Gone for Soldiers

  “General Patterson, will you join me?”

  Patterson looked at the bottle, said, “Gracious of you, sir. Thank you.”

  Scott poured the brandy, corked the bottle, slid one glass toward Patterson, said, “I am not a great proponent of spirits in camp. I try to make an example, practice temperance around the men. It is not always … easy.” He paused, said, “General, my report to the Secretary will be accurate. Despite my caution to the commanders, no doubt there will be private versions of the Battle of Cerro Gordo. Hell, every battle and skirmish we have here will be written up by somebody. We’re fortunate not to have very many reporters following after us down here. We’re too damned far away from their comfortable offices. But if the reporters aren’t here, doesn’t mean they aren’t expecting a story. Some of our commanders are only too eager to oblige.”

  Patterson sipped the brandy, stared at the small glass, said, “Never seen so much … intrigue.”

  Scott laughed, said, “There’s always intrigue when you get so many peacocks together. We’re in close quarters here, no room for anybody to strut. Some of you may not like each other, and God knows, none of you likes me, but ultimately none of that matters. Not here, not while we have an enemy out there. And despite what some of our people believe, Santa Anna is a very dangerous enemy who still means to drive us to hell. What Washington thinks about all this is not my concern. My concern is what this army will do in the field. If General Pillow did not perform, then it is up to you to bring him up to speed, make sure it doesn’t happen again. We were damned lucky this time, the timing was on our side, the element of surprise is what won us that fight. The collapse of their army was a humiliation, an outright embarrassment. That’s worse than any military defeat. I doubt Santa Anna will let it happen again.”

  “I’ll try to control him, sir. Keep a tighter watch.”

  “All you can do, General. Gideon Pillow may yet learn to command an army. It’s your job to make sure he doesn’t kill too many of our people doing it.”

  Patterson stood slowly, the man’s age showing itself in the stiffness with which he moved, how his face was cut deep by the long years of being the good soldier. He said, “Thank you for the brandy, sir. It was a privilege.”

  Patterson began to move out of the tent, and Scott said, “General, have you given thought to the volunteers? Their enlistments are coming due.”

  Patterson turned, a frown darkening his expression, and said, “Actually, sir, I had hoped the problem would work itself out. A sizable number of my men have another couple of months left. I have made considerable effort to convince them to reenlist. I am distressed to say that thus far … it has not been successful.”

  Patterson moved back into the tent, sat again, said, “I had thought most of them would stay, understand that this was something worth doing. But all I hear is that they’re a long way from home, and not very happy about it.”

  Scott rubbed his face with his hand, said, “Replacements are supposed to be on their way. I can’t give you any numbers. Hell, a while back Secretary Marcy promised me another twenty thousand men. If I believed every promise I got from Washington …” He shook his head, stared down at the desk. “If they want to go home, it’s their right. How many you expect to lose?”

  “Nearly all of them, sir. Perhaps four thousand.”

  Scott let out a deep breath. “I would have thought half that.”

  “Sir, I thought we might resume the march to Mexico City, that it might be a powerful incentive to make them stay with the army by taking them farther inland. There could be something of the patriotic fever, some call to duty once we got closer to another good fight.”

  “General Patterson, I appreciate wishful thinking when it’s in my favor. Consider that the volunteers have already been difficult to manage. They are not accustomed to life in the army. If you force them to stay beyond their term of enlistment, I would imagine they might become even more of a discipline problem. They might begin to feel like prisoners. We can’t afford that. This army has already suffered the embarrassment of the deserters.”

  Patterson winced, and Scott thought, Of course, he takes that personally. It has to be a sensitive subject. Scott said, “It’s an unfortunate fact of life, General, that patriotism does not always work. Sometimes, it backfires altogether.”

  Patterson seemed to sag, said, “Sir, someone must take the blame or at least share the responsibility for the desertions. It is one thing to have a man simply run away, refuse to fight. It is quite another to have him go over to the other side, and take up arms against his comrades. I have never known of this before. I am horrified, sir.”

  “It is no one’s responsibility in this army, General. First of all, most of the desertions happened under General Taylor’s command. But, no, I’m not about to make a fuss over that. Too many people already making such a commotion over whose feelings have been trampled on. Fact is, we cannot overestimate the power of the Church, not down here. If I’m correct, most of the … uh … St. Patrick—”

  “I believe they are now referred to as the San Patricios, sir.”

  Scott shook his head. “Yes, I was right the first time. These St. Patrick fellows decided, I suppose, that they wouldn’t fight against their fellow Catholics. Religion runs a lot deeper than army training. No commander, not even Zachary Taylor, can be blamed for that. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help the prejudice in this army against Catholics, not one damned bit.”

  Patterson stared at the ground, still seemed weighed down, said, “I will carry the stain, sir. The volunteers have not made anyone’s job a simple one. Now some of them may end up shooting back at us. I do not understand.…”

  Scott took another sip of brandy. “It will never happen. Can’t believe any American would ever shoot at his own countrymen. Put it out of your mind, General. We need to deal with the problem at hand, which is your volunteers who intend on leaving this place altogether.”

