by Mike Blakely
Now he was back, and Polk gathered that this visit had nothing to do with Mexican reparations. They chatted about the weather as Polk offered Atocha a chair and took his own seat behind his desk.
“Your time is valuable,” the colonel said. “I will not squander it. I have come from Havana, where I met with His Excellency, General Santa Anna. I wish to tell you of my discussion with him. But first, I request that our meeting here today remain confidential.”
Polk stared at his visitor. Atocha was clean shaven and handsome in a devil-may-care kind of way. He was forty to forty-five years of age, Polk guessed. His dark eyes were alive and engaging but struck the president as shifty.
Polk shrugged and spread his arms. “Of course, Colonel. You may rely upon my discretion.”
“General Santa Anna sends his warmest regards. He has been schooling the Cubans in cockfighting. His cocks have won more than thirty thousand pesos since he arrived in Havana. But the pit is a mere distraction for the general. He writes daily to his agents in Mexico and receives hundreds of letters by every steamer from Veracruz.”
“He remains that well connected?”
Atocha nodded and smiled. “It is only a matter of time.”
Polk shot a puzzled smirk across the desk. “Until what, may I ask?”
“The general wishes to return to power. And he wishes you to know that, when that happens, you will find him open to negotiations.”
“What kind of negotiations?” Polk asked, playing the rube.
“General Santa Anna is willing to cede Texas to the United States, with the Rio Grande del Norte as the southern and western boundary. In addition, he would relinquish all lands north of the Colorado River of the West. All of this for thirty millions of dollars. With this sum, the general intends to return the government to solvency and—once again, as he has done many times before—save Mexico.”
Polk raised his eyebrows but restrained his enthusiasm. The boast about saving Mexico was preposterous. Santa Anna had, in fact, nearly destroyed his country, almost single-handedly. But the offer to sell Mexico’s northern frontier intrigued. Secretly, Polk had considered paying twice that much for the territories offered.
“Before any such negotiations could begin,” Polk said, “Mexico must satisfy the many claims of American citizens abused by the Mexican government. Reparations are long overdue.”
Atocha nodded his agreement and waved the idea aside as if fending off a mosquito.
“Then,” Polk continued, “if the general should return to power and make such an offer as you have described, it would be considered at that time.”
A wry grin sculpted perfect crow’s-feet at the corners of Atocha’s eyes. “Ah, but therein lies the rub,” he whispered.
Shakespeare? Polk thought. “How do you mean?”
“Should any Mexican president propose the sale of Mexican soil to a foreign country, there would be another revolution and he would be overthrown. No. Mexico must appear to be forced into such a deal.”
Polk did not know what to say, so he made a rolling gesture of his hand that said, Go on …
“General Santa Anna makes the following suggestions: One … assemble a large number of your warships within view of Veracruz. Two … move your army from Corpus Christi to the Rio Grande del Norte, across from Matamoras. Three … allow Santa Anna safe passage through the blockade to Veracruz. Four … order your minister, Mr. Slidell, to ask for his passports and compel him to board one of the U.S. ships of war at Veracruz. From there, Mr. Slidell should demand payment due to U.S. citizens, under penalty of invasion.”
Polk frowned. Both Santa Anna and Atocha had certainly reasoned—or learned through espionage—that the said suggestions were already in motion, with the exception of allowing Santa Anna’s safe passage through the blockade. Therefore, such safe passage seemed to be the one aim of Atocha’s visit.
“You are suggesting,” Polk said, “that since Mexico has no treasury to speak of, the only way she could pay the reparations due is by selling her northern frontier, and that the citizens of Mexico would allow this only if a large military show of force should frighten them into selling.”
Atocha nodded. “Santa Anna believes it is the only hope for Mexico. And for peaceful relations with the United States into perpetuity.”
Polk rose to pace the floor of his office, his hands clasped behind his back. “Colonel Atocha,” he said, “is it true that General Santa Anna calls himself the ‘Napoleon of the West’?”
