A Sinister Splendor

by Mike Blakely

  Scott came to attention. “I accept.”

  Polk shook the general’s hand as he retired, his ostrich-plumed chapeau tucked under his elbow. Yes, Scott was an old warhorse, hero of the War of 1812 and a frontier Indian fighter. Still, Polk lacked complete faith in him, finding him slow to action and overly scientific in his strategies. He had no choice, however. Scott’s position entitled him to the command.

  When General Scott vacated the office, Polk summoned Buchanan with a twitch of his index finger.

  “Mr. President,” Buchanan began, “I have prepared a draft of a dispatch to be sent to our ministers in London, Paris, and other foreign courts, announcing the declaration of war with Mexico. May I read it to the cabinet for approval?”

  Polk nodded. “Gentlemen!” he shouted to the cabinet members lounging about his office in conversation. “Mr. Buchanan requests that you all lend an ear.”

  Polk walked around behind his desk and sank wearily into his stuffed leather chair as the men turned toward Buchanan. He had not yet thought of informing the foreign courts and was gratified that his secretary of state had seen to it. Yet he could not ignore the unexplained, mischievous expression on Buchanan’s face. What was he up to now?

  Buchanan began to read his draft, which proceeded logically enough to announce the declaration of war to the rest of the Western world and to explain the causes of the conflict. Then the secretary of state stopped, coughed, and shuffled a new sheaf of paper to the forefront.

  “Furthermore, the object of the United States of America is not and shall not be to dismember Mexico or to make conquests upon her territory. The Rio Bravo del Norte is the boundary beyond which the United States will make no claim. The United States does not go to war with a view to acquire either New Mexico or California or any other portion of the Mexican territory.”

  “Stop there!” Polk said, sitting forward in his chair. “Making such an unnecessary declaration to foreign governments is improper and unwise. The causes for war set forth in my message to Congress and the accompanying documents will suffice for any dispatch sent abroad.”

  Buchanan appeared to be perplexed. “We must reassure the world that our motives are not of an imperialistic nature. This is not a war of acquisition.”

  Polk stood, astonished. He had often heard Buchanan speak in favor of expansion to the Pacific. Why would he now change his mind? “It remains to be seen what honorable acquisitions might be warranted and proper.”

  “We have no claim to any land beyond the Del Norte,” Buchanan replied.

  “In making peace with Mexico, we may obtain California or any other portion of Mexican territory sufficient to indemnify our claimants and defray the expense of war, which Mexico, by her long continued wrongs and injuries to our citizens, has forced us to wage.”

  Buchanan rolled his eyes and flailed his arms, rattling the sheaves he clenched in his fist. “These wrongs and injuries … exactly what are they, Mr. President?”

  “The list is long,” Polk answered, raising his voice. “I refer you to the attorney general.” He gestured toward John Young Mason.

  The dignified, clean-shaven John Mason stood and tugged at the sleeves of his coat. “We might begin with the American citizens slaughtered ten years ago at the Alamo.”

  “They should have surrendered,” Buchanan blurted.

  “That would not have helped them,” Mason argued. “Colonel Fannin’s men did surrender at Goliad, and they were all massacred in cold blood!”

  “Santa Anna ordered them shot as pirates—foreign citizens invading a sovereign nation. The Americans were mercenaries.”

  “What about the American citizens captured at Mier, who were forced to draw lots for their lives?”

  “The Black Bean Incident?” Buchanan said with a scoff. “More piracy!”

  Mason stepped forward, shedding his coat, as if preparing to fight. “You dare to take Mexico’s side?”

  Secretary of Treasury Robert J. Walker held Attorney General Mason back.

  Buchanan looked at Polk. “Mr. President, is it not my duty as secretary of state to predict how Mexico will argue her side in this conflict and how she will present her case to the foreign courts?”

  Polk struggled to control his contempt. “Mexico’s abuses against American citizens are legion!” he snapped. “Americans have been murdered and robbed for decades at the hands of Mexicans. May I remind you that France suffered the same indignities to her citizens living in Mexico and invaded Veracruz to extract reparations?”

