by F. M. Parker
Lee called out to Steptoe and the other two lieutenants commanding the groups of men on the guns, “Let’s move them.”
At shouted orders from their officers, the men leaned into the drag ropes fastened to the guns and thrashed off through the brush and rocks with them. At the base of the hill, the guns were removed from the wheeled carriages, and the men began to haul the pieces up the face of the hill where there was no path, no landmarks. When darkness fell, a fire was built at the bottom of the hill and another near the top to mark the route. In the small hours of the night, and after heart bursting labor with scores of men lying exhausted on the hillside, and many sleeping where they had fallen, the guns were in place atop La Atalaya, ammunition brought up, and a parapet built. Everything was ready for the morning when the guns would help Harney capture El Telegrafo by firing upon the men defending it.
Lee staggering with weariness went down the hill and joined Twiggs in the valley where the division had settled to wait for the morning call to action. So far all had gone flawlessly with the troops in an advantageous position for the attack on El Telegrafo.
*
In the early dawn, after three hours of iron solid sleep wrapped in his blanket on the ground, Lee joined Riley and his brigade to lead them in the movement to turn Santa-Anna’s left flank. With an enemy trumpet blaring reveille on El Telegrafo, and the Mexican red, white and green flag fluttering on a tall pole, they moved out around the north side of the tall hill. Lee recalled it was Sunday, April 18, and a lovely day with the sky a bright blue and a gentle breeze making it all the way from the far off sea.
They had gone less than a mile when the cannons Lee had helped place on La Atalaya opened fire and he knew Harney and his men were advancing on El Telegrafo. He turned away from that fighting and riding beside Riley at the head of the brigade hurried west to cut off retreating Mexicans. Shortly the Americans came upon the National Highway leading to the nearby village of Cerro Gordo and veered onto it and hastened on. They had gone a half-mile when they saw not far ahead a five-gun Mexican artillery battery banging away at Shields brigade marching in from the north.
“We’ve got to stop those guns,” Riley said. “But first I must form up my men.” He rode off shouting at his officers to gather their men who had become much scattered by the swift advance.
Lee continued on along the Highway toward a Mexican field hospital of five large tents with many wounded Mexicans lying about on the ground. The sides of the tents were rolled up and tied in pace to allow in light and air and Lee could see the surgeons all frightfully splattered with blood as they cut, sawed, and sewed upon their wounded countrymen.
A platoon of Americans soldiers with muskets and bayonets was bearing down on the hospital. Lee saw their hostile intent and fearing for the safety of the Mexican surgeons, spurred his horse and ran it into the path of the American warriors and sprang down.
“Lieutenant, halt your men,” Lee called to the officer at the head of the platoon.
The lieutenant came to a stop with his men bunching up behind him.
“What is it, captain?” asked the lieutenant in a hurried voice.
“That hospital and the surgeons must be protected for our wounded will need their services. Place half your men to guard them. Get the other half started gathering up the wounded and bring them here. I’ll talk with the chief surgeon and make sure he’ll tend to our wounded as well as his own.”
“Captain, we’ve orders to chase the Mexicans as far as we can. So that’s what we’re going to do.”
Lee put a hand on his pistol. “Lieutenant, I just gave you a battlefield order. That’s my right based on the condition as I see them. Are you refusing to obey them?”
The lieutenant saw Lee’s hand on the pistol and knew by the steel in his eyes that he would use the weapon. He squared his shoulders. “No, sir. Your order is proper.”
“Then get your men to their tasks. I’ll explain what I’ve done if you’re ever questioned about your actions.”
The lieutenant wheeled around to face his sergeant. “You heard the captain. Divide the men with half guarding the hospital and half bringing in our wounded.”
Lee held his position for a minute as the grumbling men split into two squads and were sent off on their duties. Then walking and leading his horse, he went to the hospital.
“Anybody here speak English?” he called to the surgeons laboring over bodies lying on several long wooden tables.
