Gone for Soldiers

  “Sir, consider who we’re dealing with. If General Santa Anna is captured, or if he flees, there is no government in Mexico City, in the whole country for that matter. The chaos would not be helpful to us. Mexico has difficulty governing itself in the best of times. Unless we can deal with officials who claim to be in charge of the capital, who are still authorized to sign documents or treaties representing the power of their country, the negotiations won’t mean anything. If we march into the city and simply take over, we would not only be an army of occupation, we would become the government. That is not a situation of which the President would approve.”

  Scott looked toward the carriage, saw the grim face of the driver, a small dark man who nervously glanced in all directions, appraising the strength of his enemy. Scott said, “He’s waiting … for what? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Give them your own terms, sir. Give General Mora something to take back.”

  “You mean, something like, Surrender, or I will destroy your city?”

  Trist moved behind him, and Scott could see the impatience building in the man’s face. Trist said, “Sir, please. We have an opportunity to end this war. They are opening the door to a diplomatic solution. They are proposing an armistice, a truce, to allow official discussions to begin. Forgive me, sir, but I must insist you accept this possibility. This is why I was sent down here in the first place. Please allow me to do my job. Do you really want to attack the city? Is that your preference?”

  Scott saw Trist let out a long breath. Well done, Mr. Trist, he thought. You are a diplomat after all.

  “Mr. Trist, if we truly have an opportunity here to end this war without further loss of life, then I place myself at your disposal. What would you have me do?”

  Scott’s words had a calming effect on Trist. He thought a moment, said, “Propose a truce of our own. Their letter demands … requests a full year.”

  “A year!”

  The sound boomed past the troops, and Scott looked hard at Trist, who seemed to wilt, said, “Please, sir, no—”

  “You told me this wasn’t a waste of time, Mr. Trist. So far I’m not convinced.”

  “The demand is ridiculous, sir, certainly. But they have to say something to make themselves look good. Now you can tell them something more appropriate. They expect that, sir.”

  Scott looked around now, saw his son-in-law waiting with the rest of the staff, said, “Major, come here.”

  The young Scott dismounted, moved quickly forward, and Scott said, “Get a pen and paper.”

  The young man backed away, and Scott said, “I don’t have the patience for walking on eggshells, Mr. Trist. I understand diplomacy, and I understand negotiation. But I am not going to tiptoe around their pride.” He saw Trist frown, said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Trist, no threats, nothing to make them puff up. I’m willing to give you time to negotiate a peace, but this cannot drag on. They have to show some good faith, cut through all the face-saving.”

  “Yes, sir, I believe that can be accomplished. The reality is quite clear. I would suggest … if you don’t mind, sir, I would suggest you continue to move your artillery into some visible position. It is a good point of … negotiation.”

  Scott laughed, said, “A little visual reminder. Not all negotiations are subtle. Very good, Mr. Trist. I’m learning to appreciate your skills.”

  Trist seemed to blush, looked down, said, “Um, sir, how much time do I have? Would you offer them an armistice?”

  “On very specific terms. Neither side may strengthen or reinforce their armies. No new fortifications may be constructed.” He paused, thought, Supplies, we can’t sit in one place indefinitely without food. “We be allowed to send wagons into the city to purchase food. In return, they be allowed to send communications out, and bring their own supplies into the city, without our molesting them. This should make your British friends happy.”

  “Yes, sir, that will. There has been concern.…”

  The young Scott moved close now, held a pad of paper in his hand, said, “Ready to write, sir.”

  Scott moved back behind the horses, and the two men followed. Scott said to Trist, “If this works, you will be as much of a hero as anyone here. You’ll certainly get more credit for ending this war than the President will give me. Doubt you’ll have to go back to your old job.”

  Trist seemed concerned, said, “Oh, no, sir. The credit will go where it deserves to go. I will not accept praise for what you have accomplished.”

  Scott glanced at his son-in-law, the words forming in his mind, thought of Washington now, the dark suits and fat buildings. He looked at Trist again. “Thank you. But do not underestimate the power of that place. Good intentions are easily corrupted.”

