The largest state in the Mexican Republic is Chihuahua, also known as El Estado Grande i.e. “The Big State.” It is landlocked, bordered by the states of Sonora, Sinaloa, Durango and Coahuila. To the north are the American states of New Mexico and Texas; the latter being separated from Mexico by the Rio Grande River.
Chihuahua has a varied topography. There are mountains, plains and desert; each with its own climate. Several mountain ranges are located on the western edge of the desert that have cool temperatures because of the higher elevations.
After the signing of the treaty between Mexico and the United States in 1848, a number of Irish deserters who had avoided capture by the American Army gathered together to begin lives in their new nation. The promised land grants were not given to them since the war had ended in a defeat, but the government did provide farmland in northeastern Chihuahua for them to settle on. Although it was a disappointment not to have been granted enormous estancias, the Irish veterans consoled themselves with the knowledge their new property was a hell of a lot bigger than the miserable plots they had known in Ireland. They all optimistically looked forward to a quiet tranquil existence.
Twelve Irish veterans of the Batallón de San Patricio and their families founded a small farming community. The population also included widows and offspring of soldiers who had been executed by the American Army at Chapultepec. It is no surprise that they named their community” San Patricio” in honor of those who fought and died while serving in the battalion.
At that time, all the children were very young, their ages ranging from the newly born to toddlers. As they grew up, they were indoctrinated with a myriad of narratives and anecdotes regarding the harsh treatment and executions of the Irish prisoners. As a result the kids developed an ingrained hatred and fear of the gringos who lived up north.
But otherwise it was a good life and the Irish got along well with their Mexican neighbors. As time passed, the ex-soldiers acquired an excellent ability in the Spanish language from their wives. Later generations of San Patricio eventually lost all ability to speak either English or Gaelic.
By the 1890s those veterans who had survived the war were old men. Their sons and daughters had grown up, married and presented the former San Patricianos with grandchildren. Tomas Orayly, the forty-seven year old son of one of the war survivors, had more or less inherited the legal leadership of the farming community. Over the years he was elected and re-elected alcalde, and his authority was recognized by the state government of Chihuahua. Tomas handled the usual business of administration, settling disputes, issuing marriage and birth certificates, along with other matters concerning the running of the village.
More importantly, he made sure the story of the Saint Patrick Battalion continued to be passed on to each generation of children. He even declared September 13, the date of the executions at Chapultepec, as El Día de los Heroes: Heroes Day.
~*~
It was on a late morning when three men arrived on a train in the Chihuahua town of Vista Montaña. This community, much larger than San Patricio, was located on the Ferrocarril Federal—the Federal Railroad Line—five kilometers east of the Irish-Mexican village.
The trio of passengers consisted of a Mexican Army officer, a financial minister of the government and the minister’s personal servant and bodyguard. The latter individual was short and stocky with a muscular build. His name was Fidel and he was devoted to the minister who had rescued him from the mean streets of Mexico City years before when he was a starving waif.
The purpose of the journey from Mexico City to Vista Montaña was to tend to an important military matter. But their first task was to find out exactly where San Patricio was located since the place was not indicated on any maps. An inquiry of the station manager got them the directions to where the veterans of the Batallón de San Patricio had settled over four decades earlier.
The travelers rented a buggy and horse from the local livery stable for the short trip. As they rolled out of town, the locals gave them a close scrutiny. Two of the trio were obviously members of the upper class. Their clothing was clearly expensive, and both had the looks of importance and authority. The man handling the reins was the servant who was dressed more modestly than the other two. His master’s name was Tim Harrigan, and he was a veteran of the Saint Patrick Battalion and had done quite well as a Mexican citizen.
Señor Harrigan had worked himself from bank clerk to a high position in the financial echelons of the Mexican Republic. His talents and influence eventually earned him a permanent appointment as Ministro sin Carpeta—Minister without Portfolio—from the Mexican government. Tim Harrigan was easily recognized by the letter D branded into his right cheek.
His companion was Colonel Juan-Carlos Valenzuela of the Mexican Army. Harrigan was with the officer to act as a liaison and adviser between him and the people of the community that was their destination that day. The old Irishman glanced appreciatively at the countryside they rode through. “This high country is pleasant, verdad?” he remarked in Spanish.
“Seguro,” Colonel Valenzuela agreed. “And fertile too. Look how tall the corn grows.”
“A lot better than the rocky farms of poor suffering Ireland,” Harrigan stated. “At least that’s what I recall from my youth .”
“I wonder what we’ll find in San Patricio,” Valenzuela mused. “They are two generations past the war. I wonder if they speak Spanish, English or Gaelic.”
“Oh they will speak nothing but Español,” Harrigan acknowledged. “And there is no doubt they write their Irish names according to the Spanish alphabet.”
