Patriots, Prostitutes, and Spies

Women and the Mexican-American War

John M. Belohlavek

• Editorial: University of Virginia Press
• Año: 2017
• ISBN:
  9780813939919
• Categoría: Sciences sociales
• Categoría: Études relatives au genre

In Patriots, Prostitutes, and Spies, John M. Belohlavek tells the story of women on both sides of the Mexican-American War (1846-48) as they were propelled by the bloody conflict to adopt new roles and expand traditional ones.

American women "back home" functioned as anti-war activists, pro-war supporters, and pioneering female journalists. Others moved west and established their own reputations for courage and determination in dusty border towns or bordellos.

Women formed a critical component of the popular culture of the period, as trendy theatrical and musical performances drew audiences eager to witness tales of derring-do, while contemporary novels, in tales resplendent with heroism and the promise of love fulfilled, painted a romanticized picture of encounters between Yankee soldiers and fair Mexican senoritas.

Belohlavek juxtaposes these romantic dreams with the reality in Mexico, which included sexual assault, women soldaderas marching with men to provide critical supportive services, and the challenges and courage of working women off the battlefield. In all, Belohlavek shows the critical roles played by women, real and imagined, on both sides of this controversial war of American imperial expansion.

1

Women, Reform, and the US Home Front

Americans rejoice in rallying to the colors. Offended by the despicable actions of foreign foes, they experience a rush of patriotic adrenalin and are expected to join as one to defend the nation-state. Such unity knows no gender boundaries. In 1846, most women endorsed the war against Mexico in spirit and effort. They embraced domestic duties of making flags and knitting socks, while many additionally shouldered the economic burdens of home and hearth. Whether it was tilling the fields of a small farm in Ohio or acting as a slave mistress in Louisiana, the role and responsibilities of thousands of women changed dramatically. With the passage of time, loneliness and cynicism enveloped some of them, while others determined that the war’s righteousness was in doubt and joined the opposition. This group originated among supporters of the Whig Party in the Northeast, although antiwar sentiment spilled over into the upper South and the Midwest. Women in the world of politics proved somewhat novel and were not welcomed in all quarters. Even so, whether pro- or antiwar, these women made their voices heard and their presence known in the public sphere.

War Fever

On a warm Indiana morning in 1846, the Marion Volunteers stood at attention, awaiting the inspirational oratory that followed. They were not disappointed. Speaker after speaker stirred them to action, but none surpassed Mrs. Bolton, selected by the ladies of Indianapolis to present a handmade American flag to the unit. With great pride and some measure of angst, she encouraged them, “You heard that your country was invaded, you heard her call to arms and simultaneously our hearts responded, ‘it is my country, and this army shall defend her.’”

Mrs. Bolton went on not only to praise their patriotism and courage in this time of national crisis but also to add a moral dimension: “In the flush of victory forget not the dictates of humanity; add no unnecessary insult to a fallen foe; let the world see that American soldiers are as generous as they are brave.” At no loss for words, Captain Drake, the unit’s commander, pledged that the Hoosiers would carry the banner with distinction all the way to the Mexican capital and reassured her, “Nor will we ever forget that generosity is the steady companion of true valor, and that the glory of victory cannot be brightened by deed of revenge and rapacity.” Whether such promises could be kept was another matter entirely.¹

A comparable scene played out in the southern part of the state, where young women had sewn flags and uniforms for departing troops. In Alabama, S. F. Nunnelee, who served in the Eutaw Rangers, well remembered the speeches, the cheering, and the presentation of the flag to the company in June 1846 by the local belle Sarah Inges. The Rangers and the Greensboro Volunteers were the only uniformed soldiers in the First Alabama Regiment. Nunnelee recollected with pride and amusement that the ladies had made his boys cottonade suits with straw hats, while the Greensboro troops received green worsted frock outfits. When they got to Camargo, Mexico, some weeks later, they were issued, no doubt to their relief and delight, navy blue suits, brass buttons, and caps. This caused consternation and jealousy among some other units, “who had a strong prejudice against us partly on this account.” Nunnelee puzzled over why they should be viewed with disdain, “since our company, as a whole, was a more intelligent class of men—at least we thought so.”²

The flags, functional in battle, were usually adorned by the stars and stripes or an eagle, yet they were designed to be attractive, with silk, embroidery, and fringe. In Knoxville, Tennessee, men raised the funds for a banner, allowing sufficient time for the women in the community to display their expertise. Labor on the fabricated standard, “made of the richest materials with exquisite workmanship,” took place in Miss Rogers’s schoolroom after 3:00 p.m. Rogers herself had the honor of presenting the flag to the unit in December 1847. Richard Edwards proudly noted that the flag flew in the breeze as the regiment marched off “to a foreign land to teach a foreign foe to pay proper respect to our flag and people. Thousands of white handkerchiefs were waved by lily white hands to bid us adieu.”³

