by John Jakes
“I’ll tell you this, Stick,” George continued. “If the good Lord ever turns against me and arranges for me to be transferred to Bent’s command, I think I’ll kill myself before reporting for duty. By the way—I just learned that in our batteries at Vera Cruz there were some pieces cast at Cold Spring.” And he was off into the enthusiasms of the ironmaster.
Orry had trouble sleeping that night. He was bothered by memories of Flicker’s story, and of Bent’s eyes.
The evening before Cerro Gordo, George drank a third of a bottle of Mexican wine smuggled in by his company commander, an Academy graduate named Eños Hoctor. George didn’t like Captain Hoctor very much. He was too serious, too prone to worry aloud—and at length—over West Point’s reputation.
George didn’t share Hoctor’s concern about the Academy, but he was happy to share his wine. He would have invited Orry to join them, but his friend said he wanted to spend some time rereading Scott’s Infantry Tactics. Poor Orry, yearning for his first taste of battle. If George never heard an enemy ball whistling by his ear, he’d be perfectly happy.
To continue the march to Mexico City, the Americans had to clear away the enemy fortifications at Cerro Gordo on the National Road. On Telegrafo, a fortified peak some five to six hundred feet high, Mexican batteries were trained on the ravine through which the road ran in a westerly direction from the American camp at Plan del Rio to Cerro Gordo.
Enemy guns were also in place on a second hill, Atalaya. But Captain Robert Lee of the engineers had discovered a mule trail leading around the northern flank to this hill and had reportedly distinguished himself for bravery doing it. Earlier today—it was the seventeenth of April—American sharpshooters had slipped along the trail and in three hot charges had cleared Atalaya. Cannon were now being moved into position to rake Telegrafo.
When the main engagement commenced tomorrow, Twiggs’s division had the task of driving through the hills above the highway and outflanking the Mexican defenses. Worth’s division, which included George and Orry, had been rushed forward, then held on the National Road in case Twiggs needed reinforcement. In George’s view, Orry faced disappointment once again; the division might see no action at all.
After drinking Hoctor’s wine, George went to sleep without difficulty. He was up long before sunrise, when an artillery duel commenced. Smoke and a red glow were all he could see from the place where he and his men awaited orders. Then over the ridges came the crackle of gunfire, and drumming and bugle calls, and an occasional protracted cry of pain. George’s men stopped their whispering and exchanged silent looks.
George had long ago given up hope of knowing much about the strategy of any battle in which he took part. He was just a lieutenant of the line, a small cog in an immense machine. Besides, all that really mattered to him was doing his job and surviving. Orry was different. He was fascinated by strategy because that was the stock-in-trade of a career officer. George could see his friend farther up the line with his platoon, and he hoped Orry was able to grasp something of the grand plan of the day. It might compensate him for missing combat yet again.
The battle lasted a little more than three hours. At half past nine, drums thudded and bugles blared close at hand, and the men of Worth’s division began making the usual nervous jokes as they prepared to march. Their mission, as it turned out, was to rush along the National Road for ten miles, pursuing the beaten Mexican army. Santa Anna had sworn publicly that he would triumph at Cerro Gordo or die. But the Napoleon of the West had often put survival above promises. When defeat loomed, George learned later, Santa Anna had cut a horse from his presidential coach and galloped away into the chaparral.
Corpses already bloating in the sunshine lay along both sides of the National Road. Most were Mexicans, but there were a few American dragoons among them. The stench of dead flesh and emptied intestines made George so sick that he finally vomited in a ditch. He wondered what Orry thought about the glories of war now.
Other debris of the Mexican retreat—dead horses, overturned artillery caissons—littered the approach to the pass of La Joya. Two miles this side of the pass, musketry suddenly exploded from the rocky slope above the north side of the road.
“Take cover!” George shouted, drawing pistol and saber. The command was superfluous; his men were diving to the right and left. All but two went fast enough to avoid bullets.
Crouching below the road, George saw one of the two still moving. He squinted at the white puffs of smoke erupting on the hillside. He swallowed twice, then started climbing up the sloped side of the ditch.
