Halls of Montezuma

by Tony Roberts

  “Stay where you are,” Bradman said rather unnecessarily.

  The screams of the wounded Mexicans caught in the inferno filled the air, and the nostril twitching smell of burned flesh reached the men. Case closed his eyes. No need for him to use his skill this day, he decided. Nobody would be able to advance through that.

  “Well, that went well,” General Taylor observed. “Stand the men down, those bastards over there are retreating.”

  “Platoon,” Bradman ordered, “present!”

  The line of soldiers leveled their muskets. Nothing but the flickering flames and oily smoke to aim at, the men grinned in relief. “Fire!”

  They all emptied their shoulder arms at nothing.

  “Okay, stand down.”

  The men breathed out in relief and began chattering. Case patted Michael on the shoulder. “Not a bad experience for your first battle, eh?”

  “Aye!” Michael beamed. Then he looked around. “I need a piss.”

  “Try putting that fire out then,” Jimmy pointed at the flames. Others were unbuttoning their trousers and urinating over the grass. Funny how that happens so quick after a battle, Case mused. He wanted to go himself, so he stepped forward and his stream joined the others’ over the dry grass.

  Once the flames died down the blackened remnants of those fallen sobered the jubilant men up. “Poor bastards,” Kenny said. “That’s no way to go.”

  “Agreed,” Case said. “Want to bet we’re on burial duty?”

  The others groaned.

  However, there was no burial duty. They counted a couple of hundred Mexican dead, including those shot to ribbons by the artillery. The enemy dead were left to rot where they had fallen, while only friendly losses were taken care of. American losses were a mere six or so, but they included Major Ringgold, killed by just about the only accurate cannon shot the enemy had managed. It cast a cloud over the men. The major had been a popular man.

  The next day they marched towards Fort Texas. Their scouts had located the Mexican army, close to a point opposite the town of Matamoros. Confidence had been raised by the victory at Palo Alto and the men laughed and sang as they marched along the now familiar road alongside the Rio Grande.

  It was early in the morning they approached the defensive position the Mexicans had adopted. Most of their infantry stood in an old river bed and Arista had placed his artillery on the ridge above them. His cavalry were to the rear. Case eyed the terrain and cursed. Much of the vegetation here consisted of thorny plants and cacti, so any advance would have to be made through that. Added to that an occasional swamp could be seen. It was a bastard of a place to fight.

  General Taylor looked on from horseback and nodded. These goddam Mexicans weren’t worth a shit. His boys could send them a-packing in good order. He issued his commands and sat, watching, as his troops were deployed. He sat his guns in the center and placed the 8th regiment in front of them. The rest of his infantry he split into two wings and sent them in wide flanking sweeps to close in on the enemy flanks.

  To Case and his buddies, it was a bitch. The thorns ripped at their clothing and flesh, and in no time most of the men were in rags, bleeding from scores of cuts and tears. Case swore and cursed, kicking at the bushes. He decided this was dumb and fixed his bayonet to his musket and began slicing at the cactus plants, using his bayonet like a scythe. Beside him the others sweated and tore themselves through the vegetation. It was so dense that they could hardly take a step before another bush blocked their progress.

  “God help us,” Jimmy said, “this is impossible!”

  “Keep going, soldier,” Sergeant Mason said. “Think of those lovely Mexican women waiting beyond this army!”

  “I’m thinking of these thorns in my bloody legs!” Jimmy grumbled and kicked one thorn bush to destruction.

  Lieutenant Bradman used his sword to cut a path through the bushes, but it was slow, laborious progress and the defenders waited calmly for the attackers to close in on them. “What about loading?” Michael panted, stepping over another thorn gingerly, his musket held high.

  “Stuff that,” Case snorted, “we’ll use bayonets and our strength. It’ll be hand to hand!”

  The regiment stumbled through the thorn bushes and approached the ravine where the Mexican infantry was arranged. Just then the artillery opened up, sending shot skidding through the undergrowth. One soldier grunted and fell backwards, splashing blood over Michael who screamed in horror.

