Gone for Soldiers

The man backed away, and Scott returned his bow, heard a commotion, then a voice, saw another man rushing forward. The man stopped, seemed to gather himself, emerged from the shadows with slow dignity, and Scott said, “Ah, Mr. Trist! Welcome to our … negotiation. Sorry you weren’t here sooner. I believe we have finished.”

  Trist bowed slightly, and the Mexican spoke to him in Spanish, his tone quiet, respectful. Trist nodded, the polite smile slipping from his face. He looked at Scott, said something in Spanish, made another bow toward the men. The Mexican’s conversation seemed urgent, and Scott watched, thought, At least he seems to know them. Wonder how badly I offended them?

  The men bowed toward Scott again, moved away, and Trist moved up beside him. “I don’t know what you said to them, but they were … impressed.”

  Scott shrugged, moved to the tent. “I was pretty plain about it. Trying to get the hang of this diplomatic business, remembered what you told me, tried to give them something to take back to their people. Told them I wouldn’t destroy their city.”

  He moved into the tent, Trist following, and Trist said, “That’s it? That’s all you said?”

  Scott moved to the chair, sat, saw the shadow again, said, “Something wrong? We got a problem?”

  Trist shook his head, tried to say something, turned, took a step, seemed nervous now.

  Scott said, “What, dammit?”

  Trist stopped moving, looked at him now, said, “I’m not sure if this is a problem or not, sir. It seems … you have been offered an opportunity, sir. I’m not sure how to phrase this. It appears there is a position they feel needs to be filled, and they believe you are the man for the job.”

  Scott was confused now.

  “Job? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “General Scott, they have requested … they are wondering if you might accept the position of … dictator of Mexico.”

  36. SCOTT

  SEPTEMBER FOURTEENTH, DAWN

  THE DAYLIGHT CAME QUIETLY, AND HE STOOD OUTSIDE, WATCHED the glow spreading up behind the big mountains in the east. He had not slept, did not take time for the small naps, had spent the last hour of darkness putting the uniform together. He was assisted by the young Sergeant Dunnigan, the nervous little man picking through the wardrobe, holding each piece of clothing for Scott’s inspection. When the ensemble was complete, Scott sent him away, began to dress himself with a slow, quiet intensity, creating the uniform one careful step at a time. He watched the process in the mirror, pulled and fastened and straightened each layer, smiling his approval at the thoroughness of his young sergeant, each piece of cloth cleaned and pressed perfectly, the gold braid freshly stitched, the medals shined. He had to kneel to see the hat, the thick burst of white feathers at the top, as he pulled and adjusted the slight tilt over his brow. When it was all in place, he had enjoyed a long moment with the mirror, simply admired, something he had not done in a long time.

  He knew it was vanity, had long accepted what others said behind his back, knew that whether it was said in kindness or with mean spirit, “Old Fuss and Feathers” was an accurate description. On all the special occasions, he spent long minutes before the mirror, admiring the spectacle of himself, his uniform, his posture, all those things that created the presence. In Washington he had often gone through this same routine, had thought then, They may not care for me, but they cannot ignore me. But today would be very different. Today he would go before his army, and they would know by his appearance that this was his finest day as a soldier.

  Now, in the light of the new morning, he stood outside the tent, a last inspection by the young sergeant, earning his smile, the approving nod. Now he was ready for his army.

  He could hear the sounds growing around the headquarters, Harney’s cavalry gathering, his own formal escort falling into formation. He looked toward the sun, was suddenly nervous, thought, One more moment. I had thought I would be ready for this. But, no. Give it time.

  He felt his breathing, hard and sharp, felt the pounding in his chest, was embarrassed now. Stop this, you are the damned commander. You are not supposed to be this damned nervous. Commanders don’t get excited.

  He turned, saw Harney himself at the head of the column, tall in the saddle, his grim face calm, unchanged, and Scott thought, He doesn’t show a damned thing, just another day to him, another ride. Well, dammit, he’s wrong. This is a special day indeed. We’re going to ride straight into the heart of that city. We’re going to take charge.

