An
Irish-born writer remembers Philip Kearny,
his comrade in the Mexican War, as... 
A
Dashing Dragoon:
The Murat of the American Army
by
Mayne Reid
THERE
is a name among the military heroes of America not so
often spoken as it should be; but which, when spoken,
never fails to strike upon the ear with an interest
almost romantic. In it the soldier recognizes the ring of
the true metal; and its mention calls up the image of as
fine a dragoon officer as ever drew sabre or set foot in
a stirrup.
This officer was Philip Kearny.
Was! How sad an old comrade feels in penning the
past tense! Would I could say is!
Alas! it cannot be. His life-blood, of which he was so
daringly regardless, has fertilized the sod of Chantilly;
his ashes rest in the tomb of his ancestors; and his
heroic soul has passed to a more peaceful world. But for
that fatal shot that made him a corpse in the saddle, his
name would now have been louder upon the lips of his
countrymen. For the man who cried "Cowardice or
treason!" when Malvern Hill was so basely abandoned
to the foe, would have led to victory had he lived; and
this man was General Philip Kearny.
To say this is no disparagement to the successful leaders
who survived him. I don't think there is one among them
will deny that, had Phil Kearny not met premature death,
he would have achieved rank second to none, as second to
none has he won reputation. And it is a reputation that
will, year after year, and day after day, grow brighter;
as, under the calm retrospect of peace, his deeds of
warlike daring—of high chivalric heroism—become
better known.
It is not my purpose to write the biography of General
Philip Kearny. There are other pens better fitted for the
task; and some one of them will no doubt perform this
national duty. It should be a labor of love for any
patriot to write the story of such a life; and there is
no patriot who should not read it. I am incapable: for
while Kearny was engaged in that grand struggle, that
gave the latest proofs, alike of his gallantry as
devotion to his country's cause, I was far away in a
distant quarter of the globe.
In the lesser strife, that by something more than a
decade preceded it—the second conquest of
Mexico,—I was by his side, and saw him do a deed
that fixed him in my mind forever after as a
"dashing dragoon."
It is of this deed, too little
known, I desire to make record; so that it may assist the
future biographer of the gallant Kearny, as also the
historian of that spirited Mexican expedition—still
but feebly chronicled. Partly for these reasons, and
partly that the eye-witnesses of those far-distant
events—in their day thought stirring, and still
picturesque—are gradually growing less in number.1
Alas, that from among us Phil Kearny is missing! But his
memory is with us; and now for a chapter that will not
only recall him to the thoughts of his old comrades, but
his countrymen, in all the dash, the daring, the
unparalleled picturesqueness of his character.
It was the battlefield, known in history as Churubusco;
so called from a stream of the name, with a village upon
its banks—a cluster of huts and churches, with a
grand convent rising massively in their midst. It is on
the famed National Road, leading south towards Acapulco
from the City of Mexico, and about five miles from the
suburb of the latter city—the garita of San
Antonio de Abad.
The crossing of the stream was defended by a battery on
the tête de pont, by flanking works along the
banks on both sides, and by a strong body of troops that
occupied the convent of Churubusco, for the time
transformed into a fortress.
It cost the American army a deadly
struggle to take these works; all the deadlier that they
were defended by two hundred brave Irishmen, who, as is
too often the case, were fighting on the wrong side. They
were deserters, and fought in despair—with the
prospect of a halter if taken.2 The tête de pont,
although desperately defended, was at length carried; the
sooner that a brigade of gallant volunteers, sent round
by the left flank, pressed the enemy at the Hacienda Los
Portales. But for this, it is a question whether
Churubusco would have been carried so soon.
This brigade, sent as above-mentioned to the left, on its
own side, had enough work to do. It consisted of the New
York and South Carolina regiments.
As we stood side by side that day, our flags swayed by
the same breeze, our muzzles pointed in the same
direction, who could have thought that those standards
should ever be seen in opposing ranks, or those bayonets
ever clash in the conflict of internecine strife? Surely
not one of us.
No; we had enough to think of without that, as our men
fell, side by side, or one upon the other, mingling their
life-blood together—the best of the North, as of the
South.
