It all made sense to our young and supremely patriotic minds. We believed that God was on Mexico’s side because of our righteousness. The instructors inflamed our hatred and dread of the Yanquis. They told us tales of atrocities done by the Texan barbarians, who shot civilians for sport, who raped girls on the roadsides, who looted churches and smashed the altars. The instructors assured us that such beasts and vandals were condemned by their own malevolencia. One of the advanced cadets, a mathematician, had the audacity to question whether God’s righteous indignation could be calculated into our plans for the defense of Mexico. Ha! His impertinence earned him considerable demerits. But his punishment was reviewed by the commandante General, who adjudged that the cadet’s challenge was in order: that God could not be calculated into battle plans in the art of war, even though he well might determine the outcome in some unforeseeable way. The cadet’s demerits were removed.
I will say, Señor, that I took great pleasure in such speculations and arguments. Here were philosophy and theology made urgent by the onset of invasion. We carried the arguments out of the classrooms and kept them alive wherever we went, even into the dining hall and the stables. The heretical religion of the Yanquis was a factor in the fate of our country, we believed. Catholic nations everywhere were condemning the United States, and some of their military leaders were volunteering to come and aid Mexico with their service. Our generals and politicians in the meantime were writing measures of every sort to entice General Taylor’s disgruntled immigrant soldiers to our side.
Although I was too low in status to express opinions in the lecture rooms, the cadets became aware that I had experiences far beyond theirs. I had prowled the Yanqui camp on the bank of the Rio Bravo, even stealing among their sentries, to spread our propaganda. My own home had been the command post of the generals, and it had been demolished by the Yanqui bombardment from across the river. I myself had endured the hardships of our retreat from Matamoros to Linares, and had seen our soldiers die along the way, and had seen them slaughter horses to fend off starvation. I was, in a way that impressed them more than they cared to admit, a veteran even though I had not been a soldier. I was clever to let them know these things, but without boastfulness. I gave small hints and let them ask me for more details. The tactic of not being a braggart is greater and more effective than one would expect. To have someone come seeking to learn, that is a kind of importance that will compensate for one’s insignificance. Ha ha! Look, after all, Señor Periodista, did it not bring you all the way to me now? Ha ha!
But, Señor, the one experience of mine that most drew the cadets, those young students who had never been near war, only in lecture rooms, what intrigued them most was that I had, my lowly self, moved among those very brave and mysterious figures, those strong and principled Irishmen who had come across to help defend Mexico against the heretics! I had walked among them and translated for them with our own generals and coronels!
The name of Don Juan Riley was not yet known widely in Mexico City. But it soon became known in the Citadel, and I modestly—oh, yes, modestly—predicted that, if that Irish warrior kept his safety, at Monterrey or wherever he might serve, he would become a giant among us, a beloved hero in our sacred cause. I described his grand and noble appearance to them, because they asked me what he looked like. I told them of his gentlemanly manners and his boldness.
And I was sincere. I believed in him. I never doubted my intuition about Señor Riley. And was I not right?
One important truth, though, I kept to myself, for, among ignorant youth such as they were, it would have changed their entire perception, and would have eventually brought mockery back upon me, or, reaching the ears of officials of the academy, might have harmed Señor Riley himself.
I did not mention to anyone that the Irish gunner and my mother the widow of an officer had given their hearts to each other. Of that truth, Señor, I dared not speak.
CHAPTER XII
PADRAIC QUINN’S DIARY
Monterrey, Mexico September 26, 1846
AFTER A LONG delay, back to this diary. This was a day of note!
This is a new diary book. All my writings and sketches hereto have deteriorated to a big, ragged wad, too unwieldy to handle on the march and under the living conditions of camp life.
I therefore rolled it in oilcloth and bound it with twine. It covers all the time from the beginning of my journaling, with all my awkwardness of writing. It tells the campaign of Matamoros and then the progress of Gen. Zachary Taylor’s Army up the Rio Grande by boat to the City of Camargo at the mouth of the San Juan River. It contains my account of the riot aboard a troop steamboat, between Irish soldiers and a contingent of Protestant volunteers. At that point I quit writing for some weeks because of our approach to the city of Monterrey, and the battles which defeated the Mexican Army here. I summarize that part of the first diary here, in the event that something might separate me from it, and as a prologue to this volume, which as the reader can see is more compact and tidy, actually a true book under stiff covers. This is a ledger book I found in the ruins of a government building here in Monterrey after Gen. Taylor took this city.
I might not have resumed this journal at this time, except that today I saw Mister Riley for the first time in several months, under heart-rending & awful circumstances. I felt that I ought to observe this day by beginning the new journal.
We are just plain astonished that Monterrey fell to us. It is a beautiful city defended by strongholds on several high hills, giving the Mexican artillery every opportunity to catch our soldiers in crossfire. Cannons were emplaced in a fortress, the Black Citadel. Their headquarters stronghold was in the central Plaza, their powder magazine the cathedral. The city was defended by other gun batteries, and by infantrymen, and snipers on rooftops. I shall not try to describe the whole battle in this diary, as I am ignorant of battle tactics. All that will be described well enough in the newspapers & the military reports. I’ll recount only the part of the assault in which I participated. But not by my intention. I was drawn into it as an errand boy, which is turning into a more dangerous occupation than I ever expected.
