by Jeff Shaara
A small group of sailors moved out of the brush, the men straining under the weight of wooden boxes. Good, he thought, powder and shell. If this is to be a siege, we will need a great deal of both.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw an officer carrying a box. The officer smiled, said, “You taking good care of my guns, Captain? Not sure I can trust an old army man.”
Lee knew the voice, returned the smile. It was his brother. “Smith! I knew you were here … still on the Mississippi, I believe?”
Smith Lee set the box down, walked toward his brother. He put his hands on Lee’s shoulders, said, “Appears … we’re a team. At least for a while. What would Mother say?”
Lee nodded, said nothing. Smith’s comment surprised him. He always believed his older brother had been his mother’s favorite, the handsome one, sure to capture the fair hearts. Lee had seen some of the letters between them, soft and tender, his mother always anguishing that Smith had chosen the navy, and so would rarely be home. Lee had felt his mother’s death as deeply as any event in his life, but he had been there and Smith had not. Lee had always wondered if Smith felt any guilt about that, or if he resented his younger brother holding on to that special, awful moment, his mother dying in his arms. Lee felt uncomfortable now, and Smith, still holding him by the shoulders, said quietly, “She would be proud of you. Look at this. Look at the responsibility. Every officer I meet says, ‘So, you’re the brother of General Scott’s engineer.’ That’s really something.”
Smith backed away now, and Lee saw that his brother was embarrassed as well. They were not often together, and these moments were rare. Around them the men had stopped working, watched the two with curiosity. Smith turned, saw the sailors moving up, said, “Hold it. Let’s find out where we need to be.” He turned to Lee now, bowed slightly. “Captain Lee, will you direct us to our proper position?”
Lee thought he heard something in his brother’s voice, a tease, an edge of sarcasm, but Smith looked at him with no trace of humor on his face.
Lee said, “Yes, very well. That dugout there, beyond the twelve-pound howitzer. It should accommodate the next gun. The range is seven hundred yards. Adjust your aim to strike the wall immediately to your front. You may place your men behind, with their supplies in the dugout farther back. They will construct a trench parallel to the defensive works, there, for cover from enemy artillery. They can make camp back beyond that brush line. A trail has been cut.”
He stopped, saw the grin again, and Smith saluted him, something Lee had never seen, said, “Aye, sir,” then turned, said to his men, “The captain’s instructions were plain. Proceed!”
The sailors moved quickly toward the open gun pit, and Smith began to move away as well, glanced back at Lee, nodded, said quietly, “Yes, proud indeed.”
MARCH TWENTY-FOURTH
He paced impatiently, watched a group of sailors groaning under the weight, hard men covered by the sand and sweat of an unfamiliar duty, strong hands holding thick ropes and levers and long poles, positioning the last of the huge cannon. In front of the long line of batteries, the ground was clear, all obstruction removed. There was no longer any reason to hide the guns from the Mexican lookouts. The order had come straight from Scott: coordinate the batteries, and fire when ready. He watched the sailors, thought, Give them time, let’s do this right. His brother was commanding the closest naval battery now, and Lee saw him climb up from a deep pit, sweating, his uniform covered in sand.
Around Smith the sailors were only partially dressed, having shed the blue outer shirts without embarrassment. But the officers had to keep decorum, and despite the heat and the work, their coats stayed on. Smith rubbed sweat from his face, cursed. Lee felt the tension give way, smiled, was about to tease his brother when he heard a crackle, then a long low sound above him, growing louder. He looked up, saw a streak of blue cutting the air, and behind him, near the trenches the men had dug for their own protection, the ball dropped with a deep thud and plowed into the sand. There was a quiet moment, the closest men backing away from the impact of the heavy shell, and then no one moved, the men staring at the strange crater in the sand. Suddenly, the sand rose up in one great blast, a sharp explosion of black smoke and dirt. The men yelled, a great release of tension, cheering the close call with raw excitement. Lee wanted to shout something, felt the same burst of excitement, the cold in his chest, but held it back. He looked toward the city. He could still see the wisp of smoke, thought, There are no surprises now. They know we are here.
He looked again at the final crew, and they were watching him, their work complete. He looked at his brother, who was smiling, waiting, as they all waited, and he felt his throat tighten, thought, Remember this. This is how a soldier feels. God help us. He stepped up on a small mound of dirt, the commander’s vantage point, said, “You may begin, gentlemen. Fire!”
MARCH TWENTY-SEVENTH
It had been three days, and he could see it clearly, stared out through field glasses at gaping holes, great piles of rubble that had been the walls of Vera Cruz. Around him the guns still shattered the air, the crews black with smoke and powder, ducking into the trenches when a response would come from the guns in the city.
Close by there was a blast, a great flash of light and sound, and he heard screaming, stared through the smoke, moved toward the explosion, trying to see the result. Men were scrambling toward the wounded, and he thought, Smith. He fought his way forward, saw one man’s body torn nearly in two, a great black stain in the sand, and another man, a sailor, his leg twisted horribly to one side. There were men beside the sailor now, the man screaming still, and Lee stood back, watched as the others carried him away to the rear, back where the hospital had been set up. It had been a surprise to Lee, something he had never thought of. A hospital. Men were wounded, dying, and if the Mexican batteries were losing the fight, or if their guns were old, less accurate, they could still do damage. They could still kill his men.
