by Jeff Shaara
Worth had taken great offense at being assigned to guard the army’s rear at Vera Cruz, while Twiggs and Patterson pushed inland. There was in fact nothing there to guard, no threat at all from a Mexican army that was already scattered farther inland. He perceived the assignment as a post for troops who could not be trusted. Worth had been insulted, but finally took a stand with Scott, strongly wording a request to join the rest of the army that Scott could not ignore. When Worth’s division was finally ordered to leave Vera Cruz, he marched his men inland with as much speed as they could endure. They reached the fight at Cerro Gordo barely in time to participate. He viewed Scott’s actions as another insult. If his men did not seem to share his sense that the commanding general’s orders were unfair, these slights only added to Worth’s festering dislike of Winfield Scott.
Scott did not realize how deeply Worth disliked him, and Worth’s own commanders did not fully understand his distaste for the commanding general. They knew that Worth’s overcaution was legendary. The division endured the summer months at Puebla, growing more accustomed to Worth’s fits of sudden panic, his bizarre routine of pulling the regiments together on short notice, lining up the tired troops into formation, only to receive the all clear, the word that the threat had passed, that the enemy was not waiting for them in hordes, ready to spring some surprise attack from just beyond the horizon. The jokes flowed quietly around the campfires, and the officers were tolerant, knowing they had to let their men blow off steam, release the small frustrations of a division commanded by an odd old bird, a man who saw ghosts. No real harm had come from the strange orders, the sudden defensive reaction to an assault that was never there. None of Worth’s troops believed their commander had become some kind of target for Scott, none believed the division had ever been singled out for punishment in the form of some obscure or humiliating assignment. That dark label was held tightly inside the mind of William Worth.
Now, the assault was to be his, his alone, a stroke of fate that had placed his division the closest to the Molino. This time he would receive no slight, no insult. Worth knew Scott could not avoid giving his men their opportunity. When the dawn broke, thirty-two hundred men would strike out hard at the cluster of low flat buildings. If the truce was truly over, the truce that Santa Anna had so brazenly used for his own benefit, he would know that the yanquis still had the fire, were still determined to bring the fight straight to his army.
THE MEN HAD FALLEN INTO LINE BY THREE A.M., WOULD WAIT for the artillery barrage to break up the stone walls of the front buildings, opening the paths for the first wave of the assault. Worth chose five hundred men, handpicked from each of the regiments. He had named Major George Wright, an efficient and energetic man who would never be found anywhere but in front of his troops, to command them. There was no sign of daylight yet, but the troops were standing ready. If they had done this before, standing in line in quiet darkness, they knew that this time there were no ghosts. When the order came, it would be Forward.
Worth stood high on a mound of dirt, stared to the east, waiting for the sun. Soldiers murmured around him, the nervous sounds of men who must wait, small bits of meaningless conversation, quiet prayers, the whispered commands of officers, Keep in line, muskets front.
He looked again toward the white stuccoed buildings of Molino del Rey, squat shapes in the dark, thought of the scouts, the engineers, the latest reports he should have had hours ago, thought, Where are they? The engineers had performed the dangerous mission several times, and tonight it was the same, crawling close to the low stone walls, noting the openings, verifying the position of the enemy cannon. He strained to see in the dark, men shifting their position, more voices, now heard his name, an aide moving up behind him.
“General Worth. The engineers have returned, sir.”
He stepped back off the mound, saw a small lantern held by the aide, saw now the face of Major Mason, smeared in black ash, smiling at him, his head bobbing up and down like some odd toy. Mason said, “Sir, I wish to report.… We believe there has been a development. Lieutenant Foster and I crawled up within seventy-five yards of the gun positions we had mapped during the truce. It seems, sir, that the Mexicans have pulled out. The guns are gone. I suspect, sir, that they have pulled out of the compound altogether.”
Worth looked at the other man, the younger lieutenant, saw him nodding as well, said, “You saw … none of the enemy? No guns?”
“That’s right, sir. It was all quiet.”
Worth made a fist, pounded it into his open hand, thought, If they have pulled away, they must have seen us moving into position. They have scouts too. He looked to the east, saw the first faint glow of low gray light on the horizon.
“Have you told anyone about this?”
Mason seemed puzzled. “Um, no, sir. We came straight here. My apologies for being late, but we took the most circuitous route to be safe.”
Worth moved back up the mound of dirt, looked past the patchwork of cultivated fields toward the compound, could see the dark shapes changing, coming alive under a faint white glow. There were officers in front of him now, looking at him, all the men knowing what the daylight would mean. Worth glanced behind him, back toward the south, thought, Watch us now, General Scott. We will flow past this Molino place like a wave the enemy has never seen, and there will be nothing to prevent us from reaching Chapultepec itself. By noon this division, Worth’s division, might very well have captured Santa Anna himself! He looked down, scanned the faces, saw Captain Huger, said, “You may commence firing, Captain. But make it brief.”
The artillery officer stepped forward, said, “Excuse me, sir? Brief?”
“Make it quick, Captain, a dozen shells, no more. That’s all we need. We don’t need to drag this out, spend half the morning shelling empty buildings. When you cease fire, the men will advance.”
