Captain Sherman ordered the Corporal of the Guard out of the camp to arrest Mister Doherty. The corporal, one Sam Chamberlain of the Dragoons, expressed doubt that the captain had legal right to arrest a civilian, but obeyed the order and went out and brought the protesting Mister Doherty in. Being one of the Catholic haters, Capt. Sherman saw this as an opportunity to punish an Irishman. He ordered the corporal and another guard to strip Mister Doherty to his waist and hang him from a tree limb by his wrists. Mister Doherty not being a docile man, or without wits, kept challenging the captain’s authority to treat a civilian that way, but the captain persisted, all the while cursing him with every epithet the Sons of Erin ever were subject to, all interspersed with profanity of a more general nature, and accusing him of the crime of bootlegging. Mister Doherty, being no longer a soldier subordinate in rank to a captain, had cheek enough to inquire by what authority Capt. Sherman enforced the laws of a country where he was an intruder. Mister Doherty has no more genteel a mouth than the captain’s, mind you, & was righteously indignant at being hung out in such painful manner, which certainly hurt his war wounds, and the air was blue with their volleys of vituperation. Capt. Sherman’s face grew wet and red and he was all but chewing off his own muttonchop whiskers. Mister Doherty was earning himself no mercy by such defiance, and the captain was doubly embarrassed by the guard squad looking on with veiled mirth. It was then that Capt. Sherman shouted his order for a guard to fetch the rawhide lash. The captain extended it to Cpl. Chamberlain and ordered him to apply fifty strokes to the bootlegger’s bare back.
Chamberlain held his carbine with both hands and did not release it to take the whip. Instead, he asked the captain whether he had authority to inflict a whipping on a civilian. This corporal is something of a hellraiser in his own right—a drinker, a dandy & a diarist and sketch artist like myself. No officer’s puppet, he. The captain gaped for a moment at such effrontery, and then he fair screamed the order again. The corporal shook his head slowly and backed away, or seemed to, and also seemed to tip the muzzle of his carbine toward Capt. Sherman. Some say he aimed it at him, though I did not witness it like that. Of course we remember as we’re inclined to remember. It seems there are as many differing accounts of an incident as there are eyewitnesses.
All witnesses agree, though, on what followed. Capt. Sherman in a full rage ordered the guard squad to seize the corporal, & buck and gag him. They did so, jamming a thick tent peg between his jaws with a gag to tie it in place. They sat him on the gravelly ground with knees up and wrists bound together over his shins. Then they shoved a pole under his knees and over his elbows, which, if you have ever been unfortunate enough to be so situated, you know utterly immobilizes the victim, locking him into place for as many hours as the punishing officer chooses to leave him there, be that in scorching sun or cold rain. It saddened me to see the fair corporal so humiliated and in such discomfort. My anger toward the captain was so strong that I would have walked away, but I knew not yet the fate of my employer Mr. Doherty, who was still strung up to the tree and his face betraying every emotion by turn, excepting happiness or brotherly love.
The inflamed captain next summoned one of the privates of the guard, thrust the handle of the whip at him and ordered him to lay fifty lashes on the prisoner. The private glanced at Cpl. Chamberlain just for an instant, beseeching, I imagine, and whatever he saw in the corporal’s eyes caused him to brace up his shoulders and declare, No, sir, I’ll not!
The captain’s eyes nearly jumped out of his crimson face, and with a profane tirade he ordered the rest of the guard to buck and gag that man on the ground right beside Cpl. Chamberlain. By that time, these activities were attracting soldiers passing by from other units, but when they saw the intensity of Capt. Sherman’s fury they quickly went on, surely for dread of being drawn into his little domain of tyranny. The captain now flung the whip to the next guard, screaming an order for him to whip Mister Doherty, but that private dropped it on the ground, and calmly refused to do the deed likewise, and likewise was trussed into the torturous position.
By that time, had there been a wagering partner near, I would have begun betting whether the next guard, or the next or the next, would finally take the lash and do as told, or whether one would, on the other hand, refuse to help buck and gag the next one who refused the whip. Some of the guards seemed to be resisting the captain in support of Cpl. Chamberlain; and some, Irishmen, might have been simply refusing to whip Doherty because he is a countryman. I believe some were motivated, rather, by a resolve to thwart one of those arrogant and cruel martinets, and this was the first means they had ever been given to do so.
Whatever was in their hearts, Capt. Sherman was near apoplexy by the time five guards sat bucked and gagged in a row, and at last a big guard who was not Irish, but a backwoodsman from some southern state, almost snatched the flail from the captain and went scowling to stand spraddled behind Mister Doherty. I heard him mutter, To hell with all you sorts o’ fools! and he went to work on poor Mister Doherty’s broad, white back, the rawhide soon slashing it into bloody strips, and the poor whiskey man screaming in his agony. It was about twenty-five strokes before he sagged in a faint, and the backwoodsman noticed, and paused. But Capt. Sherman demanded, You’re but half done! and the lashing continued, the man with the whip fully fatiguing himself by the count of fifty. A crowd of men and officers had gathered to watch and wince, and the captain appeared to be both ablaze and frozen with some crazed triumph, which was so unsettling a demeanor that the victim’s shredded flesh was no uglier a sight than the captain’s face. I must confess that this is the first time I consciously wonder whether a military officer is sane or insane. My conclusion is that Sherman is insane. He’s as crazed as Lt. Bragg, or Col. Harney.