  “France settled for less than a million dollars. A far cry from a third of Mexico’s territory!”

  “Abuses against Americans far outweigh whatever France suffered! Our proximity to Mexico has made our citizens infinitely easier to victimize!”

  Buchanan slapped his draft of the dispatch down on the president’s desk. “Mr. President! We have obtained a declaration of war from Congress based solely on the issue of American blood spilled on American soil! This is a border dispute, nothing more.”

  “The attack on the Del Norte is only the most recent in a litany of abuses waged against our nation and our citizens. You must go back and read my message to Congress—of which you approved, I might remind you. The issue of indemnification is prominent.”

  “The message never stated that Mexico would pay with her territories.”

  “Mexico has no other means by which to pay, and yet pay she must! Our nation has attempted for many years to acquire legal compensation from Mexico, to no avail. Our citizens have been robbed and imprisoned without recourse, murdered without justice. Restitution is long overdue. Indeed, the issue of reparations alone is justification for war.”

  Secretary of War William L. Marcy stood. “The president is right on this. Mexico has forced us into what is sure to be an expensive war. She must be forced to make amends to make peace.”

  “Peace?” Buchanan railed, turning on Marcy. “We have scarcely begun to wage war and you speak of peace! Think practically, gentlemen! When England hears of our declaration of war, Lord Aberdeen will demand to know whether we intend to acquire California or any other Mexican territory. If we do not answer that question, I think it almost certain that England and France will join with Mexico in the war against us!”

  Ah, so this was the real issue, Polk thought. Fear of war with the powers of Europe.

  Secretary Mason took a step toward Buchanan. “And why would England or France do such a thing?” he demanded. “Perhaps because they also wish to acquire California? That, too, would justify war, according to President Monroe’s doctrine, which states that no European power must ever again be allowed to colonize any portion of North America.”

  Polk listened to the room erupt with opinions on the matter, mostly in his favor and against Buchanan’s views. He had been wondering when Buchanan would stir up trouble. The man seemed to see it as his duty to find ways in which to disagree with his administration.

  Finally, Buchanan turned back to Polk. “Mr. President, will you not reconsider? If you make no claim on Mexico’s territories, you may prevent an unnecessary war with England and France as well.”

  Polk walked around the desk to look up at the taller Buchanan. He resolved to speak slowly and plainly. “Neither as a citizen nor as president will I tolerate any meddling of European powers on this continent. Our war with Mexico is of no concern to any foreign government. Any inquiry from abroad about acquisitions of territory will be viewed as insulting to this administration. If any such inquiry is made, I will not answer it, even if the consequence should be war with all of them!”

  Buchanan sagged as if the wind had been kicked out of him. “Then you will have war with England as well as Mexico, and probably with France also, for neither of these powers will ever stand by and see California annexed to the United States.”

  This cowardly statement disgusted Polk. “Before I would make the pledge you recommend in your dispatch, I would embrace the war which all the powers of Christendom might wa
ge, and I would stand and fight until the last man among us fell in the conflict!”

  Buchanan shook his head in warning. “This does not bode well for settlement of the Oregon question that we are so close to securing by treaty with England.”

  “I have said a hundred times,” Polk replied, “that Mexico has nothing to do with Oregon and Oregon has nothing to do with Mexico. We will do what is honorable in both cases, each independent of the other.”

  Buchanan let out a huge sigh. “Then the members of this administration will have to live forever with the consequences of those decisions, Mr. President.”

  Polk suddenly understood his secretary of state’s reluctance to pursue an offensive war. Buchanan intended to run for president! Should an offensive war prove unpopular in future months and years, he could rightfully claim that he had been against it.

  “And you, Mr. Buchanan, must strike from your dispatch any mention of dismembering Mexico, of acquiring California, or of the Del Norte being the ultimate boundary beyond which we would not claim. I will not tie up my hands now as to the terms on which I would make peace with Mexico in the future.”

