I rode on in advance of the company to see El Tigre and foun

[Illustration: (From a daguerreotype taken in 1846, just before

leaving for the front)

LIEUT. MCCLELLAN, HIS FATHER AND HIS BROTHER ARTHUR.]

THE MEXICAN WAR DIARY

OF GEORGE B. McCLELLAN

EDITED BY

WILLIAM STARR MYERS, Ph.D.,

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF HISTORY AND POLITICS

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

PRINCETON

LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

1917

Copyright, 1917, by

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

Published April, 1917

[Illustration]

PREFACE

During the past four or five years I have been preparing a life of

General McClellan in which I plan especially to stress the political

influences behind the military operations of the first two years of the

Civil War. The main source for my study has been the large collection

of “McClellan Papers” in the Library of Congress at Washington, most

of which hitherto never has been published. In this collection is the

manuscript Mexican War diary and by the courteous permission and kind

cooperation of General McClellan’s son, Professor George B. McClellan

of Princeton University, I have been able to make the following copy. I

desire to thank Professor McClellan for other valuable help, including

the use of the daguerreotype from which the accompanying frontispiece

was made. My thanks also are due Professor Dana C. Munro for his timely

advice and valued assistance in the preparation of the manuscript for

the press. The map is reproduced from the “Life and Letters of General

George Gordon Meade,” with the kind permission of the publishers,

Charles Scribner’s Sons.

It has seemed to me that this diary should prove to be of special value

at the present time, for it throws additional light upon the failure of

our time honored “volunteer system” and forecasts its utter futility as

an adequate defense in a time of national crisis or danger.

WM. STARR MYERS.

Princeton, N. J.

January 3, 1917.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Lieut. McClellan, His Father and His Brother Arthur

From a daguerreotype taken in 1846, just before

leaving for the front _Frontispiece_

War Map opp. p. 6

First Page of the Mexican War Diary in an Old Blankbook

Facsimile reproduction of McClellan’s manuscript opp. p. 40

Church at Camargo, Seen from the Palace

Facsimile reproduction of a sketch by McClellan opp. p. 70

INTRODUCTION

George Brinton McClellan was born in Philadelphia, Pa., on December 3,

1826. He died in Orange, N. J., on October 29, 1885. His life covered

barely fifty-nine years, his services of national prominence only

eighteen months, but during this time he experienced such extremes of

good and ill fortune, of success and of failure, as seldom have fallen

to the lot of one man.

While still a small boy McClellan entered a school in Philadelphia

which was conducted by Mr. Sears Cook Walker, a graduate of Harvard,

and remained there for four years. He later was a pupil in the

preparatory school of the University of Pennsylvania, under the charge

of Dr. Samuel Crawford. McClellan at the same time received private

tuition in Greek and Latin from a German teacher named Scheffer and

entered the University itself in 1840. He remained there as a student

for only two years, for in 1842 he received an appointment to the

United States Military Academy at West Point.

McClellan graduated from West Point second in his class in the summer

of 1846 and was commissioned a brevet second lieutenant of engineers.

On July 9 Colonel Joseph G. Totten, Chief of Engineers, ordered

McClellan to “repair to West Point” for duty with the company of

engineers then being organized by Captain A. J. Swift and Lieutenant

Gustavus W. Smith. The Mexican War had begun during the preceding May

and the young graduate of West Point was filled with delight at the new

opportunity for winning reputation and rank in his chosen profession.

The company of engineers was ordered to Mexico and left for the front

during the month of September.

The diary that follows begins with the departure from West Point and

continues the narrative of McClellan’s experiences through the battle

of Cerro Gordo in April, 1847. It ends at this point, except for a line

or two jotted down later on in moments of impatience or ennui.

To the student of McClellan’s life this diary presents certain striking

contrasts in character between the youthful soldier, not yet twenty

years of age, and the general or politician of fifteen or twenty years

later. At this time McClellan was by nature happy-go-lucky, joyous,

carefree, and almost irresponsible. In after years he became extremely

serious, deeply and sincerely religious, sometimes oppressed by a

sense of duty. And yet at this early age we can plainly discern many

of the traits that stand out so prominently in his mature life. He was

in a way one of the worst subordinates and best superiors that ever

lived. As a subordinate he was restless, critical, often ill at ease.

He seemed to have the proverbial “chip” always on his shoulder and

knew that his commanding officers would go out of their way to knock

it off; or else he imagined it, which amounted to the same thing. As

a commanding officer he always was thoughtful, considerate and deeply

sympathetic with his men, and they knew this and loved him for it.

These same traits perhaps will explain much of the friction during the

early years of the Civil War between McClellan and Lincoln and also the

devotion that reached almost to adoration which the soldiers of the

Army of the Potomac showed for their beloved commander. And McClellan

had many intimate friends, friends of high character, who stood by

him through thick and thin until the very day of his death. This

relationship could not have continued strong to the last had he not in

some measure deserved it. His integrity, his inherent truthfulness and

sense of honor, stood out predominant.

McClellan could write. In fact his pen was too ready and in later years

it often led him into difficulties. He had a keen sense of humor,

though it was tempered by too much self-confidence and at times was

tinged with conceit. He was proud, ambitious and deeply sensitive. All

this appears in the diary, and it will be seen that this little book

offers a key to the explanation of much that followed.

