But everything is rumors. As usual.
Another rumor is that the chaplain Father Rey was murdered along the road near Camargo. That is to say, they think he was murdered. He was alone and his body wasn’t found.
Why would someone murder a priest in a Catholic country? Some Irishmen think he was killed by American officers. Others reckon it that he was killed because the Mexican Catholic order threw out the Jesuits. Lt. Wallace, the officer who is writing his book about Mexico, guessed it that way.
I was thinking: U.S. against Mexico. Americans against Irishmen. Protestants against Catholics. And even Catholics against other Catholics.
If this is the way adult men run the world, I’m not sure I care to come to maturity.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 17, 1847
A NASTY LIEUTENANT today grabbed me by the left ear and cursed me for a little Mick monkey. I thought he would tear my ear off. He went on to call me a son of an Irish whore. There was not much I could do, hanging there by my bloody ear, to respond to that obscenity, except stomp on his foot and bite his arm until I tasted blood. At that point he lost hold of me, but he was getting set to come back on me with the side of his sword when Lt. Grant and another officer got him cornered and grabbed his arms. They told me to leave so they could get him calmed, but I was for spitting in his face, so they had to fend me off, too. Finally they had him explain why he had wooled me. It was that I had stolen his newspaper when I was there a few days ago.
All I could say was, I thought you finished your paper. It was true I’d carried it off. It was the one that told of Mr. Riley by name. Well, then Lieutenant Grant said I should return it if I still had it. I said Yes I still have it but I’m damned if I give it back to some little popinjay who rips my ear and calls my mother what he called her. That started him up again and he said he knew damned well my mother was a camp follower. It came to me he might well know that. But a camp follower isn’t always a whore, I retorted. He said, Your Ma is. There was nothing left for me to do but kick him in the groin, and I did that, and fled, so mad I could hardly see.
I doctored my bloody ear the way my mother used to treat my wounds, by boiling a rag in water and holding it on until it is bled out. Mr. Doherty sponged it with whiskey. That stung something fierce, but he said it would keep it from festering.
I don’t know if that officer knows where I camp, but I think I should keep on my guard. His name is Milton.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 18, 1847
I THOUGHT IT over and decided Lieutenant Milton can have his damned paper back. I shall let Lt. Grant give it to him, to avoid another fight. I don’t want to fight a turdbrain like him. He might also think he can whip a civilian, like that Capt. Sherman did to Mr. Doherty.
I made a drawing of the nasty lieutenant, in such a way that much of the bile was out of me by the time I’d done it. I think the word for this is caricature. Lt. Milton is one of those West Pointers who devote much time to the cultivation of displays of their facial hair. Here he is, drawn as I saw him while he was trying to pull my ear off.
I think I shall even draw a copy and post it one night in the vicinity of his company. It might lighten the misery of his poor soldiers.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 20, 1847
LIEUTENANT MILTON AND his company have left for Tampico, so I can quit watching for him to ambush me. The caricature of him that I put up did create much amusement in that quarter, so I hear. He knew who drew it. I’m getting famous for caricatures.
Gen. Scott is moving the best of Gen. Taylor’s Army back down the Rio Grande to the Gulf and from there by sea to Tampico. That port will be the staging point for his campaign toward Mexico City. I’ve heard this from officers, and by rumors.
Many soldiers expected to be sent home when they boarded the steamers at Camargo, but found to their dismay that they will instead go down to invade south Mexico.
So the number of desertions is surging again. The Mexican government offered a generous grant of land for any American soldier who defects to Mexico.
