The Tender Flame

by Al Lacy

  On September 5, General Scott’s army captured the city of Vera Cruz. As he had prearranged with Washington, reinforcements were waiting offshore, and upon signal that the city was in American hands, they came in.

  General Scott called an assembly of all his men and briefed them on his plan to capture the capital city and President Santa Anna. Once Mexico City was conquered, he reminded them, the victory would be theirs.

  Each captain then met with his company to welcome the new men and fill them in on their jobs when they went into combat. Captain Grant Smith was commander of Company F, and while he was addressing his men, his eyes kept going to the face of one soldier who looked familiar to him. After the meeting was dismissed, Grant went to the man, who wore a corporal’s stripes, and said, “Soldier, have we met before?”

  The corporal’s face lost color. “We have, Captain,” he said, saluting. “My name is Corporal Gerald George.” He raised his upper lip and showed him a crooked tooth. “You knocked this loose for me.”

  “Gerald George! One of the boys who gave Lydia a hard time.”

  “Yes, sir. But not after you whipped up on both of us.”

  “I’m trying to remember … Kendall! Frederick Kendall! That was the other boy’s name, wasn’t it? You both moved away from Montgomery Village not long after our little tussle.”

  “Yes, sir. Freddie’s family moved to Wisconsin just before my family moved to Shelbyville, Indiana. I haven’t heard from him since. I joined the army at Fort Wayne a couple of years ago.”

  “Good to see you, Gerald,” Grant said, extending his hand. “And welcome to the war. We’ll have a real fight on our hands when we get to Mexico City. I’m glad to have you in my company.”

  “I’m honored, Captain. Ah, sir …”

  “Yes?”

  “Lydia Reynolds. Do you know if she’s married?”

  “She’s not. But she’s engaged to a soldier who’s going to marry her as soon as this war is over.”

  “Oh, really? Is he from Montgomery Village?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Do I know him?”

  Grant chuckled. “You’re looking at him.”

  “Wha—? You? Lydia’s going to marry you?”

  “She’d better! She’s wearing my engagement ring.”

  “Well, what do you know! I knew she had a sizable crush on you, but I didn’t know you developed one on her.”

  “That and a whole lot more.”

  At dawn the next day, General Winfield Scott led his beefed-up army west into the high country toward Mexico City. As the days passed they met much opposition and fought many battles. Each battle was a victory for the United States Army, and Scott kept his men marching relentlessly toward the capital city.

  On the evening of September 9, Scott camped his men on the east bank of the Rio de la Compani, near the city of Puebla. It was a forested area high in the mountains, less than sixty miles from Mexico City.

  The general had just finished eating his supper when one of his scouts rode in to tell him there was a large Mexican force camped about a half mile west of the river. Scott knew there was no way he could get his men, animals, artillery, and equipment safely across the river in the dark. The enemy no doubt knew they were here and would move up to intercept them. They would have to fight the Mexicans on the riverbanks tomorrow morning.

  A heavy rain fell during the night, muddying the river and running its depth to about five feet. The sky was cloudy at dawn, but the rain had stopped.

  Scott positioned his artillery among the trees that lined the river. Spaced between the cannons, and flanking them for a quarter mile on both sides along the bank, were infantrymen on their bellies and on their knees, ready to open fire on command. Scott also had placed men in the trees who were watching for the Mexicans as dull light came over the land. One of the men saw the enemy artillery and infantry in their positions across the river and signaled a man on the ground, who quickly ran to General Scott, stationed a few yards from the river behind some large boulders.

  The general gave the command to commence fire, and immediately the roar of battery filled the morning air, followed by the shriek of shells and the rattle of musketry.

  Shells struck trees along the banks on both sides, shattering them and hurling deadly fragments in every direction.

  On horseback, the captains rode up and down the ranks of their companies, shouting encouragement to keep their men steady in the teeth of the fight, and to help them maintain the ranks even as men fell wounded or dead.

  The day wore on. It was about an hour past noon when Corporal Gerald George lay on his belly between two other men, pouring gunpowder into his musket. Through the drifting smoke he caught a glimpse of Captain Smith on his horse, threading among the trees just behind the firing line, shouting commands and words of encouragement to his men.

  Upstream, the Mexicans were crossing the swift, muddy river with their muskets held above their heads. Mexican cannons continued to blast away at the Americans to give cover to the infantry crossing the river.

  Smith saw that his company was closest to the crossing point. He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and galloped toward the men at the end of the line, shouting as loud as he could that they were needed upstream to intercept the Mexicans crossing the river.

  Suddenly Smith’s horse took an enemy bullet, let out a high-pitched cry, and stumbled at full gallop down the riverbank. Smith was trying to get out of the saddle when a bullet struck him in the chest. Both rider and horse plunged into the river and disappeared.

  Gerald George jumped up and ran in that direction. Other men of Company F were rising to their feet, intending to dive into the river as soon as their captain surfaced and bring him to safety.

  But there was no sign of horse or rider.

  The Mexicans cut loose fiercely, and every man who was on his feet had to flatten himself in a hurry.

  “There’s his horse!” a sergeant shouted to George.