McClellan took a prominent and brilliant part, for so young a man, in

the later events of Scott’s campaign which ended in the capture of

the City of Mexico. He showed himself to be able, brave and extremely

skilful. He was promoted to the rank of brevet first lieutenant, August

20, “for gallant and meritorious conduct in the battles of Contreras

and Cherubusco,” and brevet captain on September 13 for his services

at Chapultepec. He was brevetted in addition for Molino del Rey on

September 8, and the nomination was confirmed by Congress, but he

declined the honor on the ground that he had not taken part in that

battle, while this brevet “would also cause him to rank above his

commanding officer--Lieut. G. W. Smith--who was present at every action

where he was and commanded him.” (Ms. letter from McClellan to General

R. Jones, Adj. Gen. U. S. A., dated “Washington City, August 1848.”

_McClellan Papers_, Library of Congress, Vol. I.)

The diary gives a vivid picture of Mexico, the land and its people.

Furthermore, there is a fine description of the life of the soldiers on

the march, of the siege of Vera Cruz, and of the ill behavior and lack

of discipline of the volunteer forces. The notes will show that General

George Gordon Meade, later the Union commander at Gettysburg, also

was a lieutenant in Taylor’s army, and his estimate of the volunteers

agrees in every particular with that mentioned above.

McClellan’s career has been the subject of endless controversy, often

pursued with such acrimony and gross unfairness that its memory

rankles today in the minds of many. Furthermore, upon the outcome

of this controversy have depended the reputations of many prominent

men, for if McClellan should be proved to have been in the wrong the

mantle of greatness still might rest upon the shoulders of certain

politicians and generals hitherto adjudged to be “great.” On the other

hand, if McClellan was in the right, and the present writer believes

that in large part he was, then he was a victim of envy and downright

falsehood. His name should now be cleared of all unjust accusations,

and also history should reverse its judgment of many of his opponents.

WM. STARR MYERS.

[Illustration: PARTS OF TEXAS & MEXICO COVERING THE SEAT OF THE WAR IN

MEXICO]

MEXICAN WAR DIARY OF GEORGE B. McCLELLAN

1846-1847

We left West Point on the 24th of September 1846 for General Taylor’s

army in Mexico--Company “A” Engineers[1] consisted of Captain [A.

J.] Swift, Lieutenant G. W. Smith,[2] myself and 71 rank and file.

On Saturday the 26th we sailed from the Narrows bound to Brazos de

Santiago [Texas] where we were so fortunate as to arrive in 14 days. We

had a very pleasant passage, on the whole. Felt very much the want of

_ice_, and _claret_. At one time could only eat raw tomatoes.

The result of my experience with respect to the transportation of

troops by sea is,--

In the first place see that the part of the vessel destined to receive

them is thoroughly policed, washed and well scraped out before the

vessel sails; then let a strong police party be detailed every day,

so that the part between decks may always be well washed out and

smell well. Wind-sails are very necessary. The acting commissary of

subsistence should see for himself exactly what is put on board for

the use of the troops and should cause a written requisition to be

made upon him for the quantity used from day to day or week to week.

He should have a reliable and intelligent sergeant at his disposal.

Care should be taken that good cooking arrangements are provided. Mush

appeared to be a favorite and agreeable food for the men at sea. The

muskets should be inspected every day, when the weather permits, as

also the quarters. Men must be required to wear their worst clothes

(working overalls, etc.) on board. Care should be taken that camp

equipage and all articles necessary for immediate use of troops when

landed are so stowed that they can be got at at once.

Brazos is probably the very worst port that could be found on the

whole American coast. We are encamped on an island which is nothing

more than a sand bar, perfectly barren, utterly destitute of any sign

of vegetation. It is about six miles long and one-half mile broad. We

are placed about one hundred yards from the sea, a row of sand hills

some twenty feet high intervening. Whenever a strong breeze blows

the sand flies along in perfect clouds, filling your tent, eyes and

everything else. To dry ink you have merely to dip your paper in the

sand. The only good thing about the place is the bathing in the surf.

The water which we drink is obtained by digging a hole large enough to

contain a barrel. In this is placed a bottomless barrel in which the

water collects. You must dig until you find water, then “work-in” the

barrel until it is well down. This water is very bad. It is brackish

and unhealthy. The island is often overflowed to the depth of one or

two feet. To reach this interesting spot, one is taken from the vessel

in a steamboat and taken over a bar on which the water is six feet

deep, and where the surf breaks with the greatest violence. It is often

impossible to communicate with the vessels outside for ten days or two

weeks at a time.

We have been here since Monday afternoon and it is now Friday. We

expect to march for the mouth of the Rio Grande tomorrow morning at

break of day--thence by steamboat to Matamoros where we will remain

until our arrangements for the pontoon train are complete. We received

when we arrived the news of the battle of Monterey. Three officers who

were present dined with us today--Nichols of the 2nd Artillery, Captain

Smith (brother of G. W. Smith) formerly Captain of Louisiana Volunteers

now an amateur, Captain Crump of the Mississippi Volunteers--fine

fellows all. Saw Bailie Peyton and some others pass our encampment this

morning from Monterey. I am now writing in the guard tent (I go on

guard every other day). Immediately in front are sand hills, same on

the right, same in the rear, sandy plain on the left. To the left of

the sand hills in front are a number of wagons parked, to the left of

them a pound containing about 200 mules, to the left and in front of

that about fifty sloops, schooners, brigs and steamboats; to the left

of that and three miles from us may be seen Point Isabel.

