Gone for Soldiers Page 7

  Scott felt the bad mood return, could not think of Santa Anna without his stomach balling up into a hard cold knot. It was President Polk and those fat politicians in Washington who had allowed Santa Anna to come back to Mexico. He thought of Sam Houston. He would be a good one to have here, instead of some fossil like Twiggs. Houston had beaten Santa Anna, driven his army out of Texas, and so the Mexican people drove Santa Anna all the way to Cuba. But Houston is a politician now, he thought, enjoying the rewards of the good victory, retiring into the quiet life of the dignified hero. Too bad.

  Scott had not been in Washington when Santa Anna’s representative came to call. The man had offered assurances that if Santa Anna was allowed back into Mexico, he would take control again, and prevent the war from happening in the first place, negotiate a just peace for both sides.

  Polk had believed him, sent the order to the Gulf, telling the navy to allow Santa Anna to pass through the blockade. Scott had blown sky-high when he heard about the order, had not understood how the Mexican people would allow Santa Anna to simply walk in to Mexico City and take command again. But beyond that, he wondered how the United States government could support putting a dictator back into power.

  He could see the headquarters tents, felt his stomach turn, thought, You do this every time. When will you let it go? Enjoy your own damned victory? He could hear the calls from the men again, their noisy salutes. He exhaled deeply.

  No, you can never let it go. Listen to them. They want something to fight for, they believe in what we’re doing here. They believe in this command. It is for them, for the men, that I can never let the stupidity just pass by. I cannot allow politics and intrigue to stand in the way of our duty here. Destiny has had a hand in this. Santa Anna knew his people better than we did, knew how weak the Mexican government was, knew that one strong man can always push aside a weak, floundering government. And if he never had any intention of negotiating with us, if all he wanted to do was secure his own power by making a war against the yanquis, then, well, here we are. He has a war. We are on their soil, and we have nowhere to go but to their capital. That’s the only place we will win this war. It’s time to move.

  “GENERAL SCOTT, ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MY REPLACEMENT.”

  Conner’s voice was slow, steady. Scott watched him, thought, He has more control, more dignity, than I would have now. Behind Conner, the younger man stepped forward. Scott noticed that he was heavier than Conner, round-faced, serious. He looked at Scott, nervous, uncertain, and Conner said, “General, this is Commodore Matthew Perry. Effective immediately, I am turning over command of the naval forces here to him. Be assured, General, he is quite capable.”

  Perry held out a hand, and Scott reached over the small table, felt a hard, firm grip, thought, Well, at least he has that right. Scott looked at Conner again, saw a strange nervousness, the calm dignity failing him, Conner’s eyes reddening, revealing the sadness of the moment, the man’s final duty. Scott said, “When will you leave?”

  Conner seemed resigned now, weaker, the control gone.

  “Tomorrow, sir.” Conner paused, seemed to search for words. “Sir, I want you to know … the orders were not unexpected. My term of command has been expired for some time. Washington has been gracious in allowing me to continue here while our operations were under way.”

  Scott saw Conner studying him, thought, He expects me to blow up again, more stupidity from Washington, changing commanders in the middle of a military operation. But he had seen the change in Conner as well, the man’s health slipping away. He could also tell that he was watching a man whose job is done, who has accepted his own passing. No, it’s not anger, not now, he thought. It’s just sadness. Damn.

  He looked down, said, “Commodore, you have done your country proud. All my reports will reflect that. Without the navy’s assistance—”

  Conner held up his hand, “Please, sir.”

  Scott stopped, thought, No, he knows all of this. Save it for a speech. He looked at Perry now, saw the nervousness was gone, and Perry said, “General, my command will continue to cooperate with your every requirement. I am pleased to make my first report, sir. You may expect horses and wagons in the next few days, weather permitting. Your requests for additional troops have finally been answered favorably. Several regiments of volunteers are sailing this way as well. By the end of the week, your situation here should be somewhat improved.”

