by Mike Blakely
As he marched on across the makeshift parade grounds through the foul weather, he now saw the brush through the sleet and so quickened his pace. Then, near the mesquites, he saw a man sitting on the ground. No, not sitting. Tied. “Bucked and gagged” as they called it. John Riley was no stranger to strict military punishment, having served under the British. But this bucking and gagging had gotten out of control here on Corpus Christi Bay.
Walking up to the tree line, Riley stopped to urinate on the sand within talking distance of the unfortunate soldier. The private sat on his rear end on the sand, his knees bent, thighs drawn up to his chest. A stout wooden tent pole ran under both knees. The man’s arms passed under the pole and his wrists were bound tightly together in front of his shins. His ankles were also tied, and a rag had been stuffed into his mouth. Bucked and gagged. The man shivered uncontrollably in the cold. Snot ran from his nose. Each breath came out as a piteous groan.
Even the slightest offense—or no offense at all—might have led to this cruel punishment, and Riley knew the poor bastard may have been sitting there for hours in the sleet, his joints aching, his muscles cramping.
This was the lot of the immigrant soldier in the U.S. Army. O’Malley had warned of this, too. He had told Riley of the nativist movement that had swept America and infected the U.S. Army. Now Riley knew how truly that admonition had been expressed.
He looked over both shoulders for signs of any officer who might be watching. “Are you Irish, lad?” he asked.
The young soldier nodded, his body convulsing with the effort. This came as no surprise. A quarter of the soldiers under Zachary Taylor’s command had been born in Ireland.
“You know I cannot free you, or the punishment for both of us will be greater even than that which you now endure.”
The man blinked, blew mucous from his nose, nodded again.
“You cannot cross yourself bucked and gagged there as you are, but I can make the sign of the cross for you.” To disguise the holy ritual, he reached up with his right hand and tugged the brim of the shako hat, touching his forehead in the process. Then his hand reached downward to button the fly of his trousers. He completed the holy gesticulation by pretending to brush away an unwanted object from his left shoulder, then by tugging at his leather shoulder strap toward the right shoulder. He didn’t dare make the sign of the cross in any sort of more obvious way, for fear of some hateful nativist officer looking on through the sleet.
The man on the ground sighed his appreciation.
“May the Lord watch over you and give you strength on this day,” Riley said. “Do you know the twenty-third psalm, lad?”
The soldier nodded again.
“Say it again and again in your mind, and you will survive this day. ‘The Lord is my shepherd…’” He heard the soldier grunting the cadence of the familiar verse along with him. Riley continued to recite as he stepped into the mesquite thicket to gather wood. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’”
He found the pickings almost nonexistent, as the chaparral had been combed for three months now by thousands of troops. He broke off a few green limbs in order to look productive and wended his way out of the brush. Continuing along the sand dunes to the next patch of chaparral down the beach, Riley encountered another man being punished in a way even more sadistic than the buck and the gag. This man was “riding the horse.”
Made to straddle a tall sawhorse with his arms bound behind his back and weights hanging from each ankle, this luckless private had probably been in agony for hours. Two guards had been assigned the duty of watching him to make sure he didn’t try to throw himself off of the painful implement of torture. And that’s what it was. Discipline was one thing, but this was torture.
Here in the U.S. Army, Riley had seen punishments he had never even dreamed of in the British Army and had never heard of among any European armed forces. There was one inhumane punishment in which a man was bound near the shore of a river or pond, or even by the sea. A dozen soldiers with buckets were ordered to throw water in the man’s face incessantly until he almost drowned. Men had been known to die from this treatment—or to go mad afterward. One that Riley knew of had slashed his own throat with a bayonet.
On another occasion, Riley and four other stout soldiers had been ordered to hold a drunken man down on the ground so that his forehead could be branded using a red-hot iron with the letters HD, for “habitual drunkard.” The man, of course, had been an immigrant soldier, and the nativist officer who had ordered the mutilation had whiskey on his own breath at the time of the punishment.
