Lee stopped running, his breath coming in short gasps. He moved slowly toward the cluster of troops. The men’s faces and uniforms were covered with signs of the fight, black grime and torn coats. The men were smiling, some crying, and as Lee moved forward, through the growing chaos of the victory, he saw new flags, officers, familiar faces. He realized that they had met up with Worth’s division, and he smiled, his exhaustion clearing for a moment, and he began to understand. They had broken through the bridgehead, had finally pushed through the toughest fight the Mexicans had given them. He raised his hat again, too tired to shout with the men around him, let the sounds wash over him, the hurrahs, the salutes, the sounds of victory.
23. SCOTT
AUGUST TWENTIETH, EVENING
HE HAD MOVED ALONG THE LINES ALL DAY, FROM TWIGGS’S hard fight on the left at a convent that Santa Anna had fortified into a powerful, solid defense, to the middle and right, where Pillow and Worth led the assault at the bridgehead. He had waited impatiently for the final word, the breakthrough, had expected it soon, expected another quick result like the marvelous success at Padierna. He had sat high on the big horse as the orders were carried forward, making himself visible to the troops. He knew that the men always responded to the dress uniform, always seemed to draw some inspiration from the extra show, the gold braid and glorious medals, the great wide plume in his hat.
He had been with Twiggs when he heard the first great roar of musket fire, but then he saw the retreat, men falling away from the Mexican defenses, chaos erupting in the thick cornfields as men trapped in open ground with no cover from the Mexican guns sought refuge behind the bodies of their own men. The sounds and the chaos of battle had lasted for long hours, through another advance, another retreat, the commanders sending in everything they had. But the Mexicans had the good ground, the strong defenses, and the fight only turned when the Americans could not be kept away after all. They advanced still, broken and shattered lines of men coming forward, moving closer each time, until finally the men in blue could climb past the logs and dirt, face their enemy hand-to-hand. If the guns of the Americans had not been enough to drive the victory, it had finally been the spirit of the men themselves. In the end the Mexican resistance had given way only to the raw brutal energy of the men who took the fight straight to them, put the bayonet straight into their hearts.
SCOTT CROSSED THE BRIDGE, OBSERVING SIGNS OF THE FIGHT ALL around, shattered timbers, pieces of guns, scraps of clothing. He moved slowly up the road where the men now watched him, falling into line along the edge. There were cheers, but not as many, more subdued, and he waited for them to pick up the call, the same salutes they always gave him. He scanned their faces, looked into their eyes, something he rarely did, saw some of them staring back at him, some just staring at nothing at all. A few were calling out, but their enthusiasm did not spread. He began to feel angry, thought, They behave as if they lost the fight. This should be a … celebration!
He stopped the horse, the staff moving up behind him, and he said aloud, “It has been a glorious day! This army has much to celebrate!”
He watched the faces again, and they were all looking at him, and he saw a few hands raised, saw a few hats go up, but still the cheers did not spread.
He glanced back at the staff, said quietly, “What the hell is wrong with these people?”
No one responded, the aides well aware he was not expecting an answer. He spurred the horse, moved again on the road, the last daylight nearly gone, the lamplight filling the small houses and huts along the road. He felt like speaking to them again, thought, They should understand. They are just … tired. It was a tough fight. But it was our fight. I should remind them of that. He felt like stopping the horse again, saw men moving toward him on the road, marching slowly in single file, following a young officer. They drew near and he saw the officer glancing up at him, wide-eyed surprise on the man’s face. But the men behind him did not look at all, moved with reflex, slow and plodding, the uniforms ragged, filthy.
Scott leaned over, tipped his hat, said, “I congratulate you, gentlemen! A glorious victory!”
The officer saluted him, said quietly, “Thank you, sir.”
But the column moved past him, the men not stopping, most still not seeing him. The anger came back now, and he looked back to the staff, said to his son-in-law, “Where the hell is that house? We close yet?”
