St. Patrick Battalion

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  Well, I’m a camp boy and I don’t know much. But this sounds to me like any argument over anything. You just tell your own side.

  If I read just the Matamoros Gazette, I would be pretty sympathetic to Mexicans. If I read just the U.S. newspapers, I would be raring to invade Mexico.

  By the time I get the Matamoros newspaper, it’s so worn and limp and smudged I can hardly read it. The officers cut out parts of it to keep. I retain what scraps of it I can, and read them at night and think. I read about people with their Mexican names, and about things like commerce, and mining, and diplomatic things. But also I read about Mexican people getting married, and about funerals. I read about their farming, about shipping, about such things as operas and orchestras. The Matamoros Gazette makes Mexico seem like a really interesting place. It sounds as good as anyplace I’ve ever been in. Better than most. But I’ve only been in Michigan and Florida, and awhile in New Orleans. People who have been in Mexico say those people are decent. But our papers say they’re throat cutters who worship the Pope and have rituals where they drink babies’ blood, and sell their children to the priests to copulate with, and all such as that, which I tend to doubt.

  I would like to think that everything I read, I could count on to be the truth. The only written thing said to be wholly true is the Bible. But both Catholics and Protestants use the Bible. If the real truth is there, why do they disagree?

  When I write in this diary, I would like it all to be true. But the only things I know are true are what I see with my own eyes.

  If all the Bible is true, it must have been written by people who saw what happened themselves.

  But I hear tell that is not so, either.

  Sure and I wish that this war thing would get over with so that I could spend more of my time thinking about this whole truth matter. If I could ever figure it out, I would write it down.

  One thing it said in the Gazette was that seven slaves of the American officers were among the deserters who turned up in Matamoros. It said they are free now because slavery is against their law over there. Now that’s interesting to think on. That might be one reason why slaveholders like Lt. Bragg hate Mexico so much and can’t wait to start shooting.

  Pres. Polk, too, is from a slaving state, North Carolina, they say.

  Some old Co. K messmates of Pvt. Riley staged a boxing match, as he used to do for them. It attracts the West Pointers, who place bets and yell at both fighters, Kill that Mick! While the match was distracting officers and sentries at dusk, several Irishmen sneaked down to the river. I saw them slip into the willow brake. But didn’t report them. I suspect Mr. Riley might have thought this up before he left. Or maybe after he left. There’s a rumor that he still sends messages over, and even that he comes back across the river in fishermen’s boats at night and slips into the camp to encourage more deserters. That sounds like a yarn to me. I’ll believe that when I see him. But I wouldn’t put it beyond him for boldness.

  CHAPTER VIII

  AGUSTIN JUVERO

  SPEAKING TO THE JOURNALIST

  ON THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD

  DON JUAN RILEY soon convinced our officers that he had not exaggerated his talents as an artillero. In a well-tailored uniform of first lieutenant, he went out to the walls of Matamoros to supervise the placement of cannons, facing General Taylor’s vast dirt pile, Fort Texas, across the river. I went with him everywhere, as interpreter. Thus I know what he said about the artillery, as I had to translate it for our officers.

  Teniente Riley was not flattering about our artillery defense at first. He told the generals that the earthen walls the Americans were building were too thick to be affected by our cannonballs, the largest of which were twelve-pounders. Our defenders had two mortars. “But you cannot expect them to achieve much against the fort,” he said, “because they built bombproof burrows within the fort. They learned in their 1812 war how to hide from the excellent British gunners.”

  He told our generals: “There is little that can be done to save Matamoros from their batteries if they begin bombarding. We can make it expensive for them, by accurate shooting into their batteries. And by praying for the safety of Matamoros. By praying that someone in their capital is wise enough not to declare war.”

  Our officers of course disliked his assessment, and some asked General Ampudia why he had put so much authority in a foreigner who could deliver no more promise than that. Then it was that Teniente Riley began to put new ideas into their heads.

  “Tell them this, Agustin,” he said to me, his translator. “That it would make no sense for the Yanqui cannons to try hard to destroy the town of Matamoros. A wooden town they could ignite with heated cannonballs, but Matamoros is adobe. The civilians can leave the town and get out of harm’s way. But the Yanquis will not likely shoot much at the town. Instead they will be shooting at the artillery. The town cannot hurt them, the artillery can hurt them. So they will be shooting at our guns, and we will be shooting at their guns.

  “The real purpose of our cannons will be to cut their army to pieces if they attack across the river anywhere. For this reason, we must have most of our guns ready to move quickly wherever the Yanquis come at us. Our bigger guns and the mortars will remain strongly emplaced and bombard the fort unceasingly.”

  It was heartening, to see the officers peering at Teniente Riley with growing interest, and to be the translator who was passing such important words to them. Some of the officers looked doubtful, but most were nodding as if that made sense to them. Of course it was not the fort that would attack into Mexico if the war started, it was the soldiers! The fort was there only to protect their soldiers! And then he told them what he had observed to be the great weakness of the Mexican artillery: that it was muy pesado, muy lento. Too slow! He said the old way of moving cannons on the battlegrounds was ponderous. The new artillery must be agile, he said.