  “Keep going!” Case yelled, gripping his gun tightly. He was almost at the edge and knew they had a short span of time to get to the infantry before the artillery fired again. He reached the last bush, jumped over it and saw the line of Mexicans calmly pointing their guns in his direction. “Shit!”

  The line rippled as the row of muskets flamed, but most of the shots went high. A couple of shots came close but Case skidded down the slope unscathed. Behind him he could hear the grunts, panting and curses of his colleagues. A couple had been hit but the poorly trained Mexican soldiers had fired too high to do too much damage. He yelled, running at the enemy, and saw one soldier panic and turn to run, but his sergeant pinned him in line with his body and snapped a rapid order at him in Spanish.

  Case ran at the man next to the frightened soldier and ran him through the chest. The Mexican gurgled and dropped his musket, sinking to the ground. Case planted a boot in the Mexican’s chest and yanked the bayonet out. A second Mexican lunged at him, the point of the bayonet brushing his arm. Case swung his gun round in an arc and smashed the butt into the man’s face, breaking teeth and bone.

  Alongside more American soldiers were reaching him, but then the second salvo of artillery shots fired, crashing into some of the regiment. Screams echoed down the slope as men were hit, arms and legs being torn from bodies. More reinforcements arrived and the battle became a mass of pushing bodies in the ravine, with shots being fired from above into the next line approaching.

  Sweat, blood and the smell of urine filled the air. Case pushed hard at a large mustachioed enemy soldier, guns locked across each other. Case gritted his teeth and shoved hard, his muscles bulging. Two Mexicans were pushed backwards, the alarm on their faces clear. The front man pushed back, teeth fixed in a grimace, so Case sent his forehead smashing into his face, then kicked up sharply, crushing the unfortunate’s balls. The man sank to the ground moaning, and Case stepped over him, bayonet lunging at the second man.

  To Case’s right Jimmy was snarling, clubbing at an opponent, while a bloodied Michael struggled on Case’s left with the Mexican sergeant. The sergeant was far too strong for the slightly built Michael and the Irishman was putting up a desperate defense, but it was only a matter of moments before his blocking would be breached and he’d get a bayonet through his guts.

  Case saw this in a glance. Jimmy was doing okay and the others around him coping with the brutal fight for the moment. He pushed at his opponent again, bayonet wickedly stabbing for the Mexican’s stomach and the man, a swarthy mustached individual, stepped back in alarm. Case swung his musket, but not at his opponent. He brought the butt of his shoulder arm down across the sergeant’s face, smashing into the cheekbone. The sergeant staggered, stunned, and Michael was able to regain balance and stab at the man, slicing through his windpipe and finishing him off in a welter of blood.

  Case’s adversary took advantage of the respite and stabbed forward, his bayonet entering Case’s rib cage. Pain exploded throughout the Eternal Mercenary’s body, but he grabbed hold of the musket before it could do any more damage and, one handed, brought his own gun down on the Mexican’s head. The man fell like a stone onto his back.

  Gasping in pain, Case wrenched the musket away and threw it down. He staggered back, clutching his side, and another enemy came at him. Just in time he twisted aside and the musket rubbed along his chest. The cannons boomed again, the wind from their shot passing close over his head. Too damn close! Men screamed and the ground was beginning to fill with blood and bodies. The Me
xican fell, clubbed by another soldier, and Case gripped his chest tightly, peering at Jimmy and Michael, checking to see if they were still fine.

  Both were fighting desperately, and retreating. The press of the superior numbers of Mexicans was beginning to tell. The cannons had cut down some of the reinforcements from behind Case’s company and they were slowly giving ground up the slope, towards the level of the cannon fire. If they retreated up to the top of the ridge they’d be blown to bits by the artillery. Down here they were too low to be hit.

  Things were going to get very nasty in the next few minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  General Zachary Taylor watched with growing anger as his carefully planned double enveloping maneuver was thwarted by the unexpectedly stiff Mexican resistance. His two pincers had been halted, and in fact the right flanking attack was being pushed back. The enemy artillery was making a mess of his plan, and unless he did something quick, his outnumbered army would cease to exist.