Camp opposite Camargo,[3] November 15th, 1846. We marched from Brazos

to the mouth of the Rio Grande and on arriving there found ourselves

without tents, provisions or working utensils, a cold Norther blowing

all the time. We, however, procured what we needed from the Quarter

Master and made the men comfortable until the arrival of Captain Swift

with the wagons, who reached the mouth late in the afternoon, whilst we

got there about 10 A. M. Thanks to Churchill’s kindness G. W. Smith and

myself got along very well. We left in the Corvette the next morning

(Sunday) for Matamoros, where we arrived at about 5 P. M. The Rio

Grande is a very narrow, muddy stream. The channel is very uncertain,

changing from day to day. The banks are covered with the mesquite

trees, canes, cabbage trees, etc. The ranches are rather sparse, but

some of them are very prettily situated. They all consist of miserable

huts built of mesquite logs and canes placed upright--the interstices

filled with mud. The roofs are thatched, either with canes or the

leaves of the cabbage tree (a species of palmetto). Cotton appears to

grow quite plentifully on the banks, but is not cultivated at all. The

Mexicans appear to cultivate nothing whatever but a little Indian corn

(maize). They are certainly the laziest people in existence--living in

a rich and fertile country (the banks of the river at least) they are

content to roll in the mud, eat their horrible beef and tortillas and

dance all night at their fandangos. This appears to be the character of

the Mexicans as far as I have seen, but they will probably improve as

we proceed further in the country.

Matamoros is situated about a quarter mile from the river. Some of

the houses on the principal streets are of stone, there is one near

the Plaza built in the American style with three stories and garrets.

All the rest are regular Mexican. On the Plaza is an unfinished

cathedral, commenced on a grand scale, but unfinished from a want

of funds. The great majority of the houses are of log. The place is

quite Americanized by our army and the usual train of sutlers, etc.,

etc.,--you can get almost everything you want there. We were encamped

near the landing. I rode over to Resaca and Palo Alto, but as there

is just now a prospect of our returning to Matamoros, before moving

on Tampico, I shall write no description of the fields until I have

visited them again. After being sick for nearly two weeks in Matamoros

I left with the company for Camargo on the “Whiteville,” where we

arrived two weeks ago tomorrow, and I have been in Hospital Quarters

ever since until day before yesterday.[4]

Now I am in camp, the wind blowing the dust in such perfect clouds

that it is perfectly horrible--one can hardly live through it. My

quarters in Camargo were the _Palace_ of Don Jesus, the brother of the

Alcalde [Mayor of the town]--he (the Don) having absquatatated [sic].

The main body of the _Palace_ (!) is one storied. It consists of two

rooms--the smaller one occupied by Dr. Turner, the other by “Legs”

and myself (together with Jimmie Stuart for a part of the time). The

floor is of hard earth, the walls white, and very fancifully decorated

with paintings--the roof flat and painted green--an inscription on it

showing that “Se acabó [This house was finished] esta casa _entiaso_

[this word is not Spanish] Dio[s] &c. &c. 1829.” Altogether it was

quite a recherché establishment. Jimmie Stuart came down to take

care of me when I first got there, and after doing so with his usual

kindness was unfortunately taken with a fever, and had to stay there

anyhow.[5]

We are to accompany General Patterson[6] to Tampico. I hope and suppose

that we will have a fight there, then join General Taylor, _then_ hey

for San Luis [Potosi] and another fight.

December 5th [1846]. Mouth of the Rio Grande. After getting up quite an

excitement about a fight at Tampico etc., we were completely floored

by the news that the navy had _taken_ it without firing a single

gun[7]--the place having been abandoned by the Mexican troops, who

are doubtless being concentrated at San Luis Potosi in anticipation

of a grand attack on the place--ah! if we only fool them by taking

Vera Cruz and its castle, and then march on the capital--we would have

them completely. After a great many orders and counter orders we have

at length arrived thus far on our way to Tampico. We left Camargo on

Sunday evening last (November 29th) in the corvette, with Generals

Patterson and Pillow[8] and a number of other officers (among them

Captain Hunter 2nd Dragoons, Major Abercrombie, Captain Winship, Seth

Williams,[9] and about a thousand volunteers). We had decidedly a bad

passage--running on sand bars very often--being blown up against a bank

by the wind--breaking the rudder twice, etc., etc. We left General

P[atterson], Captain Swift and many others at Matamoros. The General

started with the intention of going to Tampico by sea--all the troops

(except the Tennessee cavalry) were to go by sea, but at Reinosa an

express overtook us ordering the General to proceed by land with all

the troops except this company, which _is_ to go by sea (!). Captain

Swift remained at Matamoros on account of his health.

I was perfectly disgusted coming down the river. I found that every

confounded Voluntario in the “Continental Army” ranked me--to be ranked

and put aside for a soldier of yesterday, a miserable thing with

buttons on it, that knows nothing whatever, is indeed too hard a case.