Atocha chuckled and bowed his head, almost apologetically. “I know of only one occasion when the general flattered himself with that appellation.”
“Napoleon saw himself as a conqueror. An empire builder. Why, then, would Santa Anna willingly cede almost half of his nation’s territory to a foreign power?”
“Because he learns from his mistakes. After his disastrous expedition to Texas, Santa Anna came to realize that Mexico enjoys only a tenuous hold on her northern territories. With no money in her treasury and a debt of half a million dollars to the archbishop of Mexico, it only makes sense to sell a territory that otherwise will one day be taken by some superior military force.”
Polk found his trust in Colonel Atocha lacking. Still, he knew enough about General Santa Anna to make Atocha’s stratagem seem negligibly feasible. Santa Anna had ascended to the presidency of Mexico more than once through brief displays of courage on the battlefield and prolonged propaganda campaigns in which he took credit for victories he had not won and blamed others for his own defeats.
He had started as a young artillery officer for the Spanish Army, then joined the fight for independence. Polk’s knowledge of Mexican affairs after her independence were lost in the confusion of the times—warlords toppling other warlords. Santa Anna seemed to be one of the luckiest and cleverest of the breed, managing to get himself elected president in 1833. Within a year, he had dissolved his nation’s legislature and sent his vice president into exile. A dictator now, he began dismantling the Constitution of 1824, which had been patterned largely after the U.S. Constitution. A despot, Santa Anna announced, was what Mexico needed. Her citizens were not ready for democracy.
But the American colonists who had been living in Mexico’s Texas for over a decade did not intend to suffer a tyrant. The Texans—of both Anglo and Spanish descent—declared independence. What followed was Santa Anna’s march to San Antonio and the slaughter of the defenders of the Alamo. Then the Napoleon of the West ordered the unconscionable execution of more than three hundred Texas patriots who had surrendered honorably at Goliad.
For these atrocities, the Texans had exacted their revenge on the battlefield at San Jacinto, where President Santa Anna was captured and narrowly spared execution by General Sam Houston, who considered him a valuable pawn. A captive head of state now, Santa Anna recognized Texas independence by treaty to save his own life. After wearing a ball and chain for a time, he then traveled to Washington, DC, where Old Hickory himself finalized the treaty negotiations between Texas and Mexico, establishing the border at the Rio Grande del Norte.
Polk now regretted that he had not attended any of the dinners or balls in Washington where Santa Anna had been wined and dined as a foreign curiosity. The general was popular with northern abolitionists, who saw his recent enemies—the Texans—as slavery supporters. Eventually, General Santa Anna returned to Mexico.
He found himself quite unpopular at home, until he got his leg blown off by a cannonball while defending the Port of Veracruz from a French invasion in 1838. France had attacked to force payment of reparations for abuses of her citizens living in Mexico—the same thing Polk now demanded for the United States.
After Veracruz, Santa Anna had made the most of his amputated leg and was celebrated as a hero once again. Soon he joined Mariano Paredes in overthrowing President Bustamante. Santa Anna was then installed as provisional president. President again! But not for long. He spent massive sums on a statue of himself and a lavish military reburial of his
amputated leg. He levied taxes on cart wheels and conscripted peasants and Indians by the thousands for forced military service. His popularity slid to the point that lepers dug up his leg and dragged it through the streets.
Near the end of 1844, Santa Anna was once again deposed—this time by José Joaquin de Herrera—and exiled to Cuba, whence Colonel A. J. Atocha had recently sailed to visit him and his fighting cocks.
“Mexico’s debt to the archbishop,” Atocha said, continuing his sales pitch, “will actually work in our favor. The archbishop wields enormous influence over the citizenry. If we assure him that he will be reimbursed his half million out of the thirty million, he will approve of the sale.”
Polk could not restrain a scoff. “So, the Archbishop of Mexico must be in on your scheme as well?”
