by Jeff Shaara
Grant eased behind the gun, saw one man slide the powder charge down the barrel, the ramrod pushing it tight. Then came the small round shell, six pounds of lead, another man placing it in the barrel, the ramrod pushing tight again. Flannery was beside Grant, sighted down the barrel, adjusted a small elevation wheel.
“What’s your pleasure, Grant?”
Grant could see the thick burst of smoke from in front of the Mexican battery, the thunder rolling out through the houses, could see the motion of the gun crews, the officers pointing, guiding the deadly shell.
Grant pointed, said, “I believe we should begin … there. How about we send the first one right into that battery?”
WORTH GLASSED TOWARD THE MEXICAN BATTERY THROUGH small gaps in the smoke and chaos of the fight. From his vantage point on the rooftop, he could see his men very clearly, watched their artillery finding the mark, taking deadly aim at the strength of the Mexican defense. The troops were still advancing, and the muskets had been finding their targets, while the Mexican infantry pulled back off the wall, the troops in the houses, on the rooftops, backing away into the city. The reports were coming in all around him, and aides waited, some showing quiet impatience, especially the young couriers not yet accustomed to the rhythm of the senior commanders. Worth ignored the aides, their fast talk, the quick movement of officers, still glassed along the wall, focused now on a column of gray smoke rising from the belfry of a church. He saw the burst of fire, the impact of the shell close by, the Mexicans behind the barricade answering with muskets. The gun fired again, and there was a shattering blast in the barricade. Worth tried to see through the smoke, lowered the glasses, said, “Who is that? There’s a cannon up in that church tower.”
Clarke, beside him now, raised his glasses, stared for a moment, and Worth said, “He’s got ’em running! Some good work there. Fine work. I’d like to know who it is.”
Clarke shook his head, looked now to the far side of the rooftop, saw another officer glassing the church. “You see it, Captain Lee?”
Lee lowered the glasses. “Yes, I see him.”
Worth said, “Send someone out there, find out who it is. Splendid idea. Put a gun in every steeple.”
Clarke glassed again, said, “It’s dangerous … risky. He’s awfully close. He could lose the gun.”
Worth moved away, said, “Then he’s either a damned fool or one of the best soldiers we’ve got, eh?”
Lee still stared through the glasses, smiled. “He’s winning the day, General. I think we need a few more just like him.”
32. SCOTT
SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH, MID-AFTERNOON
THE PRISONERS HAD MARCHED OUT AS THE FIRST SOUNDS OF musket fire could be heard from the assault on Chapultepec. The guards had led them, some prodding them from behind, with their bayonets, some moving just that much closer, threatening, taunting, but the San Patricios did not respond, would not give the angry men who led them an opportunity for revenge.
The march was slow, the men winding through narrow streets, each man staring to the front, past each small curve in the road, beyond each wall, the small houses. They expected to see the formal gathering of troops, Colonel Harney’s men, the cavalry serving as the final guard, Harney himself commanding the ceremony. Finally, it appeared, and some of them didn’t believe it yet, had dreamt of this moment through long fitful nights, the vision of this awful place, the horror of the last few steps. Now the vision was real, and they moved into a small plaza, each man staring up at the tall, sticklike gallows, long rows perched up on narrow platforms. There was a low murmur from the throat of each man as he saw the rope, the stiff coils, the narrow loop hanging empty. The bayonets pressed closer now, but again there was no need, the deserters moving in slow, automatic steps, climbing the short stairway, guided along the platform by the cavalry officers. Each man was placed beneath his own rope, a silence settling over them, the faces turning slowly, the men looking for the grim old man who would give the order. Harney stepped out in front of them now, saying something about loyalty, but few could hear him, focused instead on a new sight, far to the north, the great fat fortress, the slow rise of smoke, the rumble of sounds from the fight they had missed.
