A Ballad of Love and Glory(6)
PEDRO DE AMPUDIA
FRANCISCO R. MORENO
Adjutant of the commander-in-chief
Headquarters upon the road to Matamoros
April 2, 1846
Riley looked at the opposite shore. The Mexicans had labored all night, throwing up breastworks, extending trenches, adding more sandbag barriers and emplacements. They mostly worked under cover of darkness, unlike the Yankees who were building a fort upon this disputed land in broad daylight. Riley wondered why the Mexicans hadn’t attacked the minute Taylor and his 3,900 troops marched into view. In their hesitation, they’d allowed the Army of Occupation too many advantages: control of their port at Point Isabel on the gulf, a foothold on land within striking reach of Matamoros, construction on a redoubt and a six-bastioned fortress, and the planting of the Stars and Stripes in soil they claimed was theirs. Peasants even brought provisions by the crate—eggs, milk, and cheese; fruits, bread, and meat—sold to the soldiers and officers who could afford them. Mexican civilians were helping the Yankee army become even stronger, providing other goods such as mules and horses. He had seen the local men wearing nothing but white pantaloons rolled up to their knees or simple breechclouts; the women with no bonnet, just a frayed shawl over their heads, homespun blouses that barely covered their bosoms and short, raggedy skirts that revealed their unstockinged legs; and children barefoot and without a stitch upon them—Riley wondered if their poverty made them behave thus. He had personal knowledge that for a hungry family, patriotism was a luxury.
Do not contribute to defend a robbery and usurpation… the Mexican general had written in the leaflet. This brewing conflict wasn’t just a border dispute. Riley had heard about the Yankees’ territorial ambition beyond Texas, their desire for a bigger piece of Mexico’s northern lands, such as Upper California and New Mexico. It was their destiny, the Yankees believed, a decree from Heaven to build an empire to the Pacific Ocean. So, unable to get Mexico to sell the coveted territory, here were the Yankees now, ready to take hold of the land by force.
“What’s that yoke there?” Sullivan said as he finally emerged. Riley handed him the leaflet. “What’s it say?” he asked, holding the leaflet upside down.
Many of the Irish in the army were humble tillers of the soil like Sullivan, men with no learning who’d never held a musket before, only a miserable hoe or spade to tend their fields. These were the men the United States government was enlisting in its ranks by the thousands, fresh off ships arriving daily from Ireland and other impoverished and unstable lands.
“?’Tis from the Mexicans.” Riley surveyed the campground and didn’t like what he saw. From the expression on the faces of the Yanks, he knew he ought to act quickly. “Toss it away,” he told Sullivan, who dropped the paper as if it had scalded him. “Don’t you get caught with it. And for the love of Heaven, don’t draw attention to yourself!”
As they hurried for morning roll call, Sullivan struggled to keep up. Riley, at six-foot-two, easily outpaced his tentmate, who looked like a child playing soldier. Around the campground Riley could see many of his countrymen and other foreign soldiers lingering in groups, clutching the leaflets in their hands. He wanted to tell them what he’d just told Sullivan, but knowing the price of lateness, he kept on moving. So far, he was one of the lucky ones who’d escaped the punishments Yankee officers were keen on inflicting upon his kind, especially since desertions were on the rise.
Ever since their arrival a week earlier, men had been throwing themselves into the Río Grande and swimming across, some ending up in the Mexican ranks. After losing fourteen men in a single night, General Taylor immediately ordered his sentries to shoot anyone caught deserting. Those leaflets, enticing more men to desert, would fuel the distrust and hatred Yanks already felt for the foreigners in their ranks.
“What did that leaflet say?” Sullivan hurried to catch up, holding his government-issued musket as if it were a shovel.
“Bother yourself no more about it, lad. Focus on the day ahead and don’t invite trouble.”
“Arrah, just tell me! Everyone but me will know what’s goin’ on. The Yanks already treat me like a half-witted spalpeen.”
Riley stopped and turned to Sullivan. He remembered his parish priest, Father Myles, God rest his soul, who had taught him to read and write. The Penal Laws imposed on Irish Catholics denied many, especially landless peasants, the opportunity for schooling, and if it hadn’t been for the kindness of the priest, Riley would understand the Mexicans’ proclamation no better than his tentmate.
“As I said, ’tis from the Mexicans. They’re keen on havin’ us break our vows to the Yanks. Join their ranks.”
“What they offerin’? Will they be kinder to us than the Yanks?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Mexicans want trouble, that’s all. And don’t you forget that anyone caught desertin’ will be shot on the spot. So it doesn’t matter what the offer be. ’Tis not worth the risk.” Riley started off again.
“But, Riley—”
“Enough, lad!”
Up ahead, German soldiers were gathering the leaflets and throwing them into a fire pit as Lieutenants Braxton Bragg and James Duncan shouted orders, hitting them with the flat side of their sabers. “Come on, sauerkrauts, make haste!”
Riley snapped a salute and was about to go on his way, but Bragg stopped him. “Where do you potatoheads think you’re going?”