“Get back, Lieutenant,” Captain Hoctor shouted from the left. But George was already halfway to the wounded corporal, whom he lifted and carried back to the side of the road while balls from the hillside peppered the ground around him.
He lowered the wounded man into the ditch and jumped after him. An American artillery piece opened up on the hidden snipers. After three rounds of grape, there was no more firing, just cries and moans.
“You exposed yourself needlessly,” Hoctor growled at George as litter bearers took the wounded man away. “Your duty is to your men.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” George retorted. “I believed I was carrying out my duty.”
Unfeeling son of a bitch, he thought. He doesn’t care about that soldier—or that I was scared out of my wits. If West Point was graduating many like Hoctor, it deserved the criticism it received.
That night George commandeered a horse and rode back to the field hospital to check on the corporal. The boy was in good spirits and would recover. On the cot next to his lay a red-bearded sergeant whose midsection was wrapped with brown-spotted bandages. That meant an intestinal or stomach wound, the worst kind. Listening to the man complain to an orderly, George heard Bent’s name.
“Excuse me, soldier. Are you talking about Captain Elkanah Bent?”
Instantly wary, the noncom replied in a weak whisper, “Pal of yours, sir?”
“Just the opposite. I despise the bastard.”
The sergeant scratched his beard. Surprise and suspicion kept him silent a moment or so. Finally he decided it was safe to continue the conversation about another officer:
“How do you know Butcher Bent?”
“We were at West Point together. I saw him damn near kill half a dozen plebes. What were you saying about him? Is he dead?”
“No such luck. Bent cost me the best platoon leader I ever had. He sent Lieutenant Cummins up Telegrafo against a redoubt that a brigade couldn’t have taken. Of course Bent stayed to the rear, well protected, just like always. A stray shell from our guns on Atalaya blew the lieutenant and his detail to pieces, and a lot of Mexicans with it. So the Butcher, he led the rest of us up through the smoke and ordered us to spend ten minutes sabering greasers. Dead ones.”
“Jesus,” George breathed. He could almost see Bent’s round, waxy face during the incident; he was sure the captain had been smiling.
In the lamplight, fiery pinpricks showed in the wounded man’s eyes. “What was left of Cummins they put in a canvas bag. But you know who’ll get the decoration.”
“Tell me, Sergeant. If Cummins knew the attack was foolhardy—”
“’Course he knew. We all did.”
“My point is, did he question the order?”
“No. ’Twasn’t his place to do that.”
“Did anyone question it?”
“The platoon sergeant. He’s—he was a crusty old coot. Twenty-year man. Not too impressed by officers—’specially ones from the Academy.” A cough; a belated realization. “No offense intended, sir.”
“None taken. Go on.”
“The sergeant, he spoke right out. He said that sending men against the redoubt was practically murder.”
“How did Bent react?”
“He put Sarge in the detail too.”
“And still Cummins said nothing?”
“Because he was a good officer! And I ’spose he didn’t care to wind up with one of Bent’s bullets in h
is back. At Monterrey—”
“Yes, I heard about Monterrey. Seems to me that if Bent keeps doing things like this, he may get shot himself. By his own men.”
Weak as the sergeant’s voice was, it had a cold edge when he said, “Not if I get him first.”
“Get him? How?”
“The minute I’m on my feet again, I’m goin’ to divisional staff and tell the whole story. If there’s any justice in this goddamn army, they’ll put Butcher Bent on trial and cashier him.”
“You mean you’re going to charge Bent with a definite act of wrongdoing?”
“I’m sure—” The sergeant coughed a second time; it clearly hurt him a great deal. “Sure as hell going to try.”
“But if you’re the only one making accusations—”
“I’ll get nowhere, that what you mean?” George nodded. “Well, it won’t be me alone. I got witnesses from the platoon. Half a dozen, maybe more.”
“Are all of them willing to testify?”
“They’ve all been here, and that’s what they told me.”
“Any officers in the group?”
“No, sir.”
“Too bad. It would add weight to your charges.” Only after George said it did he notice the intensity that had come into the sergeant’s gaze.