I have pretty much made up my mind that if I cannot increase my _rank_

in this war, I shall resign shortly after the close of it. I cannot

stand the idea of being a Second Lieutenant all my life. I have learned

some valuable lessons in this war. I am (I hope and believe) pretty

well cured of castle building. I came down here with high hopes, with

pleasing anticipations of distinction, of being in hard fought battles

and acquiring a name and reputation as a stepping stone to a still

greater eminence in some future and greater war. I felt that if I could

have a chance I could do _something_; but what has been the result--the

real state of the case? The first thing that greeted my ears upon

arriving off Brazos was the news of the battle of Monterey[10]--the

place of all others where this Company and its officers would have had

an ample field for distinction. There was a grand miss, but, thank

heaven, it could not possibly have been avoided by us. Well, since

then we have been dodging about--waiting a week here--two weeks there

for the pontoon train--a month in the dirt somewhere else--doing

nothing--half the company sick--have been sick myself for more than a

month and a half--and here we are going to Tampico. What will be the

next thing it is impossible to guess at. We _may_ go to San Luis--we

_may_ go to Vera Cruz--we _may_ go home from Tampico, we _may_ see

a fight, or a dozen of them--_or_ we may not see a shot fired. I

have made up my mind to act the philosopher--to take things as they

come and not worry my head about the future--to try to get perfectly

well--and above all things to see as much _fun_ as I can “scare up” in

the country.

I have seen more suffering since I came out here than I could have

imagined to exist. It is really awful. I allude to the sufferings of

the Volunteers. They literally die like dogs. Were it all known in

the States, there would be no more hue and cry against the Army, all

would be willing to have so large a regular army that we could dispense

entirely with the volunteer system. The suffering among the Regulars

is comparatively trifling, for their officers know their duty and take

good care of the men.[11]

I have also come to the conclusion that the Quartermaster’s Department

is most wofully conducted--never trust anything to that Department

which you can do for yourself. If you need horses for your trains,

etc., carry them with you. As to provisions (for private use) get as

much as possible from the Commissaries--you get things from them

at one-half the price you pay sutlers. Smith has ridden over to

Brazos de Santiago to endeavor to make arrangements for our immediate

transportation to Tampico. Captain Hunter went with him on my mare.

They return in the morning. Whilst at Camargo, Smith had a discussion

with General Patterson about his (General Patterson’s) right to order

us when en route to join General Taylor, under orders from Head

Quarters at Washington. The General was obliged to succumb and admit

the truth of the principle “That an officer of Engineers is not subject

to the orders of every superior officer, but only to those of his

immediate chief, and that General (or other high officer) to whom he

may be ordered to report for duty.”

There goes Gerber with his tattoo--so I must stop for the present.

December 6th [1846]. Go it Weathercocks! Received an order from Major

McCall[12] this morning to go back to Matamoros, as we are to _march_

to Tampico, via Victoria, with the column under General Patterson.[13]

Smith is away at Brazos and if the order had been one day and a half

later we would have been off to Tampico by sea. Have fine sea bathing

here. It is blowing very hard from the south east, so much so as to

raise the sand too much for comfort entirely. Bee and Ward at the

Brazos--coming over this morning--will at least have an opportunity of

giving Georgie that letter of Madame Scott’s! I feel pleased at the

idea of going by land--we will have a march to talk about, and may very

probably have a fight on the way. I firmly believe that we will have

a brush before reaching Tampico. Unfortunately the whole column is

Voluntario.

January 2nd, 1847. Rancho Padillo, on Soto la Marina river. I

“firmly believed” we would have a brush!--the devil I did!--and a

pretty fool I was to think I’d have such good luck as that. I’ve

given it up entirely. But I was right in the other--the whole column

_is_ Voluntario--and a pretty column it is too. To go on with our

affairs.--We reached Matamoros on the 8th [December] and encamped on

the river bank just below the Mexican batteries. Smith went down to

the mouth [of the river] again to select tools for the march, leaving

me in command. After various orders and counter orders we were finally

(December 21st) directed to appear upon the Plaza as early as possible

in order to march to El Moquete, where General Pillow was encamped with

the 3rd and 4th Illinois Volunteers. “Mind, Mr. Smith” said the old

Mustang[14] the night before, “mind and appear as early as possible,

so that you may not delay us”--all this with that air of dignity and

importance so peculiarly characteristic of Mustangs; well we got up

at daybreak and reached the Plaza a little after seven, immediately

reported ourselves ready to start and were informed that we should

wait for the guide who was _momentarily_ expected. We were to march in

advance, then the wagon train, then Gibson with his artillery (a twelve

pounder field piece and twenty-four pounder howitzer) was to bring up

the rear.

I waited and waited in the hot sun on the Plaza, watched the men

gorging themselves with oranges, sausages etc., them took to swearing

by way of consolation. When I had succeeded in working myself into a

happy frame of mind (about one o’clock) old Abercrombie[15] ordered

Gibson to start in advance and our company to bring up the rear. I wont

attempt to describe the beauties of forming a rear guard of a wagon

train. Suffice it to say that the men straggled a great deal, some got

rather drunk, all very tired. We reached the banks of El Arroyo Tigre

about 8 o’clock (two hours after dark) and then encamped as we best

could.

