Comrades of the Mexican war:
I am asked to give some recollections of the Mexican War, but little remains for me to say after the comprehensive and eloquent history of that war by Judge McKay, of South Carolina.
It would be presumptuous of me, after what we have just heard from the Judge and Colonel Hungerford, to say another word. Larger gatherings this magnificent Hotel Continental has often had within its walls, for time has thinned the ranks of the Mexican veterans even more woefully than did Mexican shot and shell, but it may be doubted whether caravansary ever sheltered a party with more enthusiasm than is shown here to-night in Paris, the gay capital of France, by the few comrades gathered here to celebrate victories in which we were humble participants nearly 50 years ago.
The thought of the days of 1847 helps me to feel young again, and brings vividly to my mind the gay, rollicking little army that marched out of Puebla on that bright August morning (alas! how many never to return), when General Scott left Puebla with his little army of 10,000 men to fight an army of 35,000 veteran troops of Mexico, in trenches, in mountain gorges, fortified cities, surrounded by impassable marshes, your base, if you had any, hundreds of miles away, you faced the men that had showed the quality of their mercy at Mier and the Alamo. You felt that defeat meant death. ’Tis not becoming in soldiers to boast, but who, among all of you that assemble on this glorious anniversary, will not straighten up an inch taller when he says, “I was one of that little army.”
Where is there one whose eyes will not flash when the glorious 20th of August is mentioned; when that little army fought five distinct battles—among them Contreras, San Antonio, Churubusco, San Puebla. Then came the 8th of September, that proud but sorrowful day, when you lost 900 out of 4,000 engaged. Then came Chapultepec, and the crowning event—our flag waving over the National Palace. The cathedraled City of Mexico at our feet; Popocatépetl, with its venerable summit of eternal snows, 18,000 feet above the sea, looks down upon us as it did upon Cortez three hundred years before, only its breezes kiss the folds of the new flag of America in place of the old flag of Castile. These memories are dear to us all, and I can think of no happier way of passing one day in the year than the old veterans meeting together and fighting their battles over again.
Now, allow me to turn to what occurred under General Taylor, who commanded the little army of occupation on the northern line of operations. I will only refer to the Battle of Buena Vista, which was a glorious victory, and the last general battle and crowning glory of this brave little army. It will be recollected that General Santa Anna was so certain of a victory that he wrote to General Taylor saying, “you are surrounded by 20,000 men, and cannot in any human probability avoid suffering a rout and being cut to pieces with your troops, but as you deserve consideration and particular esteem, I wish to save you from a catastrophe,” and gave one hour from the arrival of his flag of truce to General Taylor to surrender. Old “rough and ready” did not require all the hour to respond. He wrote his memorable, but brief dispatch, “I decline acceding to your request.” But think of the situation; an army of 20,000 veteran soldiers, Santa Anna at their head, General Alvarez Chief of Cavalry, Lombardine of Infantry, Requena of Artillery, Villarnil of Engineers, with Vasquez, Torrejou, Ampudia, Andrade, Minon, Pacheco, Garcia, Ortega, Mejia, Flores, Gusman, Mora, Romero, and other dashing general officers, and to resist all this less than 5,000 American regulars and volunteers, and of regulars less than 500.
On the morning of 22nd February, 1847, the Mexican cohort appeared on the distant hills, dense squadrons of horse, with glittering lances and gay pennons, forming the advance serried files of infantry, artillery, and cavalry, column after column in apparent endless massiveness followed, but it was Washington’s birthday, and General Taylor declined to surrender, and that meant hard fighting. The line of battle was formed by General Wool, General Taylor held Colonel Jefferson Davis (his son-in-law) with his Mississipi Rifles, Lieut.-Col. May’s Dragoons, the light batteries of Captains Sherman and Bragg, and Captain Steers’ squadron in reserve. General Lane moved forward with a section of Washington’s battery to arrest the advance of the army, but that enemy seemed invincible; before night the Mexicans had occupied the sides and scaled the summits of the Sierra Madre. That night our little army lay on their arms without fires, and long before daybreak were aroused from their slumbers to the tug of war; the day dawned bright, and beautiful skies unclouded, and mountain bathed in sunlight. Ampudia commenced the battle early, and at 8 o’clock Santa Anna had his main column in motion, at 11 he summoned General Taylor to surrender; the fortunes of the day seemed against us. Lieutenant O’Brien, whose name is so indelibly written on Buena Vista, maintained his ground until all his cannoniers were killed or wounded. Eight regiments of Mexican infantry fell upon the 2nd Illinois, and they were forced to take shelter. Braggs’ and sections of Sherman’s batteries had been ordered to their relief. Immense hosts of Mexican troops poured along the base of the mountain to the rear of the American line. Colonel Jefferson Davis hastened to meet them, the Mississipi Rifles went into action in double quick, and fired advancing, the front lines of the enemy seemed to melt before them: in the thickest of the fight Captain Bragg sent to Taylor for a supporting party, Taylor sent back the answer, “Major Bliss and I will support you.” He galloped to Braggs’ support, and there gave the celebrated order, “A little more grape, Captain Bragg.” The American line had been turned in the morning, but before night it was recovered. In the success of the battle Colonel Jefferson Davis justly claims a conspicuous part. Our little army of less than 5,000 men for more than 12 hours sustained this terrible fight against 20,000 Mexican troops, and thus closed one of the most memorable battles of modern times.
Mexico has fallen, the Stars and Stripes fly above the “Halls of the Montezumas”—a nation has been conquered. History records no deeds of greater daring, no triumphs of arms more brilliant. Empire was added to empire, 1,000,000 square miles of territory were acquired—three and a half times the area of France—a dwelling place for 100,000,000 of freemen, won by half a hundred thousand. Until then much of the territory of the Mississipi-Missouri belonged to Mexico. Now the whole valley of one million five hundred thousand square miles, the river, with thirteen hundred navigable branches, running from its source five hundred miles to the north, cutting through its magnificent mountain gateway turning to the sea, running through territories and states, until sweetened by the breath of the olive and the orange, and finally received into the warm embrace of the tropical gulf, 5,000 miles from the land of the pine to the land of the palm, long enough to reach from the mouth of the Hudson to the mouth of the Nile. Add the empire drained by the Colorado, crown these with California—and all is ours, and won under the flag that now protects it.
Judge McKay’s reference to Colonel A. W. Donophan and his famous march from Missouri to Mexico with Colonel Sterling Price reminds me of the ever-to-be-remembered passage from Brazos Santiago to New Orleans on the old Mississipi River a tow-boat of six hundred tons, the “Mary Kingsland,” on which I was one of the invalid passengers. We had crowded on that small vessel nearly 900 men of Colonel Donophan’s regiment, over 800 men of the 2nd Indiana (Colonel Bowles) and over 100 sick men of other commands. Many of these men were down with yellow fever, of whom ten died during the five days’ passage, and were buried at sea. You may talk of the Black Hole of Calcutta, but I do not think it was any worse than the lower hold of that steamer, where we were obliged to lie packed together like sardines on square blocks of iron used as ballast, where the foul, stenchful bilge water came oozing up between these iron blocks. Then to add to our discomforts we had nothing to eat but the hardest kind of ship-biscuit that was impossible to masticate, and rotten, green measly pork and Rio coffee served out in the green bean. The stuff was so vile that we were often obliged to vomit after each meal, as we could not retain the putrid meat on our stomachs.
The Government, no doubt, paid for sound pork, but in those days the Government contractors were principally gentlemen from the neighbourhood of Jerusalem, located at Cincinnati, who were not over scrupulous as to the kind of meat they supplied providing they got the money.