  He stared out past the soldiers, all the faces watching him, looked toward the silhouette of Chapultepec.

  “Let me think on this a moment, I always have difficulty with the first words.”

  He scanned the wide fields that spread toward the city, could see the narrow roads, the causeways, the deadly ground his army would have to cross. He saw the camp of the troops, Worth’s men, scattered across a trampled cornfield, small campfires fueled by corn stalks. This is not just for the honor of Mexican dignitaries, he thought. We don’t create a quiet pause in the war so the politicians can strut about and play with words. He thought of the letters, the ornate seal of the British monarchy, and the other, the absurd demands written in the language he didn’t understand. Words and more words, he thought. That’s not what this is about, who is right, who saves their honor. That’s how wars begin, the angry words, misunderstood words, lines drawn on maps. We are beyond that now. Those men … my men understand that. They know that after all, the war was given to them. If this is to end now, it is because of what they have given up. If I did not understand that yesterday, I understand it now.

  “Major, we shall write a letter to General Santa Anna. You may begin, ‘Too much blood has already been shed …’ ”

  25. SCOTT

  SEPTEMBER THIRD

  THE TRUCE HAD BEEN SIGNED, MEN APPOINTED BY BOTH COMMANDERS to sit face-to-face, hash out the small annoying details, but the message on both sides was plain. There would be a pause in the fighting, and if neither side would admit it openly, both armies needed the time to recover from the fight at Churubusco. There were protests in the American camp, officers who had watched the retreat of a beaten enemy, who did not understand why they should stop, wait, while the enemy healed themselves and grew strong again. But the senior commanders did not object, and even Davy Twiggs agreed that it was time to stop, to take a breath, and if the Mexicans did not surrender after all, there would be a new strategy, another full-scale assault on the city.

  The truce provided an arrangement for both armies to have access to supplies, some relief from the stale monotony of the dwindling rations. Almost immediately great stores of meat and grain, accumulating in the farms and ranches far beyond the city, had begun to move into the capital. Their passage was uncontested by the Americans, and in return, Scott’s men would be allowed to travel unmolested into the city to make their own arrangements. The first train of wagons Scott had authorized carried men from the quartermaster’s staff, sent to negotiate the purchase of grain and bread. But while Santa Anna’s official ministers had promised a peaceful and cooperative welcome, it was apparent that the citizens did not share the sentiment so carefully worded in the diplomatic papers. The wagon train had been attacked by a mob of civilians, men with clubs and axes, their frustration exploding into a riot of anger and hatred that no one expected or was prepared for. There were casualties, several of the American drivers, the men who would load the supplies, and it was clear that if the Americans would not retaliate, the Mexican soldiers were helpless as well. Even the Americans who spoke little Spanish sensed the mob’s anger, could hear clearly that the civilians were not just assaulting the men in blue, but were striking out in words and violence at their own soldiers. It was, after all, the only acces
s they had to their leader, the man who had allowed the yanquis to come so close to their city. There was outrage from the Americans, of course, a clear violation of the truce, and Santa Anna himself sent an apology to Scott, and a promise that no such incident would occur again.

  The wagons moved at night now, led through the gates of the city by an escort of Mexican lancers. They had made the trip several times, loading their cargo quietly, each man doing his job while casting nervous glances into the dark.

  The gates were opened, providing a discreet entry into the city one more time, men nodding to their enemy, a strange show of civility, some faces now familiar, both sides understanding that this was a war that came from somewhere else, the orders and strategy far beyond what these few men would ever control.

  The supplies waited, great piles of cloth bags, wooden boxes, and when the wagons reached the square, the officers from both sides met and exchanged papers, receipts, authorizations. Quickly, the wagons were loaded, while the lancers spread out down the side streets, keeping the citizens in their homes, keeping anyone away who might not understand or respect the fragile agreement.

