by Jeff Shaara
The gun moved under his grip, rolled over, sat upright. He pulled it around, began to drag it toward the sloping side of the ditch, the men watching him, paralyzed. He moved up the side, put one foot up, began to pull at the gun, making slow progress, his feet digging into soft sand. He felt a fury blowing in his brain, looked at the man closest to him, the sergeant, said, “You! Up …” There was a sudden rush of wind, and behind the ditch the ground burst into flame, the shell blowing dirt and rock on top of them, showering the men who crouched low. Jackson grabbed the spoke of one wheel, turned hard, and the gun rolled out of the ditch. He jumped back down, saw broken boxes, grabbed a shell, saw a cloth sack of powder. He carried them both out of the ditch again. He focused on the gun, turned it to face the Mexican works, sighted quickly down the barrel, his mind burning, the knife spinning in his chest.
Another blast of air knocked him back, but the shot did not explode. It burrowed into the side of the ditch, behind the men. Now the faces began to move, and he could see them coming closer, thought, Yes! Up here! Let’s go to work! He bent low, picked up the powder charge, moved to the front of the barrel, slid the charge into the muzzle, reached down for the small ramrod, saw the hooks empty. He shouted harshly, moved toward the ditch again. There was a sudden strange sound, a rumble underneath him. He looked down, saw the unexploded shell furrowing the dirt between his feet, then pushing out through the soft sand into the ditch, rolling slowly into the bottom. He looked at the hot glow of the copper ball, thought, God is here! God is watching! That one was meant for me! He looked again at the sergeant, the others, the men staring at the blessed misfire. Laughing softly, he said, “You see, soldier? They can’t hurt me! There’s no danger here! Come on, get up! Help me fire the gun!”
The sergeant turned, looked at Jackson, who saw the man’s eyes clearing, his soul opening up, the strength returning. The sergeant scrambled up beside him, and Jackson shouted, “Yes! Come on! Bring up the other gun! Let’s go to work!”
The men climbed out of the ditch, and Jackson saw the ramrod now, the gunner bringing it up, moving quickly to the muzzle, ramming the powder charge in place. Another man had the shell, and quickly the gun was loaded. Jackson stared out to the Mexican works, shouted, “Fire!”
The gun bounced high, the smoke covering them all. Jackson waved the smoke away, saw the shell drop far in front of the works.
“No! Increase …” He looked to the gun, saw the crew doing their jobs, working quickly, and he backed away. Two men were gathering the shells, more powder charges from the ditch. Now the second gun was up, began to fire, and Jackson stared at the Mexican defense, saw a blast of brush and logs, the shell finding the mark. He smiled, nodded quietly. Yes. Now we shall see.
The Mexican gun fired again, the burst of smoke showing him the position, and he pointed, shouted, “See? There! That’s the target!” The guns were both working now, quickly responding. The smoke flowed over him, the shells from the Mexican gun bursting behind, then out to one side. He turned, thought, Horses, if we had some horses, we could get closer.… He saw a rider, one man, followed by two more. It was Magruder. He saluted, smiled, and Magruder jumped off the horse, hopped down into the ditch.
“Well, Lieutenant, you’ve started your own private war. How is it going?”
Jackson wiped his eyes, turned toward the enemy, saw nothing but smoke, said, “I believe, sir, if you give me a few more veterans, we could take the city!”
Magruder, beside him now, was looking through field glasses. “Might not be necessary. They’re pulling out.”
Jackson moved forward, strained to see, thought, No, it cannot be … not yet.
Magruder shouted to Jackson’s crew, “Cease fire!”
Jackson moved past the hot muzzle of the gun, saw motion, the flag moving away, thought, But … we’re not through here.
Magruder put a hand on his shoulder, said, “It’s all right, Lieutenant. You won.”
There were more sounds now, coming up the road, more guns, Magruder’s field pieces, and behind, the quick march of Trousdale’s infantry. Jackson stared at the Mexican works, silent now, and his men began to cheer, tossing hats in the air. He glanced at the men, smiled, stepped closer to the one gun, the gun he had dragged out of the ditch. He put a hand out, touched the hot barrel, thought of Magruder’s words … You won. He glanced up, thought, Yes, I know You were here, I know You were watching this. I can feel it, I know this was a gift, this is Your hand. He looked at Magruder, saw a smile, Magruder shaking his head, and Jackson said, “Sir, I believe this is … the most fun I have ever had.”