  He moved to the horse, standing perfectly still, and ran his hand along the horse’s neck, ruffled the gray mane. Yes, you’re ready for this day too. Very good, you’ve taken me this far. You should damned well take me the rest of the way. Quite a portrait, this uniform, this fine big horse.

  He climbed up, the horse moving slightly, adjusting to the weight. Scott looked at Harney, read the impatience in his expression. Scott smiled. “Colonel, we have time today. No need to hurry.”

  Harney sniffed. “Certainly, sir. The men have had time to prepare, I imagine. Should be a nice reception.”

  Scott had assumed the troops would not wait for him, would move quickly at both gates once the daylight came to occupy the main buildings in the center of the city. Yes, he thought, there is still a damned race. By now Worth and Quitman are probably fighting a duel in the grand plaza to see who gets the prize.

  He looked at Harney. “Actually, Colonel, perhaps we should ride. No time like the present.”

  THEY MOVED IN A QUIET, DELIBERATE PROCESSION, HARNEY holding his men in tight formation, the men out front carefully watching the rooftops. They moved toward the San Cosme gate, through the wide plaza, surveying the destruction. The fight had ripped through the homes, the small shops, a shattered church, its stained glass a spray of color on the gray rubble. He looked into the church itself, could see the uneven rows of pews, could see the people now, civilians, gathering, emerging from the darkness of the awful ruin. The people began to gather outside, lining the street, all faces watching him, staring at the grand uniform, this big man on the great horse. He passed through the gate itself now, saw more rubble, jagged masonry walls, pieces of a broken cannon. The streets narrowed, and he saw the crowds growing. Despite the mass of civilians, it was eerily quiet, the only sounds the click of the horses’ hooves, the marching steps of the troops. The people seemed to be flowing up from some unseen place, like water from a spring. They came out into the light, shading their eyes, all staring at him, watching him move slowly past. He saw motion from above, saw blue, a soldier on the rooftop, a guard, saw more now, Worth’s men moving to the edge, watching him as well. They held their muskets upright in quiet salute, and he let out a breath, thought, Of course, there is security. I hope … we don’t need it.

  The procession moved past a wide intersection, and he could see out in both directions, more civilians gathering, moving close to the column of horsemen, and now there were voices, men calling out, women responding, the sounds of children. He saw them coming out of the houses still, a great mass of people, the citizens of this grand old city, the people whose lives had been trampled by the turmoil and politics and the violence of war. They surged forward, held back only by Harney’s horsemen, and the voices grew louder, the word passing from old to young, fathers to sons. He could see it in their faces, recognition, the crowd understanding what this was, why these men marched slowly past on horseback, what was so important about this small parade. Hands began reaching out toward him now, some pointing, some beginning to wave. Then he heard his name, carried forward like a wave, saw one woman step close to the horses, the cavalry officer holding her away, but the woman would not stop, pushed past the horse. Harney said something, a quick shout, but the woman slipped behind Harney’s horse, moving close to Scott. She raised a cloth bag, and he watched her hands, reaching inside, felt a cold stab, heard Harney again, thought, A weapon … a pistol, and then the woman drew out something else from the bag, a glorious red rose. She reached out to him, held it up
, and the guard stopped behind her, his sword raised, ready to strike her down, but Scott said, “No! It’s all right.”

  The woman ignored the men moving close behind her, stared at him still, held the rose up toward him, and he reached out, took it from her hand. “Thank you. Gracias, señorita.”

  She said something he could not understand, but he saw her expression, the emotion it revealed, her eyes holding on to a deep sadness. He saw her age now, older, the time etched hard in a face that had seen much, that knew something of war and death and loss. She did not smile, looked at the rose now in his hand, backed away, moved past the guards, out through the throng of people, disappeared in the crowd.

  Harney gave an order, and the column began to move again. Scott spurred the horse out of instinct, moved as well. He searched the crowd still, thought, That face, the sadness. But there is no anger. She wants this whole business to be over. He looked at the rose in his hand, shook his head, thought, A pistol. There’s a lesson. Don’t underestimate these people. Don’t assume the politicians control the hearts of their people. Not all of them are our enemies.