But many of the officers who came to watch seemed to be in accord with him. Are they insane as well?
It feels to me as if we in this Army are descending into some pit of madness, the farther we go into Mexico. The more violence we see, the more we condone.
Nobody in this Army fought better than the Irishmen, either at the Rio Grande or here. All acknowledge that. Their casualty rate is higher than any others’. And even yet, they are ever more sought out for punishment, once the battle’s over.
I can’t help wonder if the sight of John Riley and his gunners going free, after the fall of this city, was more than these officers can bear. If something’s more than you can bear, I guess that’s when you go crazy.
This I write a few hours after the incident. The corporal and the other guards have been released from the torture of the buck-and-gag. Capt. Sherman demands, I hear, that the corporal be court-martialed for mutiny and sentenced to death! If that isn’t crazy, what is?
I pray there’s someone up the command who isn’t crazy enough to execute a man for refusing to flog another man.
As for Mister Doherty, he was cut down from the tree and dragged out of the camp, and flung out in the road still unconscious with no treatment for his lacerations. I think soldiers were afraid to come to his help, for fear of becoming Capt. Sherman’s next whipping boys. So as soon as Capt. Sherman’s attention was elsewhere, I went out to revive Mister Doherty and help him back to Little America where his hut is. Washerwomen took to him with salves and linen to start him healing. Mister Doherty thanked me through clenched teeth and had me pour us some painkiller from his stock. And some for the ladies who nursed him. After a while he said to me, “Paddy, lad, I’d like to make Captain Sherman a peace offering, a bottle of me best whiskey, if ye’d deliver it to him with my compliments.” Before I could protest that I didn’t want myself whipped next, he got up and pissed in a whiskey bottle. “Here we are, lad,” said he, “my piss offerin’ to the cap’n.”
It was a relief to me, knowing that he was joking.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 10, 1846
HAIL MARY MOTHER of God. They won’t hang Cpl. Chamberlain for defying Captain Sherman’s order!
The court-marti
al judge sentenced him to hang, but Gen. Wool changed the punishment, reduced it to hard labor. Rumor is that the general feared there would be too much outcry back in the U. States, if a good soldier from a good family got executed for refusing an order given on a captain’s whim, particularly an order that was probably illegal. I mean, the whipping of a civilian.
Mister Doherty continues to sell liquor now that he is recovered from his punishment, but he is more careful about being found out. That is to say, he is now a sneaky bootlegger rather than an overt one, and a result of it is that soldiers can patronize his place more discreetly than when he operated in plain sight of the camp. This has been very good for his business, and he told me he wishes he had been this sneaky before, for he’d be richer by now and wouldn’t have suffered that awful lashing.
As for the soldiers the captain bucked & gagged for refusing to whip him, why, Mister Doherty had me smuggle a bottle to each of them in gratitude, and they’ve since become some of our best customers.
Another outcome of Capt. Sherman running Mr. Doherty away from the vicinity of the army camp is that more soldiers are now deserting, even more than were before. The soldiers go farther to get their whiskey. When they drink up to the point of courage or recklessness, they’re farther from camp and closer to the Mexicans. Sometimes I hear drunk soldiers in the dark, in the brush along the road, when I am making my own secretive errands in and out of the camp, purveying Mister Doherty’s liquor to those in the camp who need it but are reluctant, or afraid, to skirt the sentries. I hear them whispering and shuffling through the sand. The ones who have already obtained drink are louder: giggling, retching, farting, arguing, sometimes, about whether to go back to camp or strike out down the Saltillo Road and deeper into Mexico. Few know anything of the geography of this country, but they remember that’s the route Mister Riley and their other old messmates went when the Mexican Army left.
A rumor is, priests are helping our strays find their way, and providing food and shelter as they go.
But there are guerrillas all over, and gangs of rancheros that kill any American without asking him any questions. We’re in the middle of somebody else’s country and they don’t like us being here. There would sure be more men deserting if they thought they could do it without getting killed, or perishing in the mountains.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 14, 1846
I’VE BEEN WORKING at a sketch of Mister Doherty’s flogging. And now I found out that Cpl. Chamberlain is doing one also. He’s drawing it at night after labor gang work. Has his sketch kit right there in the lockdown with him. Sounds pretty bold to me. Like to see it and compare it with my sketch someday when his sentence is up. He’s a brash character.
I don’t envy him. It’s uncomfortable enough in this camp these cold nights without a ball and chain on your ankle.
I sure do get tempted sometimes to just take my drawing book and go do pictures of that city over there. Sure a beautiful place. But it’s full of its own Mexican people and they don’t like us much after all the damage we did to their town.
Awful lot of our Army is sick all the time. One Irish soldier gone almost batty with the idea that the Mexicans are putting a curse on us.
Then the officers use that to ridicule the Irish for being superstitious Pope worshippers.