  He turned to Major Charles May, commander of a squadron of the 2nd dragoons, sat on his horse a few yards away. “Major, take your boys down the road and silence those goddam guns!”

  “Yes sir!” May saluted and wheeled his mount away, calling for his men to form up in ranks, pennants raised. Taylor chewed even more vigorously as the dragoons cantered down the road leading to the enemy guns. If they could be silenced the battle would be his. If not, well he may as well take up Mexican residency. “Go get ‘em,” he muttered and leaned sideways, spitting a yellow stream onto the ground.

  May’s men galloped down the road, sabers raised, screaming. The Mexican gunners saw the danger and frantically pulled their guns round and faced forward, but it was too late and the cavalry plunged into the gunners, hacking at the fleeing men. However the gunners were spared annihilation by the arrival of an infantry regiment who began slashing at the horses in fury. May saw three of his men go down and were butchered as they lay helplessly at the Mexicans’ feet. “Recall! Sound the recall!” May snapped at his bugler who obeyed instantly.

  Taylor watched in frustration as the dragoons fled the scene in ragged bunches, the Mexican gunners returning to their guns and beginning to reload. “Goddam fucking hell!” Taylor punched his thigh. He galloped over to the 8th infantry regiment, standing silently in the center, watching the carnage. “You boys want some exercise?” he called.

  “Sir!” some of them grinned, somewhat sickly as they knew what was coming.

  “Good boys!” Taylor clenched his teeth, pointing at the guns down the road. “I want you to go down there and silence those bastard cannons and keep them!”

  The regiment commander saluted and stepped forward. “Eighth infantry, for-waaaaaard march!”

  The men fixed bayonets and advanced grimly down the road towards the muzzles of the awaiting cannon…….

  Meanwhile in the ravine the impetus of the attack had swung back to the attackers as the cannons had been swung away from their direction. Lieutenant Bradman kept his line fixed, urging encouragement and barking orders whenever he saw part of the line falling back. His sergeants got some semblance of order finally, and screaming at the struggling men, got them to stand firm as more reinforcements arrived unmolested by canister fire.

  Case had continued fighting, grimacing at the searing pain in his ribcage as the wound healed slowly. The blood had stopped flowing within seconds, as he knew it would, and now he only had the internal damage to cope with. It hurt like hell but he was able to keep up with Jimmy and Michael, who formed a solid front, pounding away at the Mexican infantry which was beginning to fall back. Case was now stepping over bodies of the fallen as he advanced, a good sign things were going their way. “You okay?” Sergeant Mason shouted in Case’s ear as the Eternal Mercenary grimaced in pain, leaning on his musket as the front line was relieved by fresh men.

  “Yes sergeant,” Case breathed, “just a glancing blow from a bayonet. I’ll be fine.”

  Mason nodded and ran off to the right, urging encouragement to the men there. Michael and Jimmy stood where they had been overtaken by the men behind, panting in exhaustion. It had been a brutal fight, and it was difficult to step over the bodies of the fallen. “Come on men,” Bradman urged, “they’re giving way!”

  The three men wearily picked up their muskets and stumbled after the backs of their comrades who were chasing the Mexicans out of the ravine onto the Matamoros road beyond. The guns had been overrun by the 8th and with the capture of the road the Mexican army dissolved in panic. Men began fleeing in every direction or surrendering, and the American soldiers had a hell of a time trying to take care of the prisoners or chasing the fleeing men away from the battlefield.

  Case and his group were given guard duty for a batch of prisoners, which he preferred as he heard the whoops of delight from some of the men who were chasing the survivors from the battlefield, shooting them as they swam across the river to safety. Such was not for the likes of him. The Mexican prisoners were herded together, about a hundred of them, and marched off to Fort Texas under guard.

  Eventually order was restored and the army pitched camp once more on the north bank of the Rio Grande, and the roll-calls began. Case’s regiment had lost thirteen dead and fifty wounded out of a total American loss of 34 and 113. In contrast the Mexican Army of the North had virtually ceased to exist with over 1,200 dead or wounded and another 2,000 running away back to their homes. There wasn’t much left for Arista to defend Matamoros with.