  The voices came again, the street filled with sounds now, and he heard his name again, the hands waving, the faces alive with celebration. He saw a ragged uniform, a Mexican soldier, and the man was waving as well, another part of the joy of the growing crowd. He nodded to the man, a small salute, and the man smiled, a broad, beaming grin, and Scott could feel the man’s joy, said to Harney, “It appears, Colonel, they’re happy to see us.”

  Harney did not look at him, was watching the guards on the rooftops, said, “I would accept that as a positive sign, sir.”

  Scott heard the flatness in Harney’s voice, smiled. “Yes, Colonel. I believe this means … we won.”

  THE SOUNDS WERE STILL GROWING, BUT NOW THE WORDS WERE in English, the crowds wearing blue uniforms. The streets were lined with soldiers, ragged, filthy troops, many with bandages, torn uniforms, other signs of the fight. There were muskets, all raised high, hats in the air, and he could not help but smile, had seen this before, always drew excitement from the troops. But now there was something new, something missing. The grim reality of the next duty, the next fight, of tomorrow, was not in these men. The cheers were for him, would always be for him, but he could feel the difference, something beyond the usual rally around the flag, the victory celebration. Even when the victory had been clear and glorious, the grand sweep at Cerro Gordo, the great triumph of Chapultepec, the men cheered him with relieved exhaustion, finding some piece of themselves to feel good about. But the reserve was always there, the losses fresh in their minds, the friends who were gone, or those who might be gone the next time. But today the celebration was complete, the reserve gone. They cheered each other as they cheered for him, the emotion pouring out, uncontrollable, tears and laughter.

  Ahead the road opened up into a wide plaza. He rode to the end of the street, but the soldiers were held back by officers, the great open plaza nearly empty. He stopped the horse, heard Harney order the halt. He stared across to the National Palace, and close by he could see the spires of the grand cathedral. On the roof of the palace a line of soldiers snapping to attention, above them the American flag snapping in the breeze. He smiled, thought, Of course. They couldn’t wait after all. He rode forward, alone, sat up tall in the saddle, heard the roar behind him, the soldiers all watching him. He felt his throat tighten, thought, No, not now, don’t let go … just a moment. He blinked hard through the tears he could not stop, saw the wave of color, the Stars and Stripes moving with a small breeze. He took a long breath, but the emotion would not pass, and he lifted his hand slowly, stared at the flag, raised a salute, held it for a long moment.

  Behind him the voices of the troops exploded into a salute of their own, and he turned, looked back to the mass filling the street. The voices were echoing down other streets as well, Quitman’s troops, and he thought, Good discipline, good order. They held back, waited for me to arrive. Generous, indeed. But this is for them, this place is theirs. He raised his hat again, held it high, answered the voices of the men, the narrow streets now rivers of sound and motion extending away from the plaza. He could not stop the tears, did not try, thought, I should say something, tell them something. But the words were choked away, and he thought, No, let it go. There are no words to describe this moment. They will remember. There will never be another day like this.

  THE STAFF FILED BEHIND HIM, AND HE HELD THEM IN A TIGHT formation across from the entrance to the palace. He could see the Mexican officials waiting for him, other faces at the windows. The staff was beside him now, and he held the horse still, thought, Ceremony, show them respect. He saw horses now, officers moving toward him from across the plaza, waited, began to smile, thought, Well, how about this. It’s both of them, together. And no duel.

  Worth and Quitman were side by side, rode up close. Both men stopped, saluted him, and Scott said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Everything in order?”

  Worth replied, “General Scott, as you can see, we have occupied the government buildings. The government ministers are awaiting your presence, sir.”

  Scott looked again at the palace, the small crowd of men in black suits, thought, My God, it’s as simple as this. We will just walk in. He could not help thinking of the word, had begun to think of Cortez, the awful comparison. We walk into that building … as conquerors. He glanced up at the flag again, thought, What does this mean for us, beyond Polk, beyond this war? Our flag flies over the capital of a foreign nation. Surely, it was never supposed to be like this.