“All of Mexico will follow his example.”
“All of Mexico?” Polk said.
“Yes,” Atocha insisted. “In Mexico, if you go against the archbishop, you spend eternity in hell.”
Polk allowed a smile to spread across his face. “Colonel, your counsel has been interesting and intriguing.”
Atocha rose, sensing that the meeting was coming to an end. “May I carry your answer to the general, Mr. President?”
“I have no answer for you on this day, Colonel. Unlike your friend General Santa Anna, I have little desire to act without the consent of Congress.” He strode to the door. “I will consider the intelligence you have shared with me here today and decide which course of action—if any—should be pursued through constitutional channels.”
Atocha joined him at the door. “Mr. President. Will you grant General Santa Anna safe passage through the blockade on Veracruz?”
Polk turned the latch on the door but did not open it. “I cannot answer that question on this day, sir.”
“When will you decide?”
“If I were to decide as you wish, Colonel, you would hear of it from Santa Anna, not from me.” He swung the door open and gestured to the outer office.
Colonel A. J. Atocha, looking disappointed, bowed slightly and left.
Closing the door, the president shook his head at the audacity of the intrigue he had just encountered. Imagine! Allowing the self-trumpeted Napoleon of the West back into Mexico to return to power and sell a third or more of her territory to America. If the plan worked, it would amount to a stroke of clandestine brilliance that could prevent all-out war.
But what if it was a trick? What if Santa Anna had no real intention of selling territory and simply wanted entrée through the U.S. Navy blockade? What was the worst that could happen? Even if Santa Anna reneged on his promise to sell New Mexico and Alta California, how much trouble could he possibly cause once back in Mexico? He would be a one-legged rooster in a cockfight. He was considered a disgrace to his nation by most of the Mexican citizenry. Why not let him go home?
Polk thought of something his envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, the Honorable John Slidell, had told him before leaving for the U.S. legation in Mexico.
“Oh, Mr. President,” Slidell had said, in an offhand way, “my brother has asked me to offer his services as a naval officer to your administration in any capacity you might find helpful.”
“Your brother?” Polk had said, unaware that Slidell had a brother in the U.S. Navy.
“Commander Alexander MacKenzie, currently in command of the brig of war Somers.”
“MacKenzie?” Polk had said. “Not Slidell?”
“His change of name from Slidell to MacKenzie was authorized by the New York legislature and the U.S. Navy.”
“I see. But why did your brother desire a change of name?”
“MacKenzie is our mother’s maiden name from Scotland. The name change qualifies Alexander to inherit her family property in the old country.”
What had seemed trivial at the time now struck Polk with a ring of opportunity. Why not send Commander MacKenzie to Havana to offer Santa Anna safe passage through the blockade? As a brother of Minister John Slidell, MacKenzie was doubtlessly well versed on current events in Mexico. This would give him an edge in the negotiations with Santa Anna. Because his last name was no longer Slidell, Santa Anna would have no clue that MacKenzie was actually the brother of the former U.S. minister to Mexico.
Polk opened his office door to find Knox scribbling some document at his desk. “Knox.”
“Yes, Mr. President?” he said, looking up, but continuing to scrawl on the paper.
“Send a note to the secretary of navy. I shall need to meet with him this afternoon.”
“Shall I say why, sir?”
“Tell him he will know why when he gets here.”
Second Lieutenant
SAM GRANT
Corpus Christi, Texas
March 9, 1846
Grant woke to the cold Gulf breeze blowing through holes in the tattered muslin fabric of his tent. His blanket, similarly ventilated, did little to retain the warmth of his own body. As he shivered, he realized what had wakened him. The black cook who worked for Grant and four other officers had begun to clang pots and pans. Soon the sun would rise over the Gulf of Mexico.
