Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  He reached for the silver goblet, swallowed the last remnant in one quick motion. You come here with your titles and your fine suits, describe Mexico in that superior tone, insult me with your absurd suggestions that this war would have ended quickly, just faded away, if I had not taken control of the army. A dictatorship is simply control of the country by the will of one man, and it is never illegal when that man is supported by the will of the people. What do the British know of the people? All they know is meetings and committees. What of their own dictatorship, their queen? Did the British people have a voice in her ascension? And the yanquis, with their elections and their democracy, look what it has produced, look at the political intrigue. What is legal about what they are doing here? What is legal about this war?

  He was suddenly feeling lonely, missing the cheers of the people. I will do that very soon, he thought, ride through the great plaza, surprising them. Victorious. They will gather, come out of their homes and shops, and I will see their smiles, hear their love. That will never change. It is a gift they are only too happy to offer. Even … when there is defeat. He could not help thinking of that day, the panicked retreat from Cerro Gordo, returning to the city feeling the shame of that. But the people still cheered, and he thought, It was God who turned against this army. He infected these men with shame, turned us into children, running from shadows in the dark. We had the ground, the guns, and it all just collapsed.

  I marched back here to all that talk, so much chatter from the fat politicians, drunk with courage because my army endured one shameful defeat. How quickly the talk was silenced. Their voices were drowned out, not all by my hand, but by the cheers of the people. They understand that I will not win every fight. The yanquis are determined to carry out the work of the Devil. It will take more than simply good ground and troops. It will require spirit, pride, patriotism. I showed them that.

  There is no one in the capital who dares to speak out against me. They only reveal their treachery. The people still came to me, the men still lined up, and now we have an army even greater than before. This time I will be smarter, I will not wait for the yanquis to decide our fate. They march to Mexico City, full of confidence. They believe I am weak, beaten, that my people have turned away. They believe the Mexican people will welcome their invasion. He felt a burst of fury, shouted, “The arrogance!”, the sound exploding over the quiet of the camp.

  He smiled suddenly, brought his outstretched hand toward his chest. Yes, General Scott, come closer. Now I have brought you right into my trap. You have tied your own noose. Now, God will see your arrogance. This time God will understand, and my enemies will be swept away. The people are loyal, they understand strength, they welcome my power.

  He looked at his hand, rolled it into a fist. It is so simple, after all. Here is the power. If you don’t control with a fist, you don’t control. Even the Church understands that. It’s why there is no threat to me here, no one who can take that from me, not even the priests. They have been controlling their people for centuries. But they do not control me, and that makes them nervous. He smiled again. Yes, I enjoy that. As long as they keep their distance, do not try to interfere with my order, do not preach of some ridiculous new revolution to their flock, then I will respect their desire to stay out of this war. If they do interfere, they will make a mistake. The people will have to choose between their priest, and life under my hand. The people will know what is best. But, no, I do not want that fight. We do not need another revolt. In this country, one spark can set aflame a revolution, and it is always the power, the fist that brings it under control.

  He was feeling impatient now, began to pace, staring to the annoying darkness in the east. Where is the sun? This day must begin. I am ready. Surely, God is ready. He stopped beside the table now, reached for the empty goblet, suddenly threw it out toward the camp, watched a guard quickly retrieve it. He looked again for the first break in the darkness, the first of the dawn. I am through with meetings and diplomats and peacemakers. It is time to end this madness, time for the enemies of our people to face their deaths, to choke on their own blood. And it is not just the yanquis, sleeping in their camps, but those bureaucrats in the city, sleeping as well, with their soft beds and warm women. I will force them all to breathe the fires of hell.

  IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN THE COURIER ARRIVED. THE MAN HAD been gone since before the rain came, had gone to General Valencia with Santa Anna’s order to withdraw. Valencia had laughed when he heard the reports of yanquis moving toward him across the Pedregal. But the reports proved real, and despite Valencia’s boast that his cannon would send them back in pieces, it was soon clear that a strong body of yanquis had moved out between him and the rest of the army. There was great risk in Valencia remaining isolated, and the order was clear and direct: pull back, move your men north and rejoin the main force. But Valencia had not responded, and once the rains came, and the roads were dangerous, Santa Anna knew that Valencia would disobey.

