St. Patrick Battalion

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  But the signs were ominous that he would be coming on toward our capital. Those Irish and German Catholics who were deserting him in such numbers, they carried rumors that he was preparing to march on from Xalapa to Puebla, a giant stride, halfway to our capital. In a way, that gave us some hope, for it meant that his line of supply would be perhaps stretched beyond its capacity. In the classroom, our Colegio instructors were by then discussing the strategies of the current war instead of military history and theories. The times were exciting. We grew ever more patriotic. We spent more time drilling and practicing for combat. I remember that we would gather on the parapets of the castle of Chapultepec, small groups of cadets, gazing out over the spires of Mexico City and the lakes and mountains beyond, and imagine the day when General Scott and his Yanqui army would appear from the east. Sometimes we would see el Presidente move between his door and his carriage. He was always surrounded by officers and dignitaries. Some looked to be English or Americans. There was a rumor, Señor, that your President Polk had sent a diplomat to negotiate secretly with el Presidente Santa Anna for peace. It was thought that your president did not really want General Scott to succeed in capturing Mexico City because the general was of different politics and might return to your country in triumph and defeat the president’s party in the next election. There were such intrigues and subterfuges always going forward, as the history of the war proves. And we the cadets believed that we saw the plotters, though we seldom knew which were which.

  Then there was a day, Señor, that I shall never forget. It was when a great many of our military officers came up to meet with el Presidente, and one of them was Don Juan Riley. He was a captain by then, much decorated for his artillery service at Buena Vista and then at Cerro Gordo. I was one of the cadets who were sent to attend the horses of the visiting officers. There I saw the great Irishman, and his commander, Major Moreno, who as I told you was a friend of my family. They had in fact sent ahead a request that I should be among the cadets attending their horses, so that we could greet each other.

  Capitán Riley appeared most splendid in his uniform and medals. His face was tanned by sun and weather, and his black hair, long and curly, burnished with red from sunbleaching. He and Major Moreno flattered me with warm and sincere attention, which thereafter was to enhance my prestige in the academy, but also was to exacerbate the envy from certain older cadets. Both officers relayed to me my mother’s greetings. From that I presumed that she and Capitán Riley were again in company with each other, much to their mutual happiness, I suspected. The captain explained very briefly to me that General Santa Anna had summoned him to bestow another promotion upon him and upon other of his Irish gunners, but also to employ him further in the enticement of Catholic soldiers away from General Scott’s approaching army.

  “I have become his example,” Capitán Riley told me with a smile. And Major Moreno said to me, “We are still doing what you helped us do so well, Agustin, so many months ago when you so bravely carried our noble appeals across the Rio Bravo to General Taylor’s fort.” Some of my fellow cadets heard those words, to my considerable satisfaction.

  Now, as to these papers that I mentioned. These, Señor, are in a hand that may be familiar to you. I have shown you already another thing that he wrote. You doubted it was his. These are various drafts of a broadside that President Santa Anna asked Capitán Riley to compose in his own words. It is a rather handsome script, is it not? Much better than the contemptuous West Point officers would expect from what they liked to call “ignorant Irishmen.” Read it, Señor.

  TO MY FRIENDS AND COUNTRYMEN

  IN THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Actuated by only the purest motives, I venture to address you on a vitally important subject.

  The President of the Republic of Mexico, in hope of giving every opportunity to Foreigners in your army, through a sentiment worthy of his high station, and through motives of pure friendship towards the misguided natives of other countries (than the United States) who have foolishly embarked in this impolitic & unholy war, once again offers to you his hand, & invites you, in the name of the Religion you profess, the various countries in which you first drew breath, of honor and of patriotism, to withhold your hands from the slaughter and invasion of a country whose thoughts or deeds never injured you or yours.

