by Jeff Shaara
Grant slid into the aqueduct, said quietly, “There is a fortification, just past these buildings. I have a dozen men, in a flanking movement. Lieutenant Gore is preparing to advance on the road once we surprise the enemy from behind.”
Brooks looked behind him, said, “Lieutenant Grant, I have about a hundred men here. Could they be of help?”
Grant looked down the aqueduct, saw a long row of bayonets. “If they’re quiet, yes, sir.”
Brooks looked back, said to the man at the front of the column, “Pass the word. Silence. The enemy is close.” The man whispered behind him, and Brooks said to Grant, “You’re in charge, Lieutenant.”
Grant climbed out of the aqueduct, saw his own men now emerging from between the houses, frowning, concerned, and he moved close and whispered, “It’s all right, gentlemen. This is still our mission. Don’t ever be disappointed by reinforcements.”
Brooks’s men began to emerge from the aqueduct. Grant motioned them forward, past the garden walls, closer to the enemy’s position.
They all heard the voices now, and Grant, fists clenching, could feel the energy behind him. He drew his pistol, waited for a brief moment. The men were staring at him, some hearing the sounds for the first time, the voices of Mexican soldiers. He raised his hand, all faces were watching now, and with one quick wave he shouted, “Charge!”
The men poured past him, and suddenly the shouts turned to sounds of a fight, muskets firing wildly, the voices of the Mexicans rising into shouts of alarm. He moved into the rush, followed the men up and over the rear of the barricade, could see Gore’s men now, running hard, straight up the road. The Mexicans were scattering, leaping down from rooftops, filling the road behind the barricade. Grant saw the gun now, moved that way, saw a small cluster of men sitting, the gunners already subdued, captured by one man holding his bayonet high. Grant looked past, saw Gore climbing into the barricade, and Gore shouted, “Good work, Lieutenant! They’re on the run!”
Grant said, “Sir, we should pursue! They’re getting away!”
Gore seemed to hesitate, said, “The rest of the brigade should be up soon.”
Grant felt a punch of anger, saw the last few Mexicans emerging from a house behind them. A quick burst of musket fire came from Brooks’s men, but the Mexican soldiers were quickly away, dodging through the gaps of the houses.
Grant said, “Sir, with all respect, is this still my … show?”
Gore saw the soldiers gathering, the men beginning to shout, raising their muskets in salute, and said, “It seems … it is still your show, Lieutenant.”
Grant smiled, jumped out the back of the barricade, moved into the road, the men following him, moving in pursuit of the enemy. Down the road, they could see men scrambling up onto the rooftops. A moment later the sound of musket fire rang out as the Mexican defense found a target. Grant waved the men out of the road. The men kicked doors in, and the houses began to fill with blue troops. Grant slipped between two houses again, looked toward the front, saw Mexican troops still in the road, scrambling away to safety, while above them more snipers covered their retreat. He felt hard anger, wanted to shout, to let out the frustration he felt at watching the enemy escape.
“Damn!”
He could still see men in blue slipping forward, moving house-to-house, firing toward the enemy on the rooftops. Yes, go, he thought. We are very close. The main gate has to be just ahead. He waved the men on, could see faces watching him from the houses, and he thought, We cannot just stop, not now. He jumped quickly into the road, waved again, shouted, “Go! Forward!”
The men followed him again, dodging in and out of cover. He stayed low against a waist-high rock wall. Across the aqueduct, through a wide opening between the houses, he could see the high stone wall of the city, and the massive archway. He stopped, thought, San Cosme. Yes! We can push straight through.…
He slipped past the last of the great stone arches, could see clearly across a wide plaza to where the Mexican troops were scrambling back into another barricade, this one larger, heavy timbers spread in line in front of the massive gate. He stopped, felt a sudden shock, could see flags now, many flags, saw the wall on both sides of the gate lined with a thick mass of muskets, the barricade dotted with a row of cannon. He felt a hand pulling him, grabbing his coat, and he moved back behind the low wall, slipped into the open doorway of a house. The hand released him, and he turned, saw Gore, Semmes, more men seeking the close shelter of the house. Gore said, “I believe, Mr. Grant, we should now wait for the brigade.”
