THE LAST OF THE DAYLIGHT ECHOED WITH THE SCATTERED shots from the muskets, the snipers firing still at the single glimpse, the blue uniforms of the yanquis.
He sat at a wide table, stared into a fire blazing in a great stone hearth, looked past the plate of food that had been set before him. The room was still filling, the commanders now finding him where the day had begun, the word spreading that he was here, again, at the headquarters, the great palace in the center of the city. He did not eat, did not even see the food, heard them moving slowly into the room, kept his gaze hard at the fire, the dance of hell, the laughter of the enemy now holding fast to a piece of the city. There were low voices, but no one spoke to him, and he waited, closed his eyes, leaned back in the big chair, said aloud, “Who among you has the courage to admit your treachery?”
There was silence, and he opened his eyes, looked across the room, saw the familiar faces of his senior commanders.
“No, of course not. Cowards will never admit they are cowards. Traitors will never reveal their treachery. But I know. I know very well what you are.”
He stared at the faces, saw the eyes look away, and still no one spoke. He looked at the plate of food, felt his stomach turn, pushed it away.
“Only a traitor will have an appetite this night.” He glanced at the fire again. “Only a devil will find warmth.”
He pushed the chair back, pulled himself up, the stiffness of the wooden leg rocking him forward. He leaned on the table, let out a long breath.
“Because of your failures … because no one would keep the enemy out of our city, we are faced with grave choices. Belén and San Cosme are in the hands of the yanquis. Tomorrow they will certainly be reinforced, and they will continue their attacks. I had thought …” He paused, closed his eyes, saw it in his mind, the rows of troops, his great strength, the big guns staring out where no fight had come. “I had thought the enemy would come at us from the south. All of your reports told me that. We were prepared, we were ready for them! It would have been a glorious fight!” He moved around the edge of the table, close to the fire, stared at the flames again.
“How did the devil Scott know to come at Chapultepec? How did he know we would be weakest at the western gates?” He looked up, the faces again avoiding his eyes. He began to feel a small shake, his hands quivering, the heat growing in his chest, the rage filling him again. “Perhaps it was because my trusted commanders betrayed their country? Perhaps it was because someone in this room … is a traitor? How could the devil Scott know where I would be? How could he know I would not be out there with my glorious army, that I would be here, preparing the strategy, ensuring that my trusted generals would do their jobs? How did the devil Scott know that Chapultepec could be assaulted, that our great fortress was defended not by the power of my army … but by a mere thousand men? A thousand men and boys, the innocent children of the military academy?”
He paused, flexed his fingers, felt a sudden weakness, moved to the chair again and sat heavily.
“Today was to be the final stroke, the plan realized after so much blood. It was to be the one great fight that would finally drive the yanquis away. But Scott knew … he knew!” He shouted the word, could see the men squirming, the impact of the message. Yes! You know what will happen! It is what always happens to those who betray their country! He clasped his hands together, said, “The enemy is now inside the city … because he was informed that only the traitors guarded the western gates. Now, I have no choice. I must sit down here with those who have betrayed me. I must rely on the advice and the counsel of cowards.”
He felt himself shaking again, closed his eyes, waited for someone to speak. No, he thought, there will only be silence. They are still cowards. There was a voice then, low in the back of the room. “We cannot destroy the city.”
Santa Anna looked up, saw the heads turning, the glow of the firelight reflecting on the face of one old man. He saw the man slowly rising, saw the face of Manuel de la Pena y Pena. He saw more suits now, civilians lining the back of the room. Santa Anna addressed them. “This is a meeting for soldiers. I do not recall asking for civilians, for bureaucrats, to offer their opinions. Señor Pena y Pena, you are in charge of the Supreme Court. There is no court decision to be made here.”
Pena y Pena stepped forward, made his way up past the men who were seated, all eyes on the dignified man with thinning gray hair. “General Santa Anna, the civilian government does not believe there is anything to be gained by bringing this war into our streets. The population is at great risk. The refugees have come here in great numbers because they believed there was safety here. Tonight there is already panic. Tomorrow, if you fire your guns at the enemy, there will be slaughter.”
Santa Anna stared at the old man in the dark suit. He contemplated the man’s words, said slowly, “Would you have this great and glorious army … withdraw? Retreat away from our capital? Is that what you bureaucrats have been sent here to tell me?”
“General, there is no glory in continuing a fight that holds no promise of victory. We placed our confidence in you. We believed you could lead your army successfully against this invasion of our country. For reasons none of us can understand … God has turned against us.”
Santa Anna laughed and stared at the ceiling. “A bunch of traitorous old men has decided that God is no longer behind me.”
Pena y Pena shook his head, his face calm, yet revealing a deep sadness. “We speak for the government ministers. It is the government that is no longer … behind you. It has been decided that we should ask General Scott for terms of surrender. If we do not, there is great danger that this city could become a battlefield. There would be no victory, no glory in such destruction.”