  Patterson nodded slowly. “Thank you, sir. Yes, we must focus on these men now.”

  Scott sat back. “Consider, General, that the longer we wait and the farther inland we take them, it will be much more difficult eventually to move them to the coast. Waiting until the summer months would be barbaric. We’d be sending many of them straight to their deaths. The el vomito would consume the lot of them.”

  “What would you like me to do, sir?”

  “Muster them out now. Send them on to the coast before the hot weather gets here. We’ll hold the army at Jalapa, hope like hell some reinforcements arrive. Worst thing that can happen is Santa Anna has time to gather a new army. Not much we can do about that anyway. We can’t go after his capital with seven thousand men.”

  “The volunteers will be grateful, sir. This will calm a lot of tempers.”

  “If the reinforcements don’t get here soon, someone will have to calm mine. You’re dismissed, General.”

  Patterson seemed to hesitate, and Scott asked, “Something else, General?”

  “Sir, yes, I suppose this is as good a time as any. You are aware that my specific assignment here was to command the volunteer division. Since there is no certainty the division will be reinforced, I am requesting transfer, sir. I would like to apply to the Secretary for reassignment, with your endorsement, sir.”

  Scott leaned forward, smiled. “You want to leave this wonderful place?”

  Patterson’s expression remained serious, and he said, “Sir, I have not done the job I had hoped to do. I’m afraid I cannot just put aside my responsibility for the deserters, or the discipline problems with the volunteers. When my division marches back to Vera Cruz, I should like to accompany them. It seems appropriate, sir.”

  Scott said nothing, could see it now, the defeat in the man’s face. I would never let him go, he thought, we need the veterans, the good commanders. But he is gone already. And if he stays here, he could make mistakes. We cannot afford mistakes. Scott said, “You are a fine commander, General. But I respect your wishes. Pre
pare your request, I will endorse it.”

  Patterson stood again, said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Patterson saluted, moved away quickly, and Scott reached behind him, pulled the bottle of brandy out again, thought, Now I need one more. He looked at the papers on the table, the official report he had already begun to write. He looked outside, saw aides gathering at a coffeepot, thought, I should get going on this damned paperwork. If Washington understands that I may actually be capable of winning a battle, they may even send some support.

  He thought of the volunteers, men itching to go home, to leave the fight and their duty behind. They had signed twelvemonth enlistments. A mistake, he thought. You can’t assign duty by a calendar. They should have signed up for the duration of the war, committed to staying until the job was done. Not much of a Cause to them. I had thought Manifest Destiny might be important to more than just the politicians. Apparently not. It’s a good thing we don’t run the army like a democracy, let the troops vote on whether this war is worth fighting. Maybe we’d all be heading back home.

  He set the bottle back in the cabinet, sipped from the glass, thought, All right, enough. You’ve given the volunteers more attention than they deserve. There is only one priority now, and it’s a big damned city, and we will need more than seven thousand men to do the job. He picked up a paper, read it over, thought of the commanders, Pillow, the rest, all hoping to see their name in print. The junior officers, he thought, that’s what these reports should be about, the men who did the job, who led the attack. He thought of Lee now, his quiet dignity. There should be more like him. Do the job, and instead of standing around waiting for a medal, do the next job. To hell with these gray-headed peacocks.

  10. LEE

  APRIL TWENTIETH

  THEY SANG AS THEY MARCHED, ENERGIZED BY THE COOL AIR, and no one complained that the road seemed to be uphill the entire way. Jalapa was not a long march, the town only a few miles beyond the village of Cerro Gordo, but the change of scenery was dramatic. As they climbed into cooler air, the dull greens of the dense brush opened up into brightly colored checkerboards of rich farmland. Where thorny thickets had spread over dusty hills, the land here was flatter, wide patches of deep green fields of corn and beans and rows of short thick fruit trees. If the men from New England and the Atlantic coast had thought Mexico was a hostile wasteland, they were startled to see this change, how the countryside opened up in soft and pleasant scenes that reminded many of them of home.

  Lee rode with Worth’s division, and soon the rest of the army would follow, making camp around the larger town. He wore his heavier wool jacket, had not needed it since the cool nights on the big ship. Around him the march moved quickly, and he could hear laughter, the troops’ spirits high as they seemed to draw strength from the land. He had thought of home all along the march, so much of this fertile land so familiar, but there was still one stark difference. No matter how much the lush green brought back thoughts of the rich valleys and vast farms of Virginia, in the distance stood the vast amazing beauty of the tall mountains, the reminder that this was still a very different place after all.

  He moved past a small farm where a single mule stood tied to a makeshift plow. The farmer looked at him with a wide smile, the strange mix of white teeth and burnished ruddy skin the color of the reins Lee held loosely in his hands. The farm was small, a flat stretch of freshly plowed dirt, and beyond, a small orchard around a crude house of low stone under a flat roof. He felt pulled in by the man’s cheerfulness, smiled back at him, and the man waved.

