It wasn’t long before Mister Wallace saw I was agitated. He kindly led the talk onto other things. Said he was happy to be in Mexico because he had a romance book in his head about the Spanish Conquistadors bringing Christianity to the savages of Mexico, and here he was, seeing the country. That would help him write his book when he got home. If he got home, he added with a laugh. There would be more battles all too soon. Maybe thinking I was shamed by being Irish, he talked about how the Scots, his people, had been scorned and driven out of the isles, too. He got me sidetracked, and by and by I was bragging about the deep thoughts in my diary, and all that.
Then all at once, I got a cautious feeling and thought I’d better be quiet about all that, because I had written so much that might seem treasonous. Like weighing John Riley and Mick Maloney against each other. He might not abide that. But he did deplore the impugning of religions, in the newspapers and in the Army. He told of an Army surgeon who had visited the Cathedral in Monterrey and had stolen the skull of some old holy patron from the reliquary, by slipping it under his cloak while the priest’s back was turned. The surgeon had thought it quite a lark and mocked a religion that would worship some old rich man’s skeleton. Two other Indiana officers, there sharing the newspapers with us, took up for the doctor’s prank, and soon Lt. Wallace was in an argument with them. The officers, ignoring my Catholic presence as insignificant I suppose, questioned the faith of a people who would use their cathedral as a powder magazine. Lt. Wallace retorted to that by asking into the piety of an Army which would damage a Christian cathedral with cannonfire. The others then scoffed at him for calling Catholicism a Christian religion. Thereupon he launched forth with his scholarship on the Christian missionary zeal of the Catholic conquerors, who brought their fair god to the heathen aztecs, at the risk of their own lives. The others laughed at his notion, arguing that the Conquistadors were not after souls, but gold for their Papist king. Lt. Wallace countered that he knew better, from his studies for his book.
My presence forgotten in the heat of their debate, I slipped away. Under my shirt I carried away the New Orleans newspaper in which Mister Riley’s name is printed.
I cannot honestly say that officers squabble on a higher plane than the soldiers generally. Nor are the officers a more sober people than the enlisted men. I carry Mister Doherty’s whiskey to both classes. The only difference I see is that man for man the officers do much more drinking than the others. They can afford more, and have more free time to get drunk. And don’t get punished for it.
Right here it is, a real keepsake for me: a big-city newspaper with the name printed in it of a friend of mine who is famous all over. I consider him a friend of mine. He said I look like his son! This souvenir is my Christmas gift to me.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 3, 1847
YESTERDAY I WALKED into Monterrey and looked around. Sure and it looks different from when we were fighting in the city.
An uneasy feeling, and now and then got a little scared, by being followed by gangs of Mexican boys. They were just curious about me, though. A lad my age, alone, puzzled them. Only U.S. Regular troops are billeted in the city. Volunteers have to be kept outside, particularly the Texans. After a while I realized I was probably safe. They could see I’m not worth robbing.
I carried book and pencil, to make notes or sketches. It was the best part of it. Not only did I preserve some of my impressions and some of the sights, it drew friendly interest, wherever I stopped to write or draw. Children shyly circled me at a distance, as I drew or wrote. Each time I looked up they were closer. One might rise on tiptoes to see what was on the paper. All I had to do then was smile, and they came like bee to flower, and crowded me, fingers in their mouths, cooing and giggling at the pictures.
I’d finished a profile sketch of an old man in white with his hat hanging down his back. I’m pleased with it. The children were, too. A boy pointed his finger at his face and said, Me! Me! and then pointed at the pencil. I understood that he wanted me to draw his picture, as plain as if I understood his language. So I began. But it was impossible to draw him when he kept edging around and trying to look down at the page. At length, one of his friends apparently persuaded him to hold a pose. His friends laughed as I made the picture, and his little face grew dark and sullen from their mockery. I wanted to tell him to smile, but didn’t know the word. That is a shame, to be in someone’s country for a year and not know their word for smile, of all things. So I decided I would learn that word if no other before the day was over. With a bit of grinning and gesturing I learned the word. It sounded like sonreez-a. I’ll find out for certain later, but think of that. The word for smile sounds like sunrise.
When I showed them the picture, they laughed and carried on, and then started talking all fast and eager at me. After a while I got the idea that they wanted to buy the picture but had no money. Sure I wanted to keep it, but people were gathering around watching. So I thought it might be good if I just cut the picture out of the book and gave it to him. So I did. That seemed to make everybody like me, which is comforting when one is among strangers.
But then something unwanted came of it: The children, boys and girls alike, all wanted their portraits done. And, making it harder to refuse and slip away, the adults wanted to see them, too.