And both flowed equally, as freely! In those days men
used to talk of Waterloo and its terrible carnage. Man
for man, there was more blood spilled at Churubusco. The
writer of this sketch was in command of sixty volunteer
soldiers. When the action was over, he counted thirty-two
of them lying on the grass, nearly a dozen of them dead!
After this it is not necessary to say they were brave.
And it needed all their courage to carry the defences of
Los Portales. There was a time when they wavered. What
troops would not have done so under a shower of leaden
hail that, in addition to half their numbers, laid low
nearly every field-officer in the brigade? It would have
been no cowardice had they at that time retreated.
But they did not. A young officer,
belonging to the New York regiment,3 sprang forth, and called
upon them to follow him to the charge. The Irish drummer,
Murphy, dashed out after; gave a soul-stirring tap to his
drum, and, as if keeping time to its quick rolling,
Empires and Palmettos rushed forward at bayonet charge.
The coming of the cold steel was a warning to the Mexican
troops. A squadron of their cavalry, threatening a charge
on our left, wheeled their horses quick about, and went
off at a hand gallop for the city; while the foot
defenders of Los Portales and the causeway of the
Acapulco road flung down their discharged escopettes,
and scattered off through swamp and chaparral. Still led
by the New York officer, the remnants of the
half-slaughtered brigade plunged breast-deep into the
slimy zanca, clambered up the causeway, and
continued the pursuit along the level road.
Exhausted by the long-continued struggle, saturated with
water from sole to waist, laden with sink-mud, they made
but slow progress.
But at that moment there appeared,
coming along the causeway, a troop going quicker, that
promised to take the pursuit off their hands. It was a
troop [a squadron] of horsemen, with horses all of light
iron gray color.4
Emerging from the smoke-cloud of Churubusco, they looked
like a band of angels with Gabriel at their head! It was
KEARNY with his squadron of cavalry. Before the fatigued
foot had time to congratulate themselves on the relief,
the dragoons came sweeping past. They were going at full
gallop in half sections of twos, the men with sloped
sabres, the horses with snorting nostrils, each buried in
the spread tail of that preceding him; the hoofs of all
striking simultaneously on the firm crown of the
causeway, as if they were galloping to set music!
At their head rode a man of slight stature, with
light-colored hair, and a complexion to correspond. A
long tawny moustache became the classical type of face,
and somewhat aquiline nose that surmounted it. They were
features belonging to a natural-born commander, and
looked in their place at the head of a charging troop.
They were the features of PHIL KEARNY.
The young New York officer, recognizing them as those of
his gallant friend, cried out to his tired comrades:
"Now, boys; three cheers for Phil Kearny! You've
still breath enough for that?" The shout that
responded showed he had not mistaken their strength. Most
of them were New Yorkers, and knew that Kearny was of
their kind.
The dragoons had scarce passed when an aide-de-camp rode
up, bearing a message from the Commander-in-Chief. It was
an order to stay the pursuit! It was given to a
lieutenant-colonel, the only field officer upon the
ground. The order came upon the men like a bomb-shell,
projected from the rear. Stop the pursuit! What did it
mean? They had put the enemy to flight; and they knew he
would not again make stand to oppose them that side the
city—nor even in the city; for the scare upon his
scattered troops would be sure to carry them clear
through it, especially when chased by Kearny. Stop the
pursuit! What could it mean? The lieutenant-colonel could
not tell. He could only beg of them to obey. They laughed
at him, for he had not led them; and only looked to the
lieutenant who had. The latter listened to the order from
the aide-de-camp, for it was at length directed to him,
as the only one who had the power to enforce obedience to
it." 'Tis a fatal mistake," said he, "and
General Scott will find it out in time. We have the city
in our power; and it will cost more blood to get it so
again." "The orders are for you to halt!"
shouted the aide-de-camp, who, accompanied by a cavalry
bugler, galloped on after the dragoons. "Halt!"
