by Mike Blakely
“Siempre!”
“Viva la Republica!”
“Viva la Republica!”
The general caught the eye of the regimental bandleader standing before his fifes and drums and section of brass instruments. “Play!” he commanded.
Captain
SAMUEL WALKER
Palo Alto
May 8, 1846
Under a bright spring sun at its zenith, Sam Walker rode out of the chaparral and onto the broad plain that afforded the first glimpse of the Palo Alto timber along the Matamoros Road. He expected to find Arista’s army here, and he did. He could see it strewn out a mile wide, already in battle formation.
He had longed for this. Not since that ill-fated advance on Mier, back in forty-two, had he found himself at the vanguard of an invading force. There, he had been captured before the fight had even begun. Months of captivity had followed. He was hoping for different results today, but he did not fear any outcome that might lay in store for him.
“Boys, let’s get a closer look,” he said to the mixed band of volunteer Texas Rangers and regular army dragoon officers who rode with him. Before anyone could answer, Walker spurred his mustang forward to canter down the road.
Tall stalks of saw grass covered the plain to his left, standing shoulder high to a man afoot. Walker had seen saw grass in Florida while serving there under General Taylor. The plant tended to grow along riverbanks and in swamps, indicating to the Ranger that the ground might be soft in places where the saw grass grew. The blades of this grass indeed sported jagged teeth like a saw, sharp enough to slice a man’s flesh. The top of each stalk was hard and almost as sharp as a darning needle. This thick grass might slow down an infantry charge, he thought.
To the right of the road, a series of marshes and pools indicated boggy ground that could hinder an artillery or cavalry advance. But other than the saw grass and the bogs, the prairie seemed a perfect spot to practice the art of war.
He wanted to ride close enough to identify the various units under General Arista—horse, foot, and guns. Already he could make out the banner of the elite Tampico Battalion anchoring the center of the line.
“Walker, we’re within artillery range,” a dragoon captain warned from behind. It was Captain Charles May, whom Walker considered something of a braggart.
Walker smiled and spurred his mount on.
“I brought a spyglass,” shouted a lieutenant. “No need to get so near!”
The Ranger finally pulled rein just out of the reach of enemy muskets. Now he could hear the Mexican Army band belting out a tune over the squeaking of his party’s saddle leather and the heaving of their horses.
One of his Rangers arrived at his shoulder. “That’s a right smart ditty. Them chili-bellies can sure blow them horns.”
A puff of smoke from a cannon muzzle attracted his attention. Walker heard the report of the eight-pounder mixed with the whirr of the solid shot that sailed over his head, bounced down the road behind him, and splashed into one of the bogs, scattering a flock of ducks.
“We’d better git before they reload that piece,” Captain May suggested.
Walker was still taking note of battery positions and looking for the pennons of the veteran Mexican cavalry and infantry units. “Better to set still a minute than to retreat right into their range.”
The Mexican gun bucked and roared again, the ball sailing lower, but still overhead. “Now’s a good time to report back to the general, boys.” He took his hat off and waved a hasta luego to Arista’s army before reining his pony around to the rear.
A canter out of cannon range and a trot of ten minutes delivered him to Taylor’s army, which was lumbering down the road, encumbered by the two hundred supply wagons and two huge siege guns, each pulled by a dozen oxen. Back at Point Isabel, Walker had suggested leaving the supply train and the eighteen-pounders behind until the enemy could be cleared from the road by a more mobile force. But Old Rough and Ready had refused to further divide his army on the Rio Grande.
“My duty is to get these provisions to Fort Texas,” he had said in his slow, methodical way. “I will not leave them behind to rush into a fight. We will all proceed together.”
Now Walker spotted the general astride Old Whitey, holding a parley with some officers as the army plodded by. He was glad to see that Taylor had abandoned the seat of his wagon, which his slave had been driving. Some of the northern boys sneered at the idea of a slave owner carting his chattel to war. Besides, a general ought to straddle a steed in a battle.
“General Taylor,” Walker said, reining in with his left hand as he saluted with his right. “General Arista sends his regards from the muzzle of a field gun.”