He saw his brother then, pointing, shouting to his crews, the big gun roaring out a volley, answering the Mexican shell. Thank God, he thought. I had not thought of this either. My brother, right next to me. I could watch him die. He fought those images. Focus. Do your job.
He moved back to his vantage point, raised the glasses again toward the enemy positions. Still he was torn, the man after all was his brother. There is no time for that. I have no right. He looked toward his brother again, hidden again in a great fog of white smoke. But I cannot ignore it. God protect him.
He glassed again toward the city, could see a fresh opening in the wall, and through it, the city itself, bright color, a wall, a painting of … something. He stared at that one spot, caught a glimpse of motion, a small cart, a horse, maybe a donkey. There was a flash, a smaller shell, striking the painted wall, then he could see nothing, the image hidden by the smoke and debris.
He lowered the glasses, shook his head grimly, thought, It is a city, after all. The people, civilians. The plan had been sound, the smaller field guns would not waste ammunition firing at the wall. He thought of the strange young lieutenant, Jackson, had seen him working his guns with a terrifying energy, knew that Jackson’s guns, many of the smaller field pieces, were dropping shells right into the city itself. He had seen the smoke, could see it now, great billowing black columns rising from the wooden houses.
The destruction, the casualties, must be horrific. Don’t do this, he thought, you cannot dwell on that, on what these guns might do to those people. They have an army in there, and they have commanders, and it is up to them to stop this. It is not up to me.
He moved the glasses along the wall, gazed past the ragged openings, saw motion out in front of the wall, a carriage, small flickers of color, flags. He strained to see the carriage moving out toward the American lines, far to his left, disappearing now from his view. Strange, he thought, someone trying to escape.
He felt something turn in his chest. Or, perhaps the cart was carrying a flag of truce. He looked down
past the batteries, the crews still working methodically, the guns firing in rhythm with each other, as they had for three days. They had not seen what he saw, and he watched for a moment, had become used to the scattered blasts of smoke and sand, the Mexican artillery trying in vain to silence the batteries. But for a long moment the only sound was the steady firing of his own guns. He thought, There are no shells, no incoming rounds. The Mexicans have stopped shooting.
He felt a small panic, thought, If it’s a truce, you should order a cease-fire! Stop them! But that was not up to him either. You could be wrong, you don’t know what is happening. He felt a wave of frustration, each blast from his own guns punching him now, and he looked down the line, shouted, “Cease fire. Conserve powder!”
The men looked at him, and soon the guns nearest him fell silent. He shouted again, “Pass the word, conserve powder!”
He saw officers motioning to him, men in blackened uniforms, faces stained with the thick smoke and powder. They began to acknowledge him, and then men were moving away, spreading the command, and all down the line of batteries the guns stopped firing. His ears were ringing, the silence a strange sensation, and he saw some of the officers moving toward him. He stepped down from his vantage point, felt the need to explain, said, “On my authority … resume firing only on my command.” The officers nodded, no one questioned him, and they moved away, back to their guns. He felt suddenly very alone, thought, Just for a few minutes … only a few minutes.
Behind him there was commotion, and Lee turned, was surprised to see Totten, moving toward him quickly. Totten was breathing heavily, said, “You have heard?”
Lee thought, Be careful. “Heard, sir?”
“You may stand down for the present, Captain. It seems your siege was successful. General Morales … the Mexicans have surrendered.”
4. SCOTT
MARCH TWENTY-SEVENTH
THE CARRIAGES PULLED AWAY, DRAWN BY THE BEST HORSES their Mexican hosts would provide. Above the brass ornaments and rich leather trim flew the flags of France, Spain, and England, the fragile symbols that had allowed the men in fine suits, the well-spoken dignitaries, to pass unmolested through the American lines. Scott looked at the document they had left him, held it carefully in his hand, admired the gold seal of the Governor of Vera Cruz. He smiled, then looked at the staff, at Worth, who had met the first carriage inside the lines of his men. Worth took it upon himself to serve as escort, bringing the dignitaries straight to the commanding general. Scott knew it was only Worth’s curiosity that prompted him to do so, wanting to know what these men brought with them, whether Scott had been right after all. Now Worth stared out, watching the last carriage passing beyond the last line of his muskets, lurching on the rough road back toward the city.
“I didn’t know … there were Europeans in the city. We were fortunate.”
Scott shook his head, said, “I doubt Washington knew there was so much European influence anywhere in these parts. We should pay attention to that. This time, they used their influence to convince the Mexicans of what the Mexicans already knew. They had no defense, the city was lost. Now, the Mexicans can claim the surrender was coerced by the Europeans. And, so, they save face.” He paused, smiled again. “Nothing fortunate about it.”
Worth did not look at him, thought a moment, said, “They said General Morales resigned.”
“Of course he did. He turned over command to some junior officer, some brigadier, so Morales could say he never actually surrendered himself. It’s all very simple once you understand the way they think, General.”
