by Jeff Shaara
“All wars are political games, Mr. Lee. Winners and losers. Armies fight and men die, but it is the government who wins or loses. Mr. Polk wanted this war, and Mr. Santa Anna has obliged. And the army will fight it, and yes, Mr. Lee, men will die. It’s the system. We play our roles. You have your duty, I have mine. I just wish they would allow me to perform mine.”
Scott stood slowly, moved to the window again, grabbed the handles, gave a halfhearted pull.
“Been wrestling with this damned thing all day. This place could use some air. Gets stale in here.”
Lee moved over to the window, said, “Allow me, sir?” He thumped the window along the bottom with the flat of a fist, then again across the top. “Try it now, sir.”
Scott pulled, and the window suddenly opened, a rush of cool breeze flowing into the room. Lee backed away, thought, Maybe making it look so easy wasn’t such a good idea, but Scott began to laugh. He moved back to his chair, sat down, still laughing, his face flushing again, but not in anger, something else, something Lee had rarely seen.
Lee sat as well and waited. He felt uncomfortable, watching Scott as the general put a hand on his broad stomach, shaking, his eyes filling with tears. Then Scott pounded the table, and the laughter began to ease. He shook his head, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
“Wonderful, Mr. Lee. Truly wonderful. All that is right with the world in one simple demonstration.”
Lee looked at the window, thought, Right … with whose world?
Scott said, “You see? Cut right through it, didn’t you? I fought that damned window all day, probably took a year off my life in simple aggravation. Just like everything else around here. All these commanders, all the gray-heads, and those fools in Washington. Instead of so many angry words, and so much posturing, leave it up to you, to the young men who have no other agenda, leave it up to you to cut through it all and simply get the job done. Reminds me of 1812, same thing I went through. Had to practically ignore orders, make my own plans, carry them out before some old fool had time to stop me. Dangerous practice for a military man, but I was right, I knew I was right.”
He put the handkerchief away, shook his head, leaned back in the chair.
“And I’m right now, Mr. Lee. Any day now, reinforcements will arrive. Took me a while to learn about that, because the guerrillas killed one of our couriers. We don’t have an effective communication line between here and Vera Cruz. With Patterson and the volunteers gone, even with the reinforcements, our strength here will barely reach ten thousand men. The plan is simple, has to be made simple in order to work. We don’t have the luxury of maintaining a strong garrison at Vera Cruz and Jalapa. I’m bringing them all in. As soon as our new troops arrive, we’re moving on, advancing the entire army to Puebla.”
Lee considered for a moment what Scott was telling him. “Sir, we will have to fight for Puebla. It’s a major city.”
“Maybe. Not sure about that. It will give us a pretty clear message how much of an army Santa Anna has left. That’s why we need every man.”
Lee thought again for a moment, and Scott shouted, “Sergeant! You still awake?”
Dunnigan appeared quickly, seemed to shake slightly. “Right here, sir.”
“Sergeant, go find my son-in-law. I need to send another letter.”
Dunnigan was gone, and Lee said, “Sir, excuse me, but are you intending to pull away from the coast? That will cut off our communications—”
“By God you’re right, Mr. Lee! That’s just what I’m going to tell Washington. They ignore most of the letters I send them, but they won’t ignore this one. Effective with the arrival of our additional strength, all units will report to headquarters, to resume our operations toward Mexico City. We will operate as one unit, with one base of supply, which will be wherever we happen to find ourselves. I believe we can sustain this army by keeping a good working relationship with the citizens.”
Lee felt a growing sense of alarm, thought, This could be a mistake. A huge mistake.
“Sir, how will we receive orders? We must still answer to Washington.”
Scott looked at him for a long moment, and Lee felt the pressure of the gaze. He sank back in his chair.
“You remember the orders I read to you, Captain,” Scott said quietly. “The President’s instructions? This operation will be run at my discretion. Your orders will come from right here. I need to know the right men are behind me, men I can count on to do their jobs. War is a good teacher, Mr. Lee, and I am a good student. I have already learned where to look when I want something done right. I don’t expect that to change. Do you?”