WORTH ORDERED HIS MEN TO PULL BACK FROM THE MEXICAN strength at San Cosme, and began concentrating them in heavy cover, bringing the larger guns forward, to throw the power and strength of the artillery against the Mexican position. The scouts had slipped forward, and now the reports were in, confirming what Grant had already seen. The houses along the wall were heavy with Mexican troops, and the barricades held a strong battery of cannon. There was a different kind of report as well, word from the Mexican prisoners, and now that word had spread. The Americans waited with grim impatience, a slow-growing enthusiasm for what surely could be the final fight. They had learned that the man commanding the Mexican defense at the gate was Santa Anna himself.
Behind the gathering infantry, the guns were put into the most effective locations, and many of the smaller field guns were carried up, placed carefully in elevated positions, some rolled right out onto rooftops. The Mexicans did not allow the work to proceed without a protest of their own, and the artillery quickly began to trade rounds, the Mexican cannon throwing a deadly shower of grapeshot and canister toward the open road, toward any clear route the Americans would have to cross.
Grant had not seen Colonel Clarke since early that morning, had wondered what the brigade commander’s response might be to his independence. Grant still did not have a formal position leading troops, no specific command of the Fourth Regiment’s combat units. Since well before Vera Cruz, he had served as regimental quartermaster, had proven to be so efficient at the job, it was assumed by the other officers that Clarke would keep him there. But Grant would not stay out of the line of fire, and by the time the army gathered at Puebla, he had learned that Clarke would look away, would not hold him back. If Clarke demonstrated lenience toward his quartermaster, Grant would take advantage, would always find some way to stay close to the guns. If Clarke admired Grant’s skills with the valuable supplies, he could not deny the young lieutenant what Grant wanted most: the opportunity to fight.
As the brigade crowded tightly into the buildings and gardens, Clarke had sent word back to General Worth. The men were ready, the assault could begin. As the troops held low to their cover and the artillery dueled above their heads, Grant was again on his own.
THE MEXICAN MUSKETS WERE CONCENTRATED NOW, AND THE open ground was cut by a hail of deadly fire. The officers were still forming the men, doing last-minute checks, but Grant could not simply sit and wait. He had thought of making the same approach as before—create some opportunity, get close, keep moving, the fast burst, no time for the enemy to find you. But there was no cover in front of the gate itself, and if there was another way, it could only come far down on the flank.
The houses were more plentiful here, many newer, freshly built stone walls, more gardens still spread with bright colors. The area was dotted with small churches, open air markets, an arm of the city spread out far to both sides of the gate. He had scouted on his own again, slipped down to the right, easing slowly between the older stone huts with low flat roofs and the larger houses, surrounded by wide porches under dark copper awnings. He could see the defense at the wall through every gap, but there were no snipers now, the Mexicans all pulling in to the walls of the city. He stood alone now, in the open, a small marketplace, crude tables covered with the remains of yesterday’s trade, scraps of vegetables, the hard smell of spoiled meat.
Along the main road the sound of cannon fire was growing, a hot duel between the artillery, accompanie
d by the steady shower of musket fire. The men were pushing forward, making slow progress, while the cannon threw a heavy charge into the Mexican batteries, holding the Mexican guns silent, but the quiet moments were brief, and soon the roadway was swept again by Mexican shells, and Clarke’s men were back behind their cover.
Grant retreated from the Mexican position, slipped behind a low, flat house, heard voices, an officer shouting, saw now a small field gun, pulled by its crew. The officer pointed the way, and the men rolled the gun toward Grant, no one seeing him. When the officer spotted him, he looked at Grant, surprised, said, “Whoa, hold it! Who the hell are you?”
Grant saw the man’s rank, a captain, saluted him, said, “Lieutenant Grant, sir. Fourth Regiment. Been doing some scouting, sir.”
“Well, Grant, you much of a scout? You find someplace I can put this damned gun? I’m Captain Flannery, Second Artillery. Colonel Garland sent me down this way to find some good vantage point. Damned if I can see one.”