  Scott looked at Conner, who was smiling now, and Scott understood what Conner had done, allowing Perry to make the good impression. Scott stood noisily, the table suddenly rocking as he leaned forward again. He held out his hand, grinned at Perry, said, “Commodore Perry, you may bring me surprises like this any time.” He paused, squinted a bit. “You’re not, say, running for President, are you?”

  APRIL TWELFTH

  He had ordered Davy Twiggs to move out first, with a screen of dragoons, William Harney’s good cavalry leading the way. The first objective would be the town of Jalapa, nearly eighty miles from the coast, and well above the fever zone. But Twiggs had not yet reached Jalapa when word came back to headquarters: They had found Santa Anna, and a considerable number of Mexican troops. If they had not known Santa Anna’s plans, they understood now that the Mexican commander intended to keep the yanquis close to the coast.

  Scott had left Worth in Vera Cruz, to handle affairs there, acting as a temporary military governor, commanding a division of regular soldiers. Worth would not only keep the peace with the Mexicans, but his men were more disciplined than the volunteers, and so would keep peace among themselves. Twiggs commanded regulars as well, and Scott was clear that the spearhead of the inland drive would have to consist of the best troops. Patterson’s division of volunteers had marched behind Twiggs. Neither Twiggs nor Worth had any enthusiasm for depending on the volunteers as an effective fighting force.

  Scott was still far behind the advance of Twiggs’s men, riding with a large escort, more of Harney’s dragoons. The march was uneven, slowed by cavalrymen still growing used to the new horses, many bought from local farmers, ranchers. Scott had heard the clamor, the men trying to maintain control, keep a calm firm hand over the fresh mounts. But then he would hide a smile, wait patiently as the quiet discipline of the escort was shattered by the sudden wild galloping of an unbroken mount, the helpless cavalryman shouting curses at the horse that carried him into the rugged brush.

  They had come past small patrols of foot soldiers, the rear guard from Patterson, protecting the road from the guerrillas, and always, Scott had heard the blessed cheers.

  As they moved farther inland, the ground began to roll, the sand giving way to hard, dry dirt. The flat scrub brush of the beach changed as well, great knifelike plants, their strange, long dark leaves, with sharp serrated edges, standing tall in vast thickets of wiry gray vines. As the march took them higher, the dirt grew harder still, and the angry vegetation began to thin out, opening into wide patches of bare earth. Here, the enemy was the wind, blowing great clouds of dust across the road, choking the men, slowing the horses, nearly stopping the march.

  He rode up a long rise, after climbing several big hills today, and the change in altitude was obvious, the cooler, dryer air filling them all with fresh energy for the march. He began to see stretches of small trees, healthy, more green than the dull gray and brown of the coast. He stopped, moved the horse off the road, stared out to the front, admired the stunning view of Orizaba, the great mountain that never lost its crown of snow. You could see the peak from the coast, from the first day the ships had sailed close, but now it was much closer, much larger. He stared for a long moment, thought of the mountains up north, New York, Pennsylvania. We thought they were huge, imposing and impossible to climb. He laughed quietly. The staff instinctively moved closer, waiting for him to say something. He held up a hand, No, nothing, stared still at the great peak, buried under a thick cap of snow. My God, we could never have imagined this. Those dark hills with the thick green, the dense blan
ket of pines … hills indeed. This is a mountain.

  He had never been intensely religious, had left that to his wife, and the immense spectacle of the mountain suddenly brought her into his mind. Dear Maria, you would appreciate this. God’s handiwork, the spectacular reminder when some of us forget.

  He turned the horse, gazed down the line of blue horsemen stretching out behind. They had stopped with him, waited patiently, and he thought, We should keep moving, but he was enjoying this small pleasant moment, Maria’s image still with him. He did not think of her often, had never felt painfully alone, or gone through the torment of homesickness. No, this has always been my home, and she understands that. She has her social circles and my daughters to fuss over her, and if I am not there, my reputation, my notoriety, certainly is. He laughed again. She no doubt prefers it that way.

  He had not thought of her on their anniversary, had only remembered it weeks later, when the big guns were punching the walls of Vera Cruz. It had been thirty years, and he had suddenly marveled at that, thought of it again now. That is special I suppose. She certainly didn’t forget. There was probably some celebration, some gathering of local ladies to support her sorrow that I am so far removed. She will enjoy that. But she won’t say anything about it to me.