Lee didn’t know what to say, suddenly realized Scott was talking about him.
“No, sir. Certainly not, sir.”
“Good. As soon as we are prepared, we are marching to Puebla, capturing and securing the city, and then we will make a final march to Mexico City. Santa Anna may be able to convince somebody to fight for him, but he knows by now what this army can do. He knows by now that we intend to whip him. By the time we reach Mexico City, the door could be wide open.”
Lee remembered the old lessons in the textbooks. He recalled how Napoleon, marching on Moscow, created such an awful disaster.
Scott was still watching him. The older man leaned back in the chair, stared up, and Lee saw his lips moving, thought, He’s putting it into words, what he intends to tell Washington. This could be … very bad. The name suddenly came to him, and he said, “Sir, what of Mr. Trist? The, uh … clerk?”
Scott looked at him again, said, “Mr. Trist has the authority to deal directly with Santa Anna. He should be pleased. I will deliver him there.”
13. SCOTT
MAY TWENTY-EIGHTH
HE RODE UP A LONG HILL PAST SHOPS AND HOUSES, COULD HEAR the line of people shouting his name, heard other shouts, all in Spanish, but the message and the mood was clear. The citizens of Puebla were as enthusiastic to welcome these invaders as the farmers of the smaller villages.
He reached the crest of the hill and looked out over the city, its rows of squat buildings and tall church steeples spread out as far as he could see. He stopped the horse, the staff staying behind him, and he focused on the spires of the main cathedral. He thought, This is a big damned city. This would be like marching an army through New York, or Philadelphia. How can anyone see us as much of a threat? There’s eighty thousand people here. We’re a curiosity, something to break up their routine, but after we leave, after this war is over, little will change here. This is a city of merchants and trade, and of course, that big damned cathedral.
Beyond the edge of the city, he could see his army’s campsite, which was beginning to grow again. The first of the reinforcements he had fought and pleaded for had finally begun to arrive, a brigade of volunteers, commanded by General John Quitman, another older man, a regal, dignified lawyer from Mississippi.
The advance from Perote to the city had encountered guerrillas, but the fighting was brief and sporadic, and nothing the bandidos did could slow the Americans down. He had passed by some signs of a fight in the smaller villages, some little more than a single house guarding a nameless crossroad. The guerrillas would make a stand, maybe one good volley at the advancing column of blue, but the volley was answered with horsemen, Harney’s cavalry, and the guerrillas were swept away, disappearing into the hills and deep brush beyond the highway.
The city itself had been undefended, and Scott had heard the calls from Worth, the urgent need for reinforcements, the need to attack the city with full force. But even Worth had to finally admit that Santa Anna simply had no strength, no great army to stop the American advance. And, in a city this size, there was nothing to focus on, no single target, nothing really for Worth’s men to actually attack. When they realized Puebla was completely undefended, Worth had moved his troops into the city without firing a shot.
Scott rode again through a large open square, framed by an old cathedral and the office buildings of the local government.
It was becoming his routine now, a bit of luxury, a relaxing ride through streets where there were no signs of the war, no hostile presence of any kind. Even the staffs of the local politicians made no show of protest, and he smiled at men in black suits as he passed the government buildings.
He had another fine home as his headquarters, having learned that to refuse would be an insult. There had even been grand estates offered to the others, the commanders who had always found a reason to criticize Scott’s acceptance of the luxury. Now they had luxurious accommodations of their own, and suddenly there were no complaints.
HE HAD LED HIS STAFF THROUGH THE IMPRESSIVE ENTRANCE OF the grand cathedral, and finally saw the interior of the magnificent Gothic building that so dominated the city. He had been met with an escort, a small unsmiling man in a white robe, who led him in a slow procession, to the soft murmuring and ponderous rhythm of an organ. Scott followed closely behind the man, who motioned silently and guided him and his men to their seats, a long padded bench covered in a rich brocade that lined the tall stone wall. The soldiers stood there, remained standing, as the man backed away slowly. Scott saw relief on his face, thought, All right, see, we can do this without disrupting anything. We’re not savages.