Numerous companies received handmade banners from resident women in elaborate ceremonies accompanied by appropriate inspirational remarks by one of the young ladies. The historian Teri Klassen contends, “Needlework in the form of the flag symbolized a contractual obligation between women, representing the home community, and the men who had volunteered to fight in Mexico.” The seriousness of the event was marked by a La Porte, Indiana, county officer, Robert Fravel, whose sister Marinda had helped sew the flag. Fravel promised that the banner “should be returned if there was left one man to bring it.” Hundreds of miles down the Mississippi River, in New Orleans, a delighted Reverend Lewis Leonidas presented a similar fatalistic view, promising the ladies of Soule-Chapel that he wanted “to be buried with the beautiful banner around me as a winding sheet.”⁴

The scholar Peggy Cashion raises the ancillary question of the “Spartan mother” in reference to whether sons, husbands, or brothers should die defending the colors rather than bring dishonor upon family, community, and country. The Female Academy in Nashville handed to the thousand men of the First Volunteer Regiment a silk flag sewn with the motto, “Weeping in solitude for the fallen brave is better than the presence of men too timid to strike for their country.” After the war, John Blount Robertson vividly remembered the “immense assemblage” that had gathered and the “bright array of beauty” inspired by the senior class leader Miss Irene Taylor, who bestowed upon the men both boon and banner, along with some well-chosen comments. What a proud day for Tennessee! The state’s fairest daughters had collected “in all the purity of maidenhood, to express in the strongest, yet most delicate manner” their support for the justice of the cause. That moment emulated the “same spirit that actuated the women of ancient Sparta, [who] had come to send their friends and brothers forth to battle, with the promise of praise to the brave and threats of infamy for him who faltered.”⁵

In East Tennessee, Edwards made similar reference to a gathering of young women in Dover. The town was half under water from flooding along the Cumberland River, but the ladies gathered at the upper-floor windows to wave their handkerchiefs and enthusiastically cheer the boys as they sailed off to war. “Since the days of the brave Roman matron,” Edwards recalled, “who having prepared shields for her sons and sent them forth to battle, with the injunction to return with them victorious or on them dead, woman has ever held the foremost rank in patriotic devotion and love of country.” While this bravado attended numerous farewell ceremonies and was certainly present in the music and poetry of the time, Cashion argues that survival dominated the women’s thinking.⁶

The historian Amy Kaplan introduces yet another important element of womanhood and empire in her discussion of the extension of the notion of domesticity. As the United States expanded, the concept of “civilizing” those encountered along the way by white Anglo-Saxon Protestants became a key element of American Manifest Destiny. Whether or not that sense of mission would be realized, women, as the center of the home, played “a major role in defining the contours of the nation and its shifting borders with the foreign.” Kaplan argues for an abridgement of the idea of “separate spheres” for women, pointing out that authors on domesticity, particularly Catherine Beecher in her Treatise on Domestic Economy (1841), embraced themes relating to nationalism and foreign affairs. In her writing, greater mobility in the idea of the “home” becomes visible if the idea is extended “by imagining the nation as a home.” Christian American women, Beecher believed, held the responsibility to promote the virtues of a highly ordered home, in which men would be elevated and reformed and would participate in a worldwide crusade. Women would become unified in this mission to strengthen the domestic sphere and nation internally, while simultaneously extolling the benefits of American values to a waiting world.

As Kaplan points out, the ambitious Beecher wanted to fuse “the boundlessness of the home with the boundlessness of the nation.” For the good of the nation, the foreign must be conquered and domesticated. A very thin line existed between Beecher’s vision of women and the cultural civilization of a continent and the newspaperman John L. O’Sullivan’s notion of expansion, which claimed physical and political mastery of that same space. Although conventional wisdom has it that O’Sullivan coined the term Manifest Destiny to describe America’s future, some scholars argue that the language was crafted by the expansionist columnist Jane Cazneau.⁷

Women, present at the departures of the troops, were very much aware of the honor culture that drove many soldiers to seek danger in combat and flirt with death. Diaries and letters by the men often reveal the desire to validate their manhood and enhance their image by demonstrating bravery. Such acts raised a man’s prospects of both immediate reward in terms of recognition and promotion and, later, as a man of action and a patriot, rewards in business, law, or politics. Women knew that culture was difficult to alter, and found themselves walking a fine line between endorsing extreme and foolish actions in the name of the nation and encouraging the commonsense tactic of survival.

Some men did flee from combat, while others deserted. No doubt, a disgraced soldier could disappear in a large city, but small towns held a longer memory. Mary Gibson, at home in Indiana with four young children, had not heard from her husband, Captain Thomas Ware Gibson, following the Battle of Buena Vista in February 1847. Fearing his death and intensely agitated at his silence, she implored, “O Tommy, I cannot tell you how bad I have felt for the past four or five weeks.” Mary had not written, could not write. Then the rumors drifted back to Clark County in April that the Hoosier state’s finest had fled the line—they had not—and she demanded to know the truth. “It is said here that the Indiana troops showed themselves great cowards. It is said they all ran when the battle came on. If you did I think a good many of you got shot in the back from the number of officers kild. We all hate that most prodgeously. We would all rather you stood like good soldiers since you have gone there.”

