That is what she said. What I said then was that the colonel is a murderer, and a raper and torturer of little Indian girls. And that he disciplines his soldiers so brutally that his is one of the worst desertion problems in the whole Army. I told her that he is especially brutal to the Irish, which ought to mean something to an Irish-born woman. Here she interrupted me to protest that Harney was himself an Irishman, and she didn’t believe me. I said, “He scorns the immigrants, for he’s a born American and believes the newcomers disgrace him and others like him!”
It was at that moment when one of Colonel Harney’s Irish dragoons went by, leading a lame horse, and overhearing, he said, “The lad speaks true, Ma’am. I can show ye the stripes on my back.” She pointed at him and said, “I can report you, soldier!” Well, he halted and turned to reply, “If ye must, Ma’am, go right on, as he’ll be a-whippin’ me anyway for letting me horse go lame.” Then he went on, beginning to whistle quite beautifully the song called I Wish I Was Married Again Again. She was speechless for a moment. Then she turned to me and said, “Paddy, dear Paddy, come sit for tea with me and let’s be kind.”
And that we did. I was relieved. I told her of my arm, she kissed the stump scar with tears in her eyes. I showed her some of my sketches and she was astonished by them—not merely a mother praising a son. I told her of Lt. Wallace and his kindnesses to me, and about all he had taught me of newspapers and other matters. I told her of the novel he is writing, and that we are now on the historic road of the conquistador. She said she was pleased by all my education that I had gotten without school. Now and then her eyes welled with tears. Who knows what troubles she has endured between Michigan and Mexico, but she appears little older than I remember. I observed that soldiers tend to stray toward her for a close look, and I do suspect it’s not merely curiosity about their colonel’s companion.
I drank more tea and restrained myself awhile from badgering her to leave the colonel. I kept watching about, intending to have gone before he arrived. She said she would prepare a place for me to put my bedding down in the other wagon. But I told her that I would be for finding another place to sleep. She protested very little, I guess because of seeing how strongly I dislike the colonel. As the sun sank, I began moving to leave. She urged me to stay and have supper, of good fresh beef she was stewing over her cookfire. I excused myself, saying that I had friends I wished to visit in the 4th Infantry. And it was true the urge had risen to find Lts. Grant and Maloney and show them I am still alive.
She assured me as I left, that she knows how to keep a man from hurting her.
Can a son know what his mother is thinking? I believe that she is planning how to persuade me to live with her. And, that Colonel Harney bears watching, for those great faults I spoke of. I want her to imagine the Seminole girls he raped.
So I left her, after that long-awaited reunion, and went looking for the 4th Inf. Both lieutenants out on patrols. I’ll go back tomorrow evening. I went into Xalapa, found the townfolk polite, curious about me. Bought spicy meat in a fritter. Good.
I came back after dark and bedded down not far from her wagons, but stayed in the shadows. Soldiers were singing and laughing near their fire, and part of their song was this:
Colonel Harney, Red head Harney,
Full o’ lechery and blarney!
Within earshot of War’s trumpet,
Old Bill Harney beds a strumpet!
I confess, to this diary in the place of the priests we don’t have, that the demise of Col. Bill Harney in this poor Catholic land would not sadden my heart.
Xalapa, Mexico April 25, 1847
LT. GRANT WAS reeking whiskey and cigars but seemed happy to see me. My stump arm moved him to rant on this “unholy war,” which maims children and loots cathedrals and so on. The lieutenant is generous with his whiskey and cigars, and shared with me despite my minority. When Mick Maloney frowned on that, Sam Grant surprised me by retorting to Maloney that he deems me a veteran, age be damned. They both drank to that, and my head swelled so, I could’ve worn two hats!
Inspired by the whiskey, the officers blew steam about two things mainly. Which general, Taylor or Scott, would likelier be the next U. States president. And whether the rest of the campaign on Mexico City is to be a bloody ordeal or a promenade. The battle here was such a drubbing that Santa Anna probably is sunk in disgrace and unable to mount a defense of the capital. Mister Grant disagreed. “We’ve invaded their country, damn it, so I expect we’ll pay a steep price for every inch.” He lamented the loss of several thousand volunteers who were going home because their enlistments had expired, and no sign of reinforcements yet. “This Army proved itself there at Cerro Gordo,” Mister Grant said. “But if we ever meet their Army head-on, instead of finding a way around, well . . .” He stopped and shook his head, and the talk fell off, and we got so grogged I woke up cold on the ground under a cot, with officers snoring all around in the dark. My last cigar had burnt a hole in my shirt and I hadn’t known it.
Avoiding Col. Bill Harney could be the death of me yet.