Scott glanced out over the gathering of worshipers, looked again at the man in the robe, who waited patiently, his face showing mild frustration. The man motioned discreetly toward the bench, and Scott thought, Yes, I suppose I should sit. He glanced out at the faces, all watching him, saw a mix of people, men and women, even children, some of the faces dark, the black hair and burnt skin of the Indians, others fairer-skinned with lighter hair. Beyond them he saw a mass of blue. He was surprised to see the American soldiers, and the men were looking at him with wide eyes, seemed as uncomfortable as he was, as though they had all been suddenly caught participating in some forbidden activity.
He nodded at them, acknowledging their presence, and thought, They are not here because I am here. Not all of us are from the same background, not everyone in this army carries the annoying prejudice against the Catholics. I wonder, do they hide it, do they have to be discreet to attend the services here? Certainly they are here with permission. They must have sympathetic officers, or at least company commanders who have more enlightened views about religion. Still, it must be difficult for them, the few Catholics in a predominantly Protestant army.
A gracious and dignified committee of church elders had extended an invitation to the commanding general to attend a mass as a kind of welcome. It was certainly the same invitation that would be made to any military occupation. He had accepted gratefully. In fact, he had hoped for this from the first days in Vera Cruz, had hoped to satisfy his curiosity about the ceremony, the services, the devotion of these people. He would not simply arrive at his own convenience, march in, disruptive, and arrogantly assume that of course this commander of the yanquis would be welcome. The invitation had to come from the Mexicans, and now his original curiosity was replaced by something else—wonder. He sat and sensed the people’s marvelous devotion, was impressed by the colorful formality and pageantry.
He glanced behind him and saw his son-in-law and the men who had come with him—some from the staff, a few higher-ranking officers. He looked for a brief moment at Lee, saw the engineer gazing upward, his attention captivated by the extraordinarily ornate decor, the stained glass and gold leaf, the vaulted ceiling and its flying buttresses. Scott looked up as well, and admired the richly colored mural on the ceiling, clouds and angels, a baby Jesus with his mother. The man in the robe was still waiting, and Scott saw an impatient frown, thought, Yes, all right, sorry, and finally he sat, and the other officers followed his lead, lined up along the soft bench.
The rich sounds of the organ filled the church, and he tried to look around, knew they were all watching him, thought, An extraordinary sound, marvelous. He saw a row of pipes, back behind the pulpit, could just see another man in white robes nearly hidden from view, seated, the man’s head moving with the rhythm from the chords he played. Scott felt the wall behind him vibrating with the deeper tones, looked up again at the mural, thought, My God, the time, the effort, the craftsmanship. There is no doubting their devotion, the energy they give to their worship.
He saw motion behind the pulpit, and an old man emerged from a small doorway. He wore another of the flowing robes, this one white satin, lined with purple and gold. The old man moved slowly forward, climbed the short steps to the pulpit, looked across the crowded church, then turned and focused briefly on him. Scott nodded, smiled politely, thought, obviously he’s the head man, but the priest seemed not to have noticed, looked again at his congregation. Scott was still smiling as he waited for the priest to acknowledge him, but the old man stared quietly out across the faces of the people. Scott’s eyes followed the other man’s gaze, and he observed that the faces were now all watching the priest. Yes, he thought, if you had any doubts before, now it is very clear. This man is the power in this place, not you, not the glorious blue uniform. That old priest carries more authority in this city than the politicians.
He looked at the grim stare of the priest, his unchanging expression. The man seemed to be waiting for the music to finish, and Scott thought, I have seen that look before, the confidence, the strength. He knows his place here, he understands better than we do where the people place their faith, their loyalty. The end of this war might come from them, after all, not the generals, not the armies. He glanced across to the far wall, the windows filled with the bright colors of the stained glass. This is what holds these people together, and no one, not Santa Anna, not us, can pull these people away from the power of this place. We had better take a lesson from this.