“I do,” one of the bloody surgeons answered. “I’m Major Aguilar.
“Those men will keep you safe. In turn I expect you to care for wounded Americans as they are brought to you.”
“I saw what you did. There is no need for you to tell me what to do for we are doctors. Your men will receive the same care as my poor wounded comrades.”
“I meant no insult,” Lee said.
Aguilar gave Lee a short look from angry eyes and lowered them back to the bleeding man on the table in front of him.
Lee mounted and rode in the direction of the Mexican battery still hammering away with rapid shots at Shields’ brigade. Near a little house close to the side of the Highway, he came upon a Mexican drummer boy lying penned beneath a wounded and unconscious Mexican soldier. The boy had a shattered leg, the bone protruding stark and white against the red of mangled flesh. A little bare foot girl of five or so, wearing a tattered scrap of a dress, and with black hair in a long plait hanging down her back to the waist, was kneeling beside the boy and crying with tears streaming from her black eyes.
Lee shouted at two Americans and they came and lifted the soldier off the drummer boy and carried them both to the hospital. Lee lifted the ragamuffin girl up in his arms and looked into her face.
“The boy will be all right now,” he whispered to her in English and again wished he knew the language of the land.
The girl cried louder and her lips trembled for she was frightened by the big American who held her so tightly. She pushed against Lee’s chest with her small hands and wriggled and kicked to be released. Lee sat her on her feet and she darted off and into the house and out of sight.
Lee, seeing Riley now had his men formed up and was ready to move upon the Mexican battery, swung astride his mount and spurred it to take position with the colonel in the front of the men.
Riley led his men closer to the Mexican battery. Then he gave a mighty shout and led the men in a charge upon the guns. Lee riding beside Riley, joined his pistol fire with the musket fire of the lead element of the brigade and the squad of Mexicans defending the battery were knocked off their feet by a fusillade of bullets. He holstered his empty guns, and slashing with his saber, ran his horse in among the defending infantrymen and the artillerymen. The contest was over after a short, savage fight with bayonets and sabers, and the Mexicans still on their feet threw down their weapons.
The brigade pushed past the captured gun and hurried west, and surmounting a rise saw before them at least three thousand Mexican soldiers and hundreds of tents and wagons on the outskirts of Cerro Gordo. They had come upon the main camp of Santa-Anna’s army.
At that moment, Shields and his men broke from the thorny chaparral to the north and charged down upon the camp. Not wanting to be left out of the fighting, Riley shouted a fierce battle cry and led his men forward at a run.
The infantrymen and the artillery battery protecting the camp, loosed a blast at the converging columns of Americans. The Mexican cannons tore viciously at the American front. Shields in the lead of his brigade took a musket ball full in the chest and tumbled to the ground. His men with bayonets fixed, swept past their fallen leader and upon the enemy.
Caught between two full brigades of Americans, the Mexicans ceased firing and stood milling about. The Mexicans on the west broke, streaming off toward Jalapa. The Americans swept around to the west and cut off the bulk of the Mexicans from escape and encircled them. Within minutes the surrounded Mexicans were disarmed and herded together and under guard.
Riley came up to Lee. “Captain, you know where all the fighting was done. Take Lieutenant Colson and his company of men,” he pointed out the officer, “and half a hundred of those Mexican wagons and find my wounded, every one of them, and get them to the hospital at base camp for they’ll get the best care there. The dead can wait until tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Lee said and hastened off to give the lieutenant his new orders.
CHAPTER 21
The distant crackle of musket fire and boom of cannon and the sight of the tiny figures of distant men in bloody combat held Grant locked to his field glasses. The American attack on El Telegrafo was in progress and he had seen the first charge beaten back by the Mexicans. Now the Americans had regrouped and with a fusillade of bullets and a rush with bayonets swept the enemy from the summit of the hill.