  My Irish Countrymen! I call upon you, for I know well your feelings, for the sake of that chivalry for which you are so celebrated, for that love of Liberty, for which our Ireland has so long been contending, for the sake of that Holy Religion which we have for ages professed:

  I conjure you to abandon a slavish hireling’s life in an army which in even the moment of victory treats you with contumely & disgrace. For whom are you contending? For a nation which, in the face of a disapproving world, trampled upon the holy altars of our Religion, set firebrands to a sanctuary devoted to the Blessed Virgin, and, even while boasting of civil and religious Liberty, trampled in contemptuous indifference everything appertaining to the dearest feelings of our country. My brave Countrymen! I have experienced the hospitality of the citizens of this Republic; from the moment I extended them the hand of friendship, I was received with kindness; though poor, I was relieved; though undeserving, I was respected. I pledge to you my Oath, that the same kindnesses extended to me await you also. if you will attend your conseience and

  I join my voice with that of the President of this Catholic Republic of Mexico, inviting you to leave those ranks which are unworthy, and to come over to this side of

  And so you see how he would strike through and begin again. This was the work upon which the president engaged him, in addition to his exemplary soldiering, and it is evident that he worked and reworked his words, hoping to move Irishmen to this cause, in which he fully believed. Look at these papers. Imagine him.

  Perhaps you might imagine our excitement and our anxiety in those times, Señor. A formidable enemy was pressing close to the heart of our country, our magnificent and ancient capital city. They were heréticos, bárbaros, violadors. They scorned our religion, mocked and ransacked our churches. They were soldiers who somehow always surprised or outwitted us and won battles they should have lost. We who knew the history were reminded of the Spaniards of Cortéz who had come here by this same road so long ago, with so few soldiers, the unstoppable invasor.

  But this time we were armed with cannons and muskets and cavalry, the same weapons possessed by our invasor. And now we also had turned our faith to the powerful God of the conquistadors, and we prayed to him. We had as our presidente and commandante a glorious man already famed for heroism. He had rebuilt the Mexican army still again, and encouraged us to believe that the defense of Mexico City was not a battle that could be lost. This time his parades and reviews were held not in distant San Luis Potosi, but here in our greatest city, where we, the citizens of our cuidad capital, could see and admire them, the thousands of them, all in their beautiful and colorful uniforms with gleaming weapons, under the brilliant banners of their regiments; we heard their bands and drums, the clatter of thousands of hooves of the cavalry on the old stone streets, the rattle of the heavy cannons with their steel-rimmed wheels over the cobbles. Always we were seeing those soldiers and horses and guns going out to form their defenses on the heights guarding the roads. In our foundries, more cannons had been forged to replace those lost at Cerro Gordo. And now we had so many superb artillerists, many of them trained to a new level of alacrity by our adopted Irish patriot!

  And close around him, devoted to him, and to Mexico, were his batteries of Irish and German cannoneers, the big, sunburned men we called Los Colorados, the Red Ones, or sometimes the San Patricios, or Los Gringos Irlandeses, so many names for them because we so loved to speak of them. They were proud and fierce under their banner of green silk. We knew of many of them who had become betrothed to lovely women of our city, and meant to marry them after the war was won. Many of the Irishmen were great athletes, lifters and wrestlers, run
ners and boxers, whose contests our people loved to watch. Some danced mightily. Some were champions in drinking, some were glorious singers. Their time in Mexico City, waiting for the Americans to come, was not long, but they seemed like a small circo, a visiting circus, not to be forgotten. And, as they were our protectors, everything we saw them do well gave us heart. Sí, even the drinking, for some said, if they can drink like that and not fall, they will not fall in battle! ¡Viva Los Colorados!

  Here is an irony that you might not have thought of: As a military scholar, I know that it was General Scott himself who had modernized the artillery of the United States Army. Before the war, he had studied war in Europe, and brought their new gunnery tactics over. He developed the flying batteries.

  And then it was exactly such tactics that Señor Riley and his Irish gunners adopted, and turned with such deadliness upon General Scott’s own army when he invaded Mexico! Irony is bittersweet, is it not?