  Her image began to drift away, and he watched the cloud of dust, hanging low behind them, kicked up by the horses of his men. He looked toward the front now, the air still clear, a stunning blue sky, thought, Keep moving. Scott could picture Twiggs in his mind. The man’s broad shoulders still hard, Twiggs sitting high on the horse, glowering at his men through his rough gray beard. Twiggs knows only one way to be a soldier, he thought. Sometimes, that’s a good thing, act first, think about it later. But not this time. Patterson’s message had been straightforward. There are a lot more of them than there are of us, and Santa Anna has the high ground. Patterson hinted that Twiggs was ready to charge straight ahead, and Scott knew he would have to be there to take charge personally. If those two start arguing, for all I know it could lead to a duel. I’m like a damned father, breaking up squabbles between unruly children. He felt a sudden impatience, looked toward the dragoons, waiting for him to continue the march. All right, he thought, let’s go.

  He focused again to the rear, scanned the flat horizon, the dust slowly clearing, the road empty except for a distant squad, the rear guard, sentries who would keep the guerrillas away. He thought of Worth, waiting in Vera Cruz, enduring the painfully slow arrival of the supplies. There were still not enough wagons, and fewer horses, but the navy was still insisting the ships were en route. Worth would stay on the coast, prepare the transportation as quickly as the ships appeared.

  Commodore Perry would do the job. Scott had no doubts about Perry, not anymore, but still he thought of Conner, the old man sailing north now, going home. Damn, there should be some better way, some recognition. He’d earned it. So many commanders in this army, great peacocks in puffed shirts, men who will earn very little recognition, but they will be remembered because they know how to get their names in the newspaper. And one very good man is sailing back home to be forgotten.

  He moved the horse back into the road, spurred his mount into a trot toward the front, heard the staff moving into line behind him. He crested the long hill, looked again at Orizaba, then beyond, toward the foothills that stretched far to the west. Patterson’s column is up there, close, he thought. He didn’t know Robert Patterson well, just that he was another gray-haired veteran of 1812, and that the rough old Irishman was the only man who seemed capable of commanding the volunteers. Scott knew Patterson’s son was in his father’s command, the young man a rugged copy of the commander. They’re probably together now, he thought, the young man’s a Texas Ranger, Ben McCulloch’s bunch. The Rangers had already built their own reputation as a ruthlessly straightforward fighting force, though some were saying they were out of control. Scott worried still about that.

  We have our hands full of problems with the volunteers. But the Texans bring something else, a different spirit, a violence born of revenge. Certainly, no one else in the army has such a hatred of Santa Anna. That’s a challenge for Patterson, to keep them in line. If they stay focused on the enemy, maybe that will spread to the other volunteers, point them all in the right direction.

  The horsemen were moving now, more dust was rising, another hill stretching around a long curve. The road was good, hard, a few big holes the men would have to march around. But it was a road an army could appreciate, a road that would lead them straight to the enemy. He thought of Cortez, centuries before, moving another army on this same road. The Spaniards killed nearly everyone that met them. Cortez had no way of knowing that his men carried something far deadlier than guns. In the end, the strength, the power, of the Spanish did not matter. If there had been no fight at all, Cortez had brought disease, the awful plague of smallpox that decimated the Indians. The conquest had been absolute. Scott had heard comparisons, the political enemies of Polk condemning the army, another conquest of a helpless people, thought, But there is no comparison. Cortez came for gold, to expand the Spanish empire. This is a fight for … His mind seemed to lock up on one thought. He knew the term Manifest Destiny, that somehow it was part of being an American. God has decreed our rights to the entire continent, a chosen people. It was always the justification, the response to the critics, to those who opposed Polk, and so opposed the war.

  I don’t know much about being chosen. A soldier fights for … duty. We always fight for duty. Here, our duty is clear. This is a war about boundaries, borders, a dispute that could not be settled any other way.

