The ghosts of San Patricio

IF HISTORY is written by the victors, then the imagery crammed down our throat every St. Patrick's Day should come as no surprise. Leprechauns replace the harp, plastic shamrocks overtake the starry plough, and a long history of brutal colonialism and brilliant resistance is literally trampled by parades of cops playing bagpipes.

The Chieftains, however, have a very different idea of celebrating St. Pat's. Their new album San Patricio, recorded with the iconic Ry Cooder, is dedicated to reviving an incredible moment in this forgotten history.

The San Patricios, also known as the St. Patrick's Battalion, are the subjects here. If you've never heard of the San Patricios, you're not alone. The story of Irish immigrants joining Uncle Sam's army during the Mexican-American war might be the kind of thing Bill O'Reilly would celebrate--that is, if they hadn't defected en masse to defend Mexico from the invading forces!

In the liner notes, head Chieftain Paddy Moloney confesses that "[f]or years, I have been fascinated by this story and the lost trails of history, wondering what it must have been like for the San Patricios...With land and liberty at stake, did the common Mexican not seem so different from themselves?"

The answer is heard in the weaving together of the two countries' vibrant folk traditions. It's no secret that the people of Ireland and Mexico have produced some of the most stunning music. Bringing the two together raises beautiful possibilities.

Speaking of the rebel Irish soldiers, Moloney continues: "If the Mexicans were there, there must have been music. I know for myself, if the Irish were there, there would most certainly have been music. And in the music there is always another history, another way of remembering the past, an older remembrance concerned less with battles and imagined borders and more with the ageless themes of love, loss and dreams of what might be."

THE SUFFERING that came with Ireland's Potato Famine is almost unimaginable. The British Crown ruled over the Emerald Isle with ruthless force, and when the poor farmers' key food source was struck by a devastating blight, the indifference of Queen Victoria led to the death from starvation and malnutrition of over a million people.

Irish farmers who managed to flee to the United States on squalid coffin ships were expecting a land of greater opportunity, but instead, they found a country wracked by a xenophobic, anti-Catholic, Nativist movement.

In his book The Rogue's March: John Riley and the St. Patrick's Battalion, Peter F. Stevens estimates that by the time of the famine, America already had "over 400 mass-circulation Nativist newspapers and magazines." Irish Catholics were denied all but the lowest-paying jobs. Epithets like "paddy," "boghopper" or "Mick" were common parlance in respected circles. Anti-immigrant riots, specifically aimed at Irish Catholics, took place as far and wide as Michigan, Florida, Maryland, Massachusetts and Indiana.

Just as key to the national makeup at the time was the doctrine of Manifest Destiny. The U.S. had been rattling its saber against Mexico since well before the annexation of Texas in 1845, but matters came to a head in June of that year, when President James Polk began to send troops to the Nueces River to "defend American territory." By May 1846, a full-scale war was declared on General Antonio Lópiez de Santa Anna's Mexico.

Nativist racism aside, large numbers of Irish immigrants were drafted into the American Army to swell its anemic ranks. One of these immigrants was John Riley, a native of Clifden in County Galway, who had come to the U.S. in 1843 after a stint in the British Army. In 1845, he found himself serving in the 5th U.S. Infantry Regiment. By spring 1846, he was commanding a detachment of fellow defectors in the Mexican Army--the St. Patrick's Battalion.

There were plenty of reasons to defect to Mexico. The discrimination and poor treatment that ran through American society most certainly extended to the army. Irish Catholics no doubt saw the potential for more equitable treatment in Mexico, itself a Catholic nation. Mexico granted citizenship to those who fought; the U.S. did not.

Though the San Patricios were composed primarily of Irishmen, their ranks included German Catholics and immigrants from all over Europe. Notably, a few escaped Black slaves also participated in the battalion.

But there was likely another, more basic motivation: solidarity. The same country that had dashed the dreams of the Irish immigrants was also seeking to plant its boot on the necks of the Mexican people. The formation of the San Patricios represented an amazing example of oppressed immigrants shaking off the shackles of their oppressors.

THAT SPIRIT of solidarity is embodied in spades on San Patricio. The Chieftains' rousing Irish folk is complimented not just by Ry Cooder's inimitable guitar work, but groups and artists from throughout the Mexican-American music scene--Los Folkloristas, Los Camperos de Valles, plus legends of the Nueva Cancion movement like Chavela Vargas and Lila Downs. Even Linda Ronstadt makes an appearance.