  PADRAIC QUINN’S DIARY

  Puebla, Mexico May 27, 1847

  WE MOVED TO this big city from Xalapa with almost no resistance. Col. Harney’s cavalry met guerrillas and skirmished but they’d usually just fire a volley and then tear off in retreat.

  I enjoy a wicked satisfaction lately at Col. Harney’s expense. His dragoons now joke that their tyrant is himself being browbeaten, that he is like a meek husband. In short, my mother has got the upper hand. The son of a bitch has met his match. A bully can’t dominate someone who has no fear, and she has no fear.

  I’m glad that I warned her of his reputation. That put her on her guard, and cleared any illusion she might have had. Then, whenever it was that he went a mite too far, she must have brought him down real hard. She might have done it with that sharp tongue. She might, too, have had to inflict some bit of corporal pain, to get his full attention.

  But I’ll fear for her until they’ve quit each other.

  I keep my distance from him. She excuses me. She pampers me, keeps me well fed and clean and mended. I still do a few errands, to keep pence in my wallet, but not having to scramble and scratch for my upkeep like I did before she came, I have more time to practice my drawings, both pencil and ink. And I also learned Mr. Morse’s telegraph code, from the card Lt. Wallace gave me. Sure and it’s useless as yet, for there’s no wire telegraph in this Army, to my knowledge, nor anyone I know who can understand the code. Still, it isn’t a waste of time. Someday if I become a correspondent of war, it’s a skill that might serve me well.

  Until then, I enjoy thinking in words made of dots and dashes. And if I wanted to put something in this diary that no one should understand, I could write it like this:

  General Scott’s Army received reinforcements bringing us up to near 14,000, which he thinks is sufficient to push farther toward the Capital. The scouts and spies found this city of Puebla all but undefended, only residents here, none of Gen. Santa Anna’s Army. An astonishment to us all. Here we wait and build up. The troops are encamped in various plazas and commons within the city. A beautiful old city. The Cathedral so elegant inside it’s hard to believe God didn’t build it Himself, for how could mere people have done it? The habitants of the city treat us neutral. All polite, and Gen. Scott keeps the troops from being too obnoxious. He went with a number of officers to visit the Cathedral, to give the Pueblans an assurance that the United States doesn’t scorn the Catholic Church. From my experience I would say that is false, but it was a wise thing to do.

  Col. Harney usually out, his cavalry ranging the countryside for signs of a Mexican Army. Now and then they skirmish with guerrillas, but no more than that. He believes Gen. Santa Anna is either out of power, or fixing to make a stand at their capital. Only about a hundred miles from here to the capital! Some officers are uneasy. Lieutenant Grant worries that we’re so far from Vera Cruz and our line of supply and communication could be cut clear off by as little as a regiment of Mexican cavalry, if they wanted to do that. Some who have fought Indians say this feels like being drawn into an ambush.

  When the Army stops and sits any time, rumors get going. One going strong now is, President Polk wants to get a peace treaty with Gen. Santa Anna, before we get whipped. There’s a civilian here who’s supposed to be an emissary of some sort, came up from Vera Cruz awhile ago. Rumor is that Gen. Scott won’t talk to him because he smells a political rat. Gen. Scott is a Whig, and if he takes Mexico City, he could go back to the U.S. and win an election against President Polk’s party, the Democrats. I don’t understand that much, but that’s what some of the officers are making of it. Gen. Taylor, too, maybe. Another Whig.

  Col. Harney is feeling put upon, too. He hates Gen. Scott because he thinks Gen. Scott hates him. Well, who doesn’t? Sure and the general could not condone his moral ways. The colonel mocks Gen. Scott as a prig and a Whig, so the politics may be a good bit of that, too.

  Not sure I want to become an adult man. I doubt I can acquire enough prejudice and foolishness to be one. That is a joke, of course. I’ll be a man all too soon.

