Gone for Soldiers
Lee moved through the streets of the town, his mood somber, as he ignored the calls of the merchants, the craftspeople who held out their wares, blankets, and baskets. He could not help but stop beside a wagon filled with strange and beautiful birdhouses, the man selling them smiling a wide toothless grin. Lee knew he had made a mistake, that if you stopped, they would pour out the salesmanship, hold you tightly until you bought something. He tried to smile, nodded through the man’s flow of words, finally said, “No, señor, gracias. Not now. Maybe … later.”
The man was still speaking to him, held up one of the birdhouses. It was made of some type of delicate wood, trimmed with colorful feathers. Lee’s mood darkened even more as he thought of his children, how far away he was from them. The birdhouse would have made a wonderful gift. But, not now, this was not the place to indulge in sentiment. He moved away, tried to ignore the rest of the merchants, but one woman approached him holding a thick bunch of roses, the wonderful scent finding him, adding to his sadness. He nodded toward her, smiled faintly, as though to say, Sorry, I must go.
The army was used to this now, the town taking advantage of the wealth of new customers, these yanquis who moved among them with the swagger of heroes. The relationship between the citizens and the soldiers was still a pleasant one, and the army handled even the occasional problem, a fight perhaps, or some abusive treatment of a civilian, with swift discipline and the townspeople’s tolerance.
He began to hear new sounds, quiet conversation, the laughter of children, the evening meals prepared in dozens of small homes. He also caught the smells, the roasting of meat, the strange stew with the rich brown gravy, and then of course, his weakness, the bread, fresh and hot and wonderful. The effect of his unsatisfactory departure from Worth was gone now, and he could not help a smile, thought, Nothing smells as good as freshly made bread. The lamplights were taking effect now, spilling from the homes into the quiet streets. Even the aggression of the shopkeepers had given way to the peace of the cool evening.
He began to see soldiers, heard sounds more familiar, voices in English, a different laughter, jokes and tall tales. He moved toward a group of men in blue, and he was saluted, saw a familiar face, heard his name. He was suddenly very tired, thought of the bread, felt his stomach grumble, heard his name again.
“Captain Lee! Sir!”
He looked for the voice, saw a young lieutenant moving toward him, waving. Lee stopped his horse. He saw the resemblance immediately, the man a younger copy of Joe Johnston, small and thin, but with a quiet air of assurance.
The young man said, “Captain, I’m glad to see you. We were hoping … Captain Johnston has been asking for you.”
Lee felt a twist in his gut, said, “How is he? Is he all right?”
“Oh, yes, sir. But he’s been hoping to see you. We didn’t know when you might return. If you have a moment … this way, sir.”
Lee climbed down from the horse, said, “I recognize you. You are his nephew.”
The young man was already moving away, stopped, looked at Lee, said, “Yes, sir. John Preston Johnston, sir. I am honored you would remember me.”
“Not at all, Lieutenant. Your uncle has told me a great deal. Class of 1843, I believe?”
“Indeed, sir. Thank you.”
There was a pause, and Lee felt awkward, didn’t know what else to say. The young lieutenant saw the look on Lee’s face and said, “Perhaps we should go now, sir.”
He followed the young man past more soldiers, some men carrying plates of food. Lee’s senses were overwhelmed by smells now, roasted meat, chicken. He wanted to stop, thought, Surely … one minute, just a plate, but the young man was moving into a glow of lamplight. He stood in an open doorway, said, “This way, Captain.”
Lee followed, moved through the door, and the smells suddenly changed. Lee felt his throat draw tight, fought for a breath. He could see across the room now, a row of low beds, wounded men, soldiers, doctors standing, moving slowly among them. Lee scanned the faces, saw the young man again, waiting for him, standing at the foot of a bed. Lee blinked hard, fought past the odor, but suddenly remembered his mother, her sickbed, the awful, terrible time, the smells … like this. Medicine and sickness … and death. He still fought it, pushed hard at the image, could not face those memories. He looked again at the men in the beds, thought, Now they will have the images, their own horror. I don’t understand why it has to smell like this. He began to take small, tight breaths. He stepped into the room, moved toward the young man, saw Johnston now, his friend looking up at him with black eyes.