  “Who brings your cannons to a battlefield?” he asked them, and they replied that it was teamsters, of course. It is the teamsters with their oxen and mules and horses who move everything that is too heavy for soldiers to carry. The baggage, the cannons, the cannonballs. Of course, ¡trabajo pesado!

  But he said, “No! Soldiers should move cannons, not hired men! Soldiers and gunners know where the artillery is needed! Artilleros must be their own teamsters. They must always have the horses and mules nearby in harness, and ready to move to a better place at once. This is called a flying battery, and it must be able to arrive in minutes!” I translated it for him: batería móvil, and the officers murmured and pulled their chins. Military men do not leap eagerly to new notions, Señor, as you might know. But they were listening keenly.

  And so that splendid-looking Irishman, who had been a mere private a few days before in the United States Army and now was a Mexican army lieutenant, offered to transform Mexico’s ponderous artillery corps into a swift, self-reliant force that could race in minutes to any front in a battlefield where it could smash an oncoming assault. It was audacious! And I, a boy who could translate languages, was a part of that transforming, because I helped him convince them! Señor, I was changing history! Fill my glass, por favor, and we will drink to that!

  Soon, Señor Periodista, Teniente Riley created a “flying battery” of his Irish gunners. He showed in the field how fast they could be.

  General Mariano Arista arrived very soon to replace General Ampudia, and brought with him reinforcements. At once Teniente Riley was granted audience with him. General Ampudia, though bitter at being replaced, endorsed the Irish gunner to his successor because of his enthusiasm for the flying batteries of artillery. Señor Riley had more to say to General Arista even than he had said to the others. It made one dizzy to stay abreast of that Irishman’s thinking! He told General Arista:

  He wanted his flying batteries to be made up as much as possible by Irishmen. Or at least, by soldiers who understood his tongue, as that would make them more efficient. He noted that deserters from the other side were coming, a few eve
ry day, and that more propaganda should be carried over to encourage them. He said there were some skilled European gunners in his former infantry unit, and that he wanted them, and expected they would come eagerly, knowing that he was established with a commission in the artillery. That they would gain rank by merit.

  General Arista agreed it was a fine plan. The general had lived outside Mexico, a political exile. He had seen and admired the soldiers of European and British armies. He admired Irishmen and Germans in particular, for their courage, their strength, for their iniciativa. Of this last, Teniente Riley was a stirring example. The general granted him authority to form and train two flying batteries, and more if good artilleros became available. And he told him to oversee also the placement and fortification of the stationary batteries of heavy guns protecting Matamoros. General Arista had already been composing a folleto of much eloquence to be sent among los soldatos immigrantes of General Taylor’s army. He invited Teniente Riley to embellish what he had already written, to make it more appealing to the soldiers who had so recently been his comrades. Here, Señor, is a copy of the pamphlet, for you to read at your leisure. I apologize that it is so brittle and yellow. It was so many years ago. Once again I began crossing the Rio Bravo at dusk, to deliver General Arista’s new propaganda, as I had a few weeks earlier with those of General Ampudia. See what it says here, that “the United States Government, contrary to the wishes of a majority of all honorable and honest Americans, has ordered you to take forcible possession of the territory of a friendly neighbor, who has never given her consent to such occupation. . . . It is of no purpose if they tell you that the law for the annexation of Texas justifies your occupation of the Rio Bravo del Norte; for by this act they rob us of a great part of our country. . . .”

  You see, Señor, it was to tell the Yanqui soldiers that they were not in their own country, but in Mexico as unlawful aggressors.

  Then it harangued the soldiers, saying, “I warn you, in the name of justice, honor, and your own interests and self-respect, to abandon their desperate and unholy cause, and become peaceful Mexican citizens. I guarantee you, in such case, a half section of land, or 320 acres, to settle upon, gratis. Be wise then, and just and honorable, and take no part in murdering us who have no unkind feeling toward you. If in time of action you wish to espouse our cause, throw away your arms and run to us, we will embrace you as true friends and Christians. Should any of you render any important service to Mexico, you shall be accordingly considered and preferred.” Such persuasion, ¿sí?

  I was very successful again in crossing to the Yanquis and distributing the pamphlets. I did it better than before, even, because Teniente Riley knew the camp and told me where to find certain persons—bootleggers, launderers, fortune-tellers, whores, and such—who could help distribute them into the right units of the camp. He sent me to seek certain Irish soldiers within certain units, with unwritten messages from him! In the fewest soft-spoken words, passing by a particular soldier, almost invisible to him, I could convey the most compelling message, such as:

  “Mister Dalton, yes? Your friend John Riley invites you to join him and be a sergeant in his artillery. To the honor of Saint Patrick and the Trinity.”