  He did not trust any of his subordinates, could never trust a man who had ambition to command. It was a short jump from command of an army to command of a nation, and many of the generals mistook the devotion and loyalty of their own troops as a mandate from the civilians as well.

  Gabriel Valencia was one of the few who had the courage to be vocal, who openly questioned Santa Anna’s authority, and Santa Anna had understood for months that he could be a threat. Valencia had skill in the art of politics, had begun to find loyal allies, men who would back him when Santa Anna showed any weakness.

  Santa Anna’s plan had been deliberate, ordering Valencia to hold the right flank, to prevent access to the city from west of the Pedregal. He had thought Valencia would be out of the way, still assuming that Scott’s assault would come from the south, through San Agustín. But when Scott moved his army farther west, and somehow found a way to cross the lava field, Santa Anna understood that fate had played a trick. The one man Santa Anna wanted out of the way was suddenly the one man who was in a position of glory, the man who would meet Scott’s assault head-on.

  He saw a horseman now, moving quickly up the long rise, watched him move past the fires. He waited impatiently, was already angry at the response he expected to hear. The man jumped down, saluted the guard, and Santa Anna shouted, “Let him through!”

  The man moved close, seemed to cower, removed his hat, said, “Excellency, I have word from General Valencia.”

  Santa Anna crossed his arms. “Why did it take you so long to return?”

  The man looked down, said, “Excellency, the position of the yanquis made the ride long.… I had to go around them. It was raining heavily, I could not see. The route was unfamiliar. I did not want to be captured.”

  Santa Anna stared at the man, said slowly, “You are an expert in excuses. Did you enjoy the warmth of Valencia’s camp? Did he make you comfortable?”

  The man looked up now, shook his head. “Oh, no, Excellency, I only saw General Valencia when it was very late. He would not see me when I arrived. I had to wait with his soldiers.”

  Santa Anna looked up past the man, staring toward the south, thought, He would not see a messenger from the commanding general? What kind of treason is he planning that he would keep me so uninformed?

  “Did you give General Valencia my orders?”

  “Oh, yes, Excellency. I gave him your papers, and I saw him break the seal. He read the orders, and then he …” The man paused, looked again at the ground. “He threw the orders into the fire.”

  Santa Anna felt the fury boiling up inside, but still he merely stared into the darkness. “Did he respond in any other way?”

  The man reached into his coat, withdrew a coil of paper, slowly held it out. “Excellency … his response.”

  He reached for the paper, slid his thumb under the seal, unrolled the dispatch. He turned to the firelight, read the words, the message short, the language blunt. His anger was building again, his eyes skimming the words, I will remain where the enemy can f
ind me. He looked at the courier, who flinched, expecting to be struck. Santa Anna shouted at him, “Leave my sight! If you were loyal, you would have informed me sooner. Now there is no time to prepare!”

  The man slipped away quickly, climbed his horse, rode away across the camp. Santa Anna turned, stared again toward the east, thought, Valencia disobeys my order because he knows there will be glory in the victory, glory for him alone. God has played a trick on me, has put a traitor in the path of the enemy. My orders were not just about glory. It is strategy as well. If our troops are united, we hold all the advantages, we have the numbers, the strength. Yet, Valencia believes his five thousand men can triumph alone. If he is right, he gains power. If he is wrong, this army is weakened and the yanquis will gain confidence. He is foolish and arrogant.

  He balled the paper in his hand, thought, I can see him now, strutting in his camp like some grand rooster. What arrogance, making a good show of burning my orders. He walked toward the fire, and his staff moved away, giving him a wide berth. He stopped close to the fire, squeezed Valencia’s message hard in his hand, thought, Now I will have to rescue him, save his army. I must send support to a traitor. He tossed the wad of paper into the fire, said aloud, “How dare you burn my orders!”