Lt. Wallace of the Indiana Infantry is all excited thinking of the prospect of Gen. Scott’s campaign. I sat near a saloon table in the city and listened as he taught some fellow lieutenants the history of the conquistadors, as he so loves to do. He believes that Gen. Scott’s campaign will follow the same route that Cortez took, that is, from Vera Cruz on the coast, west through the mountains to Mexico City. Lt. Wallace laments that his unit will remain here in northern Mexico with Gen. Taylor, and not be a part of that glorious campaign “to Montezuma’s temples,” as he keeps saying. I enjoy listening to these educated gentlemen. A hundred years of hearing their highfalutin talk and I could be an educated gentleman myself, I reckon.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 22, 1847
TODAY COMING FROM Mister Doherty’s at dawn I saw a thing that I’d heard was happening but never saw till now.
Four of the Texan volunteers drinking Mister Doherty’s liquor on the riverbank saw an old woman and I guess it was her granddaughter on the road above going to market with baskets of vegetables balanced on their heads. The old woman and the girl had walked past me just before. The Texans grabbed the girl and dragged her down into the thicket. They tore her skirt off even before they had her off the road. The old woman started screaming and one of them hit her with his pistol. I started down the road toward them but he aimed his pistol at me and so I turned about and ran. I went to their camp to tell one of their captains. The only officer up was drinking coffee by a fire and he made no move, just said if I wanted to accuse the men, to give him their names and be ready to testify if they were brought up. I said I didn’t know who they were. He said no Mexican slut ever needs to be forced anyway, and no Irish ragamuffin better make accusations against good fighting men.
Gen. Taylor keeps these Irregulars camped outside the city for the peace and safety of the townsfolk. Only some Regulars and their officers are billeted in town. The local folk keep Gen. Taylor’s office crowded, coming in with complaints of battery and thieving and rape and vandalizing done by soldiers. Some by Regulars but more by the Irregulars. I reckon there is something to be said for strong discipline. I just wish it was given out fairly. I mean by that, it would be good to see some Texas raper “ride the wooden horse,” not just Irish micks who fail to salute briskly enough.
I spent most of the day uneasy, ashamed I couldn’t help those women. This rape thing bothers me more now than when for instance in the Seminole campaign Maj. Harney had his way with any Indian girl he caught. That was a long time ago. I reckon I had not learnt to think things through very far, back then.
Sure and I suppose the time will come before too long that I myself will be like menfolk and have the, whatever it is, and maybe understand why they act the way they do about females.
Before I get that way, right now, I make a vow to myself, and to God, and to Mary Mother of Jesus, that I will not ever do anything to hurt or disgrace a girl or woman, like those things I have seen.
One thing I can remember about such things, from up in Michigan, was Mother with a swollen hand from breaking the jaw of a soldier who tried to get too free with her. She was madder than I ever saw her, about that, and said if she’d had a knife at the time, that soldier would have to squat to pee from that day on. I didn’t really understand what she meant, but I do now.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 23, 1847
I HAD A case of the mopery last night because of the rape thing. To cheer up I sat drinking & started drawing funny pictures of the officers’ mustaches, side-whiskers, and other shrubbery. Had a good time, and still make myself laugh today just looking at them.
As I was thinking last night about becoming a man, and all that, I thought a sign of it would be some whiskers. No sign at all yet. I wondered what I would look like with some kind of whiskers. So I drew my face by looking in a piece of mirror I salvaged, and then just drew on whiskers.
Also drew one picture of my face as it is now with no whiskers.
So there it is. My first se
lf-portrait. As true as I can make it, no flattering embellishments.
This then is what people see when I appear before them. Sure and that’s an odd notion. It would help explain why they treat me as they do.
Monterrey, Mexico Jan. 24, 1847
I FINALLY GOT a look at the god of War, Mars. Faith, is he ugly!
Mars is what some officers call General Scott. Most call him Old Fuss & Feathers. Either name fits. His face looks like war itself and he is a giant tall and fat. But he wears enough decoration and glitter for about three emperors.
He is a reputed hero from 1812. Officers follow him about as if for wanting an order to lick a shine on his boots. For the life of me I can’t imagine anyone more an opposite from Old Rough & Ready. Gen. Z. Taylor would appear to be his scarecrow.