  Yes, Señor, imagine the effect of those words upon an Irish soldier, fresh from barrelhead punishment or the buck-and-gag: a furtive waif addresses him by name, speaks also the name of his missing countryman—and those allusions to higher ranks, and the Mother Faith as well! Add that to the persuasive new writing of General Arista, which was in every soldier’s hands!

  The result was as one should expect. Irishmen who had long been poised to turn their back on the cruel officers, they suddenly disappeared in the darkness and went down to the river to cross over. Even those who could not swim came down, and they were led by whispers out beyond the sentry posts, where Mexican fishermen came to shore in boats with muffled oars, and murmured in the darkness, avemaria, and the soldiers would get in the boats.

  You are astonished, Señor. You did not ever hear about the men in the boats, did you? Your officers always thought the deserters had to swim or float on driftwood, or find the fording places up the river! Oh, so many would have drowned! And we needed them! Once we organized the ferrying, no more had to drown.

  I, Agustin, was one of those whisperers in the dark along the river paths through the willows. Sometimes I could greet those soldiers by name as they got in the boats. They were startled to hear their names, you may imagine! Sometimes I would say, Lieutenant Riley waits to take your hand.

  What came of this? It was that General Taylor’s army got smaller, as everyone waited to see if war would begin. Scores of his ablest veterans crossed the river and took the hand of Mexico in warm friendship. And even before the shooting began back and forth across the Rio Bravo, my friend Don Juan Riley had already collected forty-eight of his old comrades to make a company of artilleros, and he began to transform them into the best unit, it is said by many, that ever served in the defense of Mexico—a country that has had to be defended over and over against invaders.

  As you see, Señor Reportero, I was important in the making of the San Patricios, even though a mere boy. Para siempre, I have the pride of that.

  PADRAIC QUINN’S DIARY

  April 24, 1846 Fort Texas, on the Rio Grande

  I’M DAMNED! As if being Irish wasn’t perplexing enough. A body finally gets something sort of worked out to go by, when up comes something else to block your way.

  I probably oughtn’t even try to write this down. But it’s important. Probably one of those things that make a difference in the whole rest of your life. My life. Shouldn’t say “probably” one of those things. Sure as anything it makes the whole difference.

  It was that Sgt. Mick Maloney. Hero of the Swamp War.

  Here’s how he fuddled my head today.

  Mister Riley and so many others being gone over to the Mexicans, it’s affected everybody like a plague or some such thing. You know you’ve caught it, or you expect you will. Everybody looking at everyone else and wondering if they’ve got it. Men getting out their pamphlets and reading them over and over. Looking over at Matamoros town with one eye, and with the other eye seeing who’s watching you watch Matamoros. Of course Matamoros is the place to be watching, because that’s where “the enemy” is. But you feel like other people can tell what you’re thinking. The officers in particular. They probably presume that every Irish soldier has made up his mind to swim over, or is so close to making up his mind that he’ll likely not be at muster next morning.

  Odd how it is that I got myself included into those kinds of feelings. I’m not a soldier, just a camp boy, never took a soldier oath. Say, now, I made up my mind to go over there, follow Mister Riley and whatnot—that wouldn’t break any oath or law. Nothing I could be punished for, not officially. When I think on it, in fact, I am maybe the only “free” person in this whole place. Soldiers have their oath binding them, and if they go, they break it and they’re in big trouble. Slaves, like those officers’ servants that have gone across, they aren’t under any soldier oath, but they’re their officers’ property and the law of the U. States forbids them to leave. So sure and they’re not free. Maybe it could be said that some of the camp followers are as free as I am, the laundresses and their children. The whores. That one wryneck woman who is both a laundress and a whore. Some of those people might be as free as I am. Except the ones that are married, and have their own kind of obligation, so it’s hard to say how free anybody else really is. But soldiers aren’t.

  Private Riley and most of those other Irish soldiers who went over, and the immigrant Germans, they had their Army oath they broke going over, but they weren’t deserting their country, because they aren’t U. States citizens, and wouldn’t be for years yet. I am a U.S. citizen by birth, and so maybe that’s a kind of bond or obligation on me. But it would still be no wrong for me to quit this Hell Place of a fort and swim over to Mexico, because if the Mexicans accepted me in, I�
��d be breaking no law that I can think of, since the fact is that no war has been declared with Mexico yet, not to my knowledge. Mister Riley and those other deserters, they are really still citizens of Ireland, and sure there’s no war between Mexico and Ireland.

  So whatever way I look this thing over, every angle of it comes out that if I want to just walk out of here, if I can get past the sentries without getting myself shot, there is nothing else to stop me. That is that. And I have been full ready to do it, and my conscience was at ease with it. That Matamoros town does pull on me, with all its bells and music, and the laughing, and the smell of food. And most of all, Mister Riley himself is over there, one man I’d be for following anywhere. I’m not obliged to “follow” any man, but being around soldiers all your life you do tend to get sort of “followish.” I was ready to go over.

  Until Sgt. Mick Maloney, just today.