Dulled by the man’s calm, Santa Anna felt the last bit of his anger slipping away. He looked again at the fire, the flames low now, the fire collapsing into a pile of white ash. His eyes moved slowly with the dying flames, and he tried to fan his anger, to strike out at this old man. There was complete silence now, a long moment. He saw a small burst of sparks from the fire, the final collapse, the ashes only a faint glow. He looked again at the sadness in the old man. “I cannot give up this fight. I will not tell my glorious army they have been defeated. There is still a war in those men. There is still a war in this country!”
Pena y Pena moved close to the table, said quietly, “No, General, there is not. The army has already begun to leave the city. Look outside, you will see for yourself. Men are leaving in great numbers. They understand what has happened here.”
“I am still in command.”
“You cannot command without the will of the people. The people … are turning away. There must not be a war here, in this city. If you would destroy Mexico City just to keep fighting your war … you will not have an army … you will not have the people behind you.”
Santa Anna studied the old man’s face, saw the calm, the eyes watching him in soft sadness. He tried again, looked down in some dark place, wanted to feel the anger, to shout the old man away, clear the room of the treachery, the demons who had brought him to this moment. But the strength was gone, and he felt only the weakness, the hopelessness, saw it clearly in the old man’s face.
“I cannot surrender to General Scott. I must find a way. I will make them pay for what they have done. I will punish the traitors. There are still loyal soldiers, men who will fight for me.”
The old man nodded. “You are certainly right. But there must be an end to this. There must be a treaty. In the end, you will abide by it. There is no other way.”
Santa Anna stood again, looked out at the faces watching him, the eyes not turning away. He raised a hand, clenched it into a fist. “My enemies would have me surrender. You would wish me defeated, shamed, disgraced in the eyes of my people. There is a price for treachery. You will all pay the price.”
He looked at the old man again, leaned close, felt the anger coming back now, the glorious heat rising in his chest.
“I will
leave the city. I will take my army away. You may do whatever you must do to appease the enemies of Mexico. But while I have the strength and the will, I have the power. The soldiers will follow me as long as I will lead them. There is no treaty … yet!”
35. SCOTT
SEPTEMBER FOURTEENTH, TWO A.M.
THERE HAD BEEN NO SLEEP NEAR THE BIG TENT, THE OFFICERS and staff moving in one continuous flow, the reports going in both directions. The only quiet spot was closest to the enemy, inside the two gates, where Worth and Quitman had held their men tightly in place. There would be no retreat, no giving of ground, and once the dark had settled across the city, the Mexicans had not made any attempt to drive them back. At both gates the men in blue had dug in hard to the houses, the basements and rooftops. Even the artillery had been rolled through the gates, up close, prepared to sweep the empty streets of anyone foolish enough to mount another assault. But when the muskets grew quiet, and the soldiers could absorb what they had done, where they would spend the night, the joy had given way quickly to exhaustion. They slept now, men holding muskets, some curled up between the spoked wheels of their own cannon. To those who could not find sleep, the muskets pointed out at darkness, at the strange calm, the city waiting, as they would wait, for the first hint of daylight.
Scott sat, leaned on his arms, the small camp table straining, settling into the dirt under him. He blinked hard, tried to focus, the lamplight behind him throwing one fat shadow against the wall of the tent. He picked up the paper again, read, had already seen the reports, casualties, the position of the troops. He pulled out his watch, thought, Too damned late … too damned early. Can’t even get a good nap before the sun comes up.
There had been celebrations in the camps, cheering from the men who were still outside the city, and around the big tent the staffs and gathering officers were filled with the glow of the party. He had tolerated the noise at first, knew it had been an extraordinary day, thought, They will remember this one. September thirteen. Six thousand men, if that many. And we marched straight into the power of a much stronger enemy, straight into his home, his heart, and by God … we won. But there should be no celebration, not yet. We are in the city … but it is a big city. If we have to fight house-to-house, this could turn into some kind of serious mess. We will have to threaten them, bring up the big guns, threaten to take down the whole damned place, the palace, the national buildings. But if the Mexicans are fool enough to call our bluff … then we have a problem.
Polk will never go for that, pouring artillery fire into the city itself, blowing the place to hell just because we can. Not the kind of thing that looks good in the newspapers. The opponents of the war will have a field day, and that will look good in the papers: we made it to the enemy capital, and it just wasn’t enough. We didn’t have enough of an army to finish the job. Polk would have to relieve me of duty, make all kinds of excuses. But even that would take time, and so here I sit with a hundred guns. If Santa Anna wants to fight this out to the end, I will go down in history as a butcher. Very smart. This might have been his plan from the beginning. Welcome to Mexico City. Now what the hell are you going to do? He’ll know it’s a bluff, the threat itself sounds ridiculous. Watch out or we just might have to toss a few shells into your national cathedral. What the hell good will come from that? It might even bring Mexico a bunch of new allies, give Polk a new problem, maybe some damned war with, who knows, maybe Spain.