“Yes, it would, sir. Will you help? Will you testify to what you know about Bent? I gather you think he’s a bad lot.”
“I do, but—”
“He’s got to be punished. He’s got to be stopped. Help me, sir. Please.”
George drew a deep breath. He was almost surprised when he heard his own response:
“All right, I’ll do what I can.”
Later that night he found Orry with his platoon. He took him aside and described the conversation with the red-bearded sergeant whose name he had learned at the close of the meeting: Lennard Arnesen.
When George finished, Orry shook his head. George bristled. “Don’t you believe Arnesen’s story?”
“Certainly I believe it. But I have trouble believing you’d involve yourself in something like this.”
George squatted and reached up under his right trouser leg to scratch. He discovered a tick and pried it loose. “I have trouble believing it myself. Hazard the self-preservation specialist was ready to turn Arnesen down. But then I thought of all the things that fat bastard did at the Point, and I said to myself, if our men are shot down, it ought to be the Mexicans who are responsible, not our own officers.”
“You’re beginning to sound like me. Just before you got here I was telling a couple of my noncoms that Pillow should be removed. Did you hear about him bungling his assignment this morning?”
“No.”
“He willfully marched into the wrong position on the left. As a result, his troops were exposed to the fire of three enemy batteries, instead of one. Then Pillow started yelling orders so loudly, the Mexicans knew exactly where he was. They opened fire with everything they had.”
George uttered a weary obscenity. “What do you expect of a political general? Pillow I can’t do anything about. Bent, though—that’s different.”
“What are you going to do?”
“First, talk to my captain. Tell him I intend to support Arnesen’s story. I can’t testify to what happened in Arnesen’s platoon, but I can sure as hell speak with authority about Bent’s character and past history. As the sergeant said—if there’s any justice in this army, the divisional staff will listen. Of course”—he looked hard at his friend—“two officers would be more convincing than one.”
“I had a feeling you were about to ask me to go with you.”
“Will you?”
Without hesitation, Orry said, “Yes.” He yawned. “But in the morning.”
“I’m shocked,” Captain Hoctor said. “No, worse than that. I’m appalled.”
George glanced at Orry standing beside him, pleased that his opening statements had produced such a strong reaction. “I’m encouraged to hear you say that, sir,” he told Hoctor. “Bent’s behavior really is—”
“I was not speaking of Captain Bent’s behavior. I was referring to yours. Frankly, I cannot believe that one Academy graduate would impugn the ability, the motives—the fitness—of another. Furthermore, did no one ever tell either of you gentlemen that a commander is supposed to send his men against enemy positions, no matter how strongly fortified they are—no matter how impossible the odds?”
For a moment George felt dizzy. “Yes, sir, of course. And on the surface Captain Bent did no more than that. But there are other aspects. Questions of character, of—”
“Of his past actions,” Orry put in. “Doesn’t the charge have to be judged against those, too?”
Hoctor’s look was withering. “I have never read any regulation to that effect, Lieutenant. My point stands. I cannot believe you gentlemen would be parties to such a vicious accusation when the reputation of the Academy—perhaps its very survival—is dependent upon public and congressional opinion of its graduates.”
In a strained voice, George said, “Sir, may I respectfully ask what the Academy has to do with any of this? Sergeant Arnesen will swear that Captain Bent all but committed murder. Bent’s platoon sergeant questioned the order, and for that Bent sent him to be killed too. The sergeant has witnesses, and they are ready to testify in support of every—”
“You said that already, Lieutenant.” The captain’s tone was scathing.
“Sorry, sir. I forgot.” George tugged at his collar. “But I strongly believe there is a case and evidence of guilt. Lieutenant Main and I are willing to offer background information. There’s no shortage of it. You must have learned about Monterrey—”
“Of course. Brave officers are always the targets of the less courageous.” Hoctor’s expression suggested that he was now including George in the latter group.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Orry said. “I think there’s a distinction to be made. Let me use Captain Lee of the engineers as an example. I haven’t heard a single officer or enlisted man question his courage. He demonstrated bravery at Cerro Gordo through personal action, not by throwing good men into hopeless situations. Bent, on the other hand—”
“That’s enough,” Hoctor interrupted. “You have made your point, both of you. Let me ask you a question.” A note of threat had entered his voice. “Do you really intend to pursue this matter through formal channels?”