Major Scott moved up beside him, said, “There, up ahead, sir. Horses in the yard. I’m certain that’s it.”
Scott looked down the road, where more troops were crossing in front of him, walking slowly, another officer guiding men to their unit. He moved the horse again, said quietly, “Is everyone lost?”
He could see the horses now, tied up in front of one small house. Its low gray walls, fat stones, broken by small uneven windows lit by the glow of lamplight, held up a low flat roof. Guards, a dozen or more, lined up on both sides of the house, more men on the small porch, all with bayonets. He climbed down from the horse, the men all coming to stiff attention, snapping their bayonets tightly to their sides. An officer stepped forward, a young captain. He saluted, said, “General Scott, welcome, sir. This way, please.”
Scott followed the man up the short steps, and beside the door he saw four more guards, more bayonets, thought, What the hell is all this for? There’s no threat here. It must be Worth, seeing ghosts again.
The officer held the door open and Scott moved inside, could hear the small talk of the commanders, and the officer beside him suddenly shouted, “Atten … hut!”
The voice startled him, and he glared at the man until the men backed quickly out the door, pleased with his good work. Scott looked into the single large room, the voices quiet now, the officers all standing straight. He let out a breath, said, “At ease. For God’s sake.”
There was still no sound, and Pillow stepped forward, said, “General Scott, this was a day to remember. My division, the glorious soldiers under this command, distinguished themselves as never before.” Scott looked at him wearily, said nothing. Pillow waited for the response, seemed disappointed, said, “As they all did, I’m sure, sir. The entire army, I mean.”
Scott moved toward a chair, sat, looked around the room, saw the younger faces, Pillow’s staff standing back quietly. There were a few older men, some he knew, and he nodded to a familiar face. “Colonel Riley, glad to see you made it through this day.”
Riley bowed quickly and said, “It was a day I would like to remember, sir. And then, forget.”
Pillow threw a quick frowning glance at Riley, said, “Sir, I’m sure Colonel Riley would care to rephrase his comment. We are all tired. But this is a day for celebrating heroes. There’s already quite a bit of talk. The war might well be over! The Mexicans are in complete chaos, their army no longer exists!”
Scott said nothing, watched Pillow standing in the silence, could see him slowly deflate, the response from the room not what he was expecting. Scott looked at the others, saw Worth now, sitting back in the shadows. “General Worth, your men did fine work today. They have much to be proud of. This is a day that made heroes. I must say, not much of a celebration out there.”
Worth looked at him, said quietly, “Celebrate what, General? Do you know how many heroes are not coming home?”
Scott was still feeling the frustration, thought, It comes from him, from the command. His mood has infected his men. He felt angry again, said, “What the hell is the matter with you? This was a tough fight, a difficult day. But consider the day the enemy had. We completely routed their defenses, twice, at Padierna and here. Pillow’s right, their army is in chaos, if there’s an army at all.”
Pillow stepped forward, said, “I’ve told him this already, sir. I don’t understand why some in this army do not understand how glorious this day was, for all of us, for our country, for our cause. The loss of soldiers is a price we accept.”
Worth stood now, moved into the light, and Scott was surprised to see his red-face
d anger. Worth looked hard at Pillow, said, “How much loss, General?”
Pillow glanced at Scott, backed away to a chair. Scott looked at the others, saw a few younger faces, staff officers, thought, This might be a time for privacy. He said, “Junior officers, aides, dismissed. Now.”
The men moved slowly out, until only the four senior officers remained. Scott asked Worth, “Do you have casualty figures, General?”
Worth sat slowly, said, “I have conferred with General Pillow, and Colonel Riley here has given me some accounting from General Twiggs. I’ve been to some of the hospitals myself. For now, a close estimate … is that we took over a thousand casualties.”
Scott sat back heavily, the chair rocking under his weight. He felt the wind punched from his chest, the shock of the number. “Are you certain of that?”
