he'd arrive.

He was enjoying this brief moment of solitude when in the distance a cloud of dust appeared, and soon he could see it was a wagonload of American soldiers approaching at a solid clip and he clenched.

As the cart came closer, the driver pulled on the reins and slowed to a halt. There were two soldiers in front, and another eight or so riding in the back, passing around jugs of some libation, each taking heavy swigs.

“Where to, stranger?” sounded the driver, who was bald and sporting a scar from his eye to his cheek.

Seamus looked over the soldiers and spat out pieces of grizzle from his jerky on the ground. “Haven't decided.”

“Where you from?”

“New York.”

“Sounds like you're from farther than New York, lad.” The man slapped at a fly on his hairless head. “You can come on board with us, if you'd like. We're heading toward New Orleans. You can catch a riverboat to make most of your way home.”

“Thank you kindly,” Seamus said. “But I'm still taking in the sights of this beautiful country.”

The passenger up front with bushy gray sideburns leaned over. “You don't want to go that way, soldier. That's toward the West. Through the mountains. In the snow. Indians. Ain't nobody certain what's out there.”

“There's more of these wagons behind us,” said the bald driver. “You can catch the next one.” He gave the reins a snap and guided the train to the right. The men in the back of the wagon held up their bottles and tipped their hats in a lusty salute as they headed out.

Seamus lifted his pack and watched the wagon until it faded from view far in the distance. Then he reached down and scooped up a fistful of dust, and flinging it in the air, he observed which direction it flew.

Now with new resolve, Seamus took the pathway to the left and ventured out into the Great American West.

Chapter 42

Dublin Harbor

Clare had never been to Dublin, and had it been an earlier and more naive time in her life's journey, she would have been overwhelmed with the grandeur of its maritime commerce. But after departing from the port of New York and traveling on one of the fastest transport ships in the world's fleet, she was becoming accustomed to city life.