Huger moved away, the officers speaking in a low hum now, questioning. Worth put his hands on his hips, stared at the awakening glow from the Molino.
“This is wonderful, gentlemen. This is the opportunity this division has needed! We’ll see what Old Fuss and Feathers has to say when this day is done!”
THE OPENING BARRAGE CAME FROM ONLY TWO BIG GUNS, Huger’s twenty-four pounders. When the first rounds were fired, the deep thunder rolled the ground under the feet of the troops. The men gave out a small cheer, knowing that as long as the steady, hard bursts split the air overhead, across the deadly space, the enemy was held low, might even be moving away. The word began to spread, the men close to the officers hearing the reports, and it was a rumor the men picked up with great energy. The enemy wasn’t even there anymore, had fled in the night, fled from the sheer spectacle of this strong presence. The big guns added to the spreading energy. Across the way they could see the impact of the shells, the solid shot first, great smashing blows against soft stone, then the exploding rounds, the flashes of fire throwing debris high in the air. The cheering settled into one voice, low and steady, erupting again as another shell struck the stone walls. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the deep roar of the guns suddenly stopped.
They still expected more, and the men looked down the line, looked to the officers, who stared back expectantly toward the battery. There had been less than a dozen rounds from each gun, and the men waited for the guns to fire again, no one believing the artillery assault would be this brief. Now a different order came, a short blast from a bugle, and the officers moved quickly, swords high, the men rolling forward. The cheer began again, the men moving down into the open ground, all faces focused forward to the row of white stone. The officers stayed to the front, waved them on, and behind, the sergeants moved close, straightened the line. But there would be no stragglers, not from these men, the handpicked, the best men Worth’s division could send to the fight.
Worth stood high on the mound again, raised his field glasses, but his hands were unsteady, shaking from the raw excitement, the thrill of watching the first wave move out in line. He saw the s
mall flag waving, saw Major Wright holding his sword forward, pointing at the first building, the men now beginning to break line, the anticipation of being the first one to cross into the compound driving them forward.
The line disappeared, moving down across a cornfield, the tall stalks rolling forward with the footsteps of the troops. Worth raised the glasses again, held his hands as steady as he could, finding Wright’s sword, pushing ahead through the corn. He lowered the glasses, saw the faces below watching him. “Send the next wave … send them!”
The call went out, and now far down to the left the next line began to move. McIntosh’s brigade moved more to the west, sweeping around another smaller compound, then rolled ahead to link with Wright’s men in the Molino. Worth looked out to the right, saw Garland’s brigade waiting, the men who would move straight into the Molino from the south, and he thought, Not yet, soon. We should all converge together. Once the first wave is in, once Wright sweeps away any resistance …
He glassed again toward the compound, saw Wright’s men coming up out of the corn, crossing a small road, still moving forward in one great mass of blue. He lowered the glasses, could not help but smile, thought, It has never felt this good. The eyes of the army—of the entire nation—are on these men.
The troops were within a hundred yards of the first buildings, and Worth thought again of the scouts, Mason’s report, seventy-five yards away. Right about … there, he thought. But they could have gone closer. If the enemy was gone, they could have walked right in. Perhaps they should have.
There was a sudden flash of fire from all along the Molino, and he felt his chest turn cold, the smoke already blowing out, covering the blue line. Now the sound reached him, one long roar, a rolling echo of black thunder. Raising the field glasses, he tried to see, but his fingers numb, he could not focus. He dropped the glasses, saw only the thick cloud engulfing his men, heard the continuous roar of gunfire, watched flashes of light from inside the compound, the big guns throwing their deadly charges into his men.
THE FIRST WAVE HAD COLLAPSED, AND THE MEN WERE STREAMING back to the safety of their own lines, pushing their way in a panic through the advance of the second wave. The guns were still firing all through the buildings of the Molino, and the troops who did not run could only lie low, hugging the soft dirt and the trampled cornstalks in the fields.
He moved forward, saw men climbing the low rise toward him, emerging from the smoke, ghostly, men who had seen enough of the fight, who had been too close to the faces of the enemy, their confidence shattered. He looked for officers, saw men being carried toward him, the first wounded, and the screams finally reached him, the awful sound of broken men. He stopped, his aides scrambling up behind him, speaking in voices he did not hear, men touching his coat, pulling him away from the danger. The hands began to move him back, the aides herding him up the long rise, but the troops still flowed up from the smoke, the sounds still filled him, overpowering. His mind began to clear, bloodied officers began to gather, men who had seen their soldiers swept away.
Worth looked at them, the faces all speaking to him, their voices a confusion of noise, and he focused on one man, an older face, a captain, said, “They were not supposed to be there! The scouts reported—”
The man’s expression curled into dark anger and he said, “The scouts were wrong, sir! The enemy moved their guns, pulled their artillery in close to the buildings. We’re pretty shot up, sir. We lost … most of the officers are down. Major Wright is down.”
