St. Patrick Battalion

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  Mexican Army reinforcements keep coming into Matamoros. They surely have us outnumbered considerably by now. They throw up new gun emplacements over there about every day. Priestly processions parade down with music and bless the guns. Some of their artillery is angled up and down the river to put us under threat of crossfire.

  More desertions night and day. Those Mexican pamphlets made up many a mind. I think Pvt. Riley did, too. Several more men gone from the 5th.

  To put fear into anyone who might think of going over the hill (I should say over the river), the officers are up to their old vicious discipline. Worse than when we were camped at the Nueces last winter. They will damn near kill a private with brutality for the littlest cause: hanging by the thumbs, sword whipping, ride-the-rail, barrelheading, buck-and-gag. West Point must have a torture school. They don’t seem to understand—the more torment, the more desertions. One private took so many punishments he gave up and killed himself yesterday with his own bayonet. He was buried in the same funeral with two men who had got sick and vomited to death.

  I punched a hundred leaflets and stitched together a diary book, covered with oilcloth. Open it one way, it’s my diary. Turn it over, it’s a book of Mexican propaganda calling for Irish Catholics.

  Well, I’m still here on this side of the river. But I thank their general for all this nice, white paper.

  CHAPTER VI

  PADRAIC QUINN’S DIARY

  Ft. Texas, Rio Grande Apr. 15, 1846

  I NEVER THOUGHT I would rue the day I took up the pen, but at this moment I regret, profoundly, that I did write a certain letter. I cringe when I consider the consequences of something so ordinary and well meant as a son dutifully writing a letter to his mother. I mailed it from New Orleans, before we sailed.

  It was written from a guilty feeling that I had surely left her wondering if I was dead or alive. I had never written to her in the months of the Swamp War against the Seminole Indians. I had not written to tell her I was faring as well as might be expected of a camp boy in a coarse and brutal Army. I suppose that the sentiment was confessional, as much of my writing has been; I wrote to her to confess that I had been negligent in easing her apprehensions, and I tried to atone by composing one letter of considerable length and substance, a veritable history of my travels with the campaigning Army. I related as vividly as I could the dangers and discomforts of the Swamp War. I confess that perhaps I was showing off for her the facility of my improving penmanship, and the burgeoning erudition of my prose. In that letter I discoursed on all manner of topics, such matters as the mythical Tecumseh-skin strop, with which I had been disciplined, and the veterans’ refuting thereof. I doubted it would surprise her that my sire had been a liar. I did not reveal to her of course the buggery our brave soldiers had inflicted on me when I was unconscious. But in the true confessional spirit I did tell her of my precocious fondness for liquid spirits. That seemed a proper thing for an Irish mater to concern herself with, if indeed she concerns herself with her son at all.

  And it seems she did concern herself with me, much more than I expected, or desired. For, more promptly than I’d have expected my letter even to follow and find her in the Army garrisons of the Great Lakes, I received her reply with this appalling news:

  She was setting out to come and join me.

  Of course she knew our Army was on the move. That was the talk in the garrisons. She intended to make her way, with patronage of some unspecified sort, down to New Orleans, where she would find me if I would remain there until her arrival. Odd it is how she presumed that a lowly camp boy should go or stay at his own whim and convenience when armies are moving.

  She made no comment upon the quality of the writing in the letter she had received from me. That was a disappointment, for that was the foremost thing I had hoped to elicit by my letter, a bit of a mother’s praise for an accomplishment. Especially since it was she who insisted I be literate!

  So my letter to her, as literature, seems to have been wasted upon her poor sensibilities.

  As to the matter of literature: Some periodicals were passed to me by a Lieutenant Wallace, who aspires to write novels. They contain more by the writer Poe. Also serials by an Englishman, Dickens, recommended highly by Lt. Wallace. I only hope that there won’t be a war breaking out here before I have leisure to read some of the stories. Besides reading, and the evening dram or two, there’s nothing much to look forward to with any pleasure. Especially as John Riley has removed himself from our presence.

  This evening I surprised a very large rattlesnake in my shelter. Fortunately I heard it or I’d have sat on it. By a maneuver learned in the Swamp of Florida, I pinned it and cut the head off. Not having had supper, I skinned and cooked him over a little driftwood fire. I learned by the Seminoles that reptile meat is much better than a body would presume. In fact, it’s as good as any other flesh, and better than most. I could have told Ma in my letter, if I’d remembered to, that I’ve eaten alligator tail. I don’t doubt she’d have had something to say about that, for I remember as a child eating beaver tail that she would sometimes obtain up in Michigan.

  This is a large rattlesnake skin and I expect I can cure it and sell it with its rattle to one of the officers. Then he could take it home after this campaign and brag of killing it himself.

  Like Chief Tecumseh’s hide.

  AGUSTIN JUVERO SPEAKING

  TO THE JOURNALIST ON THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD

  It is discomfort, is it not, Señor? And we are young. How do the viejos bear it? I can see that you will have to stop more than you go, ha! More likely, you will give up. But if you don’t come along on your knees, I won’t continue with our interview.

