May 4th, 1846 Fort Texas on Rio Grande
HOLY MARY, MOTHER of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
All I know to do is burrow deeper, pray harder. We who’d slept at all awoke to more bombardment, and worse. Some shells coming in from northwest of the fort, over our weaker and lower parapets: that is, from our own side of the river, not the Matamoros side. Maj. Brown our fort’s commander in Gen. Taylor’s absence discerned that Mexicans now have artillery dug in upstream of us, much closer than the batteries around Matamoros. It would explain the activities we heard in the night. They crossed and dug in under cover of night.
We are trapped.
Some of the soldiers no braver than the camp women under this shelling. Crying and praying with their faces down in the dirt. Some near losing their wits.
Had to leave my hole in the ground to go to the sinks. Also, to find food to bring back. Got to the latrine almost the same moment a mortar shell from Matamoros reached it. Lucky it was for me it got there a moment earlier than I, or I’d not be here to tell of it. Memory is uncertain whether I really saw the missile, but heard it screaming in and then everything rose up with a burst of noise and spraying matter. I woke some time later full covered in wormy shit and blood. I ached everywhere in my head and body and still do, ears ringing like carriage bells. Whose blood I don’t know, but not mine, heaven be praised. Was it that some poor soldier was down there as I arrived I don’t know, and don’t care to think on it. Forgot caution and went reeling down the path to the river and in, clothes and all. Across the river Matamoros was all smoke, from their cannons and from fires set by our incendiary shot.
There I stood in the river washing off, shaky and puking, cannonfire pounding in my head and shot howling over. I doubt anyone could see me, or would have cared if they had. It came to my mind that if I started swimming across, there were for the first time no sentries posted above to shoot deserters. I could be off to Mexico and no one the wiser. I was for making my mind up whether I had strength to do it, and doubt my brain was in much balance to be deciding such important matters, when I saw askance somebody moving on the bank. I wiped water from my eyes and saw it was two soldiers in their dirty blue coats going at full run into the water, all a-splash, then just their heads and shoulders visible as they swam for Mexico. In the light of day like this any other time, sentries or snipers would have killed them by now. But on they went, one paddling like a dog and the other thrashing his arms. I could swim better than either of them. I doubt they wanted out of Fort Texas any more than I did. They were grown men, sworn to soldier. I could follow with impunity, was my thought. I was leaning down to go with the current, thinking to meet John Riley and starting to pray for a safe crossing, when, damn me, who comes into my head but Sgt. Maloney. And my feet sought the muddy bottom. And I stood there remembering what he’d told me, shot and shell still screeching over and banging like all thunder. I just caved in, it felt like, and I’ll admit I cried and cussed at the same time. Then I waded out of the river and came back up to the fort. I might have been too numbed to be as scared as I should. I went finding a sack of hardtack and brought it to the people in my shelter. Need something to show for all that.
I doubt I’ll ever get so close to crossing over as I did today. Don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow about staying here.
Not ashamed to admit that some of the shit I washed out of my breeches after the shell blew up the latrine was my own. Hope that doesn’t happen again.
A dismal thought, that Gen. Taylor’s got attacked by the Mexicans down by the coast, and we’re all doomed, both there and here.
Writing calms me. But must quit. Candle about gone.
May 5, 1846 Fort Texas, on Rio Grande
TODAY, WHAT I would call a milestone. I became a “combatant.” Of a sort, anyway.
A gunnery sergeant from Lt. Bragg’s battery grabbed me at dawn and impressed me into service as a powder monkey. That is, fetching powder charges from the magazine to the cannons. One of their privates was hurt bad by a piece of bombshell yesterday and I took his place.
I never had a harder day. Had I known yesterday this would happen, I would have gone on across the river when I could. This entry will be short. I am too spent out to write much but thought it seemly to commemorate the milestone.
The closer I get to cannons the more I hate them. They’re monsters made by men to kill other men and shatter anything erected by men. They are hot and filthy with black powder and soot. They stink of death and they’re deafening. And they are like magnets for drawing enemy fire. The cannoneers are in love with them, though. Sure and it’s terrifying to go near and about all that fire and blast while carrying enough explosive powder to sunder a stone house. Cannons kick up as much dust as smoke. My eyes and throat feel like they’d been scorched.
I can say I am surprised to find myself still alive tonight.
I did one fool thing that earned me a mighty thump from the gunnery sergeant, but it was the one fine moment of a dismal and terrifying day. Here follows how it happened:
One battery had been moved from the parapet fronting the river and Matamoros, over to the northwest parapet, to face the nearer battery erected by the Mexicans this side of the river, and counter its fire. I had brought up as many bagged powder charges as I could carry, and was resting, when I heard a gunner yell out “There’s the son of a bitch Riley!” It sure brought me up straight. The gunner had a spyglass aimed on the Mexican battery, while keeping his head down as low as he could. I skipped over beside him and asked if I might use his glass to see such a villain, and it was the right thing to say, I reckon, for he handed it to me and went to the cannoneers to sight their gun, I suppose, right on Mr. Riley. The gunner yelled “The dog is right under that second banner!” It took me some squinting to get the glass where I could see aught but smoke and dust, and a ball or two screamed over even as I was peering, but then through the smoke I saw a banner, and there below it sure as I’m Padraic Quinn there stood John Riley himself, in a dark blue Mexican officer jacket and black kepi hat, not a bit cowered down, but full exposed and signaling orders to his cannoneers, who were fair dancing around their guns with ball, swab, and rammer, that’s how spry he had them working!