This was the day of the three-pronged assault on the Mexican front of entrenched positions. Grant had considered asking permission from Garland to go forward and join in the fighting, but had dropped the idea knowing he would be denied. He had saddled his horse and ridden to a high point from where he could observe the fighting through his glasses.
Worth had arrived the day before with his infantry, Dragoons, and field artillery, and missing nearly one hundred men who had fallen ill along the Highway from Veracruz. The division had set up camp east of Twigs and Patterson on the Plan Del Rio. The camp followers selected a place to erect their tents as close to Worth’s men as they dared. Scott had already made his plans for the battle and Worth discovered he would be held in reserve, to follow behind Patterson and assist him when he struck the Mexican center.
The musket and cannon fire grew in volume as the fighting heated up, and Grant’s need to join in the battle increased. He could never be one of the easy-living soldiers of the rear echelon, could not allow the fighting to end without being part of it. He hurried down from the hill and raced his willing horse toward the fighting where bravery was being displayed in heroic deeds and reputations made.
With the mare running hard, Grant soon came up to the battle line, and there found a three gun American battery of 24-pounders setting astride the road. The boyish McClellan was directing the fire of the guns at Mexicans behind stout log breastworks. The American guns were shooting over the heads of a company of Americans advancing for an attack upon the entrenched Mexican position.
Grant dragged the mare to a sliding stop beside an American lieutenant lying dead on the ground near the battery. That would be the artillery officer, he judged.
“You want some help?” he shouted at McClellan.
“Damn right,” McClellan shouted back. “Help them aim that gun on the end. They’re so afraid of hitting our own men that they keep shooting high.”
Grant swiftly dismounted, tied the reins of his horse to a bush, and hastened to the gun. “Shoot and let me see where it lands,” he ordered the gunnery sergeant. He raised his glasses to watch the cannon ball land.
The sergeant sighted along the thick iron barrel of his gun, made an adjustment and fired. Grant saw the ball strike several yards behind the enemy position.
“Not too bad,” Grant said. “Lower your angle five degrees and swing right three.”
Grant continued to call corrections and saw exploding shells fall upon the enemy breastworks, tumbling logs, knocking men down, sending bodies flying into the air. After several rounds from the three guns, the Mexican soldiers scrambled from their battered breastworks and scampered away. The company of Americans broke into a run and whooping loudly surged over the positions and onward in pursuit.
“Look at them skedaddle,” shouted the artillery sergeant and laughed and danced a short, happy jig.
“Let’s catch them,” Grant called out to McClellan. The cannons were no longer of use. Now it would be a chase to round up the enemy before they scattered and escaped. Grant went to his mount and sent it off at a swift gallop.
McClellan swung astride his mount and spurred it up beside Grant. With pistols drawn, they sped along the road. The Mexicans, throwing frightened looks over their shoulders as they ran, saw the two horsemen closing upon them. By singles, then by twos, and then in ever-larger groups, they veered off the road and plunged into the chaparral thickets cloaking the land and vanished. Grant and McClellan, knowing their horses could not navigate the thorny thickets, sped on along the road.
The road soon joined with the National Highway and they saw before them thousands of Mexican prisoners under guard by Americans on the edge of a village of a few houses. They had reached Cerro Gordo. They circled around the men and struck the Highway beyond the town.
“Look at those bastards,” McClellan calls out to Grant and pointed at American stragglers, at least a squad, some sitting in the shade of trees and others searching through the knapsacks and pockets of Mexican soldiers lying dead by the Highway.
“Let’s get them to the fighting,” Grant called back.
“Damn right,” McClellan said.
Shouting at the lazing soldiers, the two officers drew their sabers and spurred their horses in among them. The soldiers sprang erect, dodging the iron-shod hooves of the officers’ horses. Grant and McClelland swatted the slowest men to rise with the flat sides of their sabers.
“You Goddamn cowards, grab you muskets and form up!” McClellan roared at the men.