“Joe, how are you?”
Johnston nodded, raised one arm, pulled the sheet back, and Lee saw a heavy bandage on his other arm. Johnston said weakly, “Cerro Gordo will be memorable for both of us. While you were off finding a way to get promoted, I wandered out with a reconnaissance patrol a little too far in front of General Pillow, nearly walked right into a Mexican picket line. This one went clean through. But … the other one’s worse.” Johnston moved his hand lower, pointed to his hip. “Allow me the dignity of not showing you this one, Robert.”
Lee tried to smile, put his hand on Johnston’s shoulder while he fought for the right words. “You healing … getting better? Surely, you’ll be out of this place soon. Any word yet what they’re going to do with you?” He felt a sudden cold chill, said, “They sending you home?”
Johnston pulled the sheet over him again, said, “Wouldn’t hear of it. The doctors say I’ll be back in action in a few weeks. Say I’m healing nicely. Not sure what’s so nice about it. Best reason I can think of to get healed up … is to get out of this place. Besides …” He looked at his nephew. “… somebody’s got to take care of this young firecracker here. He’s artillery, you know. Couldn’t interest him in being an engineer, he had to play with the big guns.”
Lee looked at the young man, saw his red-faced embarrassment. “What unit, Lieutenant?” Lee asked.
“Magruder’s battery, sir. Captain John Magruder.”
Johnston shook his head, said, “You believe that, Robert? Not only does he want to shoot cannons, but he wants to do it for the most disagreeable man in the army.”
The young man seemed wounded, said, “Sir, I have been told in no uncertain terms, if you want to see a good fight, follow Captain Magruder. I only hope to be of capable service.”
Lee smiled. “Joe, I’m certain the lieutenant will perform to Captain Magruder’s expectations. There is a great deal to be learned under the command of a man like John Magruder. He is nothing if not …” Lee paused. “… if not a perfectionist.”
Johnston laughed, but the sound was cut short and his face twisted with pain.
Lee leaned close, thought, No, my fault. He felt suddenly helpless, said, “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t be laughing, not good for the stitches. Can I get you something, Joe? Anything?”
Johnston closed his eyes for a moment, the pain easing, and he said, “No, you’re right. Laughter hurts the worst. That’s why I wanted you here.” Johnston looked toward his nephew, said, “If anyone asks you, Preston, Captain Lee is the worst joke teller in the army.”
Lee smiled, thought, It’s probably true. He felt his stomach protesting again. “Something to eat? It’s supper time.”
“Thank you, Robert. No. Not too much of an appetite, since the operation. That was very strange. They put me right to sleep. I never even knew they were digging on me. The doctor said it was called ether, some new drug. I never heard of it. Only one problem. Made me sick. Worse than the ship, if that’s possible.”
Lee glanced to one side, could see a doctor leaning over another man, thought, This doesn’t seem like the place for advances in medicine. He felt his head beginning to swim from the warmth of the oil lamps. His stomach growled again.
“I’ll visit you again, Joe. I have to … report to General Scott.”
Johnston held up a hand, and Lee took it, felt a weak grip, set his friend’s hand down by his side. He nodded t
o the young lieutenant before he backed slowly away, turned, looked for the blessed door. He moved outside, felt the cool air now, took a long slow breath. Even from the beginning he had expected it, prepared himself for the horror. He thought of the wounded men at Cerro Gordo; it was a shock, but you accept it, the sounds, the screaming, the things a man says when he’s dying. But even those memories fade, the blood is cleaned away, the pain is treated. But … I never expected this, I never expected the awful smell. What is it, I wonder? Is it the wounds themselves, the blood, infection? He pushed hard again to keep the image of his mother away. No, it is no one thing, no thing that can be described. It follows the wounded men everywhere, and it stays with them until they are healed or they die. There is no other relief. God help them.
He moved out into the dark, past the men with the plates of food, took another breath, thought, You have a lot to learn about being a soldier, Captain.