Then he turned our way and raised his own spyglass onto us. And that’s when I just got that mad leap of the heart and forgot about the shooting. Up I scrambled to the top of that parapet, and waved my arm at him, wild as a lunatic. I didn’t yell, not that I remember, though maybe I did. And I got the glass back up and on him again, and there he was with his glass on me, sure as hell, I know he saw me and knew me, for he raised a hand and waved it at me, two, three times. Then he signaled me to drop down, I suppose, but it wasn’t necessary because the gunner grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs out from under me and brought me down on my face in the hard dirt of the parapet. That instant both batteries, Riley’s over there and Bragg’s here, opened up on each other, and it was all head-splitting thunder and red muzzleblasts and flying clods and whistling metal, ball, grapeshot, and shell.
The next thing for me was I was lifted off the ground by the back of my shirt and spun about face-to-face with the gunnery sergeant. He wasted no time expending every known profanity upon me, and one great wallop with his forearm the size of a leg of mutton left me unwinded and upside down at the gunners’ feet. But it didn’t hurt me too severely to be sent back to work hauling powder.
The gunnery sergeant never got me aside to explain what my crime was. Sure and I’m thankful for that.
My first day as a combatant. It was worth it, to hail Mister Riley. But tonight I’ve found another hole to lie in, and hope the gunnery sgt. won’t find me again.
I can’t find a place on me that doesn’t hurt. Well, I guess my earlobes are all right.
CHAPTER X
Fort Texas on Rio Grande May 18, 1846
DON’T KNOW WHETHER Congress ever declared a war yet, but with or without their say-so we’ve got one
going here. And damned if we don’t seem to be winning it, in spite of the odds!
The Mexican batteries were shelling us from two sides whilst our Army and the Mexican were out chasing each other between here and Port Isabel. What they say is, Gen. Taylor clear down there could hear the bombardment of his fort, as it’s only twenty miles. So he started his Army back this way. Well, then it was about ten miles up from here he ran up against the Mexican Army at a place called Palo Alto. I kind of remember it from when we came down, a line of trees. The Armies faced off and then in a long fight that we could hear from here at the fort, both sides held till dark. The cannons started a big grass fire up there that we could see lighting the sky red.
Next day the Mexicans drew back about five miles and forted up in a dry riverbed for protection against Taylor’s artillery. But our Army fought through, as we discovered by seeing the Mexican troops come willy-nilly down the road past the fort and tumble down the bank of the Rio Grande trying to get away. What a spectacle that was! Even the artillery northwest of us, where Mister Riley was, abandoned their cannons and headed into the river. Awful lot of Mexicans drowned. God-almighty, you just never know! Our troops came in victorious, but they were dazed and tattered something awful. Most of them, it was their first combat. Many had been hurt bad by bullets and canister shot, or blade wounds, or just cut up by fighting through thorny thickets and suchlike. There were plenty of wounded that couldn’t walk and were in the wagons, along with dead comrades that had to be buried here. All that meant work for me. I’ve been a gravedigger now, 150 killed and wounded. Some died after they were brought into the fort, including an artillery major hit in both legs by a Mexican cannonball.
I heard more awful tales than I could ever remember. I saw Sgt. Maloney, who was slashed up something awful but had done himself proud leading a charge in the arroyo with some of his Seminole War veterans who captured a Mexican cannon crew and its gun. He is bragging that half the casualties were Irishmen like him. Most of the wounded aren’t even American citizens yet but good soldiers for the U.S.
There had been several reporters at the battles and it was sure interesting to see them writing notes. It seemed to me like the officers spent too much of their time going after those journalists and telling the stories in ways that made themselves look good. Some of the reporters were foreigners, from Europe and South America and the like, very strange and interesting fellows, to my mind, but the officers wanted to talk only to American reporters, who could I guess get their names in the newspapers close to home. Gen. Taylor is said to have hopes of being the President sometime soon. This victory over General Arista might help him. But this seems to be just the start of a war. I guess he’d have to win the whole war to earn the presidency. I really don’t know about all that, the politics and the ambition. But I do eavesdrop on the officers, and they talk about such things most of the time. That is, they did until now, and all they talk about now is battle and glory. Their favorite term I’ve heard over and over is that they’ve “drawn the claret.” It took awhile for me to understand that, then a soldier explained that claret is a sort of wine just the color of blood.
Yesterday it looked like General Arista’s whole army fled from Matamoros, and the people of the town, too, with everything they had in wagons, heading westward. Gen. Taylor sent scouts across, and the whole town was deserted, nobody left but those too wounded or sick to move. Lots of them, I hear. Today our army is on the move to occupy the town. Rumor is that Gen. Taylor means to go pursuing the Mexican Army into their country. That Congress will sure declare war now, if they haven’t already. General wants us moved away from this low land before the sick season starts. We remember from when we first got to Corpus Christi in the heat of last summer how bad that is. Inland more than a hundred miles there are hills and mountains, where the air is healthy.
