by Jeff Shaara
He lowered the glasses. Easy, old man. They’ll be there soon enough. Leave it to the navy, to those guns. We have many guns. The Mexicans will not show themselves, not yet. They’ll hit us when we’re the most vulnerable, when the first boats reach the beach. He thought of the Mexican commander there, General Morales. He knew nothing about how he would respond to this glorious opportunity to turn the Americans away. He was not sure of Morales’s strength, knew Uloa could hold a garrison of three thousand men, and in the town, that big damned wall … there could be thousands more. He felt a sudden deep uneasiness. He had never doubted the plan until now.
Sixty surfboats, half what I need. Damn Washington! It will take three trips for each boat, we will land one division at a time, twenty-five hundred men, and if the Mexicans are patient, and pick the right moment, even their cavalry can ride down that beach and cut us up piecemeal.
He pounded his fist on the rail, thought of Conner. Those gunners had better be very very good.
The sun was moving on toward the west, and he tilted his head back, let the clean and cool air chill the sweat on his face. He put the glasses down and watched as the line of surfboats jumbled together, a cluster of brown and blue working its way to the beach. The queasiness returned, and he shivered. Around him the staff was staring out intently, waiting, as he had been, for the first sounds, the response from Morales’s troops to this invasion of their soil. He looked down the rail, saw a row of field glasses, all pointing out, felt the helplessness again, thought, This is not how it should be. I should be out there, with them, leading them.
It was so long ago, that marvelous awful war, crossing the Niagara River, straight into the guns of the British. Then, he had been in the boats with his men, jumping ashore past the dead of both sides, leading his men up to take the British guns. It had been quick and glorious, and he had stayed close to his men, sharing the pure joy of watching the redcoats pulling away, leaving Scott and his men their precious cannon. The Americans could not hold the fort, they were simply too few, and once the British regrouped, their strength pushed the Americans back into the river. He had been captured, the price he paid for a brief truce that allowed his men to retreat. He thought of the newspapers, the response from the feeble old men, the generals who ran that war. In their eyes it was humiliation, a defeat, but he knew better, he had seen the respect in the faces of the British. And his troops, they understood what he had sacrificed, what they had all done. They had stood up to the greatest fighting force in the world, and, for a time, had pushed them back.
He looked at the field glasses in his hands, raised them again, found the line of small boats. The ninth of March was a date he would never forget. He had received his first star, the promotion to Brigadier General on this same date. He did not believe much in signs, thought, If it is a coincidence, it is a grand coincidence. He lowered the glasses, saw in his mind the piece of paper he had read a thousand times. March 9, 1814. My God. Thirty-three years ago. It cannot be so long.…
“Sir!”
He tried to clear his head, heard the rumble of a cannon. He looked toward the shore and a puff of white smoke rising from a small gunboat.
Around him, men were pointing. He raised the glasses, thought, It has begun. Behind him a naval officer hurried close, said, “Sir! The lookout reports enemy cavalry, back in the dunes. We fired a shell from the Tampico.”
Scott nodded. He said nothing, simply stared hard at the dunes, waiting, expecting to see a mass of dark shapes, thick lines of horsemen. But the dunes were still motionless. He lowered the glasses. The Mexicans are very patient indeed.
The officer cleared his throat, said, “Sir, the boats are holding their position, close to the beach, as per plan. The commodore is awaiting your final order, sir.”
Scott looked at the man, saw grim efficiency, nodded slowly, said, “You may signal the commodore to proceed.”
The officer saluted Scott, moved quickly away. Scott turned again toward the shore, and suddenly there was a sharp blast, one gun firing from below, the deck jumping beneath his feet. It was the signal, his signal, to land the troops.
He saw the motion again, the oars reflected in the sun. His weariness was gone now, the anxious twist at his belt had subsided. He strained to see through the glasses, felt his heart pounding. Go on, go on. He still waited for the sounds of a fight, scanned the dunes again, still saw nothing.
Damn, old man, you should be out there.