The musical results border on the miraculous. Songs like "Cancion Mixteca" and "El Caballo" have Irish instrumentation applied to Mexican songs and styles. Vice versa for others like "Sailing to Mexico" and "Danza de Concheros." Uilleann pipes and maracas, tin whistles and Mariachi horns all play off each other with effortless grace. And though the difference between the two cultures is never jarring, there are frequent moments when the gap is seamlessly closed.

That's especially true on "The Sands of Mexico," where Cooder sings of the emotional struggles and bravery of the St. Patrick's soldiers over a folk-inflected cowboy ballad:

Now the army used us harshly, we were but trash to them
Conscripted Irish farmers, not first class soldier men
They beat us and they banged us, mistreated us you know
But they couldn't make us killers on the sands of Mexico

That's why we call it faith
That's why we call Him Lord
That's why I threw away my Yankee sword
Our John Riley seized the day
And marched us down the road
And we wouldn't slay our brothers on the sands of Mexico

While the San Patricios have been all but erased from the American history books, in Mexico, they're the stuff of legend. A plaque in their honor hangs in Mexico City's Jacinto Plaza. A statue of John Riley was erected in his native Clifden by the Mexican government. And the battalion is considered an organic part of Mexico's long fight for self-determination.

That one of the songs on San Patricio is "Persecucion de Villa," about legendary revolutionary General Pancho Villa, reflects this high status. In fact, hearing the way in which their bravery is lauded, their relative obscurity in America is even starker.

But the San Patricios' story is also tragic. The battalion fought alongside the Mexican Army in several victorious battles, but at Churubusco, they faced defeat. Thirty-five San Patricios were killed, and 85 taken prisoner, including John Riley.

Seventy-two of the captured soldiers faced court-martial. None were provided lawyers. Because they had caused heavy casualties to American forces, the Army sought to make an example of them.

Their fate is chronicled in "March To Battle (Across the Rio Grande)," a steadfast, bagpipe-driven poem read by Liam Neeson (who has possibly the most beautiful Irish brogue of any famous actor):

But when at Churubusco we made our final stand
No court of justice did we have in the land of Uncle Sam
As traitors and deserters all we would be shot or hanged
Far from the green, green shining shores across the Rio Grande

In all, 50 San Patricios were executed. The worst was at Chapultepec, where on September 13, 1846, in what was called by one onlooker "a refinement of cruelty," 30 were hanged. When it was reported that one of the condemned, Francis O'Connor, had had his legs amputated the previous day, Gen. Winfield Scott replied, "Bring the son of a bitch out! My order was to hang 30, and by God I'll do it!"

The pain and sorrow of this injustice can clearly be heard in "Lullaby for the Dead." Though no direct reference is made to the events of September 13, the mournful strings and pipes and emotive lyrics sung by Moya Brennan conjure the image of the soldiers thinking of their far-off loved ones and saying their final Hail Marys as the gallows wait outside:

I can hear now the pipers calling
On that far distant shore
And my tears now like leaves are falling
And I will see your face no more

Even in the face of death, the prisoners remained defiant. Eyewitness accounts from the day report that the men cheered the Mexican flag as it was lowered in the moments before the horse-drawn carts were pulled from under their feet.

As for the remaining San Patricios, they had a "D" for deserter branded onto their cheeks and were eventually released. Among these was John Riley, though it remains unclear why the Army didn't execute the rebel soldiers' commander. He died in the Mexican city of Veracruz in 1850 at the age of 45, having drank himself to death.

For sure, one man's traitor is another man's freedom fighter, but the San Patricios were most definitely heroes. They turned their back on a war for empire and joined with those fighting for sovereignty.

The resonance of their stories can be heard today quite clearly. Almost half of what was once Mexico is now the western United States, and the long history of exploitation continues. As the U.S. continues to be committed to two foreign wars and deny basic rights to Latin American immigrants, it is worth remembering that the first U.S. soldier to die in Iraq was a Guatemalan seeking citizenship.

It is also worth remembering that these stories are kept from us for a reason. The songs on San Patricio bring them to the forefront in a way that only great music can. They show how the human spirit runs deeper than borders or languages.

And though their present obscurity may keep any Irish-American Tea Partiers safe in their ignorance, the San Patricios are a better reason than most to raise a pint this St. Patty's Day. Theirs is a story much truer to the Irish legacy in America. One of pain and suffering, yes, but also of bravery, resolve and rebellion. As the Chieftains and Ry Cooder make clear, it is a story whose ending has yet to be written:

Faith and righteousness was all in vain
Irish blood was spilled once again
As I stand upon the gallows it cheers the soul to know
History will absolve us on the sands of Mexico
The sands of Mexico
The bloody sands of Mexico
La historia me absolvera on the sands of Mexico