Don Juan O’Brien left Baltinglass in 1811 as plain old John O’Brien, earning his new moniker in Buenos Aires, not due to disproportionate amorous exploits, but from the city-dwellers propensity to localise everyone’s name, making even an Irishman from Wicklow sound exotic.
Emigration was common in Ireland; some left to find work, some to escape a criminal charge, and some to avoid the terror of deportation to Australia. Many left to escape religious persecution, others to raise an army, hoping to return and free their native land. But O’Brien left Ireland at the age of twenty-five to plough a different furrow.
He was born into a family of farmers and shopkeepers, relatively well-off for Catholics who had to endure the savagery of the Penal Laws. His father passed away when he was just sixteen, bequeathing him some commercial interests as well as a pair of fine horses, but these steeds were to be O’Brien’s downfall: he lost everything to his unbridled passion for racing, forcing him to mortgage his home – and ask his brothers to do likewise – to keep out of the Debtor’s Prison.
O’Brien decided to try his luck in London, where he first heard of the independence struggle in South America. It captured the imagination of his romantic soul. Returning immediately to bid farewell to the remainder of his family, he secured passage on a Portuguese vessel bound for Rio de Janeiro, his friends providing him with letters of introduction.
Standing on the deck, as his ship cut through the large waves of the open Atlantic seas, with his dreams of opening a merchant house in Buenos Aires, O’Brien was entitled to feel a certain amount of nervous optimism about his future, but his fortunes were about to change once again.
The ship had an uneventful journey until it was dashed on rocks around the island of Fernando Po, off the coast of West Africa. Only O’Brien and a handful of crew survived the wreck. Stricken with fever, his luggage turned to flotsam by the ocean, he made his way, on foot, through the jungle. It was two days before he found a populated cove and vital medical assistance.
After recuperating, he talked his way on to an English packet-ship, and was able to resume his journey to Brazil. Amongst his fellow passengers were a Quaker couple and their young daughter, Rebecca.
O’Brien fell deeply in love with the lass, who was besotted with his roguish charms and tales of adventure. Sick of the subterfuge required for their relationship to flourish, O’Brien approached Rebecca’s father and made his intentions clear: he wished to marry her and sought the Quaker’s approval.
A few days later, after some pressure was exerted on the ship’s captain, O’Brien was forcibly disembarked onto a passing Brazilian ship; Rebecca’s father refusing to countenance his continued presence.
Heartbroken, but in one piece, O’Brien eventually made it to Rio de Janeiro and set about tracking down some of his contacts. A job had been promised, through friends, by a retired English general, which could provide him with the means to earn his passage to Buenos Aires and set himself up in business. However, bad luck had not yet run its course for the Irishman as the general had passed away three months previously.
His relentless determination and indefatigable spirit saw him through and he was able to secure a loan, allowing him to continue to Buenos Aires and begin fulfilling his dream of opening a merchant house. But, like many wide-eyed Europeans in South America, he was swindled early on and forced to seek work in the Army. He enlisted in the newly-formed Mounted Grenadiers and was made a 2nd Lieutenant, soon seeing action during the siege of Montevideo, gaining promotion to Sergeant Major during the victory.
He was rewarded with a much-coveted place in the honour guard to the general who led the assault. An easy life lay ahead for O’Brien as this prestigious post would clear a path for rapid promotion. But, by 1816 he was disenchanted with the general’s politicking and resigned, making his way to Mendoza to join up with his old commander, San Martín.
San Martín remembered O’Brien as a promising young officer. His service record was impeccable, and his instincts in having misgivings about his last post were commendable. It was time to get the measure of this man. San Martín gave him the difficult task of defending the Portillo Pass, giving him command of twenty-five men.
There O’Brien was faced with the probing sorties of the Spanish raiding parties, and it was essential to defend these incursions resolutely to prevent the enemy returning with valuable information regarding the size and readiness of the Argentine forces. But O’Brien and his men faced a greater enemy: the Andean winter.
After six gruelling months, bedding down in the rocks and the snow, O’Brien returned with just eleven of his men. As a reward for the completion of his mission, and the capture of a Spanish Colonel, O’Brien was made Aide-de-Camp to San Martín, a great honour for the young foreign officer.
His adventures didn’t end there, though.