  THE TROOPS WERE UP AND MOVING, THE DAYLIGHT FINALLY spreading across the wide hill. He rode in the carriage, the horses at a trot, moving quickly into the road, past the men who were already on the march, the escort riding close beside him. He sat straight in the seat, stared hard to the front, thought, We might still reach Valencia, combine the army. If the yanquis stay in their camps, if there is any delay …

  The carriage rolled up a short rise, reached the top of the hill, and he shouted, “Halt here!”

  The driver pulled the carriage to one side, and Santa Anna climbed out, the guards extending their hands to him, helping him to the ground. He stepped away from the carriage, stood in the center of the road, stared in the direction of the sounds now rolling up toward him. There was thunder, a series of low thumps. He had heard the same sounds the day before, Valencia’s artillery barrage. But now there were more sounds, something new, and he thought of the weather the night before, glanced at the sky. This is odd, he thought, it sounds like rain, the sound of rain on the hard ground. The sky was clear, and he looked again to the front, knew then it was not rain, it was musket fire, the sounds growing louder, the assault of the yanquis already pouring hard into Valencia’s army.

  HIS COMMANDERS ADVANCED THE TROOPS FARTHER ALONG THE road, spread them out in the open ground above a small Indian village, mud huts and ragged wooden houses. The fight was all down below, spread out all over Padierna. He could see very little, a low flat cloud of smoke hanging tight to the low ground, drifting slowly east. There were familiar flashes of light, the sounds from Valencia’s cannon, but the new sounds were louder, more big guns, different, the sharp hollow sounds he had only heard when he faced the yanquis.

  The commanders had gathered behind him, and he moved toward them now, asked, “The troops are in formation?”

  There were nods, one man stepped forward. “Yes, Excellency. We are prepared to advance on your order.”

  Santa Anna stared at the man, said, “Did I instruct anyone to prepare an advance?”

  The man seemed confused, said, “We thought, Excellency … the fight is there. The troops are ready to attack.”

  Santa Anna turned away, looked again to the south, where he could see his scouts moving toward him, the advance skirmish line climbing the hill, a few men waving to the officers, signaling something.

  He said aloud, “What are they doing? What does that mean?”

  Now a man was running up the hill toward him, still waving, called out, “Excellency, they are coming! The enemy is coming!”

  He stepped forward, tried to see past the man, the smoke still rising, said, “This is madness! I will see what is happening!” He turned, the guard rushing forward to help him, and Santa Anna pushed the man to the side, said, “Out of my way! I will see what is happening!”

  He climbed awkwardly into the carriage, shouted to the driver, “Move!”

  The man slapped the horse with the leather straps, and the carriage jerked forward. Santa Anna leaned out the window but could see nothing, so he sat back in the carriage, began to pound his fists together, asking aloud, “What is that traitor doing?”

  The carriage moved down the long rise, past the small village, where the guards swarmed past him, pushing their horses in front of the carriage. They climbed another small rise, and the smoke was above him now, and he could smell the powder, the thick odor of sulfur. The carriage jerked to one side, and the driver shouted something to the horse, stopped the carriage, then said, “Excellency … look!”

  Through the window, he saw a soldier running past, the man looking at him with dead, hollow eyes. He yelled at the man, “What is happening? Who is your commander?”

  The man said nothing, merely stood beside the carriage gasping for breath. Santa Anna opened the door and pushed the man away hard, stepped down onto the road, a dense choking cloud of smoke blowing around him. He could hear horses behind him, the officers, and heard shouting, orders, could see a flood of men suddenly in front of him, running toward him, and it was not the enemy, not the blue of the yanquis. It was Valencia’s men, his men, some with wounds, some stumbling, falling. He felt for his sword, stepped into the center of the road, the flood of chaos now swarming all around him, and he began to shout, “Stop! Have you no shame?”