I rode on in advance of the company to see El Tigre and found Gibson

amusing himself by endeavoring to curse a team (a caisson) across the

river, which (the caisson, not the river--well, _both were_, after

all) had got mired in the middle. I rode back and met the company about

one mile from the camp ground, struggling along--tired to death and

straining their eyes to see water through the darkness. I consoled them

somewhat by telling them that it was not more than a mile to the water,

but they soon found that a mile on foot was a great deal longer than a

mile on horseback. However, we got there at last, pitched our camp, and

soon forgot all our troubles in sound sleep.

I rode in advance next morning through the long wagon train to find a

new ford. We crossed and encamped with General Pillow’s Brigade. Went

down to Major Harris’ (4th Illinois) tent, where I had a fine drink

of brandy and the unspeakable satisfaction of seeing a democratic

Volunteer Captain (in his shirt sleeves) sit, with the greatest

unconcern, on a tent peg for at least an hour. Gibson and I then went

to Winship’s tent where we found G. W. [Smith] and an invitation to

dine with General Pillow.

During dinner it began to rain like bricks. We adjourned to Winship’s

tent, and the sight we presented would have amused an hermit. The water

[was] about an inch deep in the tent, and we four sitting on the bed

passing around a tumbler continually replenished from that old keg

of commissary whiskey--oh lord! how it did fly ’round! and we were as

happy a set of soldiers as ever lived “in spite of wind and weather.”

“Whoa Winship,” says Gibson, “that’s too strong” so he drank it all

to keep us from being injured. Well, we amused ourselves in this way

until dark--then we waded back to our respective domiciles (is a tent a

domicile?) having previously seen old Patt make his grand entrée in the

midst of a hard rain--_he_ in Dr. Wright’s[16] covered wagon (looking

for all the world like an old Quaker farmer going to market), his

escort and staff dripping with the rain. _We_ wondered why they looked

so dismal and thought that it had not been such a horrid bad day after

all!

This evening G. W. [Smith] and myself had a grand cursing match over

an order from the “stable” requiring a detail from our camp to pitch

and unpitch the General’s tents etc. However, we sent them just about

the meanest detail that they ever saw. At this place our large army was

divided into two columns. We moved at the head of the first column.

General Pillow came on one day after us.

We started about 7.30--a bright sunny morning. Nothing of interest

this day--the men improved in their marching. We encamped about three

o’clock at Guijano, where there were two ponds of very good water.

We had a beautiful spot for our encampment, and a most delightful

moonlight evening. There is one house--hut rather--at this place.

From Matamoros to this place the road is excellent requiring no

repairs--chaparral generally thick on roadside--one or two small

prairies--road would be boggy in wet weather. From Matamoros to Moquete

[is] about ten miles, from El Moquete to El Guijano about ten miles.

On the next day (December 24th) we marched to Santa Teresa, a distance

of 27 miles. It was on this march that we (i. e. Songo[17]) made the

“raise” on General Patterson’s birds. He sent us four for supper.

We ate as many as we could and had five left for breakfast--fully

equal to the loaves and fishes this. We stopped for nearly an hour at

Salina--a pond of rather bad water about half way to Santa Teresa--what

a rush the Voluntarios made for the water! When we arrived we found

the mustang crowd taking their lunch.[18] As Songo had just then made

one of his periodical disappearances we were left without anything

to eat for some time, but at last we descried him caracoling across

the prairie on his graceful charger. The mustangs did not have the

politeness to ask us to partake of their lunch, but when Songo _did

come our_ brandy was better than theirs anyhow. At Santa Teresa the

water was very bad--being obtained from a tancho. I bluffed off a

volunteer regiment some 100 yards from our camp. As the Lieutenant

Colonel of this same regiment (3rd Illinois) was marching them along

by the flank he gave the command “by file left march!”--to bring it

on the color line. The leading file turned at about an angle of 30

degrees. “Holloa there” says the Colonel “you man there, you dont know

how to file.” “The h--l I dont” yells the man “d--n you, I’ve been

marching all day, and I guess I’m tired.”

Road good--passes principally through prairie--at Salina wood scarce in

immediate vicinity of the water, plenty about three quarters of a mile

from it. Wood not very plenty at Santa Teresa--enough however.

December 25th. We started at sunrise, and it was a sunrise well worthy

of the day. A cloud obscured the sun at first, but it seemed a cloud of

the brightest, purest gold, and the whole east was tinged with a hue

which would defy the art of man to imitate. It was one of those scenes

which occur but once in many years, and which elevate us for a moment

above the common range of our thoughts. In an instant I thought of my

whole life, of the happy Christmas days of my childhood, of my mother,

of the very few others I love--how happy Arthur and Mary[19] must have

been at that moment with their Christmas gifts! When I was a child--as

they are now--I little thought that I should ever spend a Christmas day

upon the march, in Mexico. The time may come hereafter when I shall

spend Christmas in a way little anticipated by me on _this_ Christmas

day. God grant that my troubles may be as few and my thoughts as

pleasant as they were then!

I rode off into the prairie--followed by Songo--and in the excitement

of chasing some rabbits managed to lose the column. I at length found

my way back, and was told that I had created quite an excitement.

