by Mike Blakely
“You’ve studied the ground,” Taylor said, more as a statement than a question.
“I know it like the back of my hand.”
Bliss watched as Wool dramatically slapped his left hand onto the table, palm down, fingers slightly spread. His middle finger extended almost to the very edge of the table.
“The ground is something like this,” he said, pointing to his left hand. “Let my old, weathered paw be our map. North is toward me. South is your side of the table. The Saltillo road runs northward past the ends of these spurs of high ground.” He touched each of the digits on his left hand. “Angostura Pass is very narrow, between the tip of this longest finger and the rim of the deep canyon to the west.”
Wool showed where the road ran between the end of his finger and the edge of the table.
“We can hold the road easily with a battery supported by two regiments of infantry. On the right flank, the ground drops off into this deep canyon that the enemy can ascend only with great difficulty.”
Wool indicated the edge of the table dropping away into oblivion.
General Wool has rehearsed this presentation, Bliss thought. It was quite theatrical.
Wool continued. “This dried-up hide across my knuckles represents the plateau. It is tolerably level and open. On the left flank is a steep mountain.” He indicated his wrist rising up to his forearm. “As you see, there are several fingers of high ground—spurs of the plateau that extend toward the road and Angostura Pass. The plateau is not a perfect five-fingered hand like God gave me, of course. Some of the fingers are longer than others, or wider, or even split, but you get the idea.”
“So noted,” Taylor replied.
“Between the fingers are ravines—rocky, brushy, and treacherous. If we hold the road at Angostura Pass—and we will—Santa Anna will be forced to send his troops up the ravines between the fingers. We will have the advantage of the high ground on the fingers of the plateau. His cavalry and ordnance will be hampered by terrain and vegetation. Our dragoons and flying artillery will be able to move swiftly on the high plateau to block any advance that appears from the ravines.”
Taylor nodded slowly and stared down at the relief map that Wool had made of his left hand. “So, Hacienda Buena Vista stands right about here.” He tapped the tabletop off the end of General Wool’s thumb.
“Your memory serves you well,” Wool replied.
“I remember strong springs of good water there.”
“Yes.”
Major Bliss also remembered these springs at Buena Vista. They had been channeled into a large, circular water tank of stone. The tank was low enough that livestock could drink from it. By the nod of General Taylor’s head and a puckering of his lips, Bliss could tell that his commander approved of Wool’s plan. Now Taylor nudged Bliss’s elbow.
“Bill, write an order to the Rackensackers down south. Tell them to remove our supply train from Agua Nueva and pull back, northward, through Angostura Pass, to the springs at Hacienda Buena Vista.”
Bliss watched Taylor trace the route around the plateau fingertips of the human-hand map that Wool still held pressed to the tabletop.
“Yes, sir,” Bliss said, clawing at his coat pocket for his notebook and pencil.
“Then prepare orders for Captain John Washington’s battery to occupy and fortify the road at the narrows of Angostura Pass. Send an engineer to design the fortifications.”
“Right away, sir.”
Taylor turned to General Wool. “When we withdraw our supplies, Santa Anna will think we are retreating and he will press ahead even harder. The enemy will be exhausted when they reach Buena Vista.”
Wool nodded. “You know what tomorrow is?”
“Monday?” Taylor replied.
Wool’s gaze drilled Bliss’s eyes for the first time since entering the American House. “Do you know, Major?”
“George Washington’s birthday,” the adjutant answered, risking a slight smile.
“Ah, yes!” Taylor said. “A good day for Americans to fight!”
Captain
JOHN RILEY
Angostura Pass
February 22, 1847
Captain John Riley strode briskly toward General Antonio López de Santa Anna’s headquarters, all the while sizing up the spectacle surrounding him. His battalion commander, Colonel Francisco Moreno, walked silently at his side.
The day had broken sunny and quite cool—a good day for fighting. He passed by Santa Anna’s personal guard—an elite light cavalry unit bedecked with scarlet coats and known as the “Hussars of the Guard of the Supreme Powers”—the “supreme powers” being those of Santa Anna. Next, he passed the wagon carrying some twenty caged roosters brought along to entertain the commander and his officers in makeshift cockfighting rings. Passing by the crowing contenders, he came to the tent occupied by Santa Anna’s courtesans—eight of them, by Riley’s count, and all strikingly beautiful.