Walking forward toward the unfortunate soldier on the sawhorse, Riley suddenly noticed that a rider on a large white horse was also approaching the man, from the other direction. This was General Zachary Taylor himself. Riley knew Old Rough and Ready immediately by his toad-like build atop the pale horse, his common civilian clothing, and the wide-brimmed planter’s hat he habitually wore about camp. Riley stepped into the edge of the chaparral and pretended to pick up a stick of mesquite as he listened and observed.
“How long has that man been on the horse?” General Taylor asked one of the guards.
“Since assembly, sir.”
Riley was close enough to see the general’s thick lips move with his next question. “What was his offense?”
“Wal, that soldier is Dutch, sir,” the other guard answered. “He don’t talk English real good. He didn’t git what the captain ordered him to do.”
“Take him down and carry him back to his tent,” Taylor ordered. “You men need to teach your messmates the English words they need to know to follow orders. We have to make an army out of this rabble.”
“Yes, sir!” The guards rushed in to remove the weights from the German’s ankles so they could lower his pain-racked body from the cursed sawhorse.
Having heard this, Riley picked up his firewood and continued along the edge of the brush. When the general drew near, he dropped the few sticks he had gathered, stood at attention, and saluted.
Taylor returned the salute. “As you were, soldier.” He rode near enough that Riley could feel and smell Old Whitey’s warm breath on his face. “What do you know about that man bucked and gagged back yonder?” the general demanded.
Riley decided to tell the only truth he knew. “He’s a son of the Emerald Isle, sir.”
“Like you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was his offense?”
“I did not witness the event, sir, but I overheard talk about its character.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard he stumbled in drill, sir.” Riley didn’t know this to be true, but he had seen other Irishmen bucked and gagged for that trivial infraction.
“Stumbled? That’s all?”
“To my knowledge, sir, yes, sir.”
“Get him up and take him to his tent.”
“That I will, sir!” He saluted again.
“Carry on, private.” Taylor then turned his mount and rode back the way he had come.
Riley ran back to his countryman sitting bucked and gagged on the cold ground. “The general himself has ordered me to free you!” He pulled the gag from the young man’s mouth and threw it aside.
“Thanks be to God,” the soldier muttered.
Riley drew a knife from his boot top and sliced through the knotted rope around the man’s wrists. “Now, stretch out slow. Take your time getting up, lad.”
After a minute or two, Riley was able to lift the soldier to his feet and turn him toward his camp. “Where are your mates, lad?”
“Battery E. Third Artillery.”
Riley groaned. Since coming to Corpus Christi, he had identified most of the nativist officers who preyed on immigrants. First Lieutenant Braxton Bragg, of the Third’s Battery E, was one of the most vicious. Still, he threw the young man’s arm over his shoulder and walked him to the artillery camp, not far away.
Just a
s Riley was giving the lad over to his messmates, Lieutenant Bragg himself confronted him, having seen him carry the young soldier to camp from the officer’s mess.
“Who the hell are you, soldier?” Bragg demanded in a high, harsh voice. Except for the hateful glare in his eyes, his features were quite handsome.
Riley came to attention and saluted. “Private John Riley, Fifth Infantry, sir.”
The lieutenant slapped Riley’s salute away from his forehead. “You’re stinking Irish shanty trash! I can tell by the whiskey slur on your lips!”
Riley stood at attention and remained silent, though he hadn’t had a sip of alcohol since leaving Mackinac Island.
“Who told you to free this piece-of-shit papist?”
“General Taylor, sir.”
Bragg’s face darkened. “You big Mick cropper. You stick out like a jackass among the other men, don’t you? I won’t forget you, Riley. If I find out you’re lying about General Taylor, you will have hell paying the piper!”
“Sure, it’s the truth, so help me, sir.”
Bragg slapped Riley on the side of his head, the unexpected blow staggering Riley a step to one side. Though his temper boiled and he longed to strike back, he stood at attention and looked beyond the officer.
“Do not speak to me unless you’re ordered to!”
Riley stood fuming as the abusive lieutenant turned away.