  Yes, we can sit a moment. There is a good place, in the shade of that wall. You have a question? Then write me a note and ask.

  Do you doubt I really was at Matamoros? That I really was one carrying the leaflets over? You wonder if I am making up my part in the desertion of Don Juan Riley? You think I would do that to enlarge my importance in your story? How can I prove what I say? I don’t know. But I can show you, Señor, a piece of paper written in the hand of Señor Riley himself. It is one of my treasures and I always carry it. Look, Señor.

  In the month of April 1846, listening only to the advice of my conscience for the liberty of a people which had had war brought upon them by the most unjust aggression, I separated myself from the North American forces. Since then I have served constantly under the Mexican flag.

  John Riley

  A native of County Galway in Ireland

  Of course you may doubt that it is authentic, in his own hand. And how I obtained it, that is a later part of my story. Now what we were speaking of was my role in delivering pamphlets to Fort Texas.

  There is no denying it was dangerous, and I might have been shot by a sentry at any moment, or caught and beaten. I hardly ever thought of that, however. It was like a game to me, and probably I smiled in the darkness, even as my heart beat fast. That is how boys are, if you remember.

  There was also the danger of the river itself. Sí. There are places where the water sucks you down. But we who lived in Matamoros, we knew where we could cross with little fear. And we were strong swimmers, also, we who volunteered to take the leaflets across. The Norteamericanos were generally poor swimmers, afraid in the water. Perhaps this is because they do not bathe much. I suspect that many would have deserted you during the occupation of that fort if they had been able to swim at all. Some would try to come over by hanging on driftwood, if you remember. Some of them got sucked down, and drowned, trying to cross at night. We would find their bodies farther down. The ones who were afraid to go into the water at night, they were easy for the sentries to shoot, as they drifted down. For them, I suppose, it was not like a game, as it was for us.

  We had various means of bringing the propaganda across the river without wetting it. Sometimes we floated it across in ammunition boxes sealed with pitch to keep the water out. Other times it was taken acr
oss in fishermen’s boats and hidden for us on the north bank. Some pamphlets were carried by rancheros and vaqueros, even by the priests. Transport is easy in one’s own country; preventing it is nearly impossible. Everything is like a game when extranjeros occupy one’s country. No matter how strong occupiers are, they are weaker by their ignorance of one’s country. They do not understand how strong we remain by being rightfully in our own land, where they do not belong. Even if an invader wins, we are stronger because we are right. Invaders are almost always wrong.

  Now if you have anything to ask me, write it. The deafness, ah, well! There is so much foolishness that I don’t have to hear. What I wish I could hear are birds, and laughter, and music. I remember this curiosity about music: When we crossed the Rio Bravo to carry the leaflets over, the music of Matamoros would fade behind us, and we would emerge on the other side into the music of your soldiers. So different! We heard Yanqui songs. I remember a war song about the battle at New Orleans. Almost every night we heard it. With handclaps and the noisemaker you call a jew’s harp. There was a song about giving one’s sweetheart an apple. And a song about a dying soldier. Even at that age, I knew your tongue.

  But the best music in your soldier camp was the singing of the Irish soldiers. Oh, their songs, and those voices! Sometimes I would linger beyond prudence if they began singing the one about “the last glimpse of Erin,” or the one about “green grow the lilacs,” which must have been their favorite. It was always being sung somewhere at night . . .

  Your question? When and how did I first know John Riley? Listen . . .

  CHAPTER VII

  AGUSTIN JUVERO

  SPEAKING TO THE JOURNALIST

  ON THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD

  IT WAS THAT Monday, April 14, 1846, in my mother’s house in Matamoros, when I first set my eyes upon Don Juan Riley. I shall never forget!

  Two soldiers brought him in, two of our Mexican soldiers, one on each side of him with their bayonets pointing up. Those soldiers were not as tall as to reach his shoulders, I remember.

  General Ampudia was in our house drinking hot chocolate that my mother had made for him, because the day was dank and cold. The soldiers presented themselves and their prisoner before the general and reported that he had come ashore out of the muddy river with his gun and blanket floating on a driftwood bundle. They said he had saluted them and handed them a wet piece of paper, which was the leaflet that the general himself had written, and I myself had delivered to the Yanqui side of the Rio Bravo. Ha! I was proud! And this is true, Señor.

  I must tell you how we were struck by the presence of that Irish soldier. He seemed not in the least frightened or abject. He was proud and cheerful, although soaked and smeared with mud. His eyes were wonderful to behold, glittering with zeal, and his face was like the pale portrait of a saint, framed in black ringlets of his wet hair. I am not embellishing, Señor. We all stood as if we were dumbstruck by that beautiful giant. The general actually rose to stand as if in the presence of a peer, though I am sure he was unconscious of doing so. And my mother! She put her hand over her heart and swayed where she stood.

  I remember that Señor Riley quickly bowed his head to my mother and saluted General Ampudia. But, strangely, I cannot remember which gesture he made first. I have wondered often how memory works upon significant moments!