Even Harney had turned to watch, the veteran officer knowing with absolute certainty what the assault on Chapultepec might mean for the troops, for the war. All through the army, all through the thoughts of men who had not yet begun their own part of the fight, the hard thunder of cannon, the rolling chatter of musket fire, echoed deep in some quiet place.
Harney saw it in the faces of the deserters, the men staring at the distant Mexican flag, some making low comments, and the officers were surprised, low voices telling Harney the men were praying for a victory, urging the army forward, the American army. The decision was his alone, and he ordered the ceremony delayed. The drums fell silent, the prisoners watching as they all watched, as the wide gray cloud drifted higher, beyond the great walls. When the sounds of the battle began to fade, Harney’s men gathered, all staring north, nervous, expectant, waiting for the moment, some with field glasses, all focused on the motion above the dull white walls: the slow flutter of the Mexican flag. Their awareness that something important was happening dawned slowly, and men began to point, excitement growing in their voices. Even the deserters could see it clearly, the flag slowly dropping down, disappearing into the smoke. A silent moment passed, as each man held his breath, waiting. The men with the field glasses saw it first. They called out, waving, and quickly it was visible to them all, the smoke clearing away, the Stars and Stripes rising slowly, now fixed high over the walls of Chapultepec.
The troops, the cavalry officers, began to shout, the guards holding their bayonets high. The sound then passed through the rows of deserters, their voices muted by the tightness of the ropes around their necks. Some called out, experiencing a sudden rush of emotion, their voices blending with the voices of the men who held them firmly in line. Some were crying, some simply stared in mute acceptance, and when the flag was high on the staff, Harney turned, glanced down the rows of men who knew it was their time. Now the order was given, and the platform fell away, and the voices were suddenly silent.
SCOTT HAD MOVED EARLY THAT MORNING THROUGH THE SMALL plaza where the troops had constructed the gallows, stopped for a brief moment, even said a small prayer, something he rarely did. The artillery had already begun the assault on the thick walls, and he knew his place was forward, but he had to take some small amount of time to absorb this place, the spot where the men who had betrayed their country would die.
The place stayed with him, and he had watched as the Stars and Stripes rose over Chapultepec as well, had heard the cheering around him, the staff, the other commanders, reacting to the glory of the wonderful moment. He had raised his hat as they had, but his mind was already working, and he knew he should move again, closer still, guiding the new assaults that would follow, Quitman and Worth pushing at the two gates of the city. He thought of the plaza again, looked to the south, but there was nothing to see. The row of gallows was nearly a mile away. The word had come quickly, a short message signed by Harney, and he knew by the timing of the message that the old cavalry commander had waited for the Stars and Stripes, had given the deserters an image to carry with them to some other place, the image of victory from the army they had abandoned, the soldiers they had betrayed.
All that morning there had been rumors and whispers, and through all the excitement, the urgency of the great assault, there were comments, brief glances at Scott. He ignored it all, had always understood it would come down to his own responsibility. The deserters had been tried in two courts, and over fifty had been condemned to die, some immediately, the ringleaders, no opportunity for the most hardened among them to spread any more influence. There had been a firing squad, and now the leaders were gone. To the men who would find another fate, there had been two choices, and Scott had received the advice of the courts, agonized over the decision, but ultimately
had to abide by military law, by what every man in the army knew was the appropriate sentence. At Harney’s command, nearly fifty men had been hanged, and there was no surprise at that, but the law was obscure, and what many did not know was that Scott was not bound to execute them all. There was another punishment, some bit of leniency for the men who showed the most regret for the crime they had committed, and if the court did not believe it appropriate, Scott did. The decision, after all, was his, and so instead of death, nearly thirty men had been allowed to live, but would carry a punishment that dulled the anger of the troops they betrayed. Even the guards could not watch as the punishment was carried out, an unexpected horror. The men who would not die would be branded, a D carved into the cheek, a hard scar that would never fade. They would return home marked with the permanent sign of their betrayal, would have to find a life somehow in a country that would never forget that the D meant Deserter.