  The animal had risen to the surface some forty yards downstream and was floating on its side. But there was no sign of Captain Smith.

  Corporal George dropped his musket and dashed along the bank behind the line. When he reached the end of the firing line, he dived into the murky river. Mexican bullets chopped water all around him.

  A lieutenant took over in Grant Smith’s place and rode his horse along the lines, shouting commands and encouragement.

  Suddenly someone shouted, “It’s Corporal George!”

  Downstream a hundred yards, a mud-caked Gerald George stumbled his way up the steep bank. A private left his spot in the firing line and ran as hard as he could to George.

  “Gerald, you all right?”

  George gasped for breath. “Yeah. I’m fine. But … but I couldn’t find the captain. The water’s too muddy.” George fought back the tears and looked toward the raging battle. “We’ve got to get back into the fight, Dave.”

  Corporal and private ran to the line, amid whining bullets, and resumed their places. Cannons roared. Muskets popped, and the blue-white smoke weighed down the air. Shouts and yells along the river made the heavens ring.

  When his horse was crumpling beneath him, Grant Smith knew he and the animal were going down the riverbank and into the muddy water. Reacting instinctively, he pulled his feet from the stirrups. Only the right one came free. Then Grant’s chest felt as if someone had hit it with a sledgehammer.

  Suddenly he was under the water with the horse taking him all the way to the bottom. He held his breath and opened his eyes, closing them instantly when he realized the water was too muddy to see anything. The pain in his chest was horrible.

  Grant’s left foot was still stuck in the stirrup, but at least the horse had ended up on its right side. Grant’s lungs felt as if they would burst as he fought the twisted stirrup. Finally he was free!

  He swam for the closest bank as the swift current carried him downstream. The pain in his lungs was now almost as excruciating as the wound i
n his upper chest.

  Suddenly his hands touched branches above his head. By the hand of God, he had reached the bank beneath heavy brush. Grant clung to the branches with his right hand, stuck his head out of the water, and gulped air. His ears unplugged quickly, and the sounds of battle filled them. He blinked at the muddy film that covered his eyes and saw that he was on the wrong side of the river.

  He looked at the wound in the upper left side of his chest, which was bleeding profusely. The ball must still be in him. He was sure he would feel pain in his back if the lead ball had gone completely through.

  Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself closer to the bank and peered through the brush. The fighting was fierce as both sides peppered each other with artillery and muskets. He strained to see upstream where he had sent his men to intercept the Mexicans crossing the river. But the pall of smoke over the battle blocked his view.

  Weakness came over Grant, accompanied by severe dizziness. He summoned what strength he had left and inched his way up the bank on his belly, through dense brush. When he was out of the water, he looked toward the battle but still couldn’t see anything.

  It took all the strength he could muster to rip the left sleeve from his shirt, but he finally had it off. His head was spinning as he folded the sleeve, slipped it under his shirt, and pressed it against the wound.

  Everything began to whirl around him, and his vision darkened. The last thing Grant was aware of before the black curtain descended was the sound of booming guns.

  WHEN GRANT SMITH REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, he remembered clearly what had happened before he passed out. The pain was still there in his chest where the bullet had entered, but he could not hear the sounds of battle.

  He blinked against the grimy sediment clinging to his eyes and strained to hear artillery and muskets and the shouts of fighting men. But there was only the rippling sound of river and the breeze whistling through the heavy brush where he lay.

  Grant raised his right hand to his eyes to rub the mud away. When he opened them again, he noted that the sun had moved a long way across the sky since his climb out of the river.

  He raised his head to look at the wound. Blood had soaked through the folded sleeve and spread on the front of his shirt, but it was dried. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  When his head started to spin again he lay back on the grassy bank, and the dizziness eased. A huge cloud was coming out of the west, its shadow creeping over him like a shade drawn against the lowering sun. The breeze whispered through the brush and touched his face. A slight chill ran through him.

  Grant rolled onto his stomach and tried to ignore the spinning in his head as he inched his way farther up the bank until the brush thinned some.

  A tinkling metallic sound met his ears from across the river, and he saw several soldiers in United States Army uniforms. Two men were working on the harness of the horses that pulled General Winfield Scott’s supply wagon. He swung his gaze to see where the Mexicans were positioned, but there was no activity at all. Suddenly Grant saw General Scott and Captain Nathan Daniels guiding their horses along the edge of the river, near the wagon. General Scott called out, “All right, men! Let’s move across the river! Mexico City is next!”

  Grant struggled to get to his feet. When he made it to his knees, he saw the long line of men, horses, cannons, and wagons, moving down the bank and into the river. He took a deep breath to call out, and suddenly the black curtain descended on him again. A gust of breath was all he could get out. He fell backward into the brush.

  When Grant came to, it was night. There were countless twinkling stars in the black, moonless sky overhead. Silence reigned except for the night wind soughing in the trees and dense brush, and the soft gurgle of the river.

  He was cold and shaking.

  He crawled to the top of the riverbank, and when his head began to spin again, he lay on his back and let the wind refresh him. After a few minutes, he eased himself to a sitting position. He drew his knees up under him, painstakingly rose to his feet, and stood on shaky legs.

