A Ballad of Love and Glory(7)
“To our formation, sir,” Riley said.
“Not until you help pick up the leaflets, Mick,” Bragg said. “Now!”
Riley glanced at the other soldiers around him, scrambling after the papers flapping in the wind, getting their uniforms full of dust and soot, which would surely earn them a punishment once they got to their ranks.
“Now, Mick!” Bragg yelled, striking Riley across his shoulder blades with the side of his saber.
Hiding any flicker of emotion on his face, Riley knelt to the ground, and Sullivan did the same. Steady now. As he gathered the leaflets, he stole a glance at Bragg’s special-issue uniform and freshly polished boots made to order. Bragg and Duncan were artillery officers, members of the army’s elite, second only to the engineers. They displayed the powder stains on their uniforms with arrogance and strutted around the campground yelling and insulting the immigrant soldiers in the infantry and the dragoons. Many of the officers were from the US Military Academy at West Point, and most had no more battlefield experience than the men they bullied and insulted. The worst of these loathsome fellows was Bragg, who was a genius in the field but a monster in the campground. Many of Riley’s countrymen had been flogged or beaten at Bragg’s orders.
Holding a leaflet in his hand, Riley felt the Mexican general’s words tugging at him. Come therefore, and array yourselves under the tricolor flag… How much were the Mexicans willing to pay an Irish soldier seasoned in the British Army? Surely more than the Yanks. A year and a half before, Riley had been laboring in Mackinac Island in Michigan, but no matter how many hours he spent hauling timber and loading barrels of pelts onto barges, he couldn’t save enough money for his family’s passage to America. His employer had treated him well enough, but he’d been stingy with the wages, and Riley scarcely had enough to scrape by on. After hearing the blaring of the bugles and the pounding cannons during morning drills coming from the nearby Yankee military encampment, Riley had wondered if the army might be the surest way to fulfill his promise of sending for his family. American newspapers told of an impending war between the United States and Great Britain for control of Oregon and the Pacific Northwest, and the thought that this was his chance to fight against the British and thereby redeem himself for his years as a redcoat gave Riley that extra incentive to enlist. He had always felt guilty for joining the very army that kept Ireland subdued; fighting against them alongside the Yanks would have given him great personal satisfaction. To his dismay, the enemy he would be fighting had turned out to be not Britain but Mexico, a Catholic nation.
When he signed his name on the Yanks’ muster rolls, Riley was promised that he would see his seven dollars in monthly wages increase with every promotion. By now it was plain the Yanks would never see him as more than a common soldier. Like with the English, he’d never be more than cannon fodder. Might the Mexicans see him differently?
He shook away those thoughts again. With a grin, he realized that the Mexican general knew what he was doing after all. The leaflets had put notions into his head, notions he needed to put right back out of mind to focus on the day ahead, just like he’d told Franky Sullivan to do. He threw the last of the leaflets into the fire Bragg was stoking. ’Tis not worth the risk.
* * *
After the men fell into their ranks, Captain Merrill yelled at them about the leaflets. Half of Riley’s unit, Company K of the Fifth Infantry, was composed of Irish, German, Italian, and Scottish immigrants—the very soldiers the Mexican leaflets were targeting.
“I better not catch any of you with those damn papers from the filthy Mexican greasers,” Captain Merrill said. “And anyone thinking of deserting tonight will find their grave in the Río Grande.”
Riley remained impassive to the insults Merrill hurled at them before moving on to the roll. Hollers of “aye” and “here” came after each name was called out by the duty sergeants. “Maloney, James.” Now silence followed. Riley glanced at his tentmate. Sullivan and Maloney, an older soldier, had gotten themselves half gone with whiskey the night previous. They would’ve kept at it longer if Riley hadn’t stopped their drunken carousing and sent Maloney staggering back to his own tent. “Maloney, James!” the sergeant called louder, and when no one answered, he detailed two corporals to search the tents for him. Just as roll call ended, they returned dragging Maloney, passed out and clearly unfit for duty.
“Nothing but useless drunks, these red-faced foreigners,” one of the corporals said. “Should we teach them a lesson, Captain?”
Captain Merrill looked at the pitiful sight of Maloney and poked him with his boot. Wake up, ould fella, Riley begged under his breath. Captain Merrill signaled his subordinates to tie Maloney’s hands and feet. They dragged him across the drill field, where a branding iron with the letters HD—habitual drunkard—was put into the coals to heat. Punishment for drunkenness was usually a mark on the hip or buttocks, but Maloney was an immigrant. Suddenly awake now, Maloney squirmed like a caterpillar. The iron was destined for his forehead. The corporals held him down on the ground while a sergeant brandished the red-hot iron close to Maloney’s face, taunting him.
“Let me catch any of you drunk and your fate will be the same,” Captain Merrill said.
“Shite, they can’t do that,” Sullivan said, taking a step out of rank.