As he began to ride toward the new sounds of the fight, the great flow of strength moving past Chapultepec, Scott thought of those men, the men who would be reminded of their guilt every day. How many of them, he wondered, would rather have climbed those short steps, would rather have felt the rope?
HE WORE THE GRAND UNIFORM AGAIN, WAS NOT SELF-CONSCIOUS about it now, the foolish spectacle he had seemed to be at Churubusco. This was already different from the horror of that bloody day, and even if the fight around the great castle was costly, all the momentum was forward. The army knew, as he knew, a victory here would be the most important day of the war. He spurred the huge white horse, moving up the long road from the south, along the route the Mexicans had thought protected, the one direct roadway into the great fortress. He was not smiling as he moved past the wounded and the men who helped them, and he did not wait for cheers. He fixed his eyes ahead, rode closer to the walls of the castle, pushed hard by the urgency of being there, moving inside, joining his men in their great triumph.
He could see the remains of the fortifications, now splintered away, the abandoned Mexican guns already hauled up into the fort itself by the marines, throwing their fire into the enemy who had thought the yanquis would still be held away. He made the sharp turn in the road, the angle where the Mexicans had built a strong works, the place where the fight had been the most difficult. But the roadway was open now, cleared of the bodies of the men from both sides, the debris of the fight pulled aside. He moved uphill, the road climbing straight up through the walls of the fort, straight into the heart of Chapultepec.
The word had spread, and the men knew he was coming. The fight was still growing hot at the two gates of the city, but he would pass through this place, stop for a brief moment, see them, speak to them.
They had gathered in a ragged crowd, and he saw wounded men, men already in bandages, but they were lining up, and the officers did not have to guide them; the discipline, the order, came from him, from his grand presence. He waited, saw more of them emerging from inside, from dark hallways and deep cavernous rooms. There were new sounds, growing now, the voices of the men who had conquered this magnificent fortress, and he waited awhile longer, let them come, let the numbers grow, let them all be a part of this.
He sat stiffly upright on the great horse as it stood quietly. He felt the sun reflecting on the uniform, the medals, all the symbols of his command. He glanced up at the flag, and they saw the look, and the voices erupted into a vast cheer. He looked at them now, scanned their faces, saw the fire, the tears, and he wanted to speak to them, say something, give them some important words. He fought for it, but his mind was filled by them, by their exhausted joy, and he waved to them, thought, There are no words. There are never words to explain this. They know it already, they know what they have done here. They came up over these walls. And they won. He waved again, said to himself, a soft voice they could not hear, “God bless them. There are none finer.…”
HE HAD RIDDEN OUT PAST THE NORTH WALL OF CHAPULTEPEC, glanced again at the flag, could hear the men still, hats and hands held high all across the top of the wall. He waved toward them, and the cheering grew louder again, and he smiled, shook his head, cleared away the faces and the cheers, focused ahead.
The fight was in front of him now, a great tide flowing out from Chapultepec to the east, Quitman’s men already pressing the enemy hard at the Belén gate. Farther east, on the causeways that led straight up from the south, Twiggs had made the good show, Bennett Riley’s brigade giving the hard feint, the noisy demonstration along the southern gates of the city. From all reports it had worked, had held a great number of Santa Anna’s troops in place there, facing an enemy that had no intention of making a fight. As a result, the Mexican troops at the San Cosme and Belén gates did not have the strength of numbers they could have had. Even with the powerful assault of Chapultepec, Santa Anna had stayed back, kept a strong force still at the southern gates, a force that would not see any part of the fight.
Couriers moved along the road, delivering a flow of messages from Worth’s commanders, who remained in the great fort, to the troops fighting at San Cosme. Some moved past him, saluted nervously, surprised to see him, and he waved them past, would not hold them to formality today. The messages were not for him.
He saw a rider coming up from the south now, from below the big fort, the man waving at him, and Scott stopped his horse, could see the manic excitement in the man’s face. He felt a quick burst of cold in his chest, thought, This one is for me. Something has happened, something … important.