Noon today I went like a good son to look in on my mother. Found her in low spirits. Col. Harney had argued with her last night. He was criticizing me. Said what kind of a boy is it that won’t stay with his mother in camp, or won’t even come to pay his respects to an officer who protected me from Seminole Indians in Florida, and who got me passage to come find her. Being as she is, she told him right out that I don’t much care for him. She said he colored at that, and asked her why not. She told him she reckoned I thought he wasn’t good enough for her, as a son might think about his mother. She said he swelled and called it an impertinence when a damned camp urchin looks down on a colonel of the United States Army and he would damned well like an explanation of it from me. He said if I couldn’t show proper respect he might just bar me from the camp or ship me back out of Mexico altogether. She told him she would advise me thus, if she saw me, but warned him not to think of laying a rough hand on me. He said by God he never had. I told her, that’s true, for I never gave him cause. I told her also that he never protected me from Seminole Indians, either, unless those little Indian girls had meant to do me harm before he ravished them and rendered them harmless. She looked hard at me then but didn’t scold. So I guess I’ve got her looking at him a little slaunch-wise now. Or could it be that she’s heard his dragoons sing their little ditty about his lechery? I hope not, for it sure demeans her as much as him.
I told her I would stay near, and if the colonel came, I’d face up to him. That lifted her mood. We ate together, and talked. She had made a straw pallet for me in the other wagon, and I put my pack and blanket in on it. Then we drank tea and talked some more while she mended the burn hole in my shirt. It was chilly sitting there with my shirt off, and whenever she looked at the stump of my arm, she’d bite her lip and blink and go back a-sewing.
After a while like that I said, “This isn’t so bad, not if you saw some of the fellows in the hospital with me after the Buena Vista fight.” She shut her eyes and shook her head. I showed her my other scars, and told her that what had hit me was probably pieces of a soldier’s skull. She shuddered so hard I could see it, and burst out, “Damn it, Paddy, why were you on a battlefield anyway!” So I explained about being there to sketch the combat of the Indiana troops for Lt. Wallace. “Well,” she said, “you’re no soldier, you’re my very young son, and I forbid you to go into a battle again if God forbid there is one.”
I said, “There will be. My friend Mister Grant thinks we’re in for something awful, when we go for their capital, for it’s sure to be walls and forts and strongholds all over.” She said, “Friend? Ah, sure and would that be the Lieutenant Grant that gives a child whiskey to drink and cigars to burn himself up with, now?” And then all at once we both just started laughing. It was the first we’d ever laughed together since I was little, sure and it was that, and it felt so good. We just went on and on laughing. Some soldiers nearby looked at us, curious, and
began to edge our way as if to hear what was funny. Sure she is an object of their own base humor, I know, so it’s fair that they’re puzzled by our laughter. And I reckon many of them envy the colonel her company, too, a body can tell that by the way they look at her. This isn’t easy for me, but like any misery, laughter eases it.
Late in the day, Col. Harney came up, as I knew he would eventually, both smiling and scowling at once, I swear he was. He greeted me as his good lad, which gnawed in me, but for her sake I was polite. He gave a nod and a wince in respect to my empty sleeve, as a proper soldier will. Then he eased past me toward my mother. However they might usually greet each other, they were proper as churchmice in my presence. And good for him, because if he’d so much as patted her haunch I might have amputated his hand with my Mexican knife, or perished in the attempt. He is a man to be feared, I’d learned long ago, strong and quick and mean-spirited. He is a hard-faced redhair. What charm he ever resorts to doesn’t come from as deep as his heart, it’s just blarney, to gain something. Not many soldiers really like killing and hurting, but I’m sure he does, and that’s why I pray my mother will get over her attachment to him. She sure will as far as it’s in my power.
We sat a moment for tea, though any of us would have preferred liquor, if we weren’t trying so hard to make good impressions. I felt there were some invisible people present with us as we sat there. I mean the Seminole girls. We all three knew of them. Perhaps the colonel knew that I had told my mother about them. Maybe she had asked him about them. I doubt it. Probably she will keep that knowledge to herself, like a hidden weapon to use on him if ever need be.
Colonel Harney’s preferred mood is anger. Today he had cause for it, without directing it at me. He soon began complaining about deserters. Two more of his own dragoons had vanished last night, and scores had left other units here at Xalapa. My mother inquired, in an innocent-sounding manner, whether a soldier would ever be whipped for letting his horse go lame. The colonel drew up tall and said yes. She said, “Has any been whipped lately for it?” He replied, “As a matter of fact, yes.” She said, “Is that whipped soldier one of the recent deserters?” Well, the colonel’s face went as red as his hair and he admitted that it was so. She said, “Was he an Irish soldier?” All this she pursued as mild discourse. At length the colonel drew from his coat a folded document, shook it open, and handed it to her. “It’s the damned Mexicans and their printing mill,” he said almost in a shouting voice. “These are coming as thick as snowflakes!”
I remembered the pamphlets and broadsides that had been distributed at Fort Texas, and could scarcely contain my eagerness to compare this new one. So I contrived to have it in my possession by the end of our visit. It is most eloquent, and bears the signature of General Santa Anna, who apparently remains in power despite his defeat in the recent battle. It was from Mexico City, and here follows its text:
MEXICANS TO CATHOLIC IRISHMEN
Irishmen—Listen to the words of your brothers, hear the accents of a Catholic people.