One of the senoritas stood in front of the tent, tossing water from a washbasin. She looked at him and smiled. “Buenos dias, Capitan Riley,” she purred.
He nodded. “Buenos dias, senorita.”
Colonel Moreno grunted his disapproval. “You have become quite popular in this army,” he said, “but do not get too familiar with His Excellency’s playthings.”
“Si, Colonel,” Riley replied. “I am a married man, though I haven’t seen my wife and son in over three years.” Saying this made him wonder, sadly, how tall his boy had grown.
“All the more reason for caution. Find a young soldadera if you must, but stay away from the president’s property. He did not bring enough women to share with junior officers. He has only one for every day of the week and two for Saturday.”
Moreno burst into laughter, and Riley joined him.
They walked on past the exquisite coach that transported Santa Anna. It was pulled by six of the finest mules in Mexico and was large enough to carry his staff or his courtesans, as his needs dictated.
Marching on around a bend in the barranca that had become Santa Anna’s camp only two hours ago, Riley caught sight of the opulent tent that housed the supreme commander in the field. The red-and-green canvas matched the colors of the Mexican flag that snapped in the north wind above it. He and Moreno approached the hussar on guard at the entrance. The enlisted man came to attention and saluted.
“Colonel Moreno and Capitan Riley reporting to His Excellency as ordered,” Moreno said, returning the hussar’s salute.
The man ducked into the tent. After only a few seconds he returned. “El Presidente invites you inside.” He held the tent flap back for the visitors.
Riley entered behind Moreno but could easily see over the colonel’s head and shoulders. Fine woven rugs carpeted the floor. Hand-carved furniture made the place look more like a parlor than a camp tent. Silver dishes and utensils awaited the president’s next meal.
Now Riley spotted Santa Anna seated on a plush chair. His manservant, Juanito, knelt before him, attaching the famous peg leg to the president’s stump.
“That’s good, Juanito. Help me stand, then get out.” The president looked at Riley. “Capitan, hand me my staff.” He pointed toward his portable writing desk with a nod of his head.
Riley saw the oak cane with the silver grip in the shape of an eagle’s head. The eagle’s eyes were made of rubies. He handed the walking stick to Santa Anna.
“Do you see, my fellow artillerymen, the sacrifices I have made for Mexico? The years of privation and penury? Even the loss of my own leg! But such is the life of a soldier for the people. Si?
“Si, Presidente,” Riley said, in concert with the colonel.
“Soon, the legs of my charger will carry me with the speed of a raptor!” He brandished the silver eagle’s head dramatically. “But for now I beg you to suffer my hobbling. Come outside with me.”
Riley rushed forward to hold the tent flap aside.
Stepping into a ray of sun that had just cleared the mountain peak to the e
ast, the supreme commander pointed to the north. “Do you see the crest of that hill ahead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ride there. My chief engineer, General Mora y Villamil, awaits you at the foot of that hill. You are to determine if the hilltop is suitable for your artillery. If so, your San Patricios will place your battery there and wreak your vengeance on the barbaric heretics from the north who so mistreated you and your fellow immigrants in America.”
Riley smiled and came to attention. He saluted and said, “With pleasure, Your Excellency!”
“You are a credit to the Catholic faith, Captain Riley. Vaya con Dios.”
Riley and Moreno turned back toward their camp, up the barranca, marching quickly along.
“Did you ever hear what became of Santa Anna’s leg, Captain? I mean after it was shot off.”
“By faith, I have not, sir.”
“He had it buried with full military honors. There was a parade in la Ciudad de México.”
“Sure, but that’s a bit eccentric, Colonel.”
“That’s nothing. There’s more. After Santa Anna was exiled to Cuba, the beggars and lepers of the city dug up the skeleton of his leg and dragged it through the streets! They pulled down the statue that he had commissioned in his own likeness and to his own honor!” Moreno threw back his head and laughed. “It is a miracle to see him back in power as president and commander on the battlefield. God help us all!”