The small man in the white robe was moving toward him, held a tall thin candle in one hand, stopped, bowed slightly, handed Scott the candle. The general looked at the small flame, thought, I suppose … pass it down. He held the candle to the side, and the young Scott hesitated, made a small sound of protest, but Scott still held the candle out, thought, Take it, dammit. Surely there are more. Now the young man reached out, accepted the candle, and Scott saw the man in the robe frown, shake his head, and Scott thought, I did something wrong. Well, dammit, nobody told me.
The man backed away, quickly returned with another large candle, held it out to him, and Scott took it, thought, All right, hold on to this one. The man watched him for a moment, seemed to scold him silently, and Scott nodded, Yes, yes, I’ll keep this one. Now there were more candles, and soon each of the officers held one, and Scott saw the others were all smaller, shorter. He looked at the tall candle in his hand. Yes, now I understand. I get the big one. All they had to do was tell me.
HE HAD TAKEN DINNER IN HIS OFFICE. HE HAD COME AWAY FROM the church service in a strange mood, did not want company, had no patience for the chatter from his staff. He had understood almost nothing of the priest’s words, the Latin rolling over him with the rhythm of a song, a very long song. He had picked out a word or two, the ones similar to English, but it was frustrating, and so he focused on the sea of faces, all captured by the old man’s words.
He knew there had been some mention of the war, since the priest pointed at him once, but still the old man had not looked at him, would not acknowledge the presence of this special visitor. That was … unusual, he thought. But it’s my own damned fault. I expected … what? A ceremony, some grand show of thanks for gracing their service with my presence? I thought it would be a good thing, show the people we are sympathetic to their ways. They were certainly polite in making an effort to welcome us, but certainly they would have done just fine whether we were invited or not. Maybe that’s the point, they have been doing just fine without all of us, without this war, without Santa Anna. We are, after all, temporary. This war will end, and it really doesn’t matter to them who wins, or who sets up shop in Mexico City. Those people will still go to that church and listen to that old priest, and there will be change if he tells them to change. They’re kind
to us because we’re here, and maybe they even see us as a threat, so they are gracious and polite and avoid trouble until we go away.
If Santa Anna marches through here, they’ll probably be just as kind to him, and so, of course, he believes his people are behind him. He looked at the grilled slab of meat on his plate, felt the hunger rolling inside him, thought, I don’t care for being reminded of this. In the end, what this army does, what I do, really doesn’t matter much. I don’t care for that at all.
His office was on the second floor of a marvelous old hacienda, another politician’s show of grand wealth. He had become used to that now, had always been used to it back home, the old Virginia estates, always some requirement for political power. He stabbed at the meat, stuffed a juicy bite into his mouth, the glorious flavor of the smoke and fire. He nodded, thought, This is wonderful. Or perhaps a bit decadent, a feast reserved for conquerors. Yes, they are kind indeed.
The meat had come from a local rancher, and Scott accepted graciously. He had come to believe that these people did not offer their gifts out of fear, or the need to placate their invaders. They seemed proud and brought all manner of food and other gifts to the soldiers, as though perhaps they hoped the Americans might never leave. We have been seduced, he thought. We want to believe we have been carried here on some kind of wave of righteousness, spreading our superior morality, our God-given politics to the ignorant. We may be very wrong about that.
He set the fork down, stared at the plate, thought of the rancher, the small man in the formal suit who brought a huge, beautiful roast. The man seemed grateful that he had accepted, and Scott laughed now, thinking of the priest. Did this come from you, old man? Have you told your people to feed us well, flatter us with offerings? Surely they understand destiny as well as Washington does. These people have suffered the indignity of conquest and brutality, and somehow, despite whatever Santa Anna tells them, they must see us for what we represent. Even people who have never had true freedom must have some idea, some powerful instinct, for what it means.