When I was first seen in the distance they did not know whether I

was a Mexican or a white man. Patt, finally concluded that I must be

a straggling “Tennessee horse,” gave the Colonel a blowing up for

allowing his men to leave the column, and directed him to send out a

guard to apprehend the “vagrom man.” Just about that time Smith found

out what was going on, discovered who it was and rectified the mistake.

Passed Chiltipine about 11 A. M.--sent Songo to buy eggs and milk.

After we had passed about a mile beyond the Ranche [Rancho, a hut], I

heard a peculiar neigh--which I recognized as Jim’s--and loud laughing

from the volunteers. I turned around and saw Jim “streaking it against

time” for the mare--head up, eyes starting and neighing at every jump,

minus Songo. I rode back to see what had become of the “faithful

Jumbo,” Jim following like a little puppy dog. It appeared that Jim had

thrown his “fidus Achates.” When we stopped at Chiltipine Dr. Wright

gave us a drink of first rate brandy.

At Chiltipine (or very near there) we left the road and took a prairie

path to the left. The grass was so high that we found ourselves at

about 1 P. M. out of sight of the train and artillery. Pat became very

much agitated and ordered a halt, glasses were put in requisition

(brandy and spy) but no train could be discovered. Pat became highly

excited and imagined all kinds of accidents. At last some artillery was

discovered. Pat’s excitement reached its highest pitch, for he took it

into his head that they were Mexicans. “Good G--d, Mr. Smith! Take your

glass--take your glass--those are our artillery or something worse! I

fear they have been cut off.” However, it turned out to be Gibson, and

Pat’s countenance changed suddenly from a “Bluntish,” blueish, ghastly

white to a silly grin.

At last we reached our camp at a dirty, muddy lake--ornamented by a

dead jackass. Pat ensconced himself in the best place with Tennessee

horse as a guard, put Gibson “in battery” on the road, with us on his

left flank--a large interval between us and the Tennessee horse--a

similar one between Gibson and the Illinois foot. Gibson had orders to

defend the road. How he was to be informed of the approach of the enemy

“this deponent knoweth not,” such a thing as a picket was not thought

of. I suppose Pat thought the guns old enough to speak for themselves.

For our Christmas dinner we had a beefsteak and some fried mush. Not

quite so good as turkey and mince pies, but we enjoyed it as much as

the cits at home did their crack dinners. We finished a bottle of the

Captain’s best sherry in a marvellous short time. Songo looked as if

he thought we ought to be fuddled, but we were too old soldiers for

that. After dinner we started off “to see Seth Williams,” but saw

the mustangs at their feed and “huevosed” the ranche. By the bye, we

thought that ordinary politeness would have induced old Pat to have

given us an invitation to dine, but we spent our time more pleasantly

than we would have done there. We went from Pat’s to Colonel Thomas’s,

and returned thence to Gibson, whom we found in a very good humor,

and whose Volunteer Sub-Lieutenant (W----) was most gloriously and

unroariously [sic] corned. He yelled like a true Mohawk, and swore

that “little Jane” somebody had the prettiest foot and hand in all

Tennessee. He set the men a most splendid example of good conduct

and quietness, but what _can_ you expect from a Volunteer? One of his

ideas was first rate--“Just imagine old Patt being attacked by the

Mexicans, and running over here in his shirt tail--breaking thro’ the

pond with old Abercrombie after him. The d--d old fox put us here where

he thought the enemy would get us. Suppose they should come in on the

other side? D--n him we’d see him streaking over here, with old McCall

and Abercrombie after, their shirt tails flying, by G--d.”

December 26th. Marched 20 miles to San Fernando where we arrived a

little after sunset. Road level until we arrived within about 5 miles

of San Fernando, when it became rocky and hilly but always practicable.

About 4 miles from San Fernando we reached the summit of a hill from

which we beheld a basin of hills extending for miles and miles--not

unlike the hills between the Hudson and Connecticut opposite West

Point. About two miles from San Fernando are some wells of pretty good

water--the men were very thirsty--Gerber offered a volunteer half

a dollar for a canteen full of water. My little mare drank until I

thought she would kill herself. The Alcalde and his escort met General

Patterson at this place. He was all bows, smiles and politeness.

_Murphy_ of whom more anon had the honor of taking San Fernando by

storm. He was the first to enter it, mounted on his gallant steed. We

first saw San Fernando as we arrived at the summit of a high hill, the

last rays of the sun shining on its white houses, and the dome of the

“_Cathedral_” gave it a beautiful appearance. It was a jewel in the

midst of these uninhabited and desert hills. We encamped in a hollow

below the town--had a small eggnog and dreamed of a hard piece of work

we had to commence on the morrow. Mañana [tomorrow morning] por la

mañana.

December 27th. We had our horses saddled at reveillé and before sunrise

were upon the banks of El Rio de San Fernando--a clear, cold and

rapid mountain stream, about 40 yards wide and two and a half feet

deep--bottom of hard gravel. We crossed the stream and found ourselves

the first American soldiers who had been on the further bank. The

approaches to the stream from the town required some repairs, nothing

very bad--it was horrible on the other side. As we again crossed the

stream we halted to enjoy the beautiful view--the first rays of the sun

gave an air of beauty and freshness to the scene that neither pen nor

pencil can describe.