  He shook his head. No, this is not for you to decide, to pass judgment. The duty is right there, in that building. You’re just an old soldier who is supposed to be having his day. This is your finest moment. Enjoy it, dammit.

  He looked along the line, saw the staff watching him, waiting for the order. He glanced at Quitman, still stiffly formal, solemnly dignified. That’s what this is about. This is what soldiers do, what inspires armies to fight, this moment. It’s time for us to … claim the prize.

  SEPTEMBER FIFTEENTH

  Worth stood in front of him, the frown creasing his face. Scott waited for it, thought, All right, let him have his say. Get it over with. He expected anger, more of Worth’s strange bitterness. Worth seemed to search for the words before finally speaking.

  “Sir, was your decision based on something I did? Could I have done something differently?”

  It was not what Scott expected, and he said, “General, you seem to be taking this decision … personally. I don’t have any reason to keep you in some corner. He’s simply more qualified. Besides, as I’m sure you are aware, there was some considerable noise made about a … race.”

  Worth seemed wounded by the word, said, “Certainly not, sir.”

  The voice was flat, a lame denial, and Scott said, “Let’s make this brief, General. John Quitman is a lawyer, and from what I hear, back in Mississippi he was pretty good at it. It seemed entirely appropriate to appoint him Military Governor of Mexico City. He earned it. If anyone should be wrinkled up about this, it’s Gideon Pillow. Funny I haven’t heard much from him. He’s too preoccupied with that thorn in his foot … oh, forgive me, his wound. I suspect he’s got his eye focused on going home, probably doesn’t want to stay down here any longer than he has to. Glory awaits, I’m sure.” Careful, he thought, stay with the issue at hand. “Quitman’s volunteers fought as well as anyone in the army. And, after all, General, it was Quitman’s division who broke into the city first. Even if I didn’t pay much attention to all that race business, you cannot deny that … you did.”

  Worth nodded slowly, smiled now. “Suppose I did, sir.”

  “Face it, General, it’s not exactly a pleasant job. He has to sort out all the civilian matters, all the complaints. It’s a grand sounding title. But it’s not a job I’d want myself.”

  Worth thought a moment, seemed resigned now. “No, sir. I suppose not.”

  “Good. Anything els
e?”

  Worth seemed to energize, said, “Yes, sir. The sniping is getting worse, sir. We know now that Santa Anna opened up the jails on his way out. We’re being fired at by criminals, all over the city. It seemed to be little more than a nuisance at first. But there are also reports of Mexican troops infiltrating the city, out of uniform. There’s no safe place to walk, and no man dares to go out alone. As you know, sir, Colonel Garland was seriously wounded by a sniper. He will recover, but it could have been much worse.”

  Scott nodded. “I know about Colonel Garland, I know about the reports. The war is not over, General. We simply have to keep up the pressure. Work the streets, house-to-house if you have to. Don’t hesitate to use power. Take some artillery, make a presence. If you have to level a few buildings to make a point, do it. Spread the word, ‘You shoot at us, we’ll take down your house.’ But keep it orderly, keep your men in control. No looting, no reprisals. We will not become a mob here, General.”

  Worth seemed to glow at Scott’s words. “My thoughts exactly, sir!”

  “Good. We through?”

  Worth thought a moment, said, “Sir, I was hoping … there would be time for you to speak to the reporters. There are a number of men here from the foreign papers, apparently have been here from the beginning. I’m hearing requests for your time, sir.”

  Scott grunted, thought, Bad enough to be misquoted in American papers. Now the whole world hopes I’ll say something idiotic. To hell with them.

  “General, I don’t have time for the luxury of interviews.”

  Worth seemed frustrated, strangely nervous, said, “Sir, you must … you have to speak to them, open the dialogue. If you don’t, none of us can either.”

  Scott sniffed, thought, So, of course, that’s it. They know the rules, no discussion of military affairs that don’t begin in this office. And they’re all itching to talk, to tell grand tales of their exploits. That’s reason enough for me not to.