HE EASED DOWN FROM THE HORSE, CLIMBED THE WIDE STEPS TO the porch of the grand old stone house. There were more horses standing to one side, and beyond, a small cluster of aides talking quietly. The porch was not lit, and he strained to see in the dark, stepped up carefully to a wide veranda, the roof supported by heavy columns of stone. There was a glow of light now from the front entrance, and he moved that way, stepped through the doorway, saw that the glow came from a lamp on the desk of Scott’s receptionist, a frail, anemic sergeant. The man smiled, seemed relieved to see Lee, and he stood and saluted.
“Captain Lee, welcome back, sir.”
Lee saw tension in the man’s face, how he glanced toward the rear of the house. “Good evening, Sergeant Dunnigan. It’s good to be back. The general has found suitable quarters, I see.”
Dunnigan nodded. Still casting glances toward the back of the house, he said, “Yes, sir. Did you … expect to see the general tonight, sir?”
Lee watched the man’s twitching face. He had seen Dunnigan weather more than one of Scott’s outbursts, thought, He’s been the focus of the general’s anger perhaps once too often. Lee followed Dunnigan’s glance, could see the outline of light around a wooden door.
“The general’s office?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lee studied the man’s face again before speaking. “Have I come at a bad time, perhaps?”
“Well, sir, I expect there hasn’t been a good time today. The general has been, uh, agitated. I don’t make it a point to listen to the goings on back there, you understand, sir, but he’s been meeting with some of the other big shots … uh, begging your pardon, sir. He’s meeting with some of the commanders. Not sure how long it’s gonna last.”
There was a sudden burst of sound from behind the door, the loud angry voice of Scott: “If that rodent dares to show himself here, I want that sergeant out there to shoot him. I want many holes in that wormy little clerk!”
Lee looked at Dunnigan, who seemed even paler in the lamplight, and Dunnigan sat down, looked suddenly sick to his stomach. Lee thought, He doesn’t seem like the type to shoot anybody. The sounds came again, other voices Lee could not hear clearly, then Scott again said, “I don’t care, dammit! Major, send that letter tonight! The rest of you, get out of here!”
The door suddenly burst open, startling Lee, and he saw silhouettes coming down the hall, heard heavy boots on the wooden floor. Lee snapped to attention, saw faces now, Pillow, Twiggs, another officer Lee did not know, and a civilian, finely dressed. He saluted, watched them pass quickly by, ignoring him, and quickly they were out the door. He dropped his salute, glanced at Dunnigan, who asked, “You still want to see him, sir?”
Lee peered toward the light, said, “I must report. Excuse me, Sergeant.”
He eased down the hall, softened the sounds of his boots on the hard floor, reached the open doorway, then the young Scott hurried out of the office, bumping Lee’s arm. The young man said, “Oh! Sorry, Captain!” He was gone quickly, and Lee waited. Hearing nothing from Scott’s office, he slowly stepped into the light.
Scott stood staring into the darkness through a closed window, and Lee glanced around the large room, thought, We’re alone. Not sure this is a good idea …
Scott reached down, grabbed the handles along the bottom of the window, grunting heavily as he lifted, but the window would not budge.
“Damn!” He lifted again, still no movement from the window, and abruptly turned, red-faced, stared at Lee with furious eyes, said, “Somebody teach these Mexicans how to build a house!”
Lee waited for more, and Scott’s expression seemed to go blank, the anger suddenly wiped away.
“Hello, Captain. Come in. Haven’t seen you … Have you been away?”
Lee nodded, said, “Yes, sir. I was asked to accompany General Worth to Perote. Your orders, sir.”
Scott shook his head, moved to the wide chair, sat down heavily. “Yes, yes, Worth. Of course. Glad you’re back. I hope General Worth is comfortable in Perote. Not too many demons there for his liking?”
Lee had seen this kind of anger before in Scott, thought, Be careful. He has a strange way of remembering details. Just be grateful he’s not angry at you.
“Sir, General Worth has secured Perote. I will make a full report, sir.”