With a detail of 200 men and our own company we finished our work

before dinner. Walked up into the town in the afternoon. On this day

General Pillow overtook us. He had a difficulty with a volunteer

officer who mutinied, drew a revolver on the General, etc., etc. The

General put him in charge of the guard--his regiment remonstrated,

mutinied, etc., and the matter _was finally settled by the officer

making an apology_.

December 28th. Crossed the stream before sunrise under orders to move

on with the Tennessee horse one day in advance of the column in order

to repair a very bad ford at the next watering place--Las Chomeras.

Very tiresome and fatiguing march of about 22 miles. Road pretty good,

requiring a few repairs here and there. Water rather brackish. Very

pretty encampment. Stream about 20 yards wide and 18 inches deep. No

bread and hardly any meat for supper.

December 29th. Finished the necessary repairs about 12 noon. We partook

of some kid and claret with Colonel Thomas. While there General

Patterson arrived and crossed the stream, encamping on the other side.

Waded over the stream to see the Generals--were ordered to move on in

advance next morning with two companies of horse and 100 infantry.

December 30th. Started soon after daybreak minus the infantry who were

not ready. Joined advanced guard, where Selby raised a grand scare

about some Indians who were lying in ambush at a ravine called “los

tres palos” in order to attack us. When we reached the ravine the guard

halted and I rode on to examine it and look for the Indians--I found a

bad ravine but no Indians.

On this same day the Major commanding the rear guard (Waterhouse, of

the Tennessee Cavalry) was told by a wagonmaster that the advanced

guard was in action with the Mexicans. The men, in the rear guard,

immediately imagined that they could distinguish the sound of cannon

and musketry. The cavalry threw off their saddle bags and set off at

a gallop--the infantry jerked off their knapsacks and put out--Major

and all deserted their posts on the bare report of a wagonmaster that

the advance was engaged. A beautiful commentary this on the “citizen

soldiery.” Had we really been attacked by 500 resolute men we must

inevitably have been defeated, although our column consisted of

1700--for the road was narrow--some men would have rushed one way, some

another--all would have been confusion--and all, from the General down

to the dirtiest rascal of the filthy crew, would have been scared out

of their wits (if they ever had any).

Our 100 infantry dodged off before we had done much work, and our own

men did everything. We reached Encinal about 4 P. M. after a march of

about 17 miles, and almost incessant labor at repairs. It was on this

day that _General_ Patterson sent back _Brigadier General_ Pillow to

tell _Second Lieutenant_ Smith to cut down a tree around which it was

impossible to go!!

December 31st. We left Encinal at daybreak and arrived at about 2 P.

M. at Santander, o’ Jimenez. Road good for about ten miles when we

found ourselves on the brow of a hill, some 350 feet above the vast

plain, in the midst of which was the little town of Santander. No other

indication of life was to be seen than its white houses. The descent

was very steep, the road bad from the foot of the hill to Santander.

We had a slight stampede here, some one imagined that he saw an armed

troop approaching (which turned out to be the Alcalde and his suite).

We passed the town, crossed the river and encamped. Songo got 19 eggs

and we had a “bust.” Colonel Thomas turned out some whiskey to Gibson

for an eggnog--before he arrived the eggnog was gone. I have some

indistinct ideas of my last _sensible_ moments being spent in kneeling

on my bed, and making an extra eggnog on the old mess chest. I dont

recollect whether I drank it or not, but as the pitcher was empty the

next morning, I rather fancy that I must have done so.

January 1st, 1847. Woke up and found the ridge pole _off_ at one end.

I rather suspect that G. W. [Smith] must have done it by endeavoring

to see the old year out--perhaps the new one came in via our tent, and

did the damage in its passage. We began the new year by starting on

the wrong road. After invading about two miles of the enemies’ country

we were overtaken by an officer at full gallop, who informed us that

the column had taken another road and that we must make our way to the

front as we best could. Smith had been informed the preceding day by

Winship (General Pillow’s Adjutant General) that the road we took was

the right one to Victoria. We quickly discovered the magnitude of our

mistake, for we got amongst the Volunteers, and the lord deliver us

from ever getting into such a scrape again. Falstaff’s company were

regulars in comparison with these fellows--most of them without coats;

some would have looked much better without _any pants_ than with the

parts of pants they wore; all had torn and dirty shirts--uncombed

heads--unwashed faces--they were dirt and filth from top to toe. Such

marching! They were marching by the flank, yet the road was not wide

enough to hold them and it was with the greatest difficulty that you

could get by--all hollowing, cursing, yelling like so many incarnate

fiends--no attention or respect paid to the commands of their officers,

whom they would curse as quickly as they would look at them. They

literally straggled along for miles.

In making a short cut through the chaparral we came upon a detachment

of _mounted Volunteers_, amongst whom the famous Murphy, captor of two

cities, stood out predominant. He was mounted on the “_crittur_” he

had “_drawn_,” i. e. stolen in the bushes. The beast was frisky and

full of life at first, but by dint of loading him down with knapsacks

and muskets he had tamed him pretty well. Imagine an Irishman some

six feet, two inches high, seated on the “hindmost slope of the rump”

of a jackass about the size of an ordinary Newfoundland dog, his legs

extended along its sides, and the front part of the beast loaded down

with knapsacks etc. Murphy _steered_ the animal with his legs, every

once and a while administering a friendly kick on the head, by way of

reminding him that _he_ was thar.