The men of the Third Artillery dared not thank Riley aloud for returning one of their own, but one patted him briefly on the back as he left, his temper still fuming. As he plodded back to pick up his firewood, Riley hoped for a moment in the coming war to settle the score with Lieutenant Bragg. For now, he prayed for the good sense to hold his temper. At this moment, the clouds broke over the dunes. A shaft of sunlight beamed down on the village of Corpus Christi, perched on the bluff to the west.
Riley thought back to a Sunday, not long ago, when he and a few other Irishmen had risked nativist retribution to attend mass being administered by an itinerant priest from Matamoros. Padre Alfonso did not speak English, but the Mexicans and Irishmen alike who gathered in the makeshift church—a trading house in the village—knew the Latin incantations by rote. Having been deprived mass for weeks between Mackinac Island and Corpus Christi Bay, Riley felt his heart warmed and his conscience soothed. He gathered that his fellow Catholic soldiers felt the same way.
But before dismissing his congregation, Padre Alfonso had passed out printed handbills to each of the U.S. soldiers. Outside, the men gathered around Riley as he unfolded the circular the priest had given him in order to read it in the sunshine. He found the type thereon well arranged and ornately rendered by an experienced printer.
“Is it English?” one of the men asked.
“Aye, that it is,” Riley replied.
“What does it say, John? You’re the only man of letters among us.”
Riley read quickly and silently through the pamphlet, then looked grimly at the lads surrounding him. “Hand over those dodgers,” he ordered. “Every one of you. You’re ne’er to get caught in camp with this on your person.”
“But what does it say?”
“It says, ‘Good for fifty lashes at the nearest whipping post.’”
“I’m not giving mine up until you read it to me,” one of the soldiers protested.
Riley snatched it from the soldier’s hand before he had time to resist. “I will read it but once, so you’d all better listen well.”
The men nodded.
Riley shook the leaflet out in the cool Gulf breeze and the sunshine, and began to read:
“Sons of Ireland. Listen to the words of your Catholic brothers. Our religion is the strongest of bonds. If you follow the doctrines of our Savior, how could you take up arms against your brothers in faith? Why do you rank among our wicked enemies?
“Come over to us. You will be received under the laws of Christian hospitality and good faith which Irish guests are entitled to expect from a Catholic nation. Our hospitality tenders toward you what you can possess and enjoy: military rank, glory, and as much property in land as you require, and this under the pledge of our honor and holy religion.
“May Mexicans and Irishmen, united by the sacred tie of religion and benevolence, form only one people!”
“Speak not a breath of this,” Riley had warned, tossing the pamphlets into an outdoor orno that some senora had stoked for the baking of her daily bread. “Now, march back to camp, you scalpeens. Ignore this propaganda.”
But now, weeks later, on this cold day in December, with the singular shaft of sunlight beaming down through a break in the clouds, illuminating that same makeshift chapel atop the bluff, John Riley could not help longing for the tolling of bells in a proper cathedral, the chanting of priests, the aromas of incense, and the love of fellow Catholics in a nation under the cloak of His Holiness, the almighty Pope Gregory XVI.
President
JAMES K. POLK
Washington, DC
February 16, 1846
The president sat at his desk with his back to the window. He could feel the winter chill gnawing at his elbows through the glass. He was listening to a rather coarse gentleman from Pennsylvania laud his own efforts on behalf of the Democratic Party in his congressional district. He had come, of course, to seek some office as a reward, but he had not gotten around to saying as much just yet.
“I near wore out the goddamned cobblestones in Harrisburg!” the man declared. “Knocking on doors by day and knocking heads together in the taverns at night!” He guffawed as he brandished a meaty fist. He smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He wore a threadbare coat with a patch on one elbow. He used its sleeve to wipe his nose. He was bald and had a neck like a bull.
It was Polk’s habit to see all manner of visitors most mornings from eight until noon. This open-door policy attracted politicians, foreign diplomats, common citizens, admirers, detractors. But by far the most typical class of unannounced visitor was that of the office seeker.