Some of the younger West Pointers bristled at this mockery of decorum, but Taylor only smiled and returned the salute.
“I heard the reports, Captain. What lies ahead?”
“Arista’s holding the road at Palo Alto. Torrejon’s on his left. The Tampicos are in the middle. More cavalry to his right, under Noriega. Their batteries are scattered along the whole line. Other infantry regiments, too.”
“How many men, total?” the general asked.
“I’d say about three thousand. They take up about a mile across the prairie. Arista’s got the tall trees to his back. Probably has some reserve troops hidden in there.”
“How’s the ground?”
“Good in the prairie to the left of the road, but covered with tall grass. It’s boggy to the right side of the road, but the men can fill their canteens and water their horses at the first pond. It’s out of range of the Mexican guns.”
“Good. Well done, Captain.” Taylor turned to Lieutenant Jacob Blake, a combat engineer. “Lieutenant, ride ahead with Captain Walker and reconnoiter the field.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he reined away with Blake, Walker saw General Taylor swing his right leg over his pommel as he leaned back to prop his left hand on Old Whitey’s rump, looking as calm as some old farmer at a county fair. He thought it well that the army’s commander seemed relaxed, so long as the general was not too relaxed. Very soon, time would tell.
Lord, let this war commence.
Part II
HORSE, FOOT, AND GUNS
In Line of Battle
Brigadier General
ZACHARY TAYLOR
Palo Alto
May 8, 1846
Rounding a bend in the Matamoros Road and riding out of the chaparral, General Zachary Taylor beheld a glorious sight. A couple of miles ahead, across a level grassy plain, he saw an army stretching from left to right like a multicolored ribbon. The midday sun made polished steel implements of war glisten all along the ribbon like ripples on the water of the pond to the right of the road. The tall saw grass on the plain stirred on a mischievous breeze between him and his enemy.
“Captain Bliss,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” his adjutant replied, riding at his side.
“There is our foe.”
“I see them, sir.”
“Send couriers to the commanders of the regiments. Tell them to hasten ahead and prepare to form up in line of battle. The enemy will likely harass our line as we deploy. Then I want you, personally, to gallop ahead and tell Lieutenant Blake that he had better find some ground suitable for the Bull Battery in the next ten minutes. Go!”
“Yes, sir!” Bliss spurred his mount and wheeled away to follow his orders.
General Taylor smiled as he watched his adjutant part the saw grass at a canter. He felt grateful that his enemy, General Mariano Arista, had chosen the ground that he himself had coveted for this clash. Good, open terrain for heavy artillery fire followed by a bayonet charge. Even the weather could not have been scripted any better.
God must be on our side.
As the regiments moved forward and fanned out on the prairie to take their assigned positions, Taylor congratulated himself for sticking to his guns back at Point Isabel. There, his junior officers had urged him to leave the supplies behind, to rus
h forward and clear the road to Fort Texas before bringing up the wagon train. But General Zachary Taylor had only smiled blithely at the reckless impatience of the young West Pointers. The whole purpose of this march was to get the provisions to Fort Texas. Why would he leave them behind? Yes, the supply train would slow their march, but it was the supply train that had to get through. Some had even suggested leaving the slow-moving eighteen-pounders at Point Isabel. Drawn by lumbering oxen, they had been dubbed the “Bull Battery.”
“You may rely upon the flying artillery,” Major Ringgold had said. “I recommend leaving the Bull Battery behind to protect the works at Point Isabel.”
Only Lieutenant William H. Churchill had disagreed, and that was because he commanded the Bull Battery and wanted to be in on the imminent engagement.
To Taylor the decision was a simple one. After decades of skirmishing with Indians, he finally saw a real battle shaping up before him. Leave his biggest guns behind? How ridiculous. Yes, they moved slowly behind the oxen, but the supply train would allow his army to move no faster anyway. He had no intention of leaving the provisions or the Bull Battery behind. Churchill’s siege guns would give him the advantage of range and devastating firepower.