Because of such defenses, our casualties were severe. Canister shot and snipers did us the most harm. Some officers say that we never would have taken the city but for two things, one being that Gen. Taylor divided his force to attack the city from both east and west, the other being that the Mexican general in command, Gen. Ampudia, gave up while he could have held. He is reputed to have no stronger instinct than keeping himself safe from harm. He was the commander at Matamoros before being succeeded there by Gen. Arista. Now both of those generals have had their chances to lose cities to Gen. Taylor. Underestimating Old Rough & Ready is a common error.
Now to relate here the part of the action that I saw. It was on the third day. Gen. Taylor had already lost a tenth part of his army through casualties attacking the east side of the city. Fighting through the streets was costly in lives because the Mexican defenders were set up to sweep those streets with musketry and shot. Some of our veterans knew a tactic which denied the defenders that advantage. Instead of going up the streets in plain sight, they would fight their way into the first house in a block, and then with pickaxes they would batter through interior walls into the next house, and so on, pitching hand-bombs into the rooms ahead, one by one, then going up and killing the snipers on rooftops. Thus they simply mined their way from street to street to approach the Mexican barricades and their main stronghold in the central plaza.
It was my fortune on that day to carry picks and other tools to replace those broken, which were many. I cannot remember how many trips I made through rubble, half blinded by brick dust and gunsmoke, knocked down several times by hurrying soldiers. They soon had me fetching water in canteens as well. I hope I never have to go among fighting men ever again, especially in such close and blinding circumstances. Bayonets scare the stuffing out of me when those carrying them are milling and lurching about. And even ins
ide the house walls I heard musketballs whiffling and smacking around, breaking windows, fired by the Mexican soldiers and snipers on roofs. As for cannon shot, it throws chunks and splinters in every direction. Even a thick wall is not much protection. I could hardly see, from all the grit in my eyes, and got a cut on my shoulder from something, either a fragment of shell or being grazed by someone’s bayonet. I cannot even remember exactly where or when I received the wound, in all that jarring chaos. Afterward I found myself scarcely able to walk from twisted and sprained feet and ankles. I would not have been much use helping soldiers the next day. Fortunately, the battle ended that evening when Gen. Ampudia gave up.
It was by the unusual terms of surrender that I saw John Riley today. It was like this: Monterrey’s civilians were trapped in the plaza with the Mexican Army. Gen. Ampudia appealed to Gen. Taylor to spare them from further bombardment by letting the Mexican Army withdraw. Gen. Taylor agreed to that, because his own Army was so spent, and had suffered more casualties than the Mexicans had. I heard Lt. Grant say it was a good surrender because we probably would have failed to take the plaza anyway; one more day and we’d have lost instead of won.
Other officers faulted Gen. Taylor for not having the grit to make a real victory. But what I heard among the soldiers was mostly relief and gratitude.
I doubt if I’ll ever be able to write well enough to say how I felt today when I saw Mister Riley. I went up west of the city, to the road that leads out of Monterrey toward the Sierra mountains. That road runs parallel to the Santa Catarina River and it is just about the prettiest stretch of land I ever saw. Mountains west of us, & Monterrey to the east, such a beautiful city despite much artillery damage. I followed the 5th Infantry out there. Our troops were lined up along the roadside to watch the Mexicans march out toward Saltillo. It was their reward. The 5th Infantry was the regiment that Mister Riley had been in before he deserted. I sort of trailed along near Capt. Merrill, Company K’s commander. When he turned and saw me he winked, so I guess he remembered me from Fort Texas, where I had used to run errands for him and his men.
Much of our Army got lined up out there, and we were so filthy and tattered, and limping and bandaged up, that old Gen. Taylor’s decision made sense. These soldiers sure didn’t look as if they could have done much more fighting. I thought, if this is the Army that won, the losers must look like whipped dogs. But at midday when the Mexican troops came up the road out of Monterrey, I saw how wrong I was. Those Mexican troops sure did not look like a defeated Army. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. To see the enemy up close really gets one’s attention. Their infantry were generally short, Indian-looking fellows, but wore tall black shakos that gave them a taller look. They had English muskets, what was called the big old Brown Bess, and wore blue coats and white trousers. They marched erect and smart. The Mexican cavalry looked proud, with their long lances and banners, and shiny helmets. They went by, and kept going by it seemed endlessly, not looking to either side, not letting any feelings show in their faces. Our men might have meant to jeer or mock them, but for the most part kept still and just studied them, respectfully, I think. After all the blarney from our West Pointers about our superiority to “stupid little brown Greasers,” our men were seeing something different.
When a Mexican company would march past, I could see our troops on the other side of the road, over there through the dust, and just opposite me there was Sgt. Mick Maloney, and he saw me and grinned and waved to me. There was a brave man who knew who were and weren’t cowards, and he sure wasn’t mocking those Mexicans.