Grant looked at the small gun, the four-man crew now catching their breath. The two men hauling thick cloth bags over their shoulders shifted their load. Grant felt suddenly excited, thought, This could be … an excellent opportunity. He saw the angry frustration on Flannery’s face, thought, Careful now. But what could we do with this wonderful gun?
“Sir, I have discovered the Mexicans do not protect their flanks very well. If we move farther down this way, we will certainly find someplace to position the gun, and possibly enfilade their works at the gate. There is no opposition here, no sniper fire.”
Flannery moved forward, peered around the closest house, looked back at Grant. “Don’t care much for snipers, Grant. I’ll take your word for it. You lead the way.”
Grant waited for the crew to prepare themselves, two men now lifting the tongue of the gun carriage, watching him, and he pointed past the house. “That way.”
He slipped past the house, could see the main wall again, from where the Mexican muskets were still firing. Thick clouds of smoke drifted overhead, and he heard the impact of a shell, close. Flannery said, “Dammit, not here. Over that way!”
Grant looked back, expected the man to be cursing him, but Flannery was looking back toward the walls, said now, “That’s one of our guns. Probably that fool Lane. Couldn’t hit a barn door if it was falling on him. We’re in more danger from him than the damned Mexicans.”
Grant saw the grim, weary faces of the crew, but knew they must press on. “This way. Quickly.”
The gun rolled forward again, as Grant scanned the buildings, his anxiety growing. We can’t just sit out here in the open, he thought. The rooftops are flat, no cover for the gun. The muskets will pick us apart.
He turned a corner, saw a column of smoke far to the south, could hear a low rumble, more guns, another fight down below, the other gate, Quitman’s men.
Flannery said, “Hear that? Old Worth is gonna have a fit if Quitman and his volunteers get inside first. I heard it’s some kind of damned race, who sets foot in the city first. Worth said our pride is at stake. I take more pride in staying alive. Damned generals.”
Grant tried not to listen, avoided the looks from the sweating crew, the men straining now, the gun growing heavier by the minute, the work usually done by horses. He moved across a small intersection, past a narrow alleyway, where he looked in both directions. More low, flat rooftops, and now he heard a cracking sound from the wall closest to him and saw a spray of splintered rock falling away. Flannery said, “Hey! No snipers, eh? Don’t think so, Grant. You sure you know where the hell we’re going?”
Grant said nothing, waved them forward, moved past the alley, the road curving slowly, turning them straight toward the long wall again. He felt an angry twist in his gut, thought, There has to be … someplace. Find it! They are counting on you. He stopped, straightened up, saw a dull white wall rising in front of him, beyond a wide ditch. High above, he saw a stone archway holding a small brass bell. It was a church. He smiled, felt a rush of relief, turned to Flannery, pointed, said, “There.”
Flannery moved up beside him, and Grant saw the crew lower the gun, the heavy bags dropping to the ground. “Where?”
Grant pointed. “The church. Good cover up on the roof. They’ve been mounting batteries on rooftops all day. We can just cross the ditch—”
“Ditch?” Flannery said. “It’s a damned river!”
Grant moved to the sloping edge of the waterway, his patience gone. He began to wade out, the slope deeper now. He unhooked his pistol belt, held it high, felt the warm water rising in his clothes, his feet sliding down into soft mud. He stopped himself, turned, said, “If you want to put that cannon to some use, Captain, you had better follow me.”
He moved farther across the ditch, could feel the water seeping up over his waist, higher now, his chest, and he thought, Please, no deeper. Be mighty embarrassing to drown right here. I’m supposed to be the scout.
Flannery barked to his men, “Well, dammit, we got nothing better to do. Take her apart, let’s swim.”