31. GRANT
SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH, MIDDAY
WORTH’S MEN HAD ROLLED IN A THICK COLUMN PAST THE intersection where Jackson’s guns had broken up the Mexican defense. Next the move had been north, along a wide, hard road that paralleled the western walls of the city. To the south, Quitman’s volunteers were moving east, fighting the last remnants of the troops from Chapultepec, pushing closer to the Belén gate.
Grant had grown to dislike his commander, had no respect for the way Worth had exercised his discretion. He knew only fragments of the quiet conflict between Worth and Scott, things he learned from the indiscreet comments from senior officers. He had endured, as the entire division had endured, the comical ghost-chasing in Puebla, but when the comedy had turned to deadly seriousness, when Worth had his opportunity to command the fight at the Molino, it was difficult for any of them to feel good about the victory. There were too many friends, too many good soldiers, left behind.
He had a good feeling about Scott, had sensed it from the earliest days before the invasion of Vera Cruz. Scott brought something very different to the command, some ingredient of discipline and formality that was the complete opposite of Zachary Taylor. Grant had taken his West Point training seriously, had come to enjoy the rituals, the dress parades, the perfect order of the drill. Taylor had made it clear from the first days in Texas that there would be none of that in his camp, that the white glove formality of command didn’t exist in his world. He was a crude, friendly man, who could engage in conversation with the private or the general, and neither would feel intimidated by the presence of their commander. Taylor rarely wore any kind of uniform, would wander through the camps in a straw hat, denim pants, seemingly more interested in stories from home than tomorrow’s strategy. It made him popular with the troops, but to Grant, and to many of the younger officers fresh from the strict training of West Point, it was a difficult collapse of discipline.
Scott changed that, and Grant had been much more comfortable with “Old Fuss and Feathers” in command. The formality returned, and Scott was very clear about protocol, about dress, about all those things that the younger officers had expected from life in the army. The senior commanders were there because of age, experience. But without Winfield Scott to control them, Grant knew that this war would already have been a crushing disaster. If he had doubted that, if he had still believed any of them could have sent Santa Anna packing, after Molino there was no doubt at all.
GRANT MARCHED QUICKLY, FOLLOWED BY A MIXED CREW OF troops, men gathered from units scattered by the quick decisions that came with the assault. Part of Worth’s division was now inside Chapultepec, and Grant knew Longstreet had gone that way. He had watched the flag go up with the same cheer that rolled over the fort itself. We will talk about this, he had thought, we will tell our children what this day was like. I hope to God you are safe, Pete.
They pushed on through the intersection that turned their march eastward, the final push toward the San Cosme gate. There was no defense here, no earthworks or cannon to slow the American advance, and Grant waved his men forward, the column spreading out, feeling its way through houses, small buildings. The city had spread outside the walls here, and along the last causeway were the outskirts of the city itself—shops, churches. The residents were mostly gone, had seen the American flag rise on their great fortress. They had moved into the city itself, seeking t
he safety of the last great barrier, huddling in the open squares, gathering in marketplaces behind the last stand of their soldiers.
The roadway was divided at that point, an aqueduct splitting the center, supported by great stone arches. The men moved more slowly, picked their way carefully, avoiding the musket fire from Mexican snipers. The sharp whistles of the lead balls had been scattered at first, but were heavier now, coming from the last concentration of Mexican troops still outside the city walls.
Grant slid in behind a fat column of stone, peered out, watched for motion. The shooting was slow and steady now, lacking any rhythm, the lead smacking and splintering the stone. Behind him, men were easing along, finding their way with no formal orders, no massed column of assault. He looked back, saw men behind each wall, each pile of stone, men peering from doorways, some emerging onto rooftops. There was the answering shot now, one man finding a target, a quick shout, success, or silence, the man reloading, moving closer, to try again.