“Perhaps they know nothing about the war with the Gringos or have no interest in past history.”
The minister smiled. “Since they have Irish blood, señor el coronel, that war will be etched into their hearts.”
A half hour later they turned off the main road and went down a country lane into San Patricio. As they arrived at the small village plaza, Fidel pulled back on the reins, coming a stop. Harrigan nodded to a passing boy leading a burro. “Buenos días, joven. Do you have a mayor in this town?”
“Of course,” the lad answered. He pointed at an adobe building just off the square. “That is his office. His name is Tomas Orayly.”
Harrigan burst out laughing. “O’Reilly, hey? Now there’s a name that’d fit well into the Batallón de San Patricio,”
The boy’s eyes widened, and he spoke up excitedly. “My grandfather was a brave soldier in the San Patricios.” He frowned. “The Gringos hanged him. My grandmother still cries for him and lights candles in church for his soul.”
Harrigan was interested. “What was your grandfather’s name, joven?”
“He called himself Dennis Macoy.”
The colonel looked at Harrigan. “Did you know him?”
Tim laughed again. “There was probably a McCoy in every squad of the San Patricios. But now we know these good people are well aware of the history of the battalion. This will make our job easier.” He nodded to Fidel. “Go to the building the boy pointed to.”
Fidel slapped the reins and drove the horse over to the adobe structure that bore a crudely lettered sign that read Jefatura Municipal—the Mexican equivalent of Town Hall. The colonel and minister got down from the buggy and walked through the door.
A middle-aged man sitting at a battered desk, looked up at their entrance in surprise. “Si, señores?”
The colonel asked, “Are you the alcalde of San Patricio?”
“I am Tomas Orayly at your service, caballeros.”
Valenzuela introduced himself and Harrigan. “I am a colonel in the Mexican Army and my companion here is a government minister who fought in the San Patricios.”
“As did my grandfather,” Tomas informed them. “His name was Maykal Orayly. Perhaps you knew him.”
“I knew a lot of O’Reillys,” Harrigan replied with a smile. “And that includes some Michaels like your grandfather.”
“He was hanged at Chapultepec,” Tomas said. “My father was a baby in my grandmother’s arms when it happened.”
“I was also at Chapultepec,” Harrigan said. “I was one of the prisoners who buried the martyrs in a mass grave.”
Tomas was puzzled. “Why were you not executed?”
“The Americans were not wanton killers. I deserted before the war started, thus they could not convict me of cowardice before the enemy.” He pointed to the D on his cheek. “My punishment was to be branded with this letter that stands for the English word ‘deserter.’”
“That must have been terribly painful,” Tomas said.
“Yes,” Harrigan replied. “But I do not complain. I consider it a badge of honor.”
Tomas was favorably impressed. “Then I respect and admire you a great deal, señor.” He turned to Colonel Valenzuela. “What can I do for you, caballero?”
“I am not going to mince words, Señor Alcalde,” the colonel said. “We are here to recruit soldiers for the Army.” Then he added, “To go to war.”
“I am sorry,” Tomas said. “We have too few young men who are able to leave the village. We must work hard on our farms or we will all starve.”
“Not to worry,” Valenzuela assured him. “This war of which I speak is what the Spanish call a guerrilla—a small war. I can assure you that your village will be well compensated so that there will be no shortage of necessities for the people. In fact, I can guarantee benefits. Nutritious food will be provided along with clothing, medical care and other things that you do not have now. And those of your young men who volunteer will be paid in silver pesos.”
Tomas Orayly was stunned. “I…I cannot imagine such a thing.”
“Then let me explain,” Valenzuela said. “The Estado Mayor of the Mexican Army is planning a war against the United States of America. It will start with quick raids across the Rio Grande.”
“Muy interestante!” Tomas exclaimed.
Tim Harrigan added, “This guerrilla will be the beginning of a war in which Mexico will regain the lands the Gringos stole.” He paused and let the information soak in. “And it will be a chance for the men of San Patricio to avenge the deaths of their fathers and grandfathers.”
“We are but a few,” Tomas protested. “There are probably only a dozen or so young men who can fight.”
“Those are enough to participate in guerrilla tactics,” Valenzuela explained.
Tomas liked the idea, but he still had misgivings. “None of those young men are soldiers. Or ever have been soldiers.”
“We will train and equip them,” Valenzuela stated. “We will give them weapons and horses. As guerrilleros they will not wear uniforms. It is important that at first the Gringos think they are only bandits and will not send a large force of their soldiers to battle them, eh?”
Tomas Orayly approved of the plan. “That will be venganza dulce—sweet revenge!” I will call a village meeting for this evening and you can address our citizens.”