Grant ignored the activity behind him, was feeling the mud with his boots, inched himself forward. The slope was gone, the bottom of the ditch level, more solid, the water still up to his chest. He saw a mass of green in front of him, reached out, pushed aside thick weeds, his hand gripping a thick vine. Good, he thought, pull … easy …
The ground under his feet began to rise, and he climbed up, dug his boots into the mud, and then he was clear of the water. He looked back, saw the gun crew wading in, the heavy bags of powder held high. The men were across quickly, and he reached out, took the precious powder from them as they came up. They splashed quickly back across the ditch, and he watched as the gun was broken down in pieces, two men now cradling the barrel on their shoulders. Flannery watched from across the ditch as Grant waited for the men to come out of the water. Seeing a frown on Flannery’s face, he said, “We’re all set over here, Captain. You coming?”
Flannery moved to the edge of the water, said, “Any snakes in there? Anybody see anything moving around?”
The men laughed, and one of them said, “Aw, come on now, Captain. Just be quick, won’t hardly get your feet wet.”
Flannery scowled at his men, looked at Grant. “Don’t like snakes. Not one bit.”
He eased slowly into the water, holding his own belt high, his angry frown changing to wide-eyed fear. He pushed quickly, made small grunting noises as he worked his way across. “They missed me. They were there, I know they were there.”
Grant watched the men put the cannon back together, while Flannery wiped at the muddy slime on his uniform. “No more ditches, Lieutenant. I’d rather fight Santa Anna by myself than mess with a snake.”
Grant said nothing, moved away, looked again at the belfry of the church. No more ditches, he thought. This ought to do just fine.
The crew was ready now and the gun was rolling again. They crossed a narrow street, moved into a small open yard in front of the church. Grant moved to the door, thought, Could be … someone here. He pulled his pistol, looked back, saw Flannery draw his as well, the crew spreading out to either side of the old wooden door. Grant took a breath, knocked on the splintered wood. There was a silent pause, then the door slowly began to open. Grant stepped back, held the pistol ready, saw the old face of a priest, stooped by age, smiling. “Sí?”
Grant glanced at Flannery, put the pistol away, said, “Uh, señor. We need to come in.”
The priest nodded, still smiling, then looked at the cannon, seemed to understand, and began shaking his head, laughing quietly. “No, no. Aqui? No.”
Flannery was beside him now, said, “Look, padre, we need to get these men off the street. This gun of mine is under orders. Now, I’m as respectful of the church as the next man—” He stopped, said, “Shoot, he don’t understand a damned word.”
The priest still smiled, and Grant stepped back, moved to the gun, reached down and grabbed the tongue of the carriage, tried to lift it, b
ut the gun barely moved. He looked at the crew, and the men moved toward him, helpful hands. Grant said quietly, “Spin it around.”
The priest watched the gun turning, still smiling pleasantly until the carriage was lowered and the mouth of the barrel came up, facing directly into the doorway, directly at the old man’s face. The smile changed as the old man’s wide eyes stared straight into the round black hole.
Grant stepped toward the door again. “Now he understands.” The priest looked at him in silent anger, nodded slowly, backed away. Grant moved inside, pointed up. “Stairway? The roof?” The priest pointed, and Grant saw it now, narrow winding steps. He looked at Flannery. “Can we get it up there?”
Flannery looked at the stairway, then back at the crew. “I think so, Grant. All right, boys. Take her apart again.”
GRANT STEPPED ONTO THE ROOF, MOVED TOWARD THE STONE archway, the belfry enclosed by a low round wall. Behind him, Flannery directed his crew, and now the gun came up the stairway, the spoked wheels first, the hard wood of the carriage, and finally the brass barrel. Grant stood aside, watched in quiet amazement as the gun was reassembled. Then Flannery came up into the belfry, looked at the tight space, said, “Not much room.”
Grant looked out toward the great rising clouds of smoke, the fight now swirling all along the wall, the sounds of muskets punched by the thunder of the big guns.
Flannery said, “Hell, Grant, we’re not two hundred yards from the gate. Not likely they’ll ignore us up here for long.” He looked to the crew, the men hauling the cloth bags up on the stairway, and said, “Keep low, boys. We’re in easy musket range. Chances are they’ll send somebody out here to take this gun away from us. So, while we have the time … let’s make the most of it.”