Worth nodded slowly, and Riley said, “Reasonably certain, sir.”
Pillow stood again, said, “Sir, I am aware we took some heavy losses. It was a costly fight. But, I thought the important thing was the victory.”
Scott felt the energy flowing away, and there was silence in the room, the men looking at him. He turned to Pillow and said, “Sit down.”
Pillow obeyed, shook his head. “We won. We destroyed their army.…”
Scott looked at his hands, flexed his stiff fingers, said, “We thought we destroyed it at Cerro Gordo.”
He looked down at his uniform now, felt suddenly ridiculous, the spread of medals on his chest, the grand show for the men seeming inappropriate, hollow. No wonder the men didn’t react. They had more important things on their minds.
“If that number is confirmed … then we cannot afford any more victories like this one.”
There was silence again, and Scott leaned forward, put his hands together, rested his arms on his knees, said, “I am to blame. I truly expected an easy fight. Why shouldn’t we believe that after all? We begged for the opportunity, just to bring them out to face us, to stand up before all our strength, all our arrogance. We swept them away at Cerro Gordo, we swept them away just this morning, at Padierna. I heard it from the men, Santa Anna cannot stand up to us, we are after all victorious! All we need do now is march in some great stupid parade in front of Mexico City, and they will fall to their knees, beg us not to destroy them!”
He was shouting now, saw the faces watching him, and even Pillow seemed subdued, sitting back in his chair like a scolded child.
“We have never understood these people. We sure as hell have never understood Santa Anna. How does he do it? How can he keep them following him, inspire them to fight? Is it simply charisma? His charm? Good speeches? Or does he touch something in these people that maybe they need. Whatever it is, we have failed to see it, failed to understand. This is a foreign place.”
He saw a short dark bottle resting on a small table. He leaned out, wrapped his fingers around the neck, held it up to the lamplight, the bottle nearly empty. He looked at the label, all in Spanish, the one word standing out, Brandy. He uncorked the bottle, sniffed the fragrance, took a short drink, the sharp heat cutting his throat. His face twisted, and he set the bottle aside.
“They sure as hell need to work on that.” He sat quietly for a moment, tried to work the awful taste from his mouth, saw the others still watching him, waiting for him to speak. He glanced down at the medals again. Why the hell did I put this on?
He looked at Worth. “Now I understand the mood of the men. None of us have been through a day like this. None of us ever expected a day like this. We will learn from this.”
He looked at Pillow. “Tell me, General, do you imagine the President would be pleased by today’s result?”
“Certainly, sir. Forgive me, sir, but I do not understand the attitude here. Our losses were tragic, yes, but the enemy lost a great deal more. Is that not the point here? From what I hear, this might be the end. My men tell me there is no resistance preventing us from marching to the city tomorrow. Would the President be pleased with that? Most certainly. We have prevailed. Our mission—our cause—has prevailed.”
Scott stared at him, watched Pillow retreat back into the chair, saw Worth put his head down in his hands. Worth said quietly, “Our cause—”
Scott cut him off. “Let’s not speak on this anymore tonight. I don’t want anyone saying something here that could become a problem later. The bottom line, gentlemen, is that we learned a valuable lesson today. I was beginning to believe all the talk about Santa Anna, that he was nothing more than a strutting martinet. Our best officers were convinced the Mexican army would never stand up to us. Well, they stood up to us today. General Pillow, despite what your people tell you, I am not at all certain that Santa Anna has yet crawled away, nor that Mexico City awaits us with brass bands.”
Riley cleared his throat. “Forgive me, General, but a while ago I saw some of the prisoners. We captured a number of officers, and several generals. To a man, they’re still in the fight, they are saying almost nothing but his name.”
