The “Wicked War”

By Bryan Siegrist

Alfred Kelly, a recent immigrant from Ireland, finds himself fighting Mexicans in the Mexican American war, a.k.a. Mr. Polks war. Distraught at his poor treatment by his Protestant fellow soldiers and officers and disgusted by their brutal handling of the Mexican people, he goes over to the other side, joining the Irish San Patricio artillery brigade. There, he fights against the Americans alongside the Irish leader, Jon Reilly.

Captured, he barely escapes with his life and goes on a harrowing trip back to New York to rejoin his beloved, Erin.

His return voyage is marked by many adventures, including narrowly escaping, once again, with his life. Taken in by Mexican guerrillas, he and the partisans are discovered by the Texas Rangers where many Mexicans are killed. He escapes by running into the jungle.

Alfred eventually makes his way back to New York, leaving the Wicked War (as characterized by President U. S. Grant) behind him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514481387

Bryan Siegrist

A dentist by training, the author has done much technical, health-related writing. A history buff by aptitude, this is his first foray into historical fiction. He is the author of two other novels, “A Dentist’s Torture (It’s Not What You Think)” and “The Neighbors.” He is fortunate, along with his wife, Kathy, to spend winters in Arizona and summers in Colorado.

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Copyright © 2016 by Bryan Siegrist.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2016905508

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-8140-0

      Softcover      978-1-5144-8139-4

      eBook      978-1-5144-8138-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/13/2016

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter One

With only two days to go, Alfred climbed up the stairs and collapsed on the deck, wrapping his arm around the pole of the ship’s railing. Broken-hearted and morose, the salt spray mingled with his tears. All was lost. They were both gone. What use was it to go on? He considered throwing himself overboard or even perhaps joining the shrouded bodies being buried into the churning sea, pushed silently from the ship’s stern. Who would notice or even care?

The ship, unkempt and a dingy white, forged ahead through the north Atlantic, the ocean waters crashing against its bow, tossing it to and fro. On its stern, the priest, his black frock whipped by the wind, went about his grisly duty, blessing the shrouded bodies before his assistants interred them into the sea. It was not an easy job; dozens of bodies lay stacked, shrouded with bed sheets (the captain, experienced by many ocean crossings, had ensured a plentiful supply). The priest, tired and wet, nevertheless prayed over each one, sending their pitiful souls to heaven. It seemed a thankless, unending job, but one which he knew he must do.

Alfred lay wet and miserable, eating only bread, moistened by the salty sea. It was no use; he could not summon the courage. Let me be miserable, he thought, and die on this deck. Sleeping fitfully, he chastised himself for being such a coward. He dreamt at night of slipping into the darkest depths of the sea.

He awoke at dawn as the ship maneuvered into the New York harbor, the morning sun shining down upon its water, the city awakening. Despite his melancholy, he felt his spirits rise, his heart beat faster, his mood more buoyant. He was here at last! He had made it! Despite it all, here was the promised land – food and jobs aplenty!

Docking in Brooklyn, with less than a dollar in his pocket, and after being released from a trying eight hour session with US immigration, Alfred entered into a new world, a world for which he was unprepared. New York was a teeming, chaotic, urban jungle of immigrants, stuffed into crowded tenements. The noise and stench assaulted his ears and nose. Everywhere on the streets there was hustle and bustle.

First and foremost, he knew he must find a job to survive. Everywhere he looked, the stores and restaurants had signs: No Irish, or No Micks. Alfred became more and more depressed – no job, nowhere to stay, and no prospects. He longed for his family. He ate sparingly, saving what little money he had. At least there was real food to be had.

With others, he prowled the city, sleeping in doorways at night, frequently kicked awake by the store’s owner. Sometimes whacked out of his slumber with a broom, his pride diminished with each blow.