Mary’s language reflects the common anxiety of many women, that of simply not knowing whether a loved one had survived a celebrated contest with heavy casualties. She evidenced her frustration not only in the judgmental statement about courage in combat but also in the rather cynical aside regarding officers being killed fleeing. Was she perhaps uneasy, too, about her own reputation and that of her family in Charleston should Thomas prove less than valorous? The phrase “since you have gone there” may also reflect Mary’s disapproval of her husband’s decision to enlist and leave a large family at home. Thomas probably noticed that Mary closed her letter with “good night” rather than a more traditional term of affection.⁸

Loss of reputation was not a problem for the Leland family of Missouri. Their son John died in January 1847, on the march with Stephen Watts Kearny’s Army of the West. Leland expired from a fever following a short illness. His fellow soldier Marcellus Ball Edwards attended the funeral along with other members of the unit and complained bitterly about their medical care. Edwards grumbled that the hospital staff could not tell quinine from calomel and said that their lackluster treatment may have contributed to young Leland’s demise. He warmly described his late comrade as “a sprightly young man, much esteemed by his company.” A letter from his mother was found in his pocket expressing her wish that “she would sacrifice him at the cannon’s mouth” rather than find he had deserted. Describing herself as a Spartan mother handing a shield to her son, Mrs. Leland had implored John to “return with it or return upon it—with it or on it.”

Such language may well have been intended to steel individual resolve or reaffirm loyalty to the nation, but it rarely reflected the desire of most American mothers to lose their sons in a war with muddled purpose. Mothers and wives encouraged and endured, sometimes evincing a mock-Spartan spirit. When letters did arrive confirming the death of a loved one, the reaction was one of sorrow at the loss, not joy at the cost. As Edwards mournfully observed, “I can well judge of her grief and torture when we return without her boy.”⁹

Doubts Arise

In a public plea in November 1846, the Connecticut reformer and antiwar activist D. W. Bartlett magnified the symbolism of the flag issue. The war remained popular, but why so with women? The number of flags and banners they crafted evidenced that ardor. It seemed impossible, a perplexed Bartlett pondered, that a true-hearted woman would love, honor, and idolize a man who had killed innocents. Strange, he thought, “that woman, who should love gentle things, and be full of humanity, strange that she should love war.” Bartlett made an appeal for a rejection he believed would bury war: “For the love of God don’t receive a murderer into your arms.” The extent to which his entreaty met with a positive response is impossible to measure, though it clearly resonated with some women. Even after the war, the Pennsylvania editor Jane Swisshelm could not forgive her old friend Samuel Black for his service. Encountering him on the street, Swisshelm initially refused to take his hand, which she contended was stained with the blood of Mexican women and children, and accused him of murder.¹⁰

The Boston feminist Caroline Healey Dall responded to the appeal with several of the most scathing critiques of the war. Dall, the oldest of eight children, grew up in a Unitarian household in which education for women was valued. Her father, a wealthy businessman, encouraged his daughter’s study of literature, writing, and languages. She felt a strong social and religious responsibility, particularly toward the working-class poor. Healey not only wrote articles voicing the importance of and right to an education and employment for women, but also operated a nursery and engaged in home visitations with destitute families. In 1840, her patronage of Elizabeth Peabody’s bookstore, shelves bulging with challenging tracts on European romanticism and literary criticism, led to an introduction to the transcendentalist world of Margaret Fuller. This was heady stuff for the eighteen-year-old Caroline, who found that her brash assertiveness in the weekly group “conversations” was not always welcomed by either Peabody or the regular participant Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Even so, her intellectual growth was undeniable. Compassionate and determined, she found motivation in her faith and release in her social mission. Her marriage to Charles Dall in 1844 seemed to be providential. A community minister and social worker, he shared her values. Their ten-year relationship produced two children; sadly, it also revealed Charles’s personal instability and failings as a preacher. In 1855, he accepted an appointment as a missionary to India, rarely returning home over the following three decades.¹¹

During the Mexican-American War, Caroline combined her role as minister’s wife, teaching and assisting with the parish, with her involvement in the rising tide of feminism. She wrote for the women’s-rights magazine Una and helped fugitive slaves escape to Canada. In the summer of 1847, her moral opposition to the war yielded two impassioned and challenging expositions. Using the name “Domino,” she launched a blistering attack in a piece entitled simply “The War,” which was published on July 22 in the Boston Daily Chronotype. “No man with the least spark of true patriotism in his soul can look at the present condition of this country without shame, fear and foreboding,” she began. Domino proceeded to indict the United States for provoking a war to advance slavery and invading the only country in the world that attempted to imitate its democratic example. In a campaign of conquest the United States had killed women and children and perpetrated “outrages which make men shudder at the recital.” The war was unjust and unconstitutional, Domino asserted, and the possibility existed of presidential impeachment for Polk’s involvement in “this great national crime.” While acknowledging the “efficiency, skill, and courage of our troops” in battle, she contended that the invasion of Mexico would prove more difficult once the army faced the people themselves.¹²

In “Thoughts on War,” Dall remarked how easy it had been for Americans to live their daily lives giving lit...