  The horde was passing by him, the men in a panicked retreat, and his fury boiled over. He waved the sword, striking the men as they passed by, still yelling at them, “Stop! Cowards!”

  There were hands on him now, and he felt himself pulled to one side, close to the carriage. Turning, he saw the face of an officer, the man saying, “Excellency, it is too dangerous here! We must go!”

  He stared at the man, thought, You will die for this, and he raised the sword, but there was a flash of light, a thunderous crash, then screams from the retreating troops. He saw the fresh crater in the road, a bloody mass, a piece of a man’s body, headless, spilling itself into the road. He felt himself lifted up into the carriage, hands pulling him roughly. The carriage lurched forward, spun in a tight circle, and he fell against the seat, the sword still in his hand. There were shouts all around him, men on horses, and he pulled himself up, could still see men running, but the carriage was moving with them. The carriage reached the crest of a hill, and Santa Anna shouted, “Stop here! This is far enough! I have to see!”

  The driver obeyed, and he eased out of the carriage again. All across the open ground, a steady flood of troops, wagons, horses flowed away from the battle lines, as though moving on a powerful current. He still held the sword in his hand, felt his rage building, thought, I will hang Valencia. I will see that man burn in hell for this. Disobey my order …

  The sounds of the fight were moving toward him now, a wave of musket fire flowing up from Padierna. There were more impacts of the enemy shells, some coming close, the ground shaking under him. He could see horses moving toward him, his own men, officers. One man rode close, dismounted, and Santa Anna saw the face of Colonel Cardozo, the efficient man, always calm.

  Cardozo said, “Your troops are waiting for the order, Excellency. The enemy has broken General Valencia’s position. It has been a disaster. There is no order, on either side. If we move in now, we can still save Padierna, still assist General Valencia. May I order the charge, Excellency?”

  Santa Anna looked at him, thought, They should all be like this one. They should all be as loyal. There is a price for disobedience, for not showing the proper respect. He thought of the word, disaster. It has been Valencia’s disaster. This will be a lesson, this will be the traitor’s price.

  “There will be no assault. Prepare to retreat back to San Ángel.”

  Cardozo stared at him, looked down the broad hill, said, “Excellency … retreat? The troops are
ready to advance. We are very strong here.”

  Santa Anna looked at the young man but did not answer. Your loyalty saves you from a lashing this time, he thought. I do not give my orders twice. He turned, moved to the carriage, climbed up slowly, settled into the seat. Cardozo was still watching him, his face full of questions. Santa Anna thought, He is too young, he does not yet understand.

  “Colonel Cardozo, there will be no saving General Valencia. His defeat will be his alone. That will be his shame, his reward for disloyalty. It is beyond my control. Come, move the men into position. We will prepare for another day.”

  21. SCOTT

  AUGUST TWENTIETH, LATE MORNING

  THERE WAS NO ORGANIZED FIGHT NOW, THE FLOOD OF TROOPS and guns moving in all directions, a confusing sea of assault and retreat. The Mexican forces around Padierna were simply gone, had left behind all of their guns and nearly fifteen hundred men either dead or captured, including four generals. Because they had expected the Americans to come straight at them from the lava field, most of Valencia’s troops had never been a part of the fight. When the first rush of sounds came from above and behind their position, there was no order that could hold them in place. Even Valencia himself had fled, scattering his men all over the countryside as they tried to find a safe route north, a route that would take them to the safety of the defenses close to the city.

  Scott had climbed Zacatepec early, stayed high on the crest of the big hill while Pillow and Twiggs tightened the circle, clearing Padierna of any defenses in less than an hour of fighting. Now, what fight was left was flowing rapidly north, and Scott had followed, had come across the ravine, moving out of the lava field with the last wave of troops. They splashed through the wide creek, the men surging out hard and fast into the fields of Padierna, troops who would only see the enemy if they could catch up to their rapid retreat.