cried the New York lieutenant, flinging himself in front
of the pursuers, and raising his sword with an air of
determination. It was a command that came only from a
sense of military duty, and the word faltered upon his
lips, as he pronounced it. "Halt did yez say,
liftinant?" "Halt!" repeated the officer,
in a firmer tone. "If you say halt,
begorrah, we'll do it; but not for any other officer in
the Amirekean army!" With the sword held at point,
the lieutenant stood determinedly pointing them; and the
men came reluctantly to a stand. They had scarce done so,
when a spectacle commenced passing before their eyes that
made every man of them sad—almost mad. Back along
the road came riding the squadron [troop] of Kearny, not
as they had passed before, at full gallop, in the flush
of a vigorous charge; but slow and dejected as if
returning from a reverse. And in the rear rode their
leader, his left arm no longer grasping the reins, but
hanging by his side, like the sling jacket of a hussar!
The tale was soon told. Some half-mile beyond the spot
where the aide-de-camp halted us, the enemy had cut the
Acapulco road and thrown a parapet across it, with the
usual fosse outside. Here a few of their bravest men had
determined on making a last stand. But Kearny, braver
than they, riding at wild gallop, had leaped his horse
into the work—with one spring, clearing both ditch
and parapet! His faithful sergeant had followed him;
both, as soon as they alighted, plying their sabres upon
the enemy inside! At that moment sounded the recall bugle
of the orderly accompanying Scott's aide-de-camp; and the
American dragoons, trained to the signal, pulled short up
outside.
It was a terrible predicament! Alone within the
entrenchment, surrounded by a score of assailants, Kearny
and his sergeant had no other alternative but retreat;
and, wheeling right about, both headed their horses to
releap the ditch. Their gallant grays carried them
across—the sergeant safe; but the best cavalry
officer in the American army received a [canister] shot
in his left arm that caused him instantaneously to let go
his bridle rein. It pained me to see it hanging loose, as
he and his squadron filed past, going back along the
Acapulco road. But the cheer that saluted his return was
far more sympathetic and not less enthusiastic than that
sent after him in his impetuous charge. In the battle of
Churubusco, as on other Mexican fields, the writer of
this sketch commanded a corps of men—who were a
strange conglomeration of veterans and vieux sabreurs.
They had seen service on almost every European field, as
also in Asia and Africa. They had been organized in New
York City, under the ægis of an old Napoleonic
officer—the Count de Bongars. By the incidence of
campaign life they came under my command shortly after
the battle of Cerro Gordo, and so continued till peace
was sealed by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Among them
were many cavalry men, who had been trained in the first
schools, and taken part in celebrated charges. One and
all confessed to me they had never witnessed a charge so
perfect, so compact, so dashing; as that led by
Phil Kearny along the causeway of San Antonio de Abad. To
convince me of this, I did not need their testimony: for
I too had seen something of cavalry service—enough
to know that, if there be any dispute as to who is the Murat
of the American army, it must be between two men of
similar Christian names—two Philips: in short,
between Kearny and Sheridan.
NOTE:
Joachim Murat was a French marshal who aided Napoleon's
coup d'état of 1799 and subsequently was appointed the
king of Naples.
This article by Mayne Reid was published in Onward,
January 1869, vol. I., p. 25.
Image of Philip Kearny from the bronze plaque on the
monument of the 1st New Jersey Brigade at Gettysburg
National Military Park.
FOOTNOTES:
1 The singular manner of Phil
Kearny's death is not generally known; but to describe it
is a task too painful for a friend. (Return
to story.)
2 They were taken, and fifty
of them hanged in one morning—the morning on which
Chapultepec was stormed. Twenty-eight were hanged at one
place. Simultaneously, and by tap of drum, were they
launched into eternity. It was a terrible retribution,
but could not well be avoided. On that day the fate of
the American army hung suspended as on a thread, and the
example was one of stern necessity. (Return
to story.)
3 Mayne Reid, the writer himself. (Return
to story.)
4 Kearny took great pride in his
dragoons, and had their horses in uniform—a
beautiful dapple gray. This had been effected, at
considerable expense to himself, by exchanging the
regulation horse for a handsomer and better. (Return
to story.)
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