Riley chuckled and thought back to his first meeting with Santa Anna. After the long retreat from Monterrey, he had been summoned for an audience with the president at San Luis Potosi. There, he had learned that his dream of forming his own battalion of Irish and other immigrant deserters would be granted, with Santa Anna’s blessing.
He had named the battalion after Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. Saint Patrick’s Battalion would become known to the soldiers and the citizenry of Mexico as the San Patricios. Next, Riley had set about designing a banner for his artillery unit. Upon a silken field of emerald green he imagined a golden harp flanked by shamrocks. Under the harp the familiar blessing “Erin go Bragh”—Ireland Forever—would declare allegiance to the Ould Sod.
Riley had taken his ideas and sketches to the sisters at the convent in San Luis Potosi. The nuns sewed and embroidered the banner expertly. Such had his fame spread in Mexico that the sisters considered it a holy honor to produce the flag.
As he began to drill his new gunners, Riley enjoyed almost daily reinforcements. Deserters from the American ranks continued to drift into San Luis Potosi by the score. Some had been lured away from the U.S. regiments by priests; others were guided south by rancheros. In time, they all became expert artillerists under the leadership of Captain Riley.
Finally, after months in San Luis Potosi, the orders came to march. The citizens of San Luis Potosi turned out to cheer the army on. General Santa Anna granted the San Patricios the honor of leading the twenty-thousand-man army northward to find and crush Zachary Taylor’s forces. Bands played and senoritas blew kisses. But the march northward across arid lands quickly became brutal. Provisions dwindled. Water became scarce. Howling winter storms pelted the soldiers. As Santa Anna pushed them relentlessly onward, men died of thirst, exposure, exhaustion. And they began to desert the Mexican Army of the North as surely as Riley himself had deserted the American Army of Occupation.
Now, here at Angostura, Santa Anna’s force had shrunk to some fourteen thousand, but they still outnumbered the Americans by more than two to one. Yes, the troops were tired and hungry, but Riley believed the marching bands and the oratory of General Santa Anna would stir the fighting spirit of the men.
As he and Colonel Moreno strode briskly toward their battalion’s camp, Captain John Riley hoped he might soon witness the defeat of the American invaders. He had begun to dream of sailing his wife and son from Ireland. They could live as long as they wished to in Mexico, as landed celebrities. Eventually, when prospects improved in Ireland, he would return with his family to the Emerald Isle as a heralded defender of Catholicism.
Arriving at the camp of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, Riley and Moreno mounted their steeds. They rode toward the hill Santa Anna had pointed out to them. At the base of the hill, Riley found General Mora y Villamil waiting for them.
The chief of engineers pointed to the crest of the hundred-foot-high hill. “Arriba!” he said.
During his months with the Mexican Army, Riley had honed his horsemanship skills beyond his wildest expectations by observing and riding with his fellow officers. Though, to him, this hill looked too steep to ascend on horseback, the general and colonel charged up the slope without hesitation, and Riley followed, his mustang kicking rocks and dirt downhill in his efforts to keep up with the two riders.
Atop the hill, Riley could see Taylor’s forces arrayed upon spurs of a plateau that slashed across the ground between the two armies. To the left, on the road that passed up Angostura Pass, he saw a battery of U.S. guns guarding the narrows. Two regiments of infantry supported the battery. As his eyes swept to the right, he saw infantry, dragoons, and flying artillery moving into position to guard the Saltillo road, the plateau, and the Hacienda Buena Vista, where Taylor had located his supply train.
The Americans, mostly volunteers, looked disorganized from this distance. They stood grouped in random clusters instead of regimented columns. They wore all manner of dull-colored and soiled uniforms. He saw only a few regular army units dressed in sky blue. He looked for his nemesis, Braxton Bragg, the immigrant-abuser. He had heard from fresh deserters that Bragg had won yet another promotion after Monterrey and was now a major. He could not identify Major Bragg from this distance. Not yet, but soon enough …
As his pony heaved for air and walked closer to the north rim of the little mesa he had climbed, Riley looked down at the slope of the hill that stood between him and the enemy. There, below, he found an eroded chasm, deep and narrow. He smiled.