Though I have not seen the two generals together and sure I never will, very likely, I can put them together by drawing the two on one page. I am doing so. I sketched Gen. Taylor before, and now copy his image alongside this one of “Mars.” For my amusement.
Maybe I should post the drawing, for to amuse the soldiers as well as myself. They are in low spirits from the dividing of the Army. More deserters every day.
CHAPTER XV
PADRAIC QUINN’S DIARY
Saltillo, Mexico Feb. 16, 1847
GEN. Z. TAYLOR ignoring Pres. Polk’s orders to retire! He expects Santa Anna is coming up this way & wants to oppose him. This place is about 60 miles down from Monterrey on a road that goes south through the mountains toward Mexico City.
Not pretty here like Monterrey. All brown and scruffy, all the plants stick or cut you. Cactus, scrub, and tall, spiky things called Spanish Bayonet. Also a big plant the Mex. make a clear liquor out of: agave. Mr. Doherty remains at the city, so I am out of the bootlegging business for a while. Wallet flat.
I earn a little by killing rattlesnakes. Most soldiers are scared of them. So some officers pay me a bounty to kill them anywhere near their camps. Lt. Wallace of the Indiana Volunteers calls me Saint Padraic, ridding Mexico of the snakes. I use a forked stick to pin them to ground, and a crude kind of long knife, or short sword almost, that the Mexicans call a “mashetty,” I use to cut the heads off. I sell the skins and rattles as keepsakes. I like the meat sure a lot better than Army pickled pork, or even the stringy tough ranch beef. I learned to like snake meat in the Seminole swamps. Most soldiers won’t eat it.
Lt. Wallace is that officer who is writing a book about the Conquistador Spaniards. He wanted to go down with Gen. Scott’s campaign, along the Cortez road, to help him imagine his book, was sure disappointed that Scott left his unit here, to sit idle.
Lt. Wallace has ridden back to Monterrey, carrying dispatches. He is an ambitious fellow in the military way, too, and would like to make a name in battle. If Gen. Taylor somehow went down through those mountains toward Mexico City, Mister Wallace might get his chance. But it’s not likely Gen. Taylor can do it.
Lt. Wallace read law. Came down with a regiment of Indiana Volunteers. He is a handsome fellow easily flattered. When I gave him a portrait sketch of himself some time ago, he insisted on paying me a dollar for it. He’s delighted I write & draw both.
He asked to see other pictures. He was impressed by my drawing of the Irish artillery leaving Monterrey, and in particular Mister Riley. He asked me to make sketches of some Indiana officers. Said he’d send them to an editor he knows in the state capital city, Indianapolis, who might publish them in the war news. He said I should draw troops and cannons in action, like a real correspondent, if there is any action. I’d have to think that over pretty hard.
When Lt. Wallace gets back, and I continue with the portraits, I ought to discuss with him a small price for each one of the portraits. Sure and I’d rather earn my daily pittance as an artist than a bootlegger. And I’m like to run out of rattlesnakes.
This evening an Indiana officer asked me whether I’ve the Irish grit to go out on the field and make drawings of combat, if ever there be some. If there had been no one else there to hear the question, I might have weaseled out. But there stood several Indiana officers and soldiers asmirking at me and waiting for my answer. So I feigned a careless shrug and answered him, “Sure, if I’d not be in anybody’s way.” Well, they laughed and one said, “Feel free to get in Santa Anna’s way, Saint Padraic.” Someone else said, “Old Santy Anny himself would run from a man that eats rattlesnakes.” Then they drank me a toast and gave me a gill of whiskey to drink with them, and I felt good.
Buena Vista Ranch near Saltillo, Mex. Feb. 22, 1847
HOLY MARY MOTHER of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
Faith and that very hour might be near. Sure we are in for a drubbing!
General Santa Anna himself is here in front of us with an Army of maybe fifteen thousand Mexicans. He was said to be way down south preparing to defend Mexico City from a southern attack. Instead here he is, with a glittering Army that looks to be filling up the whole mountain pass!