Taylor had refrained from scolding the younger officers bent on mobility, urgency, and a yearning for battle. He had politely rejected the advice to hasten upstream and ordered a methodical march, en masse. And now it had all worked according to his plan. He would soon face Arista’s forces on an open field of battle with the advantage of the big guns on his side. The presence of their much-needed supply train would give his men all the more reason to fight.
Within minutes, fifes and drums from the various regiments were leading soldiers to their places in line of battle. Soon he saw Captain Bliss riding back with Lieutenant Blake.
“Lieutenant Blake reporting as ordered, sir!” the field engineer blurted as he reined his horse to a halt and saluted.
“Report,” Taylor ordered, already fed up with the military protocol.
“Sir, I have found a solid path around the bogs and a good location for the Bull Battery to unlimber.”
“At what range?”
“Nine hundred yards from the enemy line, sir. Well within the effective range of the eighteen-pounders. With your permission, sir, I will escort them forward immediately.”
“See that you do, Lieutenant.”
Over the next few minutes, Taylor rode casually ahead and kept an eye on the enemy line, expecting a cavalry charge that might complicate his plans. Meanwhile, the regiments formed a line of battle, just out of range of Mexican artillery. Finally, from his saddle atop Old Whitey, he watched as a team of oxen laboriously pulled the second eighteen-pounder into position a half mile from the Mexican line. Now all the pieces were in place on the chessboard.
“Bill,” he said to his adjutant, Captain Bliss, “you would think that General Arista would have harassed us with a cavalry charge by now while we moved into line of battle.”
“I was thinking the same, sir. Why would he allow us to deploy our regiments unmolested?”
Taylor shrugged. “He must be very fond of his defensive position against the timber.”
He could see now that Lieutenant Churchill had the second siege gun in place and ready for firing. The Bull Battery was the last of his units to move into position for the coming battle. It was time.
The Gulf wind was upon his back, bending the broad brim of his palm leaf hat. Between gusts, he could just hear the Mexican band playing martial tunes.
“Bill!” he shouted to Captain Bliss.
“Sir?”
“Order the long roll.”
“Yes, sir!” Bliss trotted to the line of drummer boys stationed nearby. In a moment, the long roll sounded, swelled, and ended with a shot of hardwood sticks on calfskin. All across the American lines came the rattle of bayonets being fixed to musket barrels. First sergeants shouted orders and men began to march toward the Mexican lines, trampling down the tall grass stalks, which only sprang up again behind the first in line.
The drummers resumed their cadence and the march continued. Taylor rode along at a leisurely pace, as if looking over one of his plantation fields back in Louisiana. For several long minutes his lines approached Arista’s. Still, Arista ordered no attack. Taylor now watched as two flying artillery batteries, under captains Duncan and Ringgold, advanced ahead of the infantry—Ringgold to the right, Duncan to the left—their trained teams pulling the six-pounders at a long trot. With seven hundred yards dividing the two armies, Taylor turned to William Bliss.
“This is close enough,” he said.
Bliss ordered the drummers to cease and told the bugler to sound a halt to the march. The army ground to a standstill. Taylor was amazed to see the flying artillery already unlimbered and loaded. He scanned the broad enemy lines for some sign of action. He did not have to wait long. A cannon muzzle on the enemy’s right blossomed with smoke and sent a ball flying. It missed Duncan’s gunners and fell short of the infantry but rolled into the ranks of the Eighth. Men scrambled aside to avoid it, for they could see the projectile plowing toward them through the tall grass.
Thank God the Mexicans had few exploding shells to hurl at his lines. Their ammunition consisted mostly of solid brass spheres, their grapeshot nothing more than bits of scrap iron.
Taylor looked over his shoulder at Churchill’s siege guns, positioned between the front line and the supply train. The oxen had been moved aside to graze, and the gunners seemed to be in position around the eighteen-pounders. Certainly Churchill would respond to the enemy’s opening shot, as his orders dictated. As if to answer the general’s questioning mind, the first of the big guns erupted, bucking backwards, hurling a shell overhead and into the Tampico Battalion. The exploding shell tore a hole through the ranks, casting corpses aside as a child would blow away the tufts of a dandelion.
