There was much praise for the new Third Regular Division, and the Mohawks, of the Fourth Division. In the Cadwalader brigade of the Third, which supported the First Division against the bridgehead, Lieutenant J. F. Irons, aide-de-camp to General Cadwalader, had been killed. General Franklin Pierce, leading the other brigade in the march to oust Santa Anna, had fainted from pain. That fall from his horse at Contreras had proved to be very serious. The Shields Mohawks and the Pierce Ninth, Twelfth and Fifteenth Regulars had outbattled Santa Anna’s seven thousand. The South Carolina Palmettos had formed center of line. Their colonel, Colonel P. M. Butler, had been wounded, had refused to leave, and then had been killed; their Lieutenant-Colonel Dickinson had been mortally wounded next, and Major Gladden had commanded. Colonel Burnett, of the New Yorkers, had been carried from the field. So had Colonel Morgan, of the Fifteenth Infantry. Of the two hundred and seventy-two Palmettos in the final charge one hundred and thirty-seven had fallen. But General Shields had taken three hundred and eighty prisoners.
Out of the seven cavalry officers who charged with the one hundred dragoons to the city gates, three had been badly wounded (Captain Kearny’s arm had been amputated at the hospital), and Lieutenant Ewell had had two horses shot under him. Major Mills, of the Fifteenth Infantry, who had joined as a volunteer, had been killed.
The whole army had been in action, except the Second Pennsylvania and the Marines, who had been kept at San Augustine with General Quitman to guard the supplies; and the Fourth Artillery, who had been ordered to stay at Contreras.
“’Twas this way,” old Sergeant Mulligan explained to the listening group at the campfire: “In wan day we’ve done what no mortal army ever did afore. We’ve fought foive distinct battles, by daytachments, so to speak—eight thousand of us divided up to lick thirty thousand Mexicans. An’ lick ’em we did, ivery time, in spite o’ their breastworks an’ forts an’ their chosin’ their own positions. We give ’em the field, an’ then we tuk it. First there was Contreras: thirty-foive hundred Americans ag’in seven thousand active enemy wid twelve thousand standin’ ready to pitch in. Second, there was San Antonio, where twenty-six hundred of us saw mainly the backs o’ thray thousand. Third, the bridgehead an’ thim entrenchments, where we were outnumbered not more’n two to wan; an’ fourth, the church, wid the Second Division stormin’, say thray or four to wan; an’ fifth, the Gin’ral Shields foive rigiments of belike two thousand breakin’ the hearts o’ Gin’ral Santy Annie’s siven thousand. Now I’d like to hear whut Old Fuss an’ Feathers has to say.”
“You’ll hear him,” asserted a man from a searching detail, who had come up from the rear. “At Cherrybusco he is, still; proud as a king, the tears of him choking his voice. He’s thanking every division in turn; he’ll not forget the First that opened the way.”
“And where was he during the fracas?”
“In the rear of Twiggs, directing the fight and sending in the regiments. So fast he sent ’em forward after Contreras that b’gorry he found himself left all alone, and had to get some dragoons for an escort.”
“An’ whut does he say about the desarters, I’m wonderin’?”
“Desarters?” exclaimed several voices.
“Sure, lads. Sixty-nine were taken: twenty-seven at the church and the rest by Shields. The artillery battalion o’ Saint Patrick they’re called—an insult to the name. Every man once wore the United States uniform, and this day they turned the guns upon their own comrades. Tom Riley is their captain. The most of ’em desarted from Taylor, in north Mexico, with hopes of better pay and positions. ’Twas they who held out longest at the church. Three times they pulled down the white flag, for they well knew they were in a tight place. Hanged they’ll be, as they desarve.”