Country of the Bad Wolfes

by James Blake

  The river was misty silver under a bright moon but smelled of rot and tasted of mud. The current was stronger than usual with the runoff of the recent rains and Samuel Thomas wasn’t the only one of them close to panic as they were carried downstream while struggling to swim across. Their frenetic splashings alerted the sentries, who shouted a warning and then opened fire. Rifles balls smacked the water around them and John Little was hit in the calf and Lucas Malone nicked along the ribs but they all four made the opposing bank and clambered up through the cattails and into the cover of the trees. Mexican soldiers presently appeared, bayonets at the ready, but when the quartet declared their desire to fight for the Mexican cause, they were welcomed like brothers and taken to the garrison to have their wounds treated.

  Thus began the band of Yankee army deserters known in Mexico as the gallant San Patricios—so named because most of them were Irish Catholics—and in the remoter pages of American history as the turncoat Saint Patrick Battalion. The unit’s numbers grew as U.S. desertions continued, and they were formed into an artillery company under command of a Mexican captain, though Lieutenant Jack Riley was the executive officer and their true leader. In their first action against their former comrades, a week before the American declaration of war, the San Patricios bombarded Fort Texas and in the process killed one Major Jacob Brown, in whose honor the fort was renamed and Brownsville would be christened.

  Everywhere they went this legion of foreigners pledged to Mexico’s defense was honored by people of every social class. The Patricios were surprised to find that not all Mexicans were brownskinned, though the great mass of them were, being either Indian or, more likely, mestizo, the burgeoning Spanish-Indian caste that had over the past two centuries come to comprise the majority of the population. But the ruling native class, the peak of the social pyramid, was the Creole—the Spanish descendents whose Caucasian blood remained free of Indian taint. They were a courtly society, educated, formal of speech and manner, given to religious ostentation and devoted to European tradition. They were also passionate about their honor, both family and personal, and vehement in redressing injury to it.

  In the course of their deployments over the following year, the San Patricios marched through sierra ranges of jagged peaks and thick timber, through deep canyons misted blue with the spray of booming rivers. They traversed broad plains of green and yellow grasses rippling in the wind like a restless sea. They crossed pale deserts flat as tables extending to the burning horizons and shimmering in the heat. They heard the roar of cougars in the mountain nights, their evenings in open country quivered with wolf howls and the high crying of coyotes. In Tampico they were granted two days of liberty and sported on the beach a few miles from town. Samuel Thomas had known only the cold cobalt water of the sharp-shelved North Atlantic coast and he reveled in the warm green clarity of the gulf shallows. They swam, lazed on the sand, got sunburned. They cut coconuts off the trees and hacked open the husks and punched holes in the eyes of the brown nut with their bayonets to get to the cool sweet milk, the most delectable drink Samuel Thomas had ever put tongue to. Where but in heaven might a man get milk from the trees? He relished the spicy native cooking and acquired a taste for the coppery sting of tequila and the smoky burn of mescal. He delighted in the skiffle music of the villages and learned a variety of rustic dances. He had an affinity for the Spanish language and gained swift fluency with it, a great advantage with the camp women who traveled with the army and cooked for it and tended its wounds. Most of these women were young and given to playful laughter and mischievous banter. Any camp woman could share herself with whomever she wished but also had the right to refuse anyone, and a man who tried to take her against her will risked a maiming from his comrades.

  The Patricios were a formidable force, dealing heavy casualties in their every engagement and stoking ever higher the vengeful wrath of the Yankees—or “gringos,” as the Americans were now known in Mexico, a newly-coined pejorative that would long outlast the war. But as the fighting progressed, the turncoats began to understand that Mexico could not win and that their own future was headed toward an ultimate choice of dying in battle or at the end of an American rope. Their desperation made them the more intrepid. General Lopez de Santa Ana, the supreme commander of the Mexican army, would later say that if he’d had but five hundred more men of the Patricios’ mettle he could have won the war.

  The Saint Patricks fought at Monterrey, at Saltillo, at Buena Vista, at Cerro Gordo. And then, in the war’s decisive and bloodiest battle, on an infernal August afternoon at a place called Churubusco, at the very gates of Mexico City, they were done for. Some managed to escape but two-thirds of them were killed in that fight and the rest taken prisoner, many of them with severe wounds. Samuel Thomas’s left hand was mutilated by shrapnel, his hipbone pierced by a bayonet. He would never again be able to sit a horse, and the thumb and remaining two fingers of his ruined hand would never come unclawed.

  Seventy Saint Patricks stood trial for desertion. They were made to wear their unwashed and bloodied Mexican uniforms in court, exuding a reek that intensified the hateful grimaces in the room and seemed in keeping with the odiousness of their crime. Every man of them was convicted and sentenced to hang.