  Case was relieved to have gotten out of the fight with just the one wound. The scratches from the thorns had long gone and the others had their own injuries to attend to rather than ask searching questions about Case’s wound. It hadn’t been the best battle he’d fought in; the terrain had been a bastard and they were lucky they’d won; with a bit more determination the Mexicans would have defeated them.

  After the prisoners had been turned over to the fort’s garrison troops the men sat around the camp discussing what would happen next. General Taylor had sent a messenger across the river to Arista and rumors were circulating as to what would happen next.

  “What d’ye think, Case?” Michael asked, chewing on a hunk of stale bread.

  “I don’t think Arista has the men to defend the town. He can’t have any more than two thousand left, and most of those are poor quality infantry. All General Taylor has to do is to start pounding the town with our artillery and they’ll surrender. I think Taylor wants the town undamaged so he can occupy it.”

  “Think we’ll be in Matamoros by tomorrow?” Feisler asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe the day after. Arista has no choice but to either surrender or retreat. I think he’ll retreat.”

  Kenny laughed. “Think of all those women in the town waiting for us!”

  “And the food! It’ll be better than this rubbish,” Michael said disgustedly, throwing the crust onto the flames where it flared up.

  So it turned out to be. Arista led what was left of his forces south a few days later and Taylor led his army across the river into the town, leaving behind the awful stench of the rotting corpses, the vultures and the wolves. Nobody had the inclination to bury the dead and the ground was too thorny, broken and stony to dig proper graves anyway. Let the beasts have them.

  Matamoros was a fair sized town, arranged neatly back from the river. The river bent in a huge loop just to the north of the town and was prone to flooding, so the buildings were set some way back. Many of the buildings were whitewashed stone and mud baked brick houses, humble dwellings, but in the center were the administrative and municipal constructions, large stone buttressed buildings with a town plaza separating them in a neat square. A large church stood on one side and it was here that many of the Irish soldiers made their way to pray and find out when mass would be held.

  Case had more practical matters to discover; where was the brothel? He soon discovered it, set back from the square in a long, flat roofed building with crumbling plaster walls and a wooden balcony where
the whores leaned out over the street below enticing passers-by to sample their delights. Case grinned and jangled his army pay in his pocket; they’d love him. And, he thought, better I get in quick before those other bastards arrive and give these girls the pox! He’d rather enjoy the women while they were in a healthy state.

  Senora Conchita Vazquez welcomed the rugged and handsome gringo to her establishment. Besides her a large, greasy unshaven man glared at him until Case produced the right amount of money, then all was obsequious smiles and welcoming gestures. Senora Vazquez clapped her hands and a procession of giggling Mexican women entered the hallway from adjacent rooms or down the stairs, all looking at their first American soldier.

  “Senor, as the first new arrival to our town, we wish to show our happiness and our hospitality. Please select any three for your enjoyment,” Vazquez smiled.

  Three! Hell. This was going to be one heck of a welcome to Matamoros! Case looked the women over. Their ages ranged from mid-teens to late forties. Some were thin to the point of emaciation while others were fairly plump. A nice range of shapes and sizes. He grabbed the hand of a tall, dark eyed Spanish girl who looked in good health and was about twenty. “I think you’ll be very welcoming, won’t you?” he asked in fluent Spanish.

  The women gasped and giggled even more. A gringo who spoke their language as well as any native! The second girl he chose showed much of the blood of the native tribes of Mexico, and Case briefly thought of Metah, the Teotec girl he’d loved all those centuries past. Then he pushed the thought deeply into his mind; he didn’t want to dwell on what had happened to her. He still had a guilty feeling about his part in her death. Finally he selected a well-rounded olive-skinned woman; he wasn’t sure entirely of her origins but she looked the fiery type and he needed to blow off steam after the stress of battle.

  The three girls led him up the stairs into a furnished bedroom that overlooked the back of the church. Case smiled. While his comrades were kneeling inside that building praying to God, he’d be in his own kind of heaven in a manner the priests would definitely frown upon.