IT HAD BEEN DARK NEARLY FOUR HOURS. HE HAD STOPPED looking at his pocket watch, would not let down, turn away, still expecting the assault at any time. There were lights all along the shore, fires up in the dunes, and closer, the lights from the smaller ships, and everywhere the eerie silence. The Mexicans had still not come.
Leaning against the rail, he looked down into black water, listened to the slow slap of waves against the ship. Suddenly, there was a streak of light, and he looked up, followed a long arc of fire coming out from the shore. He gripped the rail, waited for more, watched the streak of white fading. He realized it was a rocket, the signal from the commanders.
“Sir, we are ashore.”
Scott turned, saw his son-in-law in the dim light, a rare smile splitting the young man’s unlined face. Scott looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock.
“Losses?”
The young man seemed surprised at the question. “Sir, there were no losses. The landing was unopposed.”
“I am aware the enemy did not oppose us. But, surely, there were casualties, a boat sinking, somebody falling overboard.” He saw the puzzled expression on his son-in-law’s face. It can’t have been this easy.
The young Scott saluted. “Sir, I will investigate the matter.”
Scott nodded, and the young man moved away. Behind him, another man cleared his throat. Scott grunted, turned, thought, Why can’t they just speak to me?
The man snapped a crisp salute, said, “General, your boat is prepared. With your permission, sir, we can take you ashore. The commodore respectfully advises that your objective and his mission have been satisfied. The army is once again on land.”
Scott smiled, thought, A man who speaks with frankness. Refreshing. “You may advise the commodore that the last of the army is leaving his command.”
The man still smiled, said, “Um, sir. I apologize for overhearing your inquiry. You were asking about casualties, I believe?”
Scott stopped smiling. “How many?”
“None, sir.”
Scott said nothing. Eight thousand men, sixty surfboats, thousands of enemy troops close by … and no casualties?
The officer held out his arm, pointed along the rail. “The boat is this way, sir. At your convenience.”
The man saluted again and Scott returned it, still absorbing the news of their resounding success. He took a deep breath, felt himself straighten, was suddenly full of the old energy. By God, this was a victory! A one-shot victory! Let Washington swallow that!
He turned toward the bow of the ship, could see along the railing, several of the staff still watching the shore. He looked at the faces, some now looking at him. He tried to remember names, scanned past the younger faces, saw the taller man, not so young, watching him with clear sharp eyes, the face of experience, thought, Yes, the engineer. Good.
“Captain Lee. It seems we have accomplished our objective. Are you ready for duty?”
Lee stood straight, said quietly, “Certainly, sir.”
Scott scanned Lee’s face, glimpsed a spark, a short quick nod, expectant, briefly piercing Lee’s composure. Lee seemed to be waiting for more, leaning forward slightly. The rest of the staff also moved closer, waiting for Scott’s command.
“Gentlemen, let’s go ashore.” Scott moved away, back toward the waiting boat. He turned and said to Lee, “You the least bit curious just what duty I’m talking about, Captain?”
Lee’s expression did not change, and he said, “Curious? Certainly, sir. I am at the general’s disposal.”
; “I recall that you built forts. Along the East coast, I believe.”
“I assisted in the preliminary construction of several works, yes, sir.”
“Good. Just the man for the job.”
Scott moved to the opening in the rail, saw the naval officer who had informed him that the landing craft was ready and other sailors waiting. Lee said, “May I ask … what job, sir?”
Scott pointed out through the darkness, toward the mass of lights, the glow of the city off to the right.
“The enemy has chosen to let this army come ashore unopposed. That was a mistake. He apparently believes he can stay behind those walls, and defend himself. It’s up to you, Captain, to convince him he has made another mistake.”
Now Lee’s expression changed, and Scott saw a puzzled look. They reached the gangway, and Scott saluted the naval officer before moving down toward the waiting boat. Lee followed, said, “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
Scott did not answer. He prepared to step down into the smaller boat, saw the boat’s commander, a cheerful man with a thick beard, who said, “Welcome aboard, General. We will be under way at your discretion, sir.”
Scott landed hard on the deck, felt the boat move slightly with him, said, “You may proceed, Commander.”