  In his judicial review, however, General Winfield Scott pardoned five of the condemned outright on different legal bases, and he spared fifteen others on the ground that they had deserted prior to the declaration of war and so were exempt from the death penalty. Those fifteen—including Samuel Thomas, Jack Riley, and John Little—were sentenced instead to fifty lashes on the bare back and the “D” brand of the deserter burned into their right cheek. Because Lucas Malone’s desertion had erroneously been recorded as occurring six weeks after it actually did, and because the court would give no credence to his comrades’ attestations that he had deserted with them before the declaration of war, he remained among the condemned. “Aint it the shits?” Malone said. “I keep my skin through all the fightin and get done in by some jackass of a clerk.”

  Samuel Thomas was among those who received their punishment in front of hundreds of witnessing American soldiers in the main plaza of San Angel, a village on the outskirt of the capital. In the center of the plaza stood a newly erected gallows consisting of a single long crossbeam from which dangled sixteen noosed ropes—the others of the condemned would be executed over the next three days. Set in a row under the crossbeam were eight small mule-drawn carts, and in each one stood a pair of San Patricios with their hands bound behind them. The carts faced a line of trees along one side of the plaza where the men to be flogged were stripped bare to the waist and each one tied to a tree trunk. The officer in charge kept loud count as the whippings were laid on. Samuel Thomas locked his jaws to keep from crying out but he passed out on the thirty-ninth lash. After the fiftieth, he was revived with a pail of water so he would be conscious for his branding. Two men held his head fast while another applied the glowing iron directly below his eye and he smelled his own searing flesh and bone and screamed in violation of his vow that he would not. It went even worse for Riley, who was the most hated of the deserters for being their leader. His brand was applied upside down, purportedly by accident, and so, to the loud approval of the spectating troops, the officer in charge ordered that it be burned correctly into his other cheek. Riley had managed to hold silent the first time but could not stifle himself the second, and his screams roused a great and happy chorus of derision.

  Then the hangings. White hoods were drawn over the heads of the condemned and the nooses snugged round their necks. At an officer’s signal, the muleteers’ whips cracked and the carts rumbled out from under the crossbeam and the plaza rang with cheers. A fortunate few of the gibbeted died instantly of snapped necks but most of them, including Lucas Malone, strangled to death, choking with awful sounds as their hysterical feet sought purchase on the empty air and their trousers darkened with piss and shit. The flogged and branded were then made to dig the hanged men�
��s graves and bury them, Samuel Thomas scooping at the earth with a trowel in his one good hand.

  With the fall of Mexico City, the war was over in every sense but officially. It was another five months before the signing in early 1848 of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, by which compact Mexico ceded to the United States an enormous portion of land that extended the American border to the Pacific coast. But it was still another month before the treaty was accepted by the American Senate, and then another two and a half months before it was ratified by Mexico. And all that while, the captive Saint Patricks labored daily with picks and shovels in a garbage pit a quarter-mile wide at the edge of the city, a monstrous crater writhing with rats and swarming with flies and aflutter with great flocks of carrion birds. Into this pit were emptied daily wagonloads of every sort of refuse and organic rot, including carcasses of animals large and small, the discard of miscarriages and abortions. The fetor made their eyes water and stung their throats even through the bandanas they wore over nose and mouth, and every man of them had bloodshot eyes and a chronic cough.

  They were at first incarcerated in the Acordada Penitentiary, near the center of the capital, and every morning before going to the pit they unloaded dead bodies from the municipal wagons that each dawn collected them off the streets and alleyways, as many of them victims of murder as of exposure and malnutrition and alcohol poisoning and disease and total exhaustion of the will to live. These dead were displayed on the prison’s front steps all day and night for anyone to claim. Those still there the next morning were then removed to make room for the new day’s corpses and were taken for burial in the potter’s field adjoining the garbage pit.

  After two of the Patricios escaped from the city penitentiary—both breakouts abetted by visitors—the prisoners were moved to the nearby fortress of Chapultepec castle and visiting privileges were curtailed. One of the escapees had been a diminutive man named Duhan, who dressed himself in smuggled women’s clothing and then simply walked out with the female visitors when they departed. The other to escape was John Little, who had spoken hardly at all since their capture at Churubusco. His liberation also entailed a disguise sneaked in to him by a woman visitor, a rich Mexican sympathetic to the Patricios, though none of them had any notion of why she had specifically chosen John Little to help escape. His disguise was designed to let him walk out in place of a servant who had accompanied her, but the guards became aware of the ruse just as the party was exiting the prison and was within sight of the carriage waiting at the curb. A gunfight ensued and the woman’s two employees were killed and the woman herself arrested. But John Little made away, and none of his comrades would ever know what became of him.

  On a day in late spring, less than two weeks before the last American troops withdrew from Mexico, the Saint Patricks were mustered into the central courtyard and there shorn of their hair, every man of them razored to the scalp, blood lacing down their heads, and then made to march in single file around the yard to a drum-and-fife rendition of “The Rogue’s March” while they were vilified and spat upon by the troops. And were finally directed out the front gate and set free. Jack Riley and a few other stalwarts would return to the Mexican army, but the others had had enough of the soldier’s life, and after sharing a common cell for nine months most of them had had enough of each other. As soon as they were into the park and out of view of the American soldiers they began drifting apart in different directions without words of farewell nor mentions of destination, and few of them would meet again. As for the promise of land grants, it had been made by a government anticipating victory over the Yankees and since then usurped many times over.