It felt good to have all those cheerful Mexicans around me. Sure they didn’t seem to resent me for being with the invaders of their country. Another shy little boy came forward to pose for me and I started drawing him. He had the blackest eyes I ever saw and was as pretty as a girl. While I was drawing him a woman gave me something to eat, a kind of floury sweet. I did know the word to say—gracias. I finished that drawing and the boy held out his hand for it and said gracias. Then the woman who had given me the sweet put forward a little girl for me to draw. I guessed it must be her daughter. She kept wiggling and putting her head down but I got a good likeness of her and it made everybody happy. They kept putting children up to pose, and I drew and drew, maybe seven or eight. The sun was going down, and I knew if I didn’t quit the drawing, the day would be over before I could even go to see the cathedral. I pointed at the sun, and at myself, and then away in the direction of the Army camp, and then back to the sun again. I think they got the idea that I needed to go. I also needed to pee awfully bad, but would have been embarrassed to try to mime that out, since there were more women and girls in the crowd. I drew another little girl, but kept glancing at the sun and acting impatient. Then the people began to murmur and shuffle about, and when I looked up, there stood three officers, among them Lt. Grant. They had wandered over to see what the crowd was about. The people began backing away, and pretty soon were all gone. The lieutenants were no little bit drunk. Lt. Grant seemed to like what I had been doing, and made a fuss over the drawings in my book, how good they were, and wanted to see the whole book. But then I remembered things I had written in the diary, favoring John Riley, and other comments that I wouldn’t want them to see. So I just tore out the picture pages and showed them to him. Decided that from now on I will not carry this book around with me, or draw in it. Will try to find a separate book to do drawings in.
Lt. Grant and the other officers told me to walk back to camp with them, to keep me safe, as they had sidearms and swords. So I did walk back with them, but had to stop in an alley and pee. So did two of the officers, having been drinking a good bit.
Back in camp Lt. Grant said my drawing of the Irish gunners leaving Monterrey was so good it should be sent to the States and sold to one of the illustrated weekly journals. He said, That is Riley riding the caisson, isn’t it? I said yes. I told him I didn’t know how to send a picture to the U.S. He said maybe he could advise me later. I doubt he will remember saying so when he wakes up tomorrow. He holds it well, but really had a skin full.
I write this as my candle grows short and I am getting a pretty good skin full myself. This was a day I won’t forget for a long time if ever. It was like being in a family among those Mexicans. If th
e officers hadn’t intruded I’ll wager somebody would have fed me a supper, maybe found me a place to sleep. I doubt anyone would have cut my throat, as one of the lieutenants kept saying on our way back to camp. I guess they believe they were saving my life.
On the breeze I hear now and then, very faint, some of the kind of music I was hearing there in the plaza while I was drawing. Sure it’s very different from Irish or American songs, but very pretty, both cheerful and sad at the same time. They use guitars and trumpets both, and the men sing so high they sound like girls.
Here is a song our Irish soldiers were singing at their campfires earlier this evening, it goes,
She is far from the land
where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing,
But sadly she turns
from their gaze, and she weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
That one is sure not sad and cheerful at the same time, it’s only sad. That is a dead soldier song and nothing more.
Looking at my pictures here in candlelight. Lt. Grant was really impressed by them. I reckon they are pretty good. They get better with practice. I draw best when I work fast.
Sure those Mexicans are nice folk. Sad, having a war with them. But maybe their high-up leaders aren’t so nice. I remember what Mister Riley said once while talking about officers:
Shit doesn’t rise, it falls.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 5, 1847
SOME NEWS HARD to believe.
Some of our Irish soldiers said the Army has brought in a Jesuit priest! Father Rey is his name.
I have not yet seen him. Rumor is that the President sent him and another Catholic chaplain down to mollify the Catholic soldiers, after he learned of the desertion problem.
Some of the soldiers really want to go to a priest. But most don’t trust him any more than they trust the president. Think he’s here just to keep Catholics from deserting. He is good for last rites.
Drinking, sickness, and desertions, nothing new. I bought some good white paper in a shop in Monterrey and will punch and bind the pages together to make a sketchbook.
I got to the cathedral yesterday. Never saw such a glorious building! Has paintings of saints and heavenly scenes everywhere from the lower walls to the highest ceilings. Some of it looks to be painted with real gold. I followed some of the Mexican old folks in and did what they did, getting a candle and setting it up front. I sure don’t know much about being a Catholic. What little I learned in Michigan I’ve forgot, running with this Army since I was little.
Saw the damage our cannons did to the outside of the cathedral. Mexican stonemasons are already up there repairing it.
Mexican people in the streets still seem startled when they see me. Mostly they act polite and smile, and go on.
On this sojourn into town I didn’t make the mistake again of drawing pictures of the children. I would like to have some such pictures in the sketchbook. But they want them. I would feel wrong about drawing their image and not letting them have the drawing. If I could speak their language, I would draw two pictures of a child and tell him I wanted to keep one to remember him by.