Could Mexicans imagine that the sons of Ireland, that noble land of the religious and the brave, would be seen amongst their enemies?
Well known it is that Irishmen are a noble race; well known it is that in their own country many of them have not even bread to give up to their children.
These are the chief motives that induced Irishmen to abandon their beloved country and visit the shores of the new world.
But was it not natural to expect that the distressed Irishmen who fly from hunger would take refuge in this Catholic country, where they might have met with a hearty welcome and been looked upon as brothers had they not come as cruel and unjust invaders? Sons of Ireland! Have you forgotten that in any Spanish country it is sufficient to claim Ireland as your home to meet with a friendly reception from authorities as well as citizens? Our religion is the strongest of bonds.
What? Can you fight by the side of those who put fire to your temples in Boston and Philadelphia? If you are Catholics, the same as we, why are you men, sword in hand, murdering your brothers?
Are Catholic Irishmen to be the destroyers of Catholic temples, the murderers of Catholic priests, in this pious nation?
By conquest you can take the cities and towns, but never possess two feet of ground unmolested as long as there is a Mexican.
But our hospitality and good will towards you tenders you without force as much property in land as you require, and this under the pledge of our honor and our holy religion.
Come over to us: you will be received under the laws of that truly Christian hospitality and good faith which Irish guests are entitled to obtain from a Catholic nation. Our sincere efforts have already been realized with many of your countrymen, who are living as our own brothers among us.
May Mexicans and Irishmen, united by the sacred tie of religion and benevolence, form only one people.
ANTONIO LÓPEZ DE SANTA ANNA
President, Republic of Mexico
This eloquent appeal I read and reread by candlelight in the wagon tonight, and now write this summary of a day which has been difficult for me. In the other wagon a few feet away are Colonel Harney and my mother. I prefer not to think of them. I do wish that General Scott would execute a policy forbidding his officers from such behavior. Old “Fuss & Feathers,” as Gen. Scott is known, is said to be such a Prig, that he would not abide the colonel’s wantonness. Mr. Grant said Gen. Scott despises Harney anyway, knowing him as a crony of Pres. Jackson. More politics!
But we are deep in a hostile country. Colonel Harney is the sort of officer Gen. Scott needs here. Even if Gen. Scott knows of this, as he probably does, he would not vex a fighting officer by caviling with him over his morality.
I would very much have liked to needle the colonel this evening, during his rage over desertions, by telling him of my friendship and admiration for Mister John Riley. O How satisfying it would have been to say, Colonel, I know a gunner from Galway who is worth about twenty of you.
But of course I am no such a fool as all that.
And I must keep faith that my mother can handle a scoundrel well enough her own way as long as she’s near him, which will be only until I can devise to drive the bloody villain off her. I can’t do that by staying away, so that means I have to suffer being around him for the while.
I drew a picture of him after having to look at him through a whole supper, drew him the way he looks at me. I showed it to her and said, “See those evil slit eyes? Is that a mean bastard or not? Be frank, Ma.”
She huffed and said, “A man can’t be blamed for the phiz God gave him!” I said, “It wasn’t God made his eyes mean. That’s his own doing.”
CHAPTER XIX
AGUSTIN JUVERO
SPEAKING TO THE JOURNALIST
ON THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD
IT WAS AN excellent breakfast, Señor Periodista. Gracias.
Before we return to our peregrinación, I will show you some papers that you should find to be of much interest.
These papers bear the handwriting of a certain person. Never mind how it is that they are in my possession. They are of some historical importance.
These have been marked with dates that indicate when they were composed. You will observe that they are from the spring and summer of the year 1847. That is, after our army’s defeat at Cerro Gordo. By that time, Presidente Santa Anna was back in Mexico City, with his headquarters in the Citadel where I was continuing my military education. You may try to imagine the anxiety. El Presidente was not in disgrace for the loss of that battle, despite what you might have read in your country’s periodicals. The desperate defense of the heart of our country made him instead, in the eyes of our people generally, still more our savior. It is true, some political opponents were critical of the failure at Cerro Gordo, and the status of certain generals under his command was changing. General Santa Anna was always adept at assigning blame for any failure to his subordinates, whom he would blame as traitors. By condemning them, he would
elevate himself in the eyes of the people still further.
We watched your advance closely. Guerrillas were everywhere around your army. They sent us reports sometimes encouraging, sometimes not. General Scott’s supply line from Vera Cruz to Xalapa was over-extended. Thousands of your volunteers had gone home. Thousands more were ill and dying. General Scott was attempting to supply his army with food taken from our farmers in the vicinity of Xalapa. When that met resistance, he made arrangements with the alcaldes and other leaders, and began paying for the food. We did not brand those suppliers as traitors to Mexico’s defense, for we knew they had little choice in the matter. And General Scott was fair, plainly an honorable and judicious man, although he served an aggressive and corrupt government.
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