  Buchanan made no reply, but he snatched up his draft of the dispatch from the president’s desk and stormed out of the office.

  General

  ANTONIO LÓPEZ DE SANTA ANNA

  Veracruz, Mexico

  August 16, 1846

  Santa Anna swayed to the gentle roll of the Arab as the vessel steamed toward the harbor of Veracruz. Seated on a stuffed leather settee in the ship’s saloon, he rubbed the stump of his amputated leg to help the blood circulate—a ritual he engaged in before strapping on the wooden peg.

  “You know, Maria, my love,” he said to his young wife, seated near him, “Napoleon was exiled to Saint Helena after having outraged all of Europe.”

  She smirked at him in a good-natured way. She was wearing her finest gown and had gotten over the seasickness of the open Gulf. He knew she was happy to be returning to Mexico, though exile in Cuba had not been as dreary as Napoleon’s stay on Saint Helena.

  “Of course, my exploits do not yet equal those of Napoleon’s,” he said with an air of modesty. “But I have the advantage over him in two respects. One, I will not die in exile as he did. And two, I can show by my mutilated body that I have suffered for Mexico.”

  Maria turned her pretty young face toward the open saloon door. “Juanito!” she yelled at her husband’s manservant, her voice shrill and demanding. “Come help His Excellency with the peg!”

  General Antonio López de Santa Anna winced. How could such a pretty young wife possess the voice of a caged parrot? He had married Maria Dolores Tosta four years ago, when she was only fifteen and he was almost fifty. It had caused a public uproar at the time. Not only because she had been such a young bride but also because Santa Anna had announced his plans to marry her a mere month after the death of his first wife, Doña Inez. But scandal seldom concerned the Napoleon of the West, as the general liked to think of himself.

  Juanito burst nervously into the saloon. Like all the servants, he was terrified of Maria Dolores Tosta. Santa Anna was aware that they called her “Tostada” behind her back. It meant, he gathered, that her heart was toasted like a burned tortilla, unable to sympathize.

  Juanito saw the prosthetic leg on a nearby chair. Though affectionately called “the peg,” the fake limb was skillfully constructed of wood and cork and carved to resemble a real leg. It even wore a shoe.

  “Pronto!” Maria ordered. “His Excellency wishes to stand on the deck to greet his admirers.”

  “Si, senora,” Juanito replied as he fumbled with the leather straps and buckles of the prosthetic limb.

  Santa Anna reached into the pocket of his coat for the letter signed by the president of the United States, James K. Polk. He took it out and unfolded it for one last look. He began to chuckle. Months ago, he had sent one of his more persuasive agents, Colonel A. J. Atocha, to Washington to make a deal with President Polk. As a result, Polk had sent a secret courier—a naval officer named MacKenzie—to Havana to deliver the letter that Santa Anna now held in his hands, along with secret orders allowing him passage through the American naval blockade of the Mexican coast.

  Polk’s letter was worded vaguely, so as not to be used against him should it become public. It invited Santa Anna to “explore peaceable and diplomatic solutions” to the “conflict between two neighboring nations,” should Santa Anna somehow find himself “once again in control of the great and proud nation of his birth.”

  Blah, blah, blah, Santa Anna mused.

  MacKenzie, the American who had delivered the letter, had explained precisely what Polk intended. He would allow Santa Anna through the U.S. blockade. Santa Anna would use his influence and political skills to return to power. Then His Excellency would sell Nueva Mexico and Alta California—and everything in between—to the United States.

  But Antonio López de Santa Anna had absolutely no intention of selling so much as a grain of sand to the insufferable Yanquis. He had orchestrated his return to Mexico. Yes, he would become president again. Then he would raise an army that Napoleon Bonaparte would envy and drive the gringo hoards all the way back across the Sabine.

  He felt a vulpine smile spread across his face like a bend in the Rio Bravo.

  “You love that letter more than you love me,” Maria said, watching him fondle the tattered edges of the paper.