Scott moved heavily to the bow, the boat listing slightly. Lee stayed close behind him. Scott glanced back, saw the rest of the staff file into the boat. The commander gave a brief order to a helmsman, and two sailors pushed away from the big ship with long poles. As the boat began to move, Scott felt the chill, the breeze picking up, the heavy darkness of the early morning closing around them as they moved away from the big ship. He did not look at Lee, but he could feel him close by, staring out at the lights of Vera Cruz, protected by the great fat wall.
Scott said, “You certainly understand how forts are built, Captain. Then I assume you understand how they can be destroyed.”
3. LEE
MARCH EIGHTEENTH
THE GUNS AND SUPPLIES WERE UNLOADED ON THE BEACH AS quickly as the soldiers could move out of the way. The headquarters had become a simple cluster of tents, dug in tight to the rolling dunes, out of range from the big guns of the city. The command’s first priority had been to move the troops, spreading them out into an arc to enclose Vera Cruz, preventing any supplies or Mexican troops from reinforcing the garrison in the city. The Americans had spread out in the rough country with slow progress, and they came to appreciate how glorious the weather had been for the landing itself. As the army moved, cutting its way inland through the soft dunes, it was as though the deep sand sucked the energy from their legs as they staggered toward the thick brush. More storms blew in, making the sand firmer, the footing more solid in exchange for the misery of chilling rain. The winds increased, whipping up the sand that coated the men’s exposed skin, their beards, in a gritty film that worked its way into their eyes, noses, and mouths. Soon every crease in their clothes was covered as well, and these men marched, heads down, slogging uphill. The patter of the rainfall was punctuated by the sound of the men spitting, hoping to rid themselves of the particles they ground between their teeth.
But soon the arc was complete, Vera Cruz was cut off, and the army now stood squarely in the face of the enemy who waited quietly behind the big walls.
The Mexicans had shown no sign of an advance, no attempt to push out against the American lines, to break out of the city. Even Uloa was quiet, the massive firepower in the old fort silent, waiting for Scott’s next move.
It was not all quiet. To the west, along the main road that led inland, Mexican horsemen picked and prodded at the Americans from behind, some seeking a way into the city, to join the forces there, or to bring in valuable supplies. The skirmishes were usually brief, and often it was one sharp volley from the Americans that drove the enemy away. As the strength and resolve of Scott’s forces became apparent, the Mexicans learned to attack in small numbers, lightning quick, using the guerrilla tactics that torment an immobile army. If the calm from the city gave the soldiers some rest, the bands of Mexicans inland meant that no sentry could let down his guard, and that no one was really immune to attack.
Lee was becoming used to the soft sand now, led a gun crew through the winding trail, between the dunes, out of sight of enemy sentries in the city. Behind him the men heaved against the cannon, a big twenty-four pounder, and rolled it very slowly forward, fighting the sand’s resistance. Lee stopped, waited patiently, watching the wheels again cutting deep furrows. The men gathered themselves once again, lifting with one loud grunt. The gun inched forward again.
The men were grateful that they moved the guns at night, under the cover of darkness to avoid detection and to avoid the heat. They knew that as the guns were brought forward, close enough to put their shells over the wall, the Mexican guns could reach them as well.
The sand began to harden as the terrain flattened and the trail straightened beyond the dunes. Lee heard the sound of shovels, pointed the way, and now the men could see a glow of light. A lantern hung from a pole, shielded on the back side by a wide black tent so the Mexicans could not know where the guns were being placed.
Lee moved to the gun pit, the men with shovels climbing out, making way as the crew rolled the gun forward. The men held the gun from behind with ropes, guiding it slowly down into the pit, the barrel resting just above ground level.
Lee nodded, said quietly, “Very well, gentlemen. Good work, all around.”
The night’s stillness was broken by small sounds, whispered conversations, the click of shovels. The gun crew was busy looking for a place to make camp.
Lee watched the work, thought, What remarkable energy. They have been in the ships for so long, I suppose this is a relief, even if the work is hard. I hope it is enough. He looked out toward the city, the pattern of lights familiar now, thought, They must know what we’re doing, they cannot just … wait. We’re not going to simply march away.