“Colonel Moreno, sir,” he said to his commander. He pointed down the steep slope to the hidden chasm. “God has given us a moat on this side of the hill. It puts a man in mind of the one that protects the old town of Athenry in County Galway, back on the Ould Sod.”
His colonel smirked at him, then had to go about translating what Riley had said to the general.
Wheeling his horse about to view Santa Anna’s army, Riley saw the brilliant red coats of the hussars, the crossed white shoulder belts of the infantry, the green-and-blue tunics of the lancers. It was a fine-looking army from a furlong, as Santa Anna had intended. Riley admired the way each regiment of cavalry, by Santa Anna’s order, rode horses of matching color—grays, bays, sorrels, duns. All the regiments were grouped in their respective camps and were recognizable at a distance not only because of their regimental colors but also for their assigned shades of horseflesh.
Riley realized that General Mora y Villamil and Colonel Moreno were speaking too rapidly in Spanish for him to understand, but he could sense the conversation coming to an end. After a nod and a salute, the general charged back down the hill.
Moreno smiled. “You will place your battalion here, Capitan.”
Riley looked down the severe declivity. “Yes, sir. We must break the guns down and haul them up piecemeal by ropes and manpower.”
Moreno nodded. “The general will dispatch two companies of zapadores to support you.”
“I’ll order my men level the crest and reassemble the cannon.”
“See that you do, Riley, and be quick about it. The Americans will be ranging this hill before you are finished.”
The colonel reined away and plummeted down the descent. Riley followed, leaning precariously back to maintain his balance in the saddle and keep his mustang’s weight on its hind legs. Reveling in his newfound equestrian skills, he spit dust from his mouth.
This is glorious, he thought. What a day for battle!”
Private
SAMUEL CHAMBERLAIN
Hacienda Buena
Vista, Mexico
February 22, 1847
Private Samuel Chamberlain looked up to gauge the lay of the land, then returned his pencil to his sketch. It was just a study. He wouldn’t have time to create a proper painting of Hacienda Buena Vista until after the coming battle—assuming he survived it. But this sketch would help him remember the lay of the land when he did have time, later, to deploy his watercolors and depict the landscape and the violence he expected to witness soon.
He sat on the ground as he drew, facing south, his back leaning against a boulder, his legs drawn up, his sketch pad on his knees. With the rounded tip of his pencil, he made a ragged, slanting slash on the left edge of the paper, depicting the steep, barren slope of the mountain to the east. Intuitively, he drew a fluid line across the page to the right, representing the rim of the plateau that stretched all the way to Angostura Pass. He began using the side of his pencil point, lightly shading in the shadows of a ravine beyond the plateau rim. Hastily he sketched in patches of prickly pear and cholla, a few scrawny pines, some magnificent yuccas, and a battery of artillery pieces to the far right. Finally, he made craggy lines approximating the crests of the distant mountains on the horizon.
He stopped to look at his rough rendering, swept up in the addictive lure of creating art from a blank page and a blunt pencil. With a few breaths, he had captured the rugged landscape—the battleground before the battle.
His messmate, a Texan named Boss Hastings, looked over his shoulder. “You ain’t no Michelangelo, Chamberlain.”
He frowned. “It’s just a sketch, Boss.”
“Well, draw some dead greasers in there for good luck.”
“I’m sure plenty will be willing to pose later.”
Hastings ambled away to josh with the other dragoons.
Private Samuel Chamberlain glanced at his cavalry mount—a tired sorrel now grazing on scant grass atop the plateau. After smiling with approval at his drawing, he got up and strode to his horse to stuff the sketch pad into his saddlebag. He then withdrew his notebook from the same leather pocket. The notes within would help him remember details after the war. He intended to write a lively account of his wartime exploits, once he returned to America, illustrated by his watercolors. Again, assuming he survived. He had already chosen the name for his book: My Confession—The Recollections of a Rogue.