  “That is not possible, my dear. I am merely fond of this letter because it amuses me so much. Can you believe that the president of the United States would order his navy to allow my return to Mexico? Me! The Hero of Veracruz! The Conqueror of Tampico!” He laughed and slapped his good knee.

  Earlier on this day, the Arab, a British mail packet with clearance to sail in and out of the blockade, had heaved to alongside the St. Mary’s, a U.S. Navy vessel. An officer and two armed sailors from the St. Mary’s had rowed over on a skiff to make inquiries as to the purpose of the Arab’s voyage.

  “Maria, did you see the look of astonishment on the boarding officer’s face when I showed him my letter?” He shook the parchment at her and laughed loudly.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course I saw the fool. I was standing right behind you, like a good little wife.”

  “Can you believe the gullibility of President Polk? He thinks I’m going to sell California to him!”

  Maria shook her head in disbelief. “Esta loco!”

  “Wait until he sees the army I am going to lead northward, Maria! General Taylor will wish he had never crossed the Rio Bravo!”

  Juanito finished buckling the straps of the peg leg.

  “Lift me up, Juanito!”

  The general rose to the strong helping hand of his manservant and tested his balance on the wooden limb. Taking a step, he leaned on Juanito’s shoulder, wincing a little at the way the peg leg pinched the flesh of his stump. Hobbling out of the saloon, he beheld a beautiful view over the bow of the Arab. México! The sun fell lazily beyond the distant peaks of the Sierra Madre Oriental. A golden hue enveloped the Port of Veracruz, her city, her palace, her harbor. San Juan de Ulúa loomed off the starboard bow—the 240-year-old Spanish fortress built on a reef in the bay.

  A single cannon shot roared from the parapets of San Juan de Ulúa, smoke billowing before the bow of the Arab.

  A proper salute to the return of a hero, he thought. He waited for more cannon fire, but none came. But for the one volley, only seagulls and salt spray welcomed him home. Sunlight dazzled him, dancing upon the waves. As the steamer chugged ever nearer to the harbor, Santa Anna could just make out the pier where he had lost his leg to a French artillery shell eight years previous.

  The memories of that day came flooding back into his mind. His military rivals had criticized him for remaining with his troops all day, behind the walls of the barracks, while the French marines looted the city and took General Mariano Arista prisoner. His rivals did not understand military and political strategy.
He had waited until the French invaders began to row back to their ships. Then Santa Anna mounted a white charger and led his soldiers down to the docks in a dashing show of resistance. Drawing his sword, he raced his stallion up and down the street that paralleled the docks—and even out onto the pier itself—in full view of the French naval vessels, as if he had just chased the invaders away to save Veracruz and all of Mexico.

  Then, in a historic moment both tragic and serendipitous, a lucky shot from a French cannon exploded just over his head. The shrapnel killed his horse and shattered his left leg below the knee. The memories faded then, until he woke up in the hospital, minus the leg.

  “Mira, Maria! See the site of my sacrifice for my beloved Mexico! Just as I chased the invaders out to sea, a shot from a French ship—”

  “I know the story,” Maria said, grabbing his hand to steady him as the steamer rocked. “Come, now, to the bow, so your supporters can salute your return.”

  The peg leg’s purchase on the rolling deck of the steamer proved precarious. But, by holding Maria’s hand and Juanito’s shoulder, the general slowly hobbled forward. At the forecastle, he found a flagman signaling the shore. Letters had been written, predicting the date for the return of the former president of Mexico. The Arab was well known here at Veracruz and had certainly been spotted out to sea by lookouts. Troops would be gathering on the pier, along with Santa Anna’s most loyal political lieutenants. He prepared himself for a triumphant reunion.

  “Juanito, I have an important mission for you.”

  “Si, General.”

  Santa Anna took a last look at his letter from President Polk and handed it to Juanito. “Destroy this letter. Go below and throw it into the boiler fire.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “It is a pity that I cannot boast of how I outsmarted the president of the United States, but my enemies would accuse me of collusion if they saw this letter. Go now, and hurry back to help me onto the pier when we arrive.”