The man reined up, saluted him, and Scott recognized him as a young major from Quitman’s staff. The man said, “General Scott … with your permission, sir. General Quitman offers his respects and wishes to inform the commanding general that, um … at … one-twenty this afternoon, our troops broke past the Belén gate. We have taken up a strong position … inside the city, sir.”
Scott sat for a quiet moment, while the man watched him, waiting for a response. Scott stared again at the city, spread out all across the horizon, his mind suddenly blank, leaving him with no words, nothing to say. He wanted to shout, let out a cheer of his own, throw the wide hat straight in the air, felt his hands gripping hard to the reins. He smiled, a small betrayal of his real feelings, closed his eyes, nodded slowly, said, “Thank you, Major.”
The man seemed disappointed, said, “Sir, excuse me … but … we are inside the city, sir!”
Scott opened his eyes, tried to see the young man, blinked through a blur. He felt the wetness on his cheeks, nodded again, and finally the man seemed to understand and moved slowly past the horse, back toward the staff. Scott tried to clear his mind, thought, This is ridiculous. You are in command, there is no time for … this sort of thing. He took a deep breath, said aloud, “I should move up.”
He blinked again, his eyes clearing, and he looked back, saw the major beside his son-in-law, said, “You may return to General Quitman. This day is not yet over. Certainly he knows that. Tell him …” He paused, thought, There is only one message. “Tell him, fine work.”
The young man rode up beside him, one last look, saluted, said, “General Scott, with your permission, sir.”
Scott returned the salute, and the man spurred the horse, was quickly gone. Scott looked back, focused on the flag again, high above Chapultepec, thought, No, the day is not yet done. But my God … it has been a good one thus far.
He took another breath, felt the emotions passing, his mind sharpening, the sounds of the fight now reaching him again. He looked at the young Scott, said, “Major, let’s find General Worth. I’d like to know what his people are doing up there.”
33. LEE
SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH, MID-AFTERNOON
HE HAD PLACED THE LAST OF THE BATTERIES, GUIDING THE BIG guns close to San Cosme. The firing was now steady, a hard barrage at the Mexican defense, close over the heads of Worth’s infantry, who were pressing hard at the best resistance Santa Anna’s men could offer.
He climbed up on the roof again, saw Worth glassing the w
all, could smell the thick sulfur from the guns mounted on the rooftops beside them. Worth pointed to the front. “There! We’re pushing them back! We have men right up at the wall, on both sides of the gate. They’re digging into the houses!”
Lee sensed Worth’s excitement, could see only a cloud of smoke, hanging low all along the wall, flowing back through the rows of low buildings. Across the road, the bigger guns opened in a slow rhythm, the battery firing in sequence, the rooftop jumping under Lee’s feet. He saw Worth raise the glasses again, said, “General, do you have orders, sir? I should report to General Scott.”
Worth lowered the glasses, looked at him with a hard glare. “Captain, you will leave this command when I do not require you here. If General Scott is not aware what is happening here, what these men are doing here, there will be plenty of time for you to tell him. I want a full report, Captain. I want nothing left out. General Scott will know that this division has performed with heroism.”
Worth had been shouting, and Lee felt himself backing away, could see the black fire in the general’s eyes, thought, He’s still fighting more than just the Mexicans.
Worth said, “I want you to see it, Captain, all of it! We’re marching straight into this city by tonight. We will be the first troops to occupy the enemy’s capital! Do you understand, Captain?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Worth turned away, raised the glasses again, and Lee saw Worth’s hands quiver, the hard anger still flowing. Lee moved away then, saw other officers watching him, and no one spoke. He could be right, he thought. I will make the report. General Scott ordered me up here. But … I am expected to stay in communication. He felt uncomfortable now, did not expect to find himself caught between the strange feud Worth insisted on creating with the commanding general.