  Even if he’d had the use of both hands and could walk properly, Samuel Thomas would never have returned to the ranks. Nor would he go back to the U.S. The brand on his face was a mark of Cain to Americans and he would be a despised pariah. He might have done as some of the other Patricios had and disfigured the “D” to an unrecognizable scar, but the scar would still attract notice and raise questions, as would his crippled hand and pronounced limp. To say the maimings were war wounds would oblige him to answer queries about the unit he had served with and of some of his officers and comrades. And what of his name? “Samuel H. Thomas” was on the official roster of punished deserters, so he would have to revert to his real one or assume another one altogether. There were any number of pitfalls to such deceits, just as there were to any personal history he might invent for the past two years that did not include the war but accounted for his maimings. Such were the arguments he gave himself and he accepted them as sound enough. But the main reason he would not go home was his brother. He could neither lie to John Roger nor face him with the truth. His twin—the collegian, the man of principle—would never understand his desertion and for sure not his turned coat. Better that Johnny should imagine him dead by whatever misadventure struck his fancy than to see what had become of him. And to learn why. So he stayed in Mexico City.

  Through the rest of that summer he was frequently drunk, as much to blunt his memory as to ease his chronic pains. He kept to the heart of the city, which had been little damaged by the war and where the fashionable neighborhoods of the privileged flanked the Plaza de la Constitución, the vast central square and center of the federal government. This main plaza was more commonly called the zócalo—and the term had come to refer to any town’s main square that contained a cathedral and municipal building.

  He got money for liquor by stealing from church poor boxes, by robbing drunks on the late-night streets. He wrested bottles from weaker men. He occasionally encountered a bartender or patron who took his branded face for a badge of honor and stood him a few drinks. He fed at the alley doors of restaurants where a man might be meted leftovers when the dinner trade was done, or in whose garbage cans he might find something still edible, but on some days he ate nothing. A friendly vendor of old clothing provided him with a shirt and pants and a woolen poncho to replace his tattered uniform. He somehow obtained a sombrero. From a distance he looked like one more dispossessed peón at large on the capital’s teeming streets. He slept in the parks. When the weather was inclement he took shelter in pulquerías, the most squalid of drinking places but where a man could sleep undisturbed in a corner among a litter of other homeless drunks. He spent his days ambling about the central city. He washed at public fountains. He sat on park benches and observed without curiosity the city’s passing spectacle. He had lost all interest in the doings of the world and ignored even discarded newspapers and broadsheets except as insulation against cold nights. He one day saw a former Patricio comrade on the street, wearing a spanking new Mexican army uniform, and ducked into the crowd before the soldier caught sight of him.

  His was a solitary existence and by now he could conceive of no other. But the streets were especially dangerous for a man alone. The capital was rife with rateros and brutos—thieves and roving gangs of young thugs—and the city’s police force of the time was small and poorly trained. People of the better classes did not venture outside after dark except in groups and with hired bodyguards. The first time he was set upon was in the darkness of a park where he slept in the shrubbery, and he lost a front tooth and was robbed of his shoes. The episode clarified to him the severity of his handicaps and how dim-witted he was to be weaponless. From a marketplace meat stall he stole a boning knife and honed its curved seven-inch blade sharper still on the stone rim of a fountain. Two nights later when a trio of thugs swooped on him he slashed the throat of one and wounded both of the others before they scrabbled away in a cursing retreat. He stripped the sandals from the one he killed, took the few centavos in his pocket. In the months that followed he killed at least three more assailants and bloodied a number of others in driving them off. He gained a daunting reputation among the local street gangs. El Yanqui Feo, they called him, and most of them eventually let him be. But he remained a challenge to young street toughs wanting to make a name for themselves, and his clothes were rarely free of rece
nt blood stains.

  So did his days pass. Each the same as the one before. Each tomorrow his vague and only future. Every dawn’s waking one more astonishment. He was twenty years old and felt decrepit.

  In the last days of September came a cold and chronic rain. He got sick, grew weak and dizzy, went about in a sweating chill. His body felt peculiar, as though its flesh was barely clinging to its bones. One morning he was nearly run over as he crossed a street, staggering back as the mule team clopped by. It was a municipal wagon with a load of corpses loosely covered with a tarp. He clearly saw the face of one at the bottom of the pile—eyes open and teeth bared in a grimace that might have passed for a maniacal grin. The face, Samuel Thomas was certain, winked at him.

  On a raw dank night, walking in a small plaza of bright shops and restaurants a few blocks north of the zócalo, he was seized by a sudden sensation of being weightless and then the earth tipped under him and he fell unconscious on the sidewalk. But even in the better parts of town the prostrate forms of insensate drunks were a common sight, and passersby on their way to supper or the theater stepped around him with no more interest than if he had been a hole in the ground. The common sentiment about bodies on the central streets was that they would either revive and move on or be picked up in the morning by the collection wagons.