I would like to learn some Mexican language. No wonder people have trouble, when they can’t understand each other.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 7, 1847
A FINE DAY of news for the Irish soldiers. Mick Maloney is now a lieutenant, promoted for his valor at the battles of Resaca de la Palma and Monterrey. Disproving the belief that no man born in Ireland could ever become an officer in the United States Army. Some soldiers joke that if it hadn’t been for the newspapers back in the U.S. he would still be a sergeant.
I learned some Mexican. Por don day say va me ar? Where can I go to pee? If they start telling me in words, I just say, sen oo lar con el dead o, and they point. This would have helped me that day I almost wet myself drawing pictures all day.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 9, 1847
I WENT TO look for Lt. Grant to ask him about sending my best drawings to an illustrated gazette. Not surprised that he doesn’t remember speaking of it. Must have been really drunk.
Anyway, something is happening that has all the officers in a cat fit. President Polk is taking the Army away from Gen. Taylor and putting Gen. Winfield Scott over this war. That’s the rumor now.
The officers think it is because Gen. Taylor could get elected President if he keeps winning battles down here.
One would think President Polk would want battles won, since he started the war.
But some of the officers say that politics is more important to politicians than war is. I don’t know about such things, but it seems it must be so.
I have awful shits. Por don day say va me air tha? Where can I go to shit?
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 11, 1847
MANY TIMES I wonder that so much misery is in such a beautiful place. The view of this city is like a scene in a legend. The white buildings, red roofs, fountains, avenues lined with dark trees, and the hills and mountains all about. But there is always death and sickness. The chaplain Father Rey was sent here to discourage Catholic soldiers from deserting. But he spends most of his hours giving last rites to the ones who die every day from disease and infected wounds.
Today went up on Black Citadel, north of the city, to draw a picture looking from there. Below me was the city, which I could see in its entirety, and the Rio Santa Catarina beyond it. This is a grand vista. It was here where Mister Riley’s cannons were. He could see the whole battle from up here. But our attack that went around west of the city was out of his range, and behind Federacion Hill, out of his sight. Otherwise, the invasion likely would have failed. A strange feeling in my bosom to look on the scene from his high place, and remember my own lowly scrabbling through the dusty rubble, carrying house-breaking tools, as I was doing while he was up there blowing our soldiers to bits.
I am not very satisfied with my picture of Monterrey. What I see and feel is too big to get down onto a sheet of paper. I would need paint and color, but don’t know how to use those. Probably I should limit myself to small scenes, and to people.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 13, 1846
THE NAME OF Santa Anna is in the war now.
The one Mexican everybody’s heard of. Big villain!
What it’s all about is that he came back to Mexico from exile in Cuba. He says that only he can rally the Mexicans to defeat the American invaders. And so he is in charge again.
These are all such big doings, I can’t even picture them. But as I wrote down before, if you write you have to think, and if you’re in the way of a war you have to try to understand what it’s about.
I heard a big commotion out where the Texas irregulars are encamped, yelling and shooting, way more rowdy even than usual for them. They had got newspapers that said General Santa Anna is back. They hate him like the very devil himself. He was their enemy ten years ago in their war of independence, and did the massacre at the Alamo that we heard about all the time even up in Michigan. In Michigan our big massacre tale was the River Raisin where the Indians killed a lot of soldiers in the War of 1812, and the American battle cry after that was Remember the River Raisin. Likewise after the Texas war it was Remember the Alamo, and that was one thing the Texans kept yelling in their camp when they found out Santa Anna is back.
Sure I think the Texans are really happy about this, for it makes them hungry for revenge. They’re awfully vengeful against Mexicans as a whole, which is why there’s so many Texas volunteers in this Army. With it being Gen. Santa Anna himself they’re rabid for vengeance.
It said in the newspapers that Gen. Santa Anna has been the president or dictator of Mexico off and on many times, as they no sooner set up a government than it gets overthrown.
Gen. Santa Anna they say is a real elegant sort of man, and a battle hero who limps around on an artificial leg made of cork, where a cannonball took off the real one. I guess it’s easy for a one-legged man to remind peop
le that he’s a hero. Especially if he can talk really patriotic. He is famous for that, by what the newspapers say.
There was an engraving of him in a paper. I copied it in my book.
So now I can picture him and I can picture with him Mr. Riley and quite a number of the other deserters. It is something to think about at night, the faces of the people that are officially your enemy.
It makes it feel kind of personal. I can imagine that sometime down there where General Santa Anna has his headquarters, he’ll salute our Irish deserters in a parade or inspection or something of the kind. Now that I’ve got both their faces in my mind, I can actually imagine the two of them face-to-face.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 15, 1847
THIS ARMY IS confounded. General Scott is taking most of the regulars and veterans bit by bit back down to the coast. It’s opposite the direction Gen. Taylor meant to go, which was southward toward Mexico City. The rumor is, Gen. Taylor refuses to resign, and intends to march south anyway.
St. Patrick Battalion Page 18