Worth turned, stared at the rising wave of smoke, saw more men now moving toward him, couriers, and he stepped toward them, saw them salute. One man stepped forward. “General Worth, Colonel Garland reports heavy fighting in his front, a heavy concentration of the enemy. We were repulsed … but the colonel is re-forming the men and requests your orders, sir. Do we send them in again, sir?”
He felt an explosion bursting in his chest, shouted at the man, “Of course, send them in! Colonel Garland knows the plan! No one is to retreat! Our objective is to capture the Molino! Hold back nothing, no reserves! We must take those buildings! All of you, go back to your commands!”
The couriers moved quickly away, and he looked around, and walked toward the tall mound of dirt. There was a new sound now, from up toward the smaller compound, where McIntosh’s men had found their own fight. It was cannon, the sound different, distinctive, American. He climbed the hill, stared out, could see nothing but another thick cloud of smoke spreading out through the fields, hiding the small buildings. Yes, he thought, our guns, take it to them. We have better artillery. It will decide the day!
The smoke began to drift away out to the east, and for a moment he saw the great fat castle, rising up beyond the Molino. It should be ours, he thought. That place … it should belong to us … to this division. He saw Scott’s face now, tried to push the image away, but it was firmly fixed in his mind. You knew, you must have known, he thought. The enemy was waiting for us, knew our plan. There is no glory here today.
MOST OF THE MEXICANS HAD BEGUN TO PULL OUT OF THE Molino, and Worth’s men fought their way into the buildings in small groups, firing at close range into pockets of Mexican soldiers who did not hear the order to withdraw, or would not obey it if they had.
When the Americans came face-to-face with their enemy, the fighting changed, became something new, a different kind of horror for the men on both sides. When the muskets were empty, the soldiers attacked with their hands, grabbed and pulled and tore at the men who faced them. As more of the men in blue pushed inside the walls of the Molino, the Mexican defense could not hold them away, and finally the resistance collapsed.
Prisoners were gathered up, the officers sending them back across the ground where so many of the men in blue lay scattered. The few officers who survived the assault led small squads of men into the buildings one by one, and each time, they pushed hard through a thick doorway, expecting to find the smelting pots, the barrels of the new cannon the Mexicans would not after all be able to use. But the buildings of the Molino were empty, and the reports of the cannon, of the melting of church bells, proved to be only rumor, another sad mistake. If the massing of Mexican troops had been for some assault of their own, then Worth’s attack had been successful, driving the Mexicans back to the gates of the city, back to the thick walls of Chapultepec. But the cost was another disaster. In a fight that lasted barely two hours, Worth’s division lost a quarter of its strength, left nearly eight hundred men behind.
27. LEE
SEPTEMBER EIGHTH, MIDDAY
HE MOVED SLOWLY FORWARD, STEPPING CAREFULLY BELOW THE edge of the causeway, staying off the high open road. He stopped, listened, but there was nothing to hear. The sounds had faded completely from around the Molino. He had been out early, heard the sounds of Worth’s fight, a steady rumble of cannon and musket fire, still had no idea what had happened. He could only guess that if the Molino was quiet, Worth was inside, had occupied the compound that could provide the army with a starting point for another push, closer again, this time from the west. If Scott made the decision to begin the final push to the city’s gates from that point, it would mean they first would have to overcome the enormous difficulty of assaulting the old fortress, Chapultepec.
He was scouting the southern gates of the city, easing along the Piedad causeway, moving as close to the Belén gate as the Mexican sentries would allow. They had paid no attention to him thus far, no patrol had been sent to interfere, no sporadic crack of musket fire from bored lookouts. The attention had all been to the west, and the movement he had seen, wagons, guns rolling both ways on the causeway to the Molino, had stayed well to the northwest, above his position.
At first light Beauregard had begun his own mission, scouting a parallel course to the east, using another of the high roads that led straight into the southern gates. Lee was surprised to see him now, scrambling up behind him, his uniform muddy at the knees.
Lee squatted down, waited for Beauregard to move clos
e, said, “What happened? Couldn’t you get close to the gate?”
Beauregard took a moment to catch his breath. “The sentries … they caught sight of me pretty quick, fired a few rounds down the road. I got close enough to see they blocked the road, earthworks, a pretty good stack of timbers. I could make out two batteries, back close to the city. They have the whole area covered by artillery.”
Lee was impressed, thought, A good report, he’s getting better at this job. “Sounds like they expect us to advance that way. That’s important. We must make sure General Scott is aware.”
Beauregard seemed to inflate. He smiled, rubbed his brow with a handkerchief. “What about here? They see you?”
Lee looked up the embankment toward the roadway. “If they have, they haven’t made any move. I think they’re more concerned with what happened at the Molino. If General Worth was successful, the Mexicans would have to protect the road that runs west, toward Chapultepec. We’re no threat here.”
Beauregard crawled halfway up the embankment and stood, his head nearly level with the road. Lee thought, Careful, Lieutenant. No easy targets.
Beauregard looked down at him. “You want to keep going?”
Lee stood, straightened stiff knees, nodded, pointed toward the base of the embankment. “Down here, Lieutenant. Keep low. No point in attracting any more attention than we have to. I don’t care for facing a squad of cavalry.”