Now Duncan’s six-pounders, in advance of the front line, added to the opening salvo as several Mexican guns also hurled shots. Duncan’s load of canister howled toward the Mexican line and exploded just short of an infantry unit, taking down several enemy soldiers in one blast. The choice of target was by order of Taylor. He suspected the Mexican artillery would attempt to take out his own ordnance. He, on the other hand, would use his more lethal ammunition—like the dreaded canister—to demoralize the Mexican infantry. The general expected this battle to be won by the bayonet.
The Mexicans continued to lob solid shot short of his lines, the American infantrymen sidestepping the balls as they rolled in. It was almost comical to watch his soldiers break ranks for a rolling ball, then close ranks behind the path of the projectile. But Taylor refrained from smiling. Sooner or later, one of those hunks of metal was going to do some damage, and then the horrors of war would call for no laughter.
As the artillery battle continued, Duncan’s and Ringgold’s field guns fired and reloaded rapidly, slinging a hellish barrage into the enemy line. Taylor saw William Bliss cantering his way, holding his gold pocket watch in his hand.
“General, the flying artillery are firing seven rounds per minute!”
Taylor’s eyebrows raised. This was unheard of. Perhaps Ringgold was on to something after all with his new methods of light artillery.
Now, in the growing chaos, a Mexican gun found its range. A solid brass ball whistled into the ranks of the Eighth Infantry, on the left, not far from Taylor’s position on Old Whitey. It hit an infantryman in the shoulder. The soldier flew one way, his arm the other.
Taylor looked at his adjutant and saw the ghastly pale look upon the younger man’s face. This was William “Perfect” Bliss’s first taste of battle. “Watch for a cavalry attack, Bill. We will need to respond quickly when it comes.”
Captain Bliss blinked, then nodded. “Yes, sir.” The adjutant turned his eyes away from the mangled soldier and looked toward Torrejon’s faraway horsemen, the glint of their steel lance tips sparkling at the enemy’s far left flank.
General
ANASTASIO TORREJON
Palo Alto
May 8, 1846
For over an hour General Anastasio Torrejon had watched the big guns of the Americans pour deadly fire into the ranks of the Mexican infantry. The canister and spherical shell shot of the gringos had mowed the foot soldiers down like shocks of wheat before the scythe, yet the blood-spattered survivors refused to break ranks.
It was Arista’s fault, he thought. That idealistic fool had failed to mount a counterattack of any kind. The reason was clear to Torrejon. Arista’s officer corps harbored little respect for their commander and his conservative political views. They had no intention of following his orders with any kind of urgency. The enlisted men admired the general, but Arista had never figured out that he must win the hearts of the officers first, above the rank and file.
In an odd way—for Torrejon himself held no great respect for Arista—this state of affairs made him anxious to receive his orders to attack. Torrejon had already distinguished himself at Rancho de Carricitos, where he had killed or captured the entire party of dragoons under the Americans’ Captain Seth Thornton. He saw his opportunity now to win the day again, if only Arista would order the charge.
Finally, Arista’s aide-de-camp, Captain Jean Louis Berlandier, came riding at a gallop to Torrejon’s position.
“General Arista sends his regards,” Berlandier said, saluting.
Torrejon ignored the regards but returned the salute as he took a folded leaf of paper that the captain had produced from his tunic. The terse note from General Arista ordered him to charge, turn the Americans’ right flank, and capture the enemy supply train. He smiled. His subordinates had already been given their orders on how to form the companies up for the charge. He was ready.
Within minutes they assembled in columns. At the head of his regiment—eight hundred men strong—Torrejon led the advance at a long trot. He angled to the left of the Matamoras Road, where the chaparral would lend some cover. Though a cavalry movement of this magnitude could not go undetected by the enemy for very long, he knew even a minute or two of surprise could benefit the maneuver, and therefore he intended to use the cover of the brush for as long as he could. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see his entire regiment on the move, with two eight-pound artillery pieces trying to keep up in the rear. At this moment, in spite of himself, he admired the methods of the Americans’ flying artillery, which he had witnessed for the first time today. Ringgold’s tactics made his army’s gunners seem to creep along like tortoises.