  Lee thought, How easy it is to judge. This place is so much like western Virginia, and how I’ve seen those people struggle to survive. We shake our heads and take our patronizing attitudes back to our grand estates and have no idea that those people can in fact be quite happy. This man is not struggling. He works his farm and maintains a home, and here he stands watching some great army pass by, and clearly he does not see this as some horrible invasion. We are a curiosity, and this is a day to remember, something interesting to tell his children. And his father probably told him the same stories, more armies, moving both ways, always some war down here, some revolution, and always the farmer waits until the armies pass by, then he picks up the plow and goes back to his field.

  He rode closer to the orchard, saw white and pink flowers scattered through the trees, a soft sweetness on the breeze. Surely they believe God is protecting them, he thought, that God is here, in this bounty. He had become increasingly impatient with the hostility, the prejudice against the Catholic church, even among the officers. Some of it came from the desertion of the San Patricios, but Lee did not understand how the church could have had any part in that, how someone’s faith could have pulled at a man’s honor, betraying his sense of duty. It is in a man’s heart what he fights for, he thought. If they had thought this fight was wrong, or our cause was unjust, they should never have come here at all, should never have accepted the duty. Whatever they do now will be judged by God, and surely it will not matter to God to what church they placed their loyalty. But the people here, the citizens … I must find out, see how they worship. They are a devout people. There is something to be respected in that, even if they are … different. Surely God has given them that. It is not for us to judge.

  He could see more buildings up ahead, the outskirts of the town, more flat rooftops on stone houses, the tiny homes huddled tightly together. He could see a few taller buildings, two stories, some clearly providing cramped living space above a family business. Along the road people were gathering, lining up on both sides. The soldiers began to speak to them, receiving greetings, cheerful salutes in return, some delivered in Spanish, which the men did not understand. Lee saw more smiles as the people watched the army move past, and he was struck by their politeness, how the people did not seem to be anyone’s enemy. He was unsettled by their behavior, how different the emotions of this day were than yesterday’s. He wondered if these people had seen what he had, the destruction, the death, would they have received their visitors in the same way?

  More sounds up in front of him captured his attention. From the tone of the outbursts, the soldiers must have been reacting to something new. Finally, Lee could see the women, a cluster of bright colors, soft dresses, flowers in black hair. The women were smiling as well, not just offering a pleasant greeting, but something more, a playful teasing, waving to the troops seductively. The troops were becoming noisier, some men slowing the march, trying to speak to the women, and officers began to shout, calling the men to order. Lee rode past the women now, smiled at the show of flirtation, saw one woman draw a long-stemmed rose from her blouse, toss it toward him. Lee caught the rose, could hear the men behind cheering him, the voice of one man, “How ’bout that, Captain. She ’pears to like you.”

  He was suddenly embarrassed, thought, Give it back, I should not be accepting gifts. He looked at the woman again, her rich olive skin, round dark eyes, could not help himself, thought, She is truly … beautiful. He caught himself, turned to the front, felt the burn in his cheeks. As you were, Captain. He looked at the rose, marveled at the deep luscious red, God’s handiwork. I did not thank her … and he glanced back, saw all the women focused now on the men behind him, saw her handing another rose to another soldier, and he smiled, faced front again.

  We should not be so easily flattered, he thought. There is simply a marvelous beauty in these people. He held the soft flower to his face, filled himself with the wonderful smell, and now a sudden flood of guilt began to rise in him, and he tossed the rose over his shoulder. This is for the men, some of them will seek this kind of comfort here. They do not have the discipline of the officer. We must avoid temptation.

  There were different smells now, and Lee felt himself pulled toward a familiar delicious warmth. He saw a fat stone building with a small smokestack. Through an open window he saw a long row of dark brown bread, and then the baker, spreading fresh loaves in the window. Lee felt his mouth turn wet, watched the s
team slowly drift above the feast, thought, Perhaps I should look into that. It could provide a treat for the headquarters staff. He smiled, thought, Temptation indeed.

  APRIL TWENTY-SECOND

  He did not stay long in Jalapa. After only one day of rest, he was on the march again, riding along with General Worth to occupy the next small town, Perote. General Scott sensed that there would be no organized threat from Santa Anna, not for a while, nor did he believe the army would find much resistance moving farther along the highway. Perote was not merely another small trophy of war, but the gateway that would lead them next to Puebla, the second largest city in Mexico, and a place that Scott believed would be the site of the next major confrontation.

  They could still see the remnants of the retreat, mostly the wagons, broken down from the hard ride, their drivers and passengers leaving them where the axles had given way. Out in front, the skirmish line had picked through anything that might hold some value, or some threat, and Lee had become accustomed to the debris, did not feel as shocked as he had been at first by the waste and destruction of the battle.

  Worth had asked Lee to come, and Scott expected quiet for a while, had no reason to keep his engineer, now his chief scout, close at hand. Lee had looked forward to the ride, had not yet spoken to Worth alone, out from underneath the enormous shadow of the commanding general. Most of the older generals were strangers to Lee, and before Mexico were faceless names that filtered down through the hierarchy of command. If a junior officer heard anything about men like Twiggs or even Zachary Taylor, it was by some rumor, a scandal perhaps, some suggestion of misbehavior. But William Worth had been commandant of cadets at West Point, had been a mentor to the entire class in those days when young men appreciated an officer who took the time to teach. One of those young cadets had been Lee.