  When his head was clear again, he walked haltingly along the bank toward the place his battalion had headed across the river. He shuffled along the rough terrain in the dim light from the stars. Suddenly he stumbled over something and fell to the ground. Groping with his hands, he found the face of a dead soldier. He squinted through the semidarkness ahead of him and saw a number of dark forms on the ground. He was sure they were Mexican soldiers.

  A sharp pain lanced through his wound as Grant forced himself once again to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, and then his knees gave way and he felt himself falling.

  When Grant opened his eyes, he could hear voices. Although he was lying facedown beside a dead Mexican soldier, he could tell the sun was shining out of a clear sky. As he homed in on the voices, he realized they were male, and they were speaking Spanish.

  Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. He found himself staring into the dark, mustached face of a Mexican soldier who shouted something to the others moving among the dead men.

  Soon more soldiers were gathered around him, conversing rapidly. One of them knelt and took a look under Grant’s makeshift bandage. He raised his eyebrows and said something to the others.

  Grant was praying silently when he heard slow hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels. When the wagon rolled to a halt, four of the Mexican soldiers picked him up and laid him in the wagon with several corpses.

  “Do any of you speak English?” he asked, looking from face to face.

  They shook their heads.

  “I want to know what you’re going to do with me. Get me somebody who speaks English!”

  One of them said something, but Grant had no idea what. He lay helplessly, watching as they carried more dead soldiers to the wagon and laid them next to him.

  A short while later, after they had closed the tailgate on the wagon, a man who wore an officer’s uniform drew up beside the wagon and looked down at Grant. He noted the captain’s insignias on the shoulders of Grant’s shirt and said, “What is your name, Captain?”

  “My name is Grant Smith, sir.”

  “I am General Hernando Vasquez, Captain. You have been seriously wounded. We are going to take you to a doctor, who will remove the ball from your chest and take care of you.”

  “I appreciate that, General. Then what?”

  “As soon as you are able to travel, we will transport you into the mountains southwest of here, where you will be put in a prison camp with other Americans we have captured.”

  “And how long will I be kept there?”

  Vasquez smiled for the first time. “For the rest of your life.”

  “The rest of my life?”

  “Sí. We fear we are about to lose this war, but by keeping some American prisoners, we will not feel that we were totally defeated. Your president, your military people, and your families back home will never know what happened to you. We will allow you to live out your natural lives in our prison camp, but all the while, your people will think you are dead. Please allow us some satisfaction in this war.”

  On September 15, 1847, news came to Montgomery Village—as well as the rest of the United States—that General Winfield Scott’s battalion, and the regiment of soldiers with General Zachary Taylor, had converged just outside Mexico City the previous day, and together had captured it. Antonio López de Santa Anna was now a prisoner of the United States Army. The fighting was over, and the soldiers who had survived the war were going home.

  News of the war’s end came to the Reynolds home in early afternoon, when Beverly and Lydia were working in the sewing room at the rear of the house. They heard neighbors shouting exultantly and dashed outside to see what the excitement was about. Men and women were waving newspapers and whooping the news that General Winfield Scott and his army had captured Mexico City and Santa Anna. The Mexican army had laid down its arms. The war was over! Their fighting men were coming home!


  When Lydia heard it, she burst into tears and wrapped her arms around her mother, saying between sobs, “He’s coming home! My darling Grant is coming home!”

  As Beverly held her daughter and wept with her, she saw Duane and Billy hurrying down the street. The Reynolds family stood in their front yard, rejoicing and hugging each other, and soon they were joined by Scott and Marjorie Smith and their girls.

  When the initial exultation had subsided, Duane and Beverly invited the Smiths in to pray together and give thanks to the Lord that soon Grant would be home. They gathered in a circle in the parlor and each person prayed aloud. When the last amen was said, everyone was weeping for joy.

  On Sunday afternoon, October 10, a heavy sky lay over Montgomery Village, and a steady rain poured down. Even though the weather was dreary, there was no dreariness in the Reynolds house, where the Smiths had been invited to Sunday dinner.

  Their excitement was almost palpable as the two families sat down to a delicious meal of roast chicken and all the trimmings. They had learned that morning from Pastor John Britton, as he made the announcements from the pulpit, that he had been in Baltimore the day before and had overheard some officers from Fort McHenry discussing the return of the victorious army. General Winfield Scott and the men of Fort McHenry were stretched out in a long line across Kentucky and Virginia. They were traveling in small units and would be arriving one after the other for the next three or four days.

  To make sure he had heard correctly, Britton had asked the soldiers about it. The officers explained that the troops had not all left Mexico on the same day; therefore they would be arriving at Fort McHenry a few hundred at a time. Some could arrive as soon as the next day. There would be more arriving each day. The last of the soldiers would probably be there by Wednesday.

  As raindrops pelted the windows, the sole subject of conversation around the dinner table was Grant’s return.

  Two riders halted their horses in front of the Scott Smith home. Their hats were pulled low and they wore brown slickers with special markings to identify them as soldiers of the United States Army. Together they mounted the porch steps.