He stared to the front again, caught a brief flicker of motion, men scampering away, dropping down from the roof of a small house, while behind him several muskets cracked, his men seeing the opportunity. He made a quick wave, thought, Now, slid quickly out from the cover, crossed the road, flattened up against the white wall of a house. He waited, heard nothing, thought, Keep going. You cannot give them time, not offer yourself as a target. He looked back, saw faces watching him, and now several men followed his lead, scampered across the road, blending into the cover behind him. There was a burst of musket fire coming from another rooftop somewhere in front, and he heard laughter behind him, a man’s voice, “Not this time …!”
He heard more comments, the men enjoying the pure thrill of the chase, the slow and steady pursuit of the hidden enemy. This is very different, he thought, this is nothing like Molino, or any other fight we’ve had. This requires something besides pure mindless power, sending your troops straight into a blaze of fire, killing your own men in great numbers just so you can claim a victory. Here each man is on his own.
Shots came from the left of the road, across the aqueduct, and he peeked out, could see nothing, thought, Good, move up. He could see no sign of the men behind him, and he knew they were huddled tightly behind cover just as he was. He had never experienced a fight like this before, and for one brief second he felt suddenly alone, felt a small cold chill, thought, Have faith, Lieutenant. They’re back there. No one’s pulling out of here without telling you. He waited, no musket fire in the road, peeked around the side of the house, thought, All right … let’s go!
He ran into the road, past the house, keeping low, looking for another gap between walls, but the house connected hard to the next one, a long low stone building providing no opening, no cover at all. He felt the cold rush again, thought, Nothing to do but run. He moved faster, farther down the roadway, heard the crack of the musket now, the high zip of the lead ball, then more, the sound of muskets coming alive in front of him. He saw a break in the wall to the left, a wide crack, thought, Finally, thank God, and leaped into the gap, pushed hard against the cold stone. The musket balls smashed the rock beside him, and he saw a flash of light, the smoke flowing down from a rooftop across the road. Oh, God … too close.
He saw a space between the houses across the road, thought, Go, there, and burst out of the cover, a quick dash, collapsed against the stone again. He could hear voices, high, excited, speaking Spanish. He put his hand on his heaving chest, his breathing hard and quick. He found his pistol, thought, Now … you are alone. He looked back down the road, saw brief glimpses of faces, the men looking for him, for where he had stopped. Good, he thought, very good. Just … wait there a second.
He moved farther into the dark gap between the houses, could see a small green yard now, bordering the aqueduct. He listened, heard the voices still, held the pistol close to his chest, faced the wall, cold stone on his face. He eased slowly toward the edge, one eye close to the wall, then a quick glimpse. The yard was empty, and he let out a breath, listened for the voices again, could hear quick shouts, thought, It sounds like orders … officers. He moved past the back of the house, close to a short rock wall bordering a small garden, a scattered mass of bright flowers. He stepped over them, the soft dirt yielding under his feet, making no sound. Crossing into another small yard, he stepped over flower pots. He glanced behind him, breathing in short hot bursts, thought, Keep a count how far … this is not the place to get lost. The voices were quiet now, and he thought, They must think they got me. They don’t know I’m here. This is not … the best place for me to be. But if there are a lot of them, I have to see.… We could be moving into a trap.
He reached the far end of another house, flattened himself against the wall again, the dampness in his uniform pressing into his chest. He eased his head out, then pulled back, felt his chest pound, felt a cold burst of anxiety. The voices had come from a barricade along the road, a low pile of wood, scraps from the houses, furniture, and lined up behind was a squad of Mexican soldiers. He held himself still for a moment, his hands shaking, could hear his own breathing, his heart pounding in his ears. Easy, he thought, calm … slow down. Think what you have to do. How many are there? He looked again, could see the uniforms, one officer, counted small clusters of men, muskets all pointed out. He heard voices above him, pulled back, flattened himself again against the rough wall, thought, The roof … they’re all over the place. He eased his face along the stone, took another look at the barricade, and the officer stepped aside, pointing to something out in front of the muskets. Grant saw it now, the bright glint of brass. It was a cannon. He pulled back again, thought, All right, get out of here. He eased back across the yards, slipped between the garden walls, watched for his gap between the houses. He slipped into the darkness again, felt his breathing, smiled, thought, Never guessed I’d be a guerrilla.