Now, remembering what lay in store for this day, he smiled, in spite of his lack of enthusiasm for the coming conflict—an imminent war he considered unjust and wholly avoidable. His regiment would leave Corpus Christi beach today and head south on the smuggler’s trail to Matamoras. Nights would be warmer down south, and, anyway, spring was coming on. Along with just about every other able-bodied soldier in this gritty camp, Grant relished the idea of the march to the border. He had had enough of Corpus Christi beach.
It was his fondest hope that, once Taylor’s army arrived on the Rio Grande del Norte, a border settlement could be reached by reasonable diplomats and a cruel war avoided. Perhaps the United States could buy the Nueces Strip from Mexico. He knew that clinging to this kind of unlikely fantasy was naive, but he could not help wishing. He wanted to go home, marry Julia, and start a normal life.
But the truth was, he could feel the war fever in the air among his fellow officers. He could read it between the lines of bellicose newspaper articles and editorials. Americans wanted more America. Only so many sons could inherit the family farm. The others would have to move west. West … Defending the border of the new state of Texas was only the beginning. Talk of taking California had become a daily topic in Taylor’s camp. That would mean actually invading Mexico and forcing the forfeiture of her northern frontier.
Since the day he fell off the sailing ship, trying to get on the steam shuttle to shore, Grant had seen a heap of changes here at Corpus Christi. Lying in his tent, he chuckled at the memory of his fall into the Gulf waters. Luckily, he was a strong swimmer, and some sailors had eventually lowered a bucket for him to straddle and hoisted him back up to the deck. It served as an awakening to the toils and dangers in store. Yet the rigors of army life seemed to have greatly improved Grant’s health. His cough had left him and he had put on weight. He had his own opinion as to what had brought on the change. It was that kiss from Julia. She had healed him.
He had returned to Julia only once since then. Before sailing from New Orleans, he had secured twenty days’ leave and had traveled back to White Haven to ask Julia’s father for her hand. Colonel Dent did not consent to the union readily. He doubted that Julia would enjoy the roving life of an army wife. Grant had told the elder Dent that if she did not like the army life, he would resign his commission. Julia’s father then consented to allow the young couple to remain engaged and to correspond while Grant was away with the army.
Grant had spent several splendid days at White Haven, taking long horseback rides and leisurely strolls with Julia. They would sit and talk for hours on the piazza, serenaded by honeybees working among the blossoms of locust trees and jessamine. Now, he knew not when he might see her again, but he wrote often, and she always replied.
After landing at Corpus Christi, Grant had made the most of his arrival. He b
ought three green-broke mustangs and began to train them to his purposes. He had accompanied a payroll train to San Antonio and Austin and back to camp. Grant had also noticed a subtle adjustment in the nomenclature attached to General Taylor’s forces. The erstwhile Army of Observation was now being referred to as the Army of Occupation in the chain of command ranging all the way up to President Polk. Grant suspected that the next step, after observation and occupation, would be invasion.
Along with the shift in military semantics, many other changes had occurred here at the formerly quiet hamlet of Corpus Christi since he arrived back in August. As only a few head of livestock had been imported from the States—primarily the dragoon mounts and the trained horses for Ringgold’s flying artillery—the men had busied themselves breaking hundreds of wild Mexican mules purchased from the locals and training them to pull supply wagons. Yet there were not enough mules available to pull all the wagons, so oxen had been purchased to make up the difference. The soldiers, most of whom had never driven so much as a cart, had become experienced mule skinners and bull whackers over the winter.
Meanwhile, rations had dwindled. Fewer fish were available to feed the men, and the available game—deer, wild turkeys, alligators, and javelinas—had been killed off or spooked out of the area. Few cattle were available for beef, and those had to be herded in from San Antonio, 150 miles inland. No cattle ranchers yet occupied this Indian- and bandit-infested no-man’s-land. Freshwater had proven difficult to haul to camp from a point upstream on the Nueces, above the brackish estuary at her mouth. Even there, the cottonmouth-infested waters tasted of alkali.