The men, some with angry expressions and others with sheepish ones, hastily fell into rank.
“Double time,” Grant barked. “You’re going to help in the fighting whether you like it or not.”
The men marched to the west where hundreds of muskets were popping. The Highway was littered with weapons, cartridge boxes, knapsacks, and articles of clothing dropped by the retreating Mexicans. Among the litter lay some of the enemy, wounded and bleeding. Some lay dead.
Grant and McClellan overtook and passed groups of infantry from Patterson’s and Twiggs’s commands moving along the highway toward Jalapa. Most of the men, weary after the long chase on foot, were resting in the shade of trees. The Mexicans, having dropped everything that encumbered their flight, had out-run the Americans laden with their arms and knapsacks.
Grant and McClellan noting the exhaustion of the squad of men with them relented and allowed them to fall out to rest. Pushing their horses on, they came within sight of Jalapa lying some two miles ahead. They halted near a company of Dragoons and another of infantry and heard the Dragoon officer telling that he had been to the outskirts of the town and had found it undefended. He suggested the Dragoons and infantry return to the main camp. The captain of infantry nodded agreement and called out for his men to form up. Dragoons and infantry began the fourteen mile trek to base camp.
Grant rode dejected. He had fought no battles, taken no prisoners, won no glory.
*
Lee shouted out through the darkness for the medics and stretcher-bearers working with the frail lights of lanterns, to end their search for wounded soldiers. The men called back acknowledgements, and with their lights weaving about to find a path through the trees and brush thickets, came homing in on Lee. The army medics had come up to the site of the fighting as Lee and the infantrymen had started the search for the wounded. The medics had joined in and provided the best treatment they could in the field for men with bullet and shrapnel wounds, and broken limbs and backs from falls in the rugged land.
Lee had worked the men through the day, and refusing to quit when night came down on them, sent a wagon to the main camp to fetch lanterns. They searched on, shouting out into the blackness and listening for a wounded man to call back. They had looked in all the likely places and it was now time to end the effort. Those men still lying hurting and bleeding must wait until morning for help, or die during the long night.
“Mount up and let’s go to camp,” Lee directed.
The men made their way out to the trail Lee had built for the attack upon the Mexicans, and scrambled up into the wagons to find space among the wounded. The vehicles rolled off with a rumble o
f iron wheels on the stony ground.
CHAPTER 22
With a huge smile upon his face, General Scott examined the prize his men had brought him, Santa-Anna’s personal carriage. He had walked around the four-wheeled vehicle twice and admired its elaborate red and gold paint, iron leaf springs for ease of ride, overstuffed leather seats for softness for the one-legged Mexican general’s rump, and a rainproof top with leather side curtains. A troop of Dragoons had found the coach, together with two beautiful horses perfectly matched as to size and charcoal black color, abandoned at Santa-Anna’s Encero hacienda north of Cerro Gordo.
Lee, with a group of other officers, was observing Scott in his moment of pleasure. He knew the general would also be feeling a deep disappointment. At the time the troop of Dragoons had found the carriage, and also Santa-Anna’s baggage wagon, they had seen a group of Mexican officers riding mules at a swift pace toward the Rio Del Plan. They had given pursuit but the Mexicans had descended into the steep walled canyon of the river where the Dragoon horses could not go. They had learned later that the riders were Santa-Anna and his staff officers. Had they captured the general, the war in all likelihood would have been over.
Still Scott had a rich trophy in the baggage wagon for it contained Santa-Anna’s correspondence, many maps, and his money chest holding 20,000 dollars in silver and gold coin, and personal clothing all of which showed the rapidity with which the Mexican commander had fled.
This was late afternoon of the day following the routing of Santa-Anna’s army. The battlefields had been scoured for the living and the dead and the three division generals had made their reports to Scott. The Americans had 368 men wounded and 63 killed. Seventy-four were missing, either captured or had deserted.