Here we stand, Gen. Z. Taylor and the few regiments Gen. Scott left him with. Amounting to a third of the Mexican force, from estimations made by our scouts. Three to one!
A body would expect Gen. Taylor to back away, and wait for better odds. But unless he is bluffing, he means to fight Santa Anna here. He’s no bluffer.
I hear musketfire, a mile or so up there where the San Luis road goes up the pass. Not much. Now and then a bugle. The sounds echo between the mountains. This place is a sheep ranch. Sometimes the sheep seem to be answering the bugles. I don’t know what’s happening up there.
If Lt. Wallace doesn’t get here from Monterrey soon he is likely to miss his chance for that battle glory he wants.
A very dreadful evening. There were bugles and gunfire in the afternoon for several hours, south of us. It was explained to us that there were skirmishes as Gen. Santa Anna arranged his Army on high ground. Getting ready for tomorrow. Officers coming back from up there look grim and scared. They don’t let themselves talk scared, but gray faces don’t inspire courage.
A cold drizzling rain has started. Hard to keep our campfires going. Way up the valley there are so many Mexican campfires it looks like a glow all across from one side of the world to the other. Everything stinks of smoke, wet ashes, sheep and horse manure. I’m of a mind to disappear before morning. Sure I wouldn’t be missed.
Faith and it’s hard to feel brave when you’re cold and wet, and the bad rations make your innards bubble like a tea kettle. If I’m up shitting all night, it is sure I won’t be up for drawing sketches of those Indiana Volunteers tomorrow. Maybe by eating rattlesnakes I’ve come to think like them. A rattlesnake will crawl away from danger if he has a chance to.
La Encantada Ranch, near Saltillo Mexico February 23, 1847
RECKON I’M GOING to go on the battlefield today. I could still get out of this. Could tell the lieutenants I thought they were joshing and didn’t mean I’d go. But no. I will go onto the field. Taking my sketchbook. As if my hand will be steady enough to hold onto a pencil! I could hardly hold my cock still to piss straight this morning.
As for that . . . I will mention here that I had a dream during the night, and I never had such a one. I don’t know whether it means I’m to die today, or that I’m to become a man. I write it here because it seems important, and it might be the last thing I write of. So I don’t care if it’s embarrassing. I dreamt I was sucking a tit. It woke me up in a fit. It was like I had wet my bedding but felt good in a strange way. I guess I know what it was. But does it have something to do with dying today? Why did this happen on the beginning of such a day?
Army forming up. This is a magnificent place, so big and harsh I could cry. Here at a sheep ranch two dry riverbeds join together and there are irrigation ditches, and gullies sloping up into tremendous mountains south of us. There is a narrow pass through the mountains. It was through that pass that Gen. Santa Anna brought his army up from the south.
This is the grandest an
d awfulest sight I ever saw. And if it is the last thing I see, I guess I should be glad I saw it. In my whole life, I’ve never seen this many people in one place all at once. And they’re all fixing to try to kill each other. On high ground about a mile away, there is not a place to be seen that isn’t solid with Mexican uniforms, all a sort of bluish gray. They must have a thousand flags and banners. Sky’s clear now. In this first sunlight the whole Mexican Army glitters, their weapons, helmets of their cavalry, and the cannons. They have bands playing, a march slow as a dirge, as they move about. Also a religious procession in front. Tall, shiny crosses. As if it was the Pope’s own army! Our officers mock it, trying to act brave.
A hubbub of excitement about a concentration of enemy batteries on a rise above the road. It appears to command the whole field. Our officers got their telescopes up and someone cursed, “Goddamn, there stands that traitor Riley and his micks! Look under that green banner!” It was sure plain to see, a big green flag, distinct from all the others. A green banner for Ireland, is it! Having no telescope I couldn’t make out Mr. Riley himself at such a distance. But it has inspired a fury that this little Army is going to need, against such odds.
St. Patrick Battalion Page 19