At last, after a week, he spied a group of fellow Irishmen outside a rundown storefront. Someone was hiring! He jumped in line. He finally came face to face with Richard Bottomsly, a short, three hundred pound Englishman, with dull grey eyes, a dirty top hat, and rotten, yellow teeth, sitting on a rickety stool.

Bottomsly, who had a contract with the Manhattan Borough of the City of New York, looked over this potential employee. Satisfied with Alfred’s youthful vigor, but ignoring his skinniness, he made his well rehearsed offer: Here’s the deal: ten cents a day. You work nights from dusk to dawn, cleaning the horse droppings off the streets. Ten cents extra for each dead horse. I don’t tolerate no malingering. You’ll eat your supper on the job – no time off. You’ll start tonight. Bill’s your foreman. Bottomsly, his eyes now focusing on the next in line, waved Alfred off, the flab hanging down from his arm jiggling as he did so.

Alfred gulped. He had already discovered that the streets of New York, far from being paved with the proverbial gold, were in fact covered with horse manure, dropped onto the roadways by the hundreds of horse-drawn wagons, trolleys, carriages, and cabs. The horses, worked to death, were simply left were they dropped, replaced with fresh horses. The stench of manure hung over the city. Flies were everywhere, hatching from the maggots deposited in the manure and dead horses.

Alfred, left with little choice, nodded his head and stepped aside. He wouldn’t starve but he longed for home. What had he got himself into?

Bill O’Brien gathered Alfred and three other youths together, John, Patrick, and Peter. OK, he explained in his Irish brogue, we starts at six in the evening and work all night until six a.m. I’ll be fair to ya’s as long as ya do your job. I don’t cotton to that John Bull jerk, Bottomsly, so we’ll just do enough to get by. We just have to put on a good show.

Bill arranged for the four youths to stay in a tenement flop house, located in Five Points, an area even Charles Dickens had found appalling. They were all in one room, with a toilet down the hall. It was crowded and noisy but Alfred was happy, in spite of sleeping on the floor, to have a roof over his head. He managed to nap that afternoon.

The four lads reported to work that evening and were provided well-worn shovels and brooms. A horse drawn wooden cart would be their constant companion. They shoveled manure for several hours of back breaking work, piling the manure into the cart. It was then taken to the East River where it was unceremoniously dumped.

Bill courteously provided bread and allowed the youths to rest long enough to eat and catch their breath. Alfred was impressed with his foreman’s generosity.

Then they were off down another street, shoveling the manure off the roadway into the cart. As they approached Battery Park, they came upon a dead horse, lying on its side, its eyes open, flies buzzing all around. It was severely bloated.

Handing Alfred a knife, Bill instructed, We need to get the gas out of that thing. Go over and stab its stomach so’s we can cut it up.

Doing as he was told, Alfred plunged the knife into the bloated abdomen. The putrid, pent up gas gushed out into Alfred’s face, overwhelming him. He jumped back and ran to the side of the street bent over, gagging.

Foreman Bill was bowled over with laughter; he had introduced this newbie to his favorite right of passage. Finally containing himself, he walked over to the pale Alfred (who had somehow avoided throwing up). Here’s how you do it, laddie. You ties the knife to the end of the shovel’s handle with wire and then pokes it from a distance. See? Like this, he chuckled, as he demonstrated stabbing the horse.

The other three boys were not amused. This seemed a cruel joke, each aware that it could have been him. In addition, it was obvious that they would need to butcher the putrid horse to get it into the cart – not particularly appetizing.

Nevertheless, following Bill’s lead, they hacked off the horses head and legs, tossing them into the cart. Then, eviscerating the horse, they scooped up its entrails with their shovels and deposited them likewise into the cart. Their charge, lighter now, the four youths lifted the torso into the cart, catching the edge and rolling it over on top of the entrails. The job was done. Bill provided a jug of water to wash off the blood.

See, Gentlemen, explained Bill, "now each of ya’s get an extra two cents. Course, I gets the same myself. See how