He heard a man move up beside him, turned, saw a sergeant, a young face, reflected in the light of the lantern. “Sir, you think we ought to keep going? Probably three or four hours left till daylight. There’s two more guns in this battery, still on the beach.”
Lee read the exhaustion in the man’s face, knew the crews would be in worse shape still. “Not now, Sergeant. Let it go. They need some rest.”
“Be a sight easier if we had some horses, sir.”
Lee had heard that before, nodded quietly. The man moved away, and Lee stared again at the city, thought, Yes, it would be much easier if we had horses. But for whatever reason, they didn’t give us any.
Earlier in the evening he had been called by Scott to attend another senior meeting. Lee had thought it would be about strategy, but it had not been a meeting at all. The staff and several senior commanders had sat quietly while Scott blew out his anger about the horses. The landing had put eight thousand men ashore, and less than a hundred horses, but worse, there were barely a dozen wagons. The navy had done their job with astounding efficiency, had landed a great mountain of supplies on the beach, but anything moving inland had to be carried by hand. Each box, each roll of canvas, had to be carried through sand and swamp and prickly pear cactus by cursing, sweating soldiers. And, as Lee had directed for several days now, the big guns would be pushed, lifted, and dragged as well.
For a long moment he tugged at his collar, tried to let the cool air, any breeze reach his skin. He had not stopped moving all night. He was not used to sleeping in daylight, and so, as the days wore on, and the army prepared itself for whatever was next, he rarely slept at all. He tried to read his watch, squinted in the dim light, guessed, maybe three o’clock? He felt a sting on his arm, brushed at it, then his face, tiny pinpricks on his forehead, his cheeks. He wiped his face with his hand, felt the assault spreading now to every part of his body, even inside his clothes.
He resumed moving, brushing, scratching at himself, waving the air in front of him. He thought, No, not again, move. He hu
rried past the gun crew, some men lying flat on the sand, already looking for the blessed sleep, and now he heard the curses from them, men slapping themselves, fighting back at the sudden torment. Behind him the men with the shovels stopped their work, watched the new arrivals fighting against this unseen enemy. There was laughter, and one man called out, “It ain’t no use, boys. You can’t see ’em. Can’t even feel ’em. Might as well just let ’em in, ’cause they’re gonna take over anyhow.”
Lee knew the man was right, it happened each time he stopped moving. You could barely see them in the daylight, some kind of flea that seemed to rise up out of the sand. He watched the men on the ground still rubbing their arms, legs, faces, and the sergeant was up now. “Captain, the men want to keep at it, sir. We heard about the fleas. Best we keep moving. If you don’t mind, we’d like to go get those guns.”
The men were all standing now, and Lee saw them already moving away, back toward the trail. He took a deep breath, felt something fly into his mouth. He spit sharply, felt his throat twist into a knot, spit again. Hard to get used to that, he thought. Glad Mary wasn’t here to see this. He spit again, thought, A fine show from a Virginia gentleman. His face was contorted by the awful bitterness from his mouth. The sergeant was watching him, suppressing a laugh, and Lee said, “By all means, Sergeant. The faster we get the job done, the less time we have to stay here.”
MARCH NINETEENTH
Lee had been out on the far end of the line, performing a last minute inspection of the most distant gun positions, and was moving through the narrow path his men had cut through the thorny brush. Behind him was Lieutenant Beauregard, the brilliant young man from Louisiana. Beauregard was a small, wiry man, handsome, who wore a short clipped point of beard. He was always neat, the uniform perfect, nothing out of place, and Lee had begun to see that Beauregard brought that same attention to detail to his engineering skills. Lee had not known him long, but he knew the man’s reputation as an engineer was already well established. He’d come to the army’s attention first by his West Point standing. Beauregard had been second in the class of 1845, the same ranking Lee had achieved sixteen years earlier. Some of Beauregard’s detractors had said the Louisianan’s high rank was due to his age, graduating at twenty-nine, much older than his classmates. Lee had never considered the young man’s age to be any reflection on his abilities, took for granted that all the junior engineers were younger than he.