  He felt a headache coming, a hard knot in the base of his skull. He blinked hard, fought it, twisted his head to the side. The young Scott was beside him now, said, “Sir, can I get you anything?”

  Scott looked up, squinted into the bright glare of the sun, said, “No. Dammit, I’ll tell you when I need something.” He turned, looked behind him, saw the other staff officers watching him, waiting calmly for some command. He focused on one man, saw the man’s eyes searching the horizon, intense, curious. Scott continued watching him for a moment, thought, I have no idea if he’ll ever be a soldier, but it seems he’s a damned good engineer. Maybe more, something in the eyes. More than just another college boy.

  “Captain Lee, move up here. Ride with me.”

  Lee seemed startled, focused on him now. The horses parted, and Lee pushed through, moved alongside Scott, said, “Sir?”

  Scott said nothing, stared again at the magnificence of Orizaba.

  Lee followed his look, said quietly, “Beautiful, sir.”

  Scott nodded, twisted his head again, pulled at the still-growing headache. “Yes. Beautiful. You fight a war before, Captain?”

  Lee seemed surprised at the question, said, “Uh, no sir.”

  “No, I suppose not. You don’t have the gray hair. Been a long time since this army had to fight.”

  Lee said, “Some of the others here fought the Indians, the Seminoles.”

  “Yes, yes, but a real war. Mobilize the army, march off under big damned flags, brass bands, the whole country rallying around the Cause.”

  Lee said nothing, waited.

  Scott continued, “Can’t say the whole country’s rallying around this cause. You have any idea why we’re fighting here, Captain?”

  Lee hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir, we have our duty. The army must perform as ordered. Those decisions …”

  “Those decisions are made by someone else. The army is told what to do, and performs accordingly. That the way you see it, Captain?”

  Lee seemed uncomfortable now. “It’s how we were taught, sir.”

  “Hmmm, yes, taught. I didn’t spend much time being taught, Mr. Lee. Forty years ago nobody gave much thought to West Point. We went out and did the job the way we thought it ought to be done. No demerits given in the field. No one to scold you on failing your lesson. You make a mistake, your men die. Too many men die, they p
ull you out, stick you somewhere else. You think all these West Pointers can handle that, Mr. Lee? The army’s a bit different out here where it counts. You don’t find any of this in a textbook.”

  He stopped, thought, Easy. No need to preach, not to this one. He’s no youngster. “We will find out, though, won’t we, Mr. Lee? As much respect as I have for the institution, for the place, now, we’ll find out if I can depend on the men it has sent me. We’ll find out if college boys are up to fighting a war.”

  Lee said nothing, and Scott thought, I hope he has a thick skin. I need people around me who don’t get so damned touchy every time I say something to ruffle a few feathers. He waited, saw Lee staring ahead.

  “I have absolute confidence in the men of this command, sir. Forgive me, sir,” Lee said, “but if you have respect for West Point, then you should have respect for the men who made the grade. We are not just … college boys, sir.”

  Lee still stared ahead, and Scott smiled now, had heard the slight edge in Lee’s voice. “I admire your pride, Mr. Lee, and I accept your advice. This time.”

  Lee seemed uneasy, said, “My apologies, sir. If I was out of line—”

  “Never back off, Mr. Lee. I pushed you, and you pushed back. That’s not always a good idea, you understand. But I had to know how you felt. We have a long road in front of us, Captain. I’m still learning who I can depend on.” The smile was gone and Scott sat quietly for a long moment, then said, “The damnedest thing is, Captain, this time it’s my show, I’m in charge. I can’t even depend on Washington, not even the President.” He turned, looked back at the young major.

  “Bring me the order, find that order from Polk.”

  The young man reached back, shuffled through a saddlebag of papers. Scott said to Lee, “I keep it close by as a reminder, in case any of those puffed-up gray-heads start arguing with me.”

  The young man moved up, handed Scott the paper. Scott opened it, read out loud, “ ‘It is not proposed to control your operations by definite and positive instructions, but you are left to prosecute them as your judgment … shall dictate. The work is before you and the means provided … in the full confidence that you will use them to the best advantage.’ ”