  Piled high, the wagons began to move again, the drivers slapping the mules impatiently, each man staring ahead into the dark, the route familiar now, counting the blocks, the intersections, knowing just when the gate would finally appear. But the lancers suddenly held them up. The drivers heard hushed shouts and looked questioningly at their commanders, the American officers riding ahead. In front, moving through a dark intersection, was another train, horses and men, but not wagons and supplies. The Americans could not be held away, would see for themselves, moved up beside the lancers, who watched in helpless frustration as the street was blocked, the intersection clogged. It was one commander’s mistake, the man not knowing or not remembering that the Americans would be there, would have come into the city again to draw supplies.

  The Americans stared in nervous surprise, saw Mexican soldiers leading horses, each horse in the long line strapped to a brass gun, the guns all pitching and bouncing noisily over the uneven cobblestones of the street. The American drivers sat in blind confusion, knew only that their progress out of the hostile city was delayed, but their officers watched carefully, counted in the dark, made a mental note of each gun, the numbers, the size. Each man could see that the guns were moving forward, were moving southward to line the walls, to face Scott’s army.

  The lancers realized that these few Americans would know what the darkness could hide, each side understanding that this truce, this moment of peace, would not last after all. When the column finally passed, the Mexicans were still looking at each other with quiet urgency, each one already conjuring up his own excuse for how the mistake had happened, some speaking in low voices the Americans could not understand. The excuses mounted, the men already protecting themselves from Santa Anna’s wrath by conspiring that perhaps no one would ever hear of this quiet incident, that perhaps the Americans would not understand, would not report what they had seen.

  The wagon train began to move again, and the drivers stared ahead, waiting for the first glimpse of the gate, but their anxiety had spread now to the officers, who did not speak to their escorts. Each man focused ahead, counting the desperate seconds until the lancers would fall away and the wagons would reach the security of their own cavalry.

  * * *

  SCOTT STOOD BY THE BIG WINDOW, LET THE SUNLIGHT WASH OVER the pages of the report, turned now, said to Trist, “This what you were after? This is what we spent two weeks waiting for?”

  Trist sat at the bishop’s desk, his head in his hands, said nothing. Scott stepped away from the window, tossed the documents on the desk, the papers scattering around Trist’s arms. Scott felt the heat boiling up inside him, a full blast of fury, said, “We should give them back Texas? We should pay them gold for all the damage we caused? We should release the San Patricios? We should get the hell out of their country and be grateful we didn’t all receive fifty lashes with a whip?”

  He moved to the larger chair, pulled it away from the desk, sat down heavily, said, “What kind of a fool … what kind of simpleminded buffoon does he take me for? They ask for a truce, we give them a truce. They ask for supplies for the city, we let their people pass by unmolested. We ask for supplies, they attack our teamsters. We agree not to fortify, and they rebuild their damned army! Mr. Trist, is it reasonable to assume that this truce has been a one-sided affair? Am I out of line when I say that we should have shelled that city into a pile of rubble?”

  Trist leaned back, and Scott saw the man’s thin face, the tired eyes staring past him. Trist shook his head. “I am sorry, sir. I truly believed … I was encouraged to believe that we were negotiating a real peace.” He reached out, gathered the papers together, stopped, stared at the documents in his hand, said, “There is nothing more for me to do here. I should advise the Secretary that my mission has been a failure, and request recall.”

  Scott saw the pain in the man’s face, thought, We all believed it, we all had to believe it. He leaned forward, laid his arms on the desk.

  “We’re still at war, Mr. Trist. Wars end, even this one. If not this week, or next week, then it will be later. But it will end, and we will require a treaty. You have not yet finished your job.”

  Trist nodded slowly, said, “How can they believe we will just walk away? They know, certainly they know, that their proposal is not only unacceptable, but it does not leave room for further negotiation.”

  Scott thought of the discussions, all of Trist’s optimism, and he tried to picture Santa Anna. So you sit at your big damned desk and make up these terms, so then, what? We reject them? He blinked, focused on the sunlight in the window, the thought suddenly clear in his mind. He made a fist, pounded the desk, startling Trist. Yes, so we reject them. You want us to reject them!