“… and when it came to ‘Fifty-four forty or fight,’ I was always ready to fight, Sir President…”
This pugilistic boast, which Polk did not doubt, made his mind drift to the Oregon situation, which weighed heavier on his mind than the Pennsylvanian’s self-congratulatory diatribe. Negotiations with England were still at an impasse and, when it came to dealing with John Bull, Polk believed in leverage. He now favored terminating the 1827 agreement of joint occupation of the Oregon country, signed by the United States and England. Many fainthearted members of Congress feared this would lead to war, but Polk believed Lord Aberdeen and Sir Robert Peel would compromise. In spite of the campaign demand of “Fifty-four forty or fight,” Polk was beginning to accept the forty-ninth parallel as a workable settlement.
“… and it seems that I spent so much time on the campaign, Mr. President, that my employer—the Whig bastard—booted my arse out of the foundry! Me! The one man jack who worked the hardest!” The man paused to slurp some tea.
To remind himself of the good Democrat’s name, Polk glanced at the man’s calling card on his desk.
“Mr. Runnels,” he said, springing from his chair, “I assume you have come seeking some office in return for your much-appreciated service to the party.” He scooped up the calling card as he came around the desk.
“Why, as a matter of fact—” Runnels said.
“Come with me.”
The burly office seeker sprang eagerly to his feet and followed Polk to the office door. There, the president turned to face Runnels and handed his card back to him.
“I’m afraid there are no paying positions to offer at this time. There are only volunteer opportunities.”
“Volunteer? I just told you of my volunteer service.”
Polk opened the door and snapped his fingers at his personal secretary. He turned back to Runnels as Colonel J. Knox Walker joined him at the door. “Mr. Runnels, I invite you to give your card to my secretary, Colonel Walker. If some salaried
position should arise for which your abilities would prove suitable, I am sure you will hear from him.” Polk smiled, quite pleased with himself at the diplomatic ways in which he had learned to say no.
“By all means,” Knox said to Runnels. “Perhaps as a postmaster at some new outpost on the Indian frontier.”
“The frontier?” Runnels complained. “I live in Harrisburg.”
Knox held out his hand. “Your card, sir, if you please.”
The crestfallen Runnels handed over the card. “Well, I was hoping—”
“We’ll be in touch.” Knox pushed the man out of the president’s office and shut the door, leaving himself and Polk inside. “I apologize for that one, Mr. President.”
Polk sighed, his head wagging. “It’s not your fault, Knox. It’s my policy.” He looked at the clock. Half past eleven. “Who’s next? I suppose I have time for one more caller.”
Knox smiled. “Someone a bit more interesting has come calling, Mr. President.”
“Oh?”
“Colonel Atocha. The Spaniard. Perhaps you remember him?”
Polk searched his memory. “Atocha. Yes, he was here last year. A crony of General Santa Anna’s.”
“The same,” Knox replied. “He has, in fact, just come from Cuba, where he visited with Santa Anna in exile outside of Havana. He would like to speak to you on behalf of the general.”
Polk gave a single nod of his head. “Very well, Knox. See him in. And stoke the fire, if you please.”
“Of course.”
He watched as Knox placed two new logs—and the last visitor’s calling card—on the embers in the fireplace. Knox left the office. Polk turned to the window. The glass was too foggy to see much of the scenery, but it was a dreary February day anyway. He waited until he heard the door open.
“Mr. President, I present to you Colonel A. J. Atocha.” Knox withdrew from the office.
Through the initial handshaking and small talk, Polk admired Atocha’s matching black trousers and frock coat, his silk vest, gold watch chain, and perfectly tied cravat. Last year, Atocha had come seeking the help of the president in forcing Mexico to pay damages for property lost. Atocha claimed he was Spanish-born but had become a naturalized American citizen. He had lived in Mexico and worked as an agent for then-president General Antonio López de Santa Anna. When Santa Anna was deposed and exiled to Cuba, Atocha’s property had been seized and he had been ordered out of Mexico. Polk had simply told Atocha to join the ever-growing ranks of American citizens whom Mexico had abused.