“Still, we are very fortunate.”
Scott felt a tug of annoyance. “Fortune had very little to do with this, General. We had the right strategy, and we carried it out.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I meant … we are fortunate that we do not have to engage Uloa.”
Scott let the anger slip away, was surprised that Worth understood that, thought, For once I agree with him. I did not want a siege of that place.
“Quite right, General,” he said. “I had hoped they would concede the fort as well. According to this agreement, they will open up Uloa by tomorrow, march their men out and send them home on parole.”
“Do you believe they know what that means? Do their soldiers understand parole?”
Scott shrugged. “Probably not. They will do what their commanders tell them to do. Mexican soldiers are not allowed to think for themselves. In their culture they are the bottom rung of society. Some generalissimo will probably round them up, and send them back out to fight us. But I’d rather fight them somewhere else, and not in that big damned fort.”
Scott could feel Worth’s willingness to talk, thought, Victory does that, makes everybody cozy. Suddenly we’re all good friends. Scott did not look at him, thought, I’m not in the mood to talk to generals. He moved away from the tents, leaving Worth alone, walked along one of the trails, while behind him the young major emerged from a tent, scurried to catch up with him.
He moved behind the lines of his troops, men rising up from the sandy ground, stopping to watch him. He saw the uniforms, mostly filthy, but the faces were alive, smiling, men calling out to him as he moved past. They know, he thought. The word has already spread. One voice boomed loudly, “God bless you, General Scott!”
He stopped, looked for the face, saw a huge man, a thick dark-bearded sergeant saluting him. Others were moving closer, in all manner of ragged dress, their uniforms barely evident from the coating of sand and dirt. Some men were shirtless, self-conscious now, covering bare chests. He waved to them, made a point of returning the big man’s salute, said aloud, “None finer, anywhere. Be proud, gentlemen!”
There were calls now, hats waving, and he moved forward again, still smiling. No, we did not want to march up against the walls of the city, not the generals, not the soldiers who would lead the way. The cheers are as much for that as they are for me. This is good for them, for their morale, their confidence.
If we had started this fight with blood, if we had taken this city with great loss, it would be very different, it would change the way they would see this, the way they would see everything that follows. It might have taken something from this army we could not get back. Still, they cannot believe it will be this easy. We won here without firing a musket, without a single one of them facing the muskets of his enemy. If there is confidence, there may also be arrogance, cockiness. They may believe it will always be this simple. The troops can afford that, we can let them draw strength from that. But I have to make damned sure the commanders know better. Their arrogance can cause disasters, and I still do not know them well enough. Which ones can I trust? Worth, Twiggs, they’re regular soldiers. Pillow? There’s a disaster waiting to happen. And once we leave here, move inland, confront an enemy who may be more real than any in this army believe, how much control do I have over them after all?
He did not hear the troops now, began to think of strategy, maps, the road that led away to the west.
Out beyond the safety of the American lines, the guerrilla bands were still harassing the troops, and Scott turned his thoughts in that direction. We must first clear them out, open that road. We have succeeded in our job here, now it’s time to move inland, climb those hills, get out of this damned swamp. And the reports from the doctors, a few men already feeling the effects of the el vomito. I’ve seen some of the afflicted, the awful toll it took on them. Men lying in coiled masses of sweat and filth, nearly paralyzed by the gut-twisting sickness. Even the Indians in the area could offer us no remedy, nothing that worked on these yanquis. If it should spread … No. We will not allow it to spread. We will move. We will get out of this place.
He moved through some scrub trees, climbed a sand hill, saw his men now spread all through the thick brush. One man sat on a horse just ahead of him. Scott felt the annoyance return, spoiling his mood. Twiggs, of course. Horses are in short supply, but he will damned well sit on one.
The young Scott, his son-in
-law and chief of staff, was beside him now, and Scott glanced at him, said, “The sooner that man is out of my sight, the better. When we move inland, he will lead the way. Let him ride that damned horse at the head of his troops.”
The young man said nothing, followed again as Scott turned and moved back toward the headquarters tents. There was more cheering now, more men moving closer as he walked, and the bad mood slipped away again, the calls from the men lifting him. I truly miss this, more than anything else, he thought. It has always been like this, even in the old days, the old war. The men understand what is most important. They appreciate a good solid victory, and none of them have an eye on a newspaper headline. None of them are running for President.
He thought of Zachary Taylor. Scott had received word of the great victory at Buena Vista, a fight Taylor had won against Santa Anna himself, in some remote godforsaken place up north. The victory had been costly to Taylor’s army, meant that Taylor would be unlikely to send Scott any more help, and that Taylor himself would not do much more campaigning on his own. He simply had too few men holding fort in the middle of a huge part of Mexico that simply was not worth fighting for. Even Santa Anna knew that. The Mexican general had withdrawn from Buena Vista claiming a great victory, even though Taylor had beaten back his army with barely a third of the Mexican’s strength. Now, Santa Anna would be in Mexico City, gathering strength, making those speeches that dictators always know how to make, rallying the people against their enemies from outside, blinding them to Santa Anna’s own abuses, his brutality to his political enemies, his thievery of Mexican resources.