  I do remember what came next. From where he stood inside our door with a soldier on each flank, he was looking out the window and across the Rio Bravo toward the huge brown earthworks of Fort Texas, whence he had come. I have already told you that it was due to this prospect that General Ampudia had made our house his headquarters. I will not attempt to describe his expression as he stared at that place, but the soldier said,

  “Excellency, I am John Riley, an Irish citizen. I offer my services as a gunner in defense of Catholic Mexico, if that army over there commences hostilities. I am trained in artillery by the British army beyond the skills of those people over there. I ask only for ranking authority to serve that way. I accept all the terms offered in the advertisement that was delivered to us. I have crossed the river on the advice of my conscience.”

  He made that declaration in English, presuming rightly that some or all of us in the room would understand him, as we all did—excepting his two guards—although his odd, rolling dialect required attention.

  General Ampudia resumed his haughty composure and put on a skeptical expression, and asked him whether he had not sworn fealty to the American army from which he had come, and asked why Mexico should trust him not to be a spy. It was a query that might have daunted someone in that circumstance, but the Irishman’s gaze did not falter, and he replied,

  “Excellency, sure and I did give my word when I enlisted, but, sir, they broke their bond at once by treating us like dogs, not soldiers. As I understand contracts, if one party breaks faith, the other’s no longer bound.”

  “Verdaderamente,” the general agreed. Then he sat down. He told one of the guard soldiers to find the captive’s blanket and wrap him in it. He told my mother to make a cup of tea for this Irishman. She blinked and took her eyes from his face and went to the chimenea to heat the kettle, and I noticed that Señor Riley stole a look at her. All men watched my mother; I was used to that. Men who knew she was a widow all had a way of looking at her. Of course, Señor Riley in that moment did not know it. Perhaps he surmised that she was the general’s wife, though he learned otherwise soon enough. Men looked at her but she would not look them in the face. She was a virtuous woman, of proper modesty. Thus it was unusual to have seen how she looked at this newcomer. She did so several times as he sat in his blanket that morning and talked with General Ampudia.

  The general, you see, had presumed that Señor Riley must have been an officer. He was astonished to learn that such a man had been only a private in the American infantry. By then, they were already sitting together like peers, having their tea. But the good general did not look down his nose at him even then. He was interested in what the Irishman might become in serving Mexico. He was pleased to learn that the Irishman had been an artillery sergeant in the British army. The Redcoats are held in esteem as soldiers by the officers of Mexico. I imagined that the general was appraising the deserter for the fit of an officer’s coat. Or perhaps I did not imagine that then, but only después, after he did become an officer.

  The general and the private talked at much length about many matters that were of deep concern to both of them, and I listened and learned much. They spoke most often of two things: artillery, which the general admitted to be a weakness in the Mexican army, and the Norteamericanos’ religious prejudice against the true church.

  “Give me guns, caissons, and strong soldiers, and I will make for you the best flying batteries in all the Americas,” Señor Riley told General Ampudia. It was a big thing for a private to say.

  “Mexican soldiers are tireless,” the general said to him. “They are brave and obedient. Also our army is rich in cannons and horses. We know the science of gunnery. What have you?”

  “Gunnery is a science, but the tactic of gunnery is an art,” Señor Riley told the general, and the general was intense with interest. Even I, a young boy, wanted to understand the meaning of that statement, for as a student I was in love with words like táctica and arte. And that day I was falling in love with that Irishman, as well. Though not, of course, in the way my mamá was doing. I mean, as a boy making a hero in his heart. That sort of love was growing in me. The other kind, it seems, was growing in my madre. Ha! You like that in your story, don’t you, Señor Reportero? ¿Una historia de amor? But surely you expected it. There are many legends of women who loved the San Patricios. Of women who loved him specifically. If he had been loved by so many as is said, he would not have had time to become our hero in battles. So this is another truth that you can learn only from me: the only woman Señor Riley truly came to love in Mexico was she, my madre. Ah, this love story makes you skeptical, I see by your face. But it is true, a
nd it is a matter of importance and pride to me.

  But we are getting in advance of the story of that day. I was telling you of what Private Riley and General Ampudia spoke while talking in our house on that day of his arrival. The Irishman was convincing the general to entrust him with great responsibility and authority in the Mexican army. One reason why the general could believe his sincerity was the Irishman’s bitter anger toward the Norteamericanos, for their prejudice against the Irish and other immigrant peoples. That was well known already to literate Mexicans, for your newspapers and books were full of unconcealed contempt and vitriol. In those days, one read in your newspapers that priests and nuns held orgies, sacrificed babies on the altar, that they drank human blood in church, that they copulated with demons and boys and beasts. They alleged that the popes were scheming to assume control over all the world’s peoples and governments. We knew such things were lies, and we wept to see so many such lies being told in your powerful and aggressive nation upon our border. We already had been afflicted by Norteamericanos in the form of Texans. The Texans were loco, most of them, but all in different ways. What we read in your books and newspapers made us think that the rest of you in your country were all loco in the same way.