  CHAPTER XX

  PADRAIC QUINN’S DIARY

  Valley of Mexico August 11, 1847

  SOME DAYS I can scarcely believe what I see.

  Crossed over the mountain road today in a cold wind and looked down off to the west. Greatest landscape I ever saw in my life, a valley, must be fifty miles wide, mountains beyond with snow still on in the middle of summer!

  Valley is more than I can describe—ranches, towns, lakes, marshlands, woods, forts, and castles. Roads so distant they look like threads. Far over toward the mountains is a pale and hazy spread of buildings and walls and spires, and they say that is Mexico City.

  We have got right into the heart of their country!

  Our Army spending most of this day crossing over the height. Soldiers panting for breath and shivering at once. Then they look out over the valley and sure they look like they see a miracle. I’m for guessing it’s joy and fear they’re feeling. They’re conquerors, just like old Cortez when he stood up here looking down over all that. But they also see the size and expanse of what they’ve got to conquer. Myself I pray the rumor is true that a truce can be made by the diplomats, but I’m sure not counting on it. I wager Gen. Santa Anna has got cannons on every height, aimed down every road to that city. Judging by what I’ve seen and heard so far in this war every third or fourth one of these soldiers will get to feel canister or grape or musketball before this is over. I do reckon Mister John Riley stands a-waiting for us with his guns and gunners. I hear Col. Harney cussing and damning the Irish “traitors” every day. Says just getting to hang them by their necks will make the whole war worth while. Makes me sick to listen.

  I can sure imagine John Riley’s own sentiments as well. If there’s no truce and Gen. Scott attacks the city, it’s not likely the deserters will escape again. Sure and he must expect to win or die before much longer. I remember his feelings about the West Pointers, and I would not want to be an officer in his sights. They’re plain targets for certain, with their dark blue coats so distinct from the soldiers’ pale blue.

  But likewise Mister Riley’s a choice target, flaunting that big green Irish banner as he does. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.

  Colonel Harney’s horse patrols rode ahead down into the valley already yesterday. Now Harney has another thing to grumble about: Gen. Scott put that Engineer Captain Lee in charge of scouting the roads, with authority over one of Harney’s majors. The colonel resents that, never mind that Capt. Lee’s scouting is credited largely for the victories at both Vera Cruz and Cerro Gordo. I suspect Harney just hates to see anybody but himself get any glory. I opined that to my mother today, and she didn’t argue it with me. She seems to be glad to have him gone awhile, even though his troops are gone and we have to drive the wagons ourselves on such awful steep roads. It didn’t take long for her to get the measure of him and put herself where she belongs, where she’s using him instead of him using her. God only knows where we’ll all end up when this war is ove
r and done. But this I believe, that if we mortals are ever to understand what God has in mind for us to understand of the Mystery, the lesson is being taught to us in this glorious old country. I really don’t know quite how to say it. But for all the discomforts of desert heat and mountain cold, for all the fevers and the shits, for all the blood and lice and sand and ice, for all the brave men and the scoundrels, I do thank God that He put me here in this place and this time, to make me what He means me to be.

  And I never thought I’d say this, but I’m so glad my Ma came down here after me. I could give her a kiss on the cheek. Old Bill Harney’s dragoons lately salute her when we drive by!

  That provides me a chuckle now and again. But it’s a worry, too. If Red Devil Harney understands she’s making him a laughingstock, he’s more likely to harm her when the time comes. I keep badgering her to get shed of him. But she’s a bad mix: fearless and stubborn.

  AGUSTIN JUVERO

  SPEAKING TO THE JOURNALIST

  ON THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD

  The castle of Chapultepec, Señor, is a mirador. From its height one can see almost everything. And so it was that we the cadets of the Colegio Militar for a moment in August of 1847 were like little gods on Olympus, looking down as the smoke and thunder of man’s strife moved about over the panorama below.