He moved out to the front of the house, peered out toward the barricade, but could not see it, thought, It’s concealed, somehow. If we advance … they’ll blow us to pieces. He looked back down the road, could see faces again, his own men, some closer now, some men still moving forward in quick dashes. He saw something new, a body dressed in a blue uniform, a pool of blood spreading out on hard stone. Damn, he thought, careful. He waited, listened for the voices, heard only quiet now. Yes, they’re waiting for us. I have to get back.…
He jumped into the road, ran hard toward a stone arch, slipped behind it. He’d drawn no musket fire, and he looked across the road, where a larger group of men, huddled low, were watching him. He waited, took a breath, crossed the road in a dash, the men pulling back to make a space. He saw an officer now, Lieutenant Gore, and Gore said, “Lieutenant, where did you go? Awfully risky …”
Grant nodded, said, “Yes, sir. I flanked them, sir. They’re in force up ahead, just beyond those buildings, at least one artillery piece. But I found out how we can get behind them.”
Gore glanced back, and Grant saw another officer, wearing a marine uniform. The man moved close and Gore said, “Lieutenant Ulysses Grant, this is Lieutenant Raphael Semmes. He is observing our activity today. I do not think he expected to be fighting house-to-house.”
Semmes nodded to Grant, said, “You believe we can get behind them?”
“I was there, sir. I moved to within a few yards. They did not detect my presence.”
Semmes looked at Gore. “It’s your decision. You’re the ranking officer.”
Gore glanced back down the road. “I thought … we should wait for the rest of the brigade. This is risky.”
Grant saw the look in Gore’s eyes, thought, He will not make the decision.
Semmes looked at him, seemed to read him, said, “Lieutenant Grant, would you prefer to wait for the rest of the brigade?”
Grant took a breath, thought, Careful. You’re the junior man here. “Sir, the brigade will take considerable loss if they move against that barricade. No doubt there are more just like it, and the closer we get to San Cosme, ther
e will certainly be more artillery. This requires … finesse.”
Semmes smiled, nodded, and Gore said, “All right, Mr. Grant, until we hear from Colonel Clarke, this is your show. What would you suggest?”
“A dozen men can slip back beyond the barricade. Your men here can wait for the first assault, then move up in front.”
Semmes said, “I suggest you take out the gunners first. Take the cannon out of action. Not likely the Mexicans will hold their ground if their gun goes down.”
Grant nodded, and Gore motioned behind him, said in a hoarse shout, “Volunteers. A dozen men … go with Lieutenant Grant, follow his commands.”
The men moved up, and Grant saw their eagerness, their confidence, thought, Take good care, Lieutenant. They seem to … believe in you.
HE LED THEM UP CLOSE, SLIPPING OUT QUICKLY INTO THE ROAD, sliding up into the cover as the enemy muskets tried to find the aim. He could see the gap between the two houses, knew it would be the last dangerous crossing, held up his hand, the silent command, wait. He peered out around the house, saw nothing moving, no sign of the enemy. Looking across to the space between the houses, he pointed, saw the heads nodding, and he whispered, “No firing. No talking. We are very close.”
He peered out again, raised his hand, Wait, then glanced back at them, dropped his hand, whispered, “Let’s go.”
He ran out into the road, slid quickly into the dark space, the men filing in behind him. There were smiles, wide eyes, and he shook his head, touched his lips, No sound. They could all hear the voices now, and he waited, thought, The talk is not … excited, they still don’t know we’re here. He moved farther between the houses, peered into the yard, heard a different sound, backed into the gap, could hear the splashing of water, footsteps. He put his hand up, Stay here. He slipped low into the yard, moved close to the aqueduct, then eased up slowly, saw hats, let out a breath, thought, American … thank God. He eased forward, held up a hand, and they saw him. He quickly motioned them to quiet, held a finger to his lips. He saw the officer now, recognized Captain Brooks, who said, “What … are you doing here? Not where I expected to see an American officer.”