Now up the road came the Mexican artillery. Gen. Taylor had agreed to let the Mexicans take just one battery of six cannons out of Monterrey. Here they came, raising dust, a team of horses pulling each cannon and its caissons. On each caisson rode the gunnery officers, with the gun crew marching behind. As they came rattling along our soldiers by the roadside began yelling. I edged out past Capt. Merrill to see better. And just as I saw the first gunnery officer on the first caisson, Capt. Merrill exclaimed, Goddamn! John Riley!
Sure by the gnarly great fist of Saint Patrick it was indeed the very man! There he rode, looking straight ahead with his jaw set hard, all got up in blue coat and gold trim, a kepi hat with a shiny bill, looking splendid as a general. I heard Sgt. Maloney’s voice roar:
“John Riley! Ah ye faithless, wormy Judas! Turncoat! Hop down and I’ll rip y’r black heart out with this true Irish hannnnd!”
Others were yelling, too, a good half the regiment, but the sergeant’s voice roared above them all. “Y’r a disgrace to y’r Mother Country! Y’ve drug us all down, bastard!”
And men were shouting other names, Murphy, John Little, Jim Mills, calling them curs and traitors, all of them fellows I knew before they swam the Rio Grande from Fort Texas. It looked like Mister Riley’s entire battery was made up of Irishmen! But sure it was Mister Riley himself that had all my attention, and my heart was up my throat, or was I about to throw up from every kind of emotion at once. I wanted him to jump down and go silence Sgt. Mick Maloney, but I also wanted Mick Maloney to drag him down and thump him likewise, for leaving us Irishmen who had loved him so. None of that happened, though, and his caisson was abreast of me just then, and I was looking up at him, close enough even to make out the artillery sign on his high collar, like a gold sun with rays, but meant to be an exploding shell, so I’ve heard, that’s how close I was. I heard Capt. Merrill yell to someone, “Damned if he ain’t a captain I do believe!” I just felt I didn’t want Mister Riley to have to withdraw in defeat with only curses being heaped on him by his old comrades. And so I yelled his name, calling him Mister instead of Private or Captain, and lunged into the road waving my hand.
And sure mine was the only voice he responded to, and he glanced down at me, just his eyes, not turning his head a bit, and he sort of smiled, or grimaced, I don’t really know, but it was just the most pained look I think I ever saw. I choked on it, sure I recall I did that, and went weepy so bad I could just see the shapes and colors of things. Somebody grabbed my arm and pulled me back off the edge of the road, Capt. Merrill I suppose it was. I heard somebody bellowing, “Ye sons of bitches kilt and maimed us by hundreds, goddamn you! Your own old messmates!” I guess the deserters knew better than to yell back.
So then I just stood there in the sun sort of like I’d been poleaxed, and the guns and caissons clattered past. I’d guess I saw maybe a hundred soldiers in Mexican uniforms who had been poor tormented privates on the other side of the Rio Grande. Now they rode by with faces set like stone and looking straight ahead and hearing the awfulest things said that a body will ever hear. Captain Merrill told a lieutenant,
“To think of it! I signed the blackguard’s pass that morning, and look at what’s come of it!” And I remembered it then, indeed the captain had given permission for Mister Riley to leave camp to attend a Mass that morning and he’d never come back. I looked up at Captain Merrill then, he’s a tall, kind of likeable, round-faced veteran, side-whiskers down to his neck and a kind of cheerful fool’s look most of the time, but now he had an expression that looked rather much the way I felt, his chin crumpling and eyes glassy. And I remembered that once back in Texas he had told other officers that if the damned Irish haters wasn’t running everything Pvt. Riley would deserve to be a captain or maybe better, they just didn’t make better soldiers. Sure and it was Capt. Merrill himself who had recruited Mister Riley, and it was he who had permitted him to go over the river to the enemy. So I guess if there was anybody on that road this day who felt as worked up as I did it would be the captain.
Well, I’ll take that back. I guess Mick Maloney, too. But I don’t reckon his feelings were mixed up—just plain hate.
I’ve started a drawing of him cursing Mister Riley.
Tonight I sat thinking. Though I am just a camp boy and not even a soldier, sure not an officer or a diplomat, I see how smart these Mexican generals are. Now it’s true, as I see it, that General Taylo
r won this city against awful odds. He’s some general, no doubt of it. But here’s what that Mexican general Ampudia did: He saved the civilians, maybe thousands of them, from being killed and hurt by our mortars and artillery. Then he bargained to have his Army march out with their small arms and a battery of cannons. He spruced them up so they didn’t look like a defeated Army at all. I think that had a sort of humbling effect on our own troops who thought they had won but could hardly raise up to a slouch. And he got the Irishmen out of there, who would have been hanged for desertion if he had surrendered them over. I don’t know how he drove that part of the bargain. Probably Gen. Taylor just didn’t know that so much of the artillery was made of our deserters, so one battery didn’t count much in the negotiating. Anyway I am glad Gen. Ampudia is that shrewd.
But as awful as it was for those renegade gunners, they got out alive. Our soldiers had the satisfaction of yelling hate at them. But there was something else going on along that road. I saw it, being Irish. I doubt the West Pointers noticed it.
St. Patrick Battalion Page 15