When we crossed the San Fernando I saw a Mexican endeavoring to make

two little jackasses cross. He was unable to do so and finally sold

them to a Volunteer for fifty cents; the Volunteer got them over

safely. After regaling ourselves with a view of Murphy we considered

ourselves fully repaid for the extra distance we had marched. At last

we gained our place at the head of the column and arrived at Marquesoto

about 12 noon, without further incident--except that General Pillow

appropriated one of our big buckets to the purpose of obtaining water

from the well. We had a very pretty ground for our encampment and

had a fine eggnog that night, with Winship to help us drink it. From

Santander to Marquesoto about ten miles.

January 2nd. Started before daylight, Captain Snead’s Company in

advance. Road very rough, covered with loose stones--could not improve

it with the means at our command. Pat thought we might have done

it--but hang Pat’s opinion. Saw for the first time the beautiful flower

of the Spanish bayonet--a pyramid, about two and a half or three feet

high, composed of hundreds of white blossoms. Pat immediately began to

talk about “δενδρον” this and “δενδρον” that--and the “δενδρα” in his

conservatory. San Antonio is the place where Iturbide[20] was taken--as

Arista’s map says.... It is a large yellow house--looking quite modern

in the wilderness.

[Illustration: Facsimile reproduction of McClellan’s manuscript.

FIRST PAGE OF THE MEXICAN WAR DIARY.]

The crossing at the stream was very bad, and required a great deal of

work. Major McCall thought it would take two days--in two days we were

at Victoria. The stream is a branch of the Soto la Marina and is called

San Antonio. It is a clear cold stream--the banks lined with cypress

trees--the first I ever saw. Pat (after ringing in to the owner of the

ranch for a dinner) ensconced himself in the roots of a large cypress

and with a countenance expressing mingled emotions of fear, anxiety,

impatience and disgust watched the progress of the work--yelled at

everyone who rode into the water etc., etc.

January 3rd. We started before daylight and succeeded in getting clear

of the volunteer camp by dint of great exertions. After marching about

five miles through a fertile river bottom we reached the main branch of

the Soto la Marina, a most beautiful stream of the clearest, coldest,

most rapid water I ever saw--about sixty yards wide and three feet

deep. Songo had some trouble in crossing without being washed off “Jim.”

Padilla is situated on the banks of this stream--an old town rapidly

going to ruin--with a quaint old Cathedral built probably 200 years

ago, if not more. After marching about twelve miles more we reached

the stream of La Corona, another branch of La Marina, similar in

its character to the others. After working for about an hour on the

banks we encamped on the further side. The Tennessee horse gave our

men a “lift” over both the last streams--some of the Sappers[21] had

evidently never been mounted before.

January 4th. Very early we started for Victoria--and had to work our

way through the camp of the Illinois regiments which was placed along

the road. At last we cleared them and found ourselves marching by

moonlight through a beautiful grove of pecan trees. I know nothing

more pleasant than this moonlight marching, everything is so beautiful

and quiet. Every few moments a breath of warm air would strike our

faces--reminding us that we were almost beneath the Tropic. After we

had marched for about four hours we heard a little more yelling than

usual among the Volunteers. Smith turned his horse to go and have

it stopped when who should we see but the General and his staff in

the midst of the yelling. We concluded that _they_ must be yelling

too, so we let them alone. This is but one instance of the many that

occurred when these Mustang Generals were actually _afraid_ to exert

their authority upon the Volunteers.--_Their popularity would be

endangered._ I have seen enough on this march to convince me that

Volunteers and Volunteer Generals wont do. I have repeatedly seen a

Second Lieutenant of the regular army exercise more authority over the

Volunteers--_officers and privates_--than a Mustang General.

The road this day was very good and after a march of about seventeen

miles we reached Victoria. The Volunteers had out their flags,

etc.--those that had uniforms put them on, _especially the commandant

of the advanced guard_. Picks and shovels were put up--Generals

halted and collected their staffs, and in they went in grand

procession--evidently endeavoring to create the impression that they

had marched in this way all the way--the few regular officers along

laughing enough to kill themselves.

General [John A.] Quitman came out to meet General Patterson--but old

Zach [Taylor], who arrived with his regulars about an hour before we

did, stayed at home like a sensible man.[22] We made fools of ourselves

(not we either, for I was laughing like a _wise man_ all the time) by

riding through the streets to General Quitman’s quarters where we had

wine and fruit. Then we rode down to the camp ground--a miserable stony

field--we in one corner of it, the “Continental Army” all over the

rest of it. We at last got settled. About dark started over to General

Taylor’s camp. Before I had gone 200 yards I met the very person I was

going to see--need not say how glad I was to meet him after a two

months absence.

This reminds me that when at Matamoros--a day or two before we started

on the march--we received the news of poor Norton’s death. I had

written a letter to him the day before which was in my portfolio when

I heard of his death. The noble fellow met his death on board the

Atlantic, which was lost in Long Island Sound near New London on the

27th November 1846. Captain Cullum and Lieutenant C. S. Stewart were

both on board, and both escaped. Norton exerted himself to the last to

save the helpless women and children around him--but in accordance with

the strange presentiment that had been hanging over him for some time,

he lost his own life. He was buried at West Point--which will seem to

me a different place without him.