Scott stared down at the desk, clasped his hands together under his chin. Lee waited, and Scott said quietly, “Sit down, Captain. I’ll hear about Worth later. You have any idea what’s happening around here today?”
“No, sir. I just rode into town.”
“Seems we have a visitor. The President has sent an emissary, a representative of our government, to begin discussing peace with Santa Anna. Would you assume, Mr. Lee, that someone charged with such an important role should bring some legitimacy, some experience, some diplomatic seasoning to this enormous task?”
Lee nodded, thought, He doesn’t expect an answer. Scott put his hands on the desk, spread his fingers on the polished wood, slowly brought his fingers together into two great fists.
“I certainly would think so, Mr. Lee. Instead, they send a lackey, a clerk, excuse me, chief clerk of the State Department. Someone they can control and manipulate, someone who, if he succeeds, can be quickly pushed aside so the President can claim credit, and someone who, should he fail, is easily expendable. And on top of all of this …” Scott paused, and Lee could see the redness returning, the eyes glowing as though a hot fire were burning inside him. “On top of all this, they give this clerk the authority to overrule my command. He comes here with a piece of paper that authorizes him to stop all military activity if he happens to think it’s a good idea!”
Lee waited, and there was a silent moment, so he said, “Sir, forgive me, but has General Santa Anna indicated he wants peace?”
Scott stared at Lee with a hot glare that made Lee sink into the chair.
“Of course not! Santa Anna is probably in Mexico City by now, trying to convince his people they should still try to stand up to us, telling them he’s going to drive the godless yanquis into the sea! No, Mr. Lee, this idea, this concept that is so astounding in its stupidity, comes from Washington! And you know why? Because we have generals here who have so little respect for this command that they are sending frantic letters to Polk and Marcy telling them that we are in fact doomed to failure! We can’t win! General Pillow …” Scott paused, clenched both fists, held them off the desk. Lee could see the whiteness of the knuckles, the slight quiver of his fists, as though the man’s anger was boiling out into his two hands. Scott loosened his fingers from their grip, his hands settling onto the desk again, and growled, “General Pillow has even offered the most highly regarded opinion that it is I who cannot win!”
He looked at Lee again, his calm returning. “And so, Mr. Polk looks at Mr. Marcy and they wring their hands and say, ‘We need peace! Quick, before it’s too late!’ ”
Lee felt a wave of helplessness. “I don’t understand why they feel … I mean, sir, we have won every major fight. How can they not believe the war is going in our favor?”
r /> Scott leaned back in the chair, seemed to relax, his massive frame deflating slightly, and he said, “We have prevailed in every fight we have had. Hell, even Zachary Taylor won when he had to. Our greatest challenge has been bringing the Mexicans out to fight in the first place, and now there might not be enough of a Mexican army left to stop us at all. We came here with an untested army, with a crew of junior officers who have done everything to make their nation truly proud. But none of this matters in Washington, because, Mr. Lee, we are too damned far away. We are out here all alone without their valuable assistance. So, this clerk, this Mr. Trist, has come to rescue us, to prevent our certain destruction.”
Scott closed his eyes, and Lee felt a growing frustration, his heart pounding, the heat rising in his face. What is the matter with those people, with Washington? Why don’t they let this man do his job?
Scott opened his eyes, seemed suddenly very sad, said, “Mr. Lee, I have considered requesting my own recall, sending a letter to Secretary Marcy saying, ‘Fine, you want Trist, or Pillow, or Thomas Hart Benton to run this war, fine, it’s all yours.’ ”
“You can’t do that, sir.”
Scott let out a long breath. “No, Mr. Lee. I can’t. I’ve been in this army for too long to just step aside, hand the reins to some incompetent fool. It took me years to work my way into this position, years of serving under old men who wore their uniforms because it made them look good at parties. When they gave me that first star, when President Madison signed the paper that made it official—General Winfield Scott—it was the proudest day of my life, Mr. Lee.”
Scott paused, and Lee said, “Sir, this army is behind you. No one here believes you will fail. There must be some way to make them understand that we need a good commander, that this is a serious affair down here, men are dying for their country. This is not just some political game.”