I guess it’s healthy if you don’t get killed by another Mexican Army. There’s got to be a lot more Mexican soldiers in this whole country than just the ones Gen. Arista had here. And although the officers tend to scorn them, some of our soldiers were pretty impressed. I guess our dead ones are impressed.
Matamoros on the Rio Grande or Rio Bravo as the Mex call it May 20, 1846
I AM IN a foreign country! Another milepost in my life, first time outside the U.S. Here we are in Matamoros, that we gazed at so long.
(Though the Mexicans would argue that I was already in their country, there at Ft. Texas.)
First time since Michigan that I’ve had a real roof over my head instead of tent canvas, or palm leaves like in Florida during the Seminole campaign. And four walls around me. Actually about 3½ walls, as the north one was half ruint by Lt. Bragg’s artillery. Found the very cannonball here in the rubble inside. Returned it to the gunners, hoping for a penny or two reward, but Bragg cursed me for a little Mick beggar and aimed a kick at me. I dodged it and think he threw his back out a little. I got that satisfaction if not a penny.
So I have a room of my own, unless some other beggar moves in, the first room I’ve ever had. For company I have at least one rat—though it may be several appearing one at a time—and a number of scorpions. I have furnished my place with straw for bedding, a broken chair I found and fixed, and a table made from a plank laid over one crate and one keg. The room reeks of smoke. The cannonball was one of those incendiaries and had ignited the wainscot and part of the wood floor. Looks as if there wasn’t much damage from incendiary rounds. Most of the town is built of mud brick instead of wood, and the floors dirt or tile. The shelling beat down lots of north walls though. Streets are full of cast-off things I guess the people had to leave. Soldiers had already picked it over before I came over so as usual I get hind tit.
Most of the camp town is now on this side of the river, some in the half-smashed buildings. The bootleggers already in business. Boats of contraband already coming up the river, with fear of the Mexican Army gone. There are still hostile rancheros and guerrillas along the river, both banks, but hucksters and peddlers of all kinds are arriving. Whores are already here. I had to threaten one with my knife to keep her from taking over my room. Don’t know how long I’ll live here before the Army moves on. I’ll probably go on with them. But I mean to enjoy this room long as I’m here. It is a treat to sit and write on a desk instead of my lap or the floor. Have about eight inches total of candle stubs. Found base of a lamp in the street, with a wick in. If I can get some whale oil I might just sit here and write a whole book, ha ha.
The most wondrous part of all this though is the quiet after all those cannons. I do not want any more cannon fire for a long time yet, if ever, even though a cannonball did provide for me the ventilation I have in this little room of my own.
May 21, 1846
THIS MORNING I went to a house that was the headquarters of the Mexican generals. Not much left of it, too good a target for Lt. Bragg to leave standing. That particular pile of rubble is a curiosity place the officers and some of the men stop in and see, I guess so they can say they stood where the Mexican general had been. It had the best prospect of our fort over there, sure enough. Nothing much left for keepsakes. If there had been any inkstands or map cases or other kind of officer equipment, it was all taken away before I got there. I did see a gleam in the rubble over by a fireplace, and dug out a brass tea kettle still serviceable though dented deep on one side and no sign of the lid anywhere. Sure I reckon somebody used the kettle to make tea that Gen. Arista drank, and his staff officers. It’s my souvenir and I can imagine what I want to about it. Nobody seems to know whether any Mexican officers got killed when the house was hit, but it is pretty certain the general wasn’t here anymore by that time, as his army had gone out after ours before then. I found some bloodstains on walls but most of the floor and walls were too heaped up with mud brick and rafters and roof tiles to tell what happened.
Other places I went to see today were some of the earthworks where the Mexican cannons and mortars were, the guns that gave us such a pounding over ther
e in Ft. Texas. Nothing much left in those places, either, but a broken rammer and shreds of powder bag cloth. Sure and it smells like the true hell in those gunpits, even after a morning rain. I mean that sulfur smell from all the powder they shot up there in those pits. I hung around there awhile and thought about Mister Riley being there as he must have been, in some of them anyway, shooting away at us. I also walked in that battery on the other side of the Rio where I know I saw him that day and we waved at each other. I walked out and walked over it before we crossed the river to here. Had to help with burial detail burying an awful lot of dead Mexicans. Sure and every buzzard in North America must have flown in for the occasion.
What with the Army mostly over here in Mexico now, I need to find where the units are that know me, and get me some errand work. Sort of like to hear some of the stories, like from Mick Maloney the sergeant, and what he did, and how he feels now. Saw Lt. Grant on my way back here and he still damns us for invading Mexico. I heard him tell an officer, This is naked aggression! This is a damned unholy adventure and we ought to be ashamed of what we’re doing! Regardless of those sentiments, I hear it told he soldiered real brave in the battles on the road.
St. Patrick Battalion Page 12