George didn’t blink. “Yes, sir.” Orry gave the same reply.
“I assume, sir,” George added, “that when I write my formal report for division, you will receive it and send it along.”
The fire in Hoctor’s eyes was hot now. His voice was barely audible. “Contrary to the judgment I seem to detect in your words and your manner, Lieutenant, I am not a dishonorable man.”
“Sir, I never meant to suggest—”
“Permit me to finish. Of course I would not hold or bury your report. My duty as an officer wouldn’t allow it. However, that does not mean I approve of your course of action. I abominate it. If we are now clear on that—get out of here.”
Feeling he had won a victory, if a rather dangerous one, George returned to the field hospital that night to inform Sergeant Arnesen. When he reached the foot of the sergeant’s bed, he stopped and stared witlessly. A young private with blond fuzz on his cheeks was lying in Arnesen’s place.
George’s gut began to ache. He pivoted, frantically searched the shadows where men stirred and moaned softly. An orderly came hurrying along with a reeking basin.
“Sergeant Arnesen? He died on the table last night. Most of ’em do when the surgeons get hold of ’em.”
The fuzz-cheeked soldier was watching with puzzled, bleary eyes. The orderly rushed on. George could think of only one thing.
He never told me the names of the other witnesses.
Despite apprehensions, George went back to Captain Hoctor to inform him of this latest development and to say that he still intended to prepare his report.
“Have you completely lost your mind, Lieutenant? Every shred of evidence concerning the death of this Lieutenant Cummins is hearsay, and now you can’t even produce the source of that! The sergeant is dead, you don’t know the identities of his alleged witnesses—drop the matter.”
“I could make inquiries. Try to learn the names of—”
“Do that and you’ll get no help from me. This has gone far enough. Too far, in my opinion.”
The message behind the words was clear. George’s report, if he went ahead with it, would be blocked, permanently filed, perhaps even destroyed. Still, conscience drove him to a final effort:
“Sir, Captain Bent is not a stable person. He’s committed a wrong, he’s dangerous, and he should be removed from—”
Hoctor jumped up. “I will hear no more. Even granting a grain of truth in your assertions, do you seriously believe Bent is the only bad officer—or the worst one—in the Army? Haven’t you heard the accusations they’re making about that hack Gideon Pillow? Captain Bent is, at very least, an Academy man, and so are we, and your friend Main as well. God knows why the two of you are unable to comprehend the meaning of that bond—or the responsibility it places upon you. But for the sake of your careers, I hope you and Lieutenant Main will reach that understanding very soon. Dismissed.”
“Captain Hoctor—”
Scarlet rushed into Hoctor’s face. “Dismissed!”
Humiliated, George left.
“Well, that’s a nasty lesson,” Orry said when his friend described the scene. “West Point protects its own. I reckon we should have guessed it from Hector’s remarks the first time.” He sighed. “At least Bent won’t know we tried to rob him of his laurels and do him in.”
“You think not? I made Hoctor furious. In his eyes we’re the dangerous ones. I’ll wager Captain Butcher Bent will soon know exactly what we wanted to do. Hell, I bet Hoctor tells him. After all”—George grimaced—“West Point protects its own.”
When the realization sank in, Orry was unable to say a word.
Soon after, George again wrote to Constance. The opening paragraphs of the letter said:
I have never felt so tired, although I think that is a state induced not merely by lack of sleep but by my revulsion toward this war. Death, injury, filth, eternal fear—an army of incompetents, poltroons, political cronies, and victims—always there are the victims whom the others send to slaughter in their stead—this is the “glory” by which Orry is seduced. When will he discover the “glory” is nothing but a layer of gilt desperately applied to conceal the rot beneath? For his own sake, I hope the enlightenment comes before he commits his life to military service. But sometimes lately, my dearest, I am too tired even to care much about my best friend’s fate.