Seems like they have nothing else to do but wake up in the morning and go find some reason to ridicule Irishmen.
If they didn’t spend part of their time talking about how backward the Mexicans are, they’d be on us all the time.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 16, 1846
SOME SOLDIERS TRIED to blow up Lt. Bragg in his sleep! Sure I’d expected somebody would, as he is thought by many to be too nasty to live.
But he lives! More’s the pity, some say. An artillery bombshell with a lit fuse was rolled into his tent, by somebody. It could have been anyone. I doubt there’s many in his unit that haven’t thought of it. It’s the talk of the whole Army almost: That it likely was his own gunners, as it was a shell they used. He’s flogged, or buck & gagged, most everybody in his battery, and certainly every Irishman.
They rolled the shell in and ran. His tent and most of his baggage were destroyed. He was taken to hospital scorched, bruised, and lacerated, but nowhere near dead or maimed.
Great many desertions from the camp in the last week. More of the printed leaflets in camp, with their generous promises. I suppose many a soldier also remembers the sight of Mister Riley’s proud battery on the Saltillo Road out of Monterrey after the battle.
We aren’t even being told anymore by our officers what the number of deserters is. But it’s sure for shrinking Gen. Taylor’s Army. When he finally moves to the next campaign he might have nobody left in his Army but Protestants. Then of course those Texas irregulars, who don’t have any faith that a body can see, except their holy duty to kill Mexicans.
I would reckon one reason to desert to Mexico might be just the sight of this country. In spite of all this Army camp, and the peddler slum built up around it, there surely could not be a prettier place than this anywhere.
And what little I’ve seen of the Mexican people—well, I’ll phrase it this way: Put Mexicans on one side of me, and West Pointers and Texans on the other, and say, Choose, sure I truly believe I would turn to the Mexicans. Imagine a people who smile and nod to you even if you’re just a scruffy camp boy!
They don’t act all that friendly to the soldiers. But they don’t seem to resent me, those few I see of them out here.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 18, 1846
THIS MORNING I awoke to the sound of a birdcall. It was repeated several times before I recognized the notes, as the Death March our regimental bands play for funerals. Then it was that I understood, the bird was a mockingbird. It was mimicking that dirge which it hears just about every day, as the soldiers die of dysentery, infections, and el vomito. Rumor is that as many as two thousand have died of dysentery since the Army came into Mexico. That’s two or three times as many as the battle dead, I believe.
Nothing much worth relating this day. Mister Doherty paid me enough for deliveries that I could buy a pair of shoes. My others were falling apart and also I had outgrown them so far I had to cut the toes open. Had them since the Swamp War. They had been through mud and dust a-plenty. May keep what’s left of the soles to make sandals, like all these Mexicans wear.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 20, 1846
BOUGHT A KNIFE, two pencils, and lamp oil, got them at the sutler’s. Better quality than out in Little America, but barely worth the trouble of convincing the sutler’s clerk that he can sell to me although I’m not a soldier. I think he was trying to extort a few more pennies from me. When I turned to walk out he called me back and made the sale.
I found a Mexican Army pack in the brush of the riverbank. Used leather from my old shoes to repair a broken shoulder strap. This pack will hold my two diaries and all my writing and drawing implements. Thinking like a soldier: Be ready to tote your needs when the generals say you’re moving.
I have been thinking of walking into the city of Monterrey one day soon. If I am here I ought to see more than just soldiers and tents. I would like to sketch things I see.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 22, 1846
THE MOCKINGBIRD SANG the Death March again this morning. I was abed, listening, feeling a bit sad but also a bit amused, just waking up. The bird then sang some notes that were like other birdcalls. And then he sang some notes that I recognized from music I’ve heard. He was singing one of those songs the Irish soldiers sing most every night in the camp, I mean those nights when they get a chance to sing around the fires. It was that real pretty favorite of theirs, “Green grow the lilacs.” That damned little bird in a tree was singing an Irish ballad and the Death March, both here in Mexico! Maybe he sings Mexican music, too, but I just don’t recognize it. God works in strange ways, as they say. If I really listen I might learn some good tunes.
That mockingbird might not learn much more Irish musi
c. The 3rd Infantry just lost many more of its good Irish singers in a week, ten in one night, by desertion.
Monterrey, Mexico Dec. 23, 1846
THE U. STATES newspapers are writing about Mister Riley. He is a famous traitor. I heard officers talking about it, and hung near them, finally asked if I could see the newspapers. One laughed, said, “Irish tyke, pretending he can read?” But Lieutenant Wallace of the Indiana Volunteers was there, who has shared reading matter with me and knows I write.
He called me over to sit with him and other officers looking at the papers. He said the newspapers back in the States had finally come to hear about the desertion problem. Some of the papers are using it to malign all Irishmen as cowards and traitors. One of the newspapers from New York was demanding that the country must close its gates to the immigration of perfidious Irish Papists who were already infesting the slums with criminals, and now were betraying the war effort. The National Police Gazette was one of the newspapers harping on Irish character. Mister Riley was mentioned by name, in the New Orleans Picayune.
St. Patrick Battalion Page 17