Scott said, “We have pushed up close to something we don’t yet understand. We have come too close to their heart. This city is more than government, it’s a symbol, it defines this whole country. Reverse the situation. How would we fight if an enemy sent an army at Washington? Washington is a symbol too, something much greater than just white buildings filled with fat bureaucrats. It’s our identity, it represents where we came from, and what we stand for. And it sure as hell is something worth fighting for, and the American people would damned well respond to that. We’ve ignored that, but Santa Anna hasn’t. He’s used patriotism to inspire his people, and he draws power from it. And today that power cost this army a thousand men.”
There were sounds outside, hoofbeats, and the horse stopped close to the house. Scott heard voices, then saw a tall man filling the doorway. The man wiped his eyes and knocked the dust from his hat. Riley stood, saluted, said, “General Twiggs.”
Twiggs answered the salute, stepped into the room, and Scott said, “Welcome, General. Your men fought with distinction today.”
Twiggs nodded quietly to Worth, seemed to ignore Pillow, said, “We have good men. Today, they found that out. Today they had a fight.”
He shouted the word, punching the air, and Scott said nothing, did not want the same discussion again. Riley stepped toward Twiggs, said, “Do you have orders, sir?”
Twiggs put his hands on his hips, seemed to sway, looked at Scott now, said, “As a matter of fact, Colonel Riley, I do. I would like you to escort General Scott to see our prisoners. With his permission, of course.”
There was a strange tone in Twiggs’s voice, and Scott, curious, said, “Why is that, General?”
Twiggs glanced at the others. “These are very special prisoners, sir.”
“No mood for mysteries, General. What are you talking about?”
“We have the deserters, sir, around eighty men. We captured the whole damned bunch of ’em. We captured the San Patricios.”
THE PRISONERS STOOD STIFFLY, STARED SILENTLY AHEAD. THE grim-faced guards stood to one side, bayonets held high. Scott turned to the captain of the guard, said quietly, “The bayonets are dangerous, Captain. Could prove tempting. Do you believe it’s necessary?”
The man spoke aloud, aware of his audience, “The bayonets are useful, sir. They know what will happen if anyone steps out of line.”
Scott looked at the faces of the guards, thought, Yes, that’s what worries me.
He looked behind him, the staff curiously eyeing the deserters, and he said, “Major Scott, I want more officers here. No offense, Captain, but this is too important. I want a colonel in command here.”
The captain seemed wounded, said, “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”
Scott stepped forward, moved close to the first man, but the man did not look at him. “Where you from, soldier?”
The man did not reply, and the captain said, “They won’t talk, sir. Once the fighting stopped, they clamped up good. They know what’s waiting for ’e
m.”
Scott looked down the line of cold stares, looked back across the rows of men. He saw the wounded now, men with bandages, one man’s head wrapped in bloody white cloth. So, you did fight, he thought, you did join the enemy after all.
He turned, moved back toward the captain, said, “No accidents, Captain. Keep control of your men. This is a dangerous situation.”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.”
Scott looked at him, saw a slight smile. He felt his annoyance growing. “It could be a dangerous situation for you, Captain. Do you understand?”
The smile faded, and the man stared ahead, said, “Yes, sir.”
Scott moved toward the door, held open now by two guards. Stepping outside, he saw Twiggs waiting for him.
Twiggs said, “Wasn’t that extraordinary?”
Scott asked, “What do you mean?”
“They didn’t say a word, right? They know … they’re already dead. Every one of them knows what will happen next.”
Scott began to walk, Twiggs moving beside him. Scott said, “General, I don’t know what happens next. I have to give this considerable thought. The whole country, hell, the whole world will know about this eventually. It had better be handled correctly.”
Twiggs stopped. “Excuse me, sir, but there is little discretion here. The rules of war are plain and simple on this point. Those men must be executed. They know that, they accepted that the moment they made the decision to cross the line, to slip away from their own men and join the enemy. They picked up arms, they put up a hell of a fight. They were only captured when they ran out of ammunition. What else do you need? Sir?”