  “I’m surprised at you, Mr. Trist. You have given me so much insight into the Mexican way of thinking, and you don’t see it? This is not a negotiation, it is a delay. Santa Anna certainly told his people to negotiate in good faith, push these meetings along, always hinting at some progress, some possible break. Now, he’s pulled the rug out from under the whole ceremony.”

  Trist seemed puzzled, said, “Why? Why bother to go through all of this? To what end?”

  Scott looked at his fist, felt excited, glanced around the room, looked for something soft, something he could hit, the energy rolling up inside of him. Breathing heavily, he looked at Trist, who leaned back in the chair, eyes wide. Scott abruptly leaned forward.

  “Manipulation! I won’t stand for it, not from Washington, not from my commanders, not even from my wife! But, Santa Anna … damn him! Mr. Trist, the man’s a master manipulator. He has played me like some simple parlor game. I suppose it’s a talent necessary to every dictator. Even his own people believed they were negotiating in good faith, and so you believed it as well. But, after all, they will only do what he tells them, and so today their demands suddenly leap into the ridiculous. Why? So it will end, all the talk. He’s had enough time. He’s ready for us again. His army has come together, his guns are ready. End the talks. Game over.”

  Trist seemed surprised, said, “If you thought … if you knew he was doing this, why didn’t you stop it?”

  “I didn’t know, Mr. Trist. I believed just as you did. He gave us what we wanted, a way out of this war, no more bloodshed, only a few pieces of paper holding us away from victory, home, peace. Powerful stuff, Mr. Trist.”

  Scott stood again, his fists still clenched, his breathing still sharp. Still he searched for something to punch, saw a small pillow, picked it up, tossed it aside. Damn him! We are so arrogant. And he has used that against us. He moved to the window, stared out toward the old castle, tried to calm himself, get control.

  “We have won every fight. Had to, or we wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t have come this far. He only has to win once, one big fight, and we’re in serious trouble. I knew that when we left Vera Cruz, but I
had confidence in this army. He let us come this close, he staked everything on a fight right here, because if he wins, it’s over. This army could be in such a mess that we’d have to give in to anything he wants. We can’t have our people scattered all over the countryside, it’s his countryside. We can’t handle another two or three thousand casualties, we can’t continue to feed this army so close to his power. This is what he wants. And we have no choice now. We have to fight, we have to take the offensive again. We have to go after that big damned castle out there.”

  He turned, saw Trist watching him, said, “All he needs is one victory. This whole thing was engineered to give his army one more chance, one good shot at busting us up. And damned if I didn’t give it to him.”

  26. WORTH

  SEPTEMBER EIGHTH, PREDAWN

  THE MEETING THE NIGHT BEFORE HAD BEEN BRIEF, AND THERE had been little doubt where the first strike should take place. A half mile west of the great castle of Chapultepec there was a compound of low, thick buildings, an elaborate millworks called Molino del Rey. The reports from the scouts had come during the truce; the Mexicans had begun to use the facilities there to manufacture cannon, were melting old church bells from the city, quickly restoring the artillery the yanquis had so effectively destroyed. Scott believed the reports, but to Worth there was nothing to disbelieve. He had been quiet in his objections to the truce, knew he would not have swayed Scott from his course, but he had felt instinctively that Santa Anna could never be trusted, would violate whatever terms Scott naively granted. If Santa Anna was using the quiet time to begin making cannon, that was not only believable, it was inevitable.

  With the presentation of the scouting reports, Scott had suggested the assault begin at night, a quick surprise, pushing hard into the Molino before Santa Anna could react. Worth had objected, would not have his division sent into an assault without the support of the artillery. He knew that in the dark, once the troops began to move, once the assault closed in on the enemy, the big guns could do nothing at all. In the end, Scott had to agree, had unexpectedly deferred to Worth’s judgment. Worth was accustomed by now to Scott’s disregard of him as a serious commander, still did not understand what he had done, what small act had somehow blossomed into Scott’s total dislike of him.