His head was spinning now, and he closed his eyes, rubbed his fingers hard into his temples. He tried to see numbers, to add the strength together, the men who could still make a fight today. He sat back, blinked hard again, looked at the paper, saw it was Quitman’s casualty report. You damned fool, he thought. What cost this time? Damn him, damn that slick old lawyer. Just like Worth, chase the damned glory. They learned nothing from Worth’s mindless tactics, the disastrous planning at Molino. They’re all still so eager to claim the prize, to try luck instead of strategy. San Cosme should have been the target, the focus of the attack. But Quitman thought it would be simple, just a stroll in the park, march right through the Belén gate. He had to have the glory, had to rub that in Worth’s face, the volunteers outfighting the regulars. Hell, if that was true, we wouldn’t need the regulars in the first place. Quitman’s not any different from Pillow, or any of the rest of them. If Davy Twiggs had been there, he’d have probably done the same thing: full speed ahead and damn the consequences. The attack at Belén was reckless and it cost us twice as many casualties as it should have. But Quitman’s probably got it all figured out. He knows I can’t raise hell about it. He won his damned fight. He was the first one inside the city. That’s all Polk will want to hear, all that the newspapers will print. Just what we need, another stiff old peacock who wants to go home a hero … or President. Scott put the paper down, looked at his shadow, the exhaustion complete, said aloud, “This is a young man’s job.”
HE WAS HOLDING HIS DAUGHTER’S HAND, THE LOVELY CORNELIA, very small, tiny fingers. He watched her pull the white flower from the stalk, smiled as she held it up, the word coming from her through the beautiful smile, the small music of her voice, “A daisy, Papa …”
“Sir!”
The image jarred aside, and she was gone now, and he saw the glow of the lamp, the uniform, and the voice again: “Sir!”
He sat up, his head swirling, saw the face of his son-in-law, the urgency, wanted to pull him down, grab him by the throat, said with a low growl, “You … you took her away, you know. She was mine.”
The young man backed up a step, said, “Sir? Who, sir? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.…”
“My daughter, you … you …” The words faded, and he saw now there were other uniforms outside the tent, felt the fog lifting in his brain, looked again at the young man, said, “Nothing, Major. A dream. I was napping, it seems.”
The young man stepped forward again, said, “Of course, sir. I try not to do that myself. Dreams are very distracting, sir. Serves no purpose.”
Scott sat back, was awake now, annoyed with his son-in-law’s smugness, thought, She married him, for God’s sake. “What do you want, Major?”
“Oh, sir. The Mexicans are here. General Worth brought them to see you, sir. He did not feel authorized to speak to them. Should I summon Mr. Trist, sir?”
Scott looked outside, saw only shapes, dark forms in the shadows of the small fires. He stood. “I don’t need Mr. Trist’s permission to speak to the Mexicans, Major. Who are they?”
The young man moved to the opening in the tent, lowered his voice. “Civilians, sir.”
Scott stepped outside, felt a cool dampness, took a long breath, saw officers moving toward him, Worth, who bowed and then spoke. “Sir, these gentlemen entered my lines a short time ago. I believe you should speak to them.”
Worth stepped aside, and Scott focused on the shadows, saw three men coming forward, saw the hats come off, more bows, and one man said, “General Scott. The government of Mexico wishes to negotiate with you the terms for your occupation of Mexico City.”
There was silence, and Scott worked through the man’s thick accent. He could see other men, officers moving up behind the gathering, the word already spreading through the camp. Scott waited a long moment, thought, Ceremony, Trist said … ceremony. Take your time.
“I am honored that you would visit my headquarters,” he said slowly. “I am surprised to be speaking with … civilians. Forgive me for asking, but is your visit here authorized by General Santa Anna?”
The man turned to another of the civilians, and there was a small whisper, a reply, and Scott waited, thought, Where the hell is Trist? Now the first man faced him again, said, “General, I am informing you that as of eight o’clock last night, General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna evacuated the city with his army. There is no official military presence in Mexico City.”
There were voices now, men back in the shadows, responding to the man’s words. Scott felt something open up in his brain. He
straightened, a warmth began to fill him. He held it tightly, nodded, a small show of formality. “We are pleased to hear that, sir.”
“General Scott, we are here to begin negotiations for your occupation of the city.”
He could hear sounds echoing out through the camp, men running as the word spread. He waited, thought, Careful, do this right. No insults. “I am pleased you have come here.”
He was beginning to feel foolish, thought, Negotiations. They want to negotiate … what? Damn it, where’s Trist?
The men watched him, respectfully patient as he stared into the dark. He thought of the troops, the men who would wait for the daylight, who were ready to carry the attack again. They do not yet know, there is no enemy in front of them. There is only … the city.
“Gentlemen, I have the honor of informing you that negotiations are not necessary. This is a simple matter, I’m sure you will agree. In a short time, the sun will rise. Your people will be able to see that we have lined up a considerable number of cannon, all pointing to the center of the city. Assuming you are correct, and there is no armed resistance, the army of the United States of America will march into the heart of Mexico City, and establish command there.”
The men glanced at each other, and Scott waited, thought, That may have been a bit blunt. He thought of Trist again, Save face, give them something to save face. He looked down, ran the words through his mind.
“The Mexican citizens may be assured that no harm will come to them. We have the utmost respect for your institutions. No harm will come to your city.”
The man bowed, expressed his relief. “General Scott, the people of Mexico City will welcome you.”