A Sinister Splendor

by Mike Blakely

  He tried to gather his wits. He willed himself to think in spite of the screams of nearby men and the roar of distant cannon from two forts, to function through the odors of guts and smoke.

  Stop! Think! Look at your surroundings!

  He started with himself. By some miracle, he was unwounded. He found himself holding his saber and felt ridiculous because of it. As he sheathed the weapon, he saw a musket on the ground before him. He picked it up. Looking around now, he found a dead soldier missing part of his head. He took the belt with its ammunition pouch from the soldier’s corpse.

  A load of canister ripped through the men around him, taking two of them down. It was as if God had hurled a handful of thunderbolts at him to get his attention. He looked back at the American line and found that he was closer to the dwellings of Monterrey than any other U.S. soldier in sight. His instincts made him yearn for cover as a musket ball hummed by his ear. His eyes locked in on the nearest building—an adobe farmhouse in the middle of a cornfield on the outskirts of town.

  “You, Private!” Captain Electus Backus said to the man nearest to him. “Get to that house! Get to cover!”

  The man, dazed and bug-eyed, looked at the adobe and began stumbling toward it. A couple of his comrades followed, absorbing the logic of utilizing the protective walls.

  “Hey!” Backus yelled at a clot of infantrymen trying to reload. “Take that house! We need the cover!”

  Now he had managed a small amount of movement on the stalled front line. He waved and yelled at others to follow, directing a burly sergeant to lead what was left of his company to the mud-brick home in the shot-ravaged cornfield.

  He, too, ran toward the cover of the walls. As he leaped over the dead and dying, he thought about his father, whom he barely remembered. Electus Backus Sr. had died as a lieutenant colonel, defending Sackets Harbor in 1813. Young Electus Jr. was only nine years old then, but he would learn how his father had stood firm on the right flank until he fell to a British musket ball late in the day.

  This might be my day, the forty-two-year-old West Pointer thought. He knew his father had lingered for eight anguished days before dying.

  Storming the abandoned farmhouse and its surrounding stalks of corn, Captain Backus’s new makeshift company grew to about a hundred souls who had instinctively joined the advance. The first soldiers had already stormed the house, finding it abandoned.

  “Reload and catch your breath, men! Take cover in the tall corn.” He saw a young soldier who had lost his weapon in the chaos. “Take this musket, Private, and don’t lose this one!”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said, gratefully accepting the weapon and ammunition.

  Backus saw a ladder leading to the roof of the farmhouse. He knew it was risky, but he desired the elevation for a better look around. As he ascended, he wondered if the farmer and his family had been fond of climbing up on the roof to look at the stars at night. Standing on the flat dirt roof, he looked to the northeast and found that the rest of his battalion had retreated through the galling canister storm from the Black Fort and La Teneria. He must have missed the order to withdraw in the noise of the bombardment. He was alone here, on the outskirts of Monterrey.

  Now he looked farther toward the east, at the nearest building—a larger two-story made of stone. That’s the distillery, he thought, remembering the combat engineers’ map of the Mexican defenses east of Monterrey. And beyond the distillery he could see the new earthen redoubt called La Teneria.

  A bullet landed between his boots and he knew he had been spotted by some distant sniper. He clambered down the ladder and found the sergeant who had helped him rally the men. He didn’t know this sergeant, as the men had been gathered haphazardly from the remnants of various companies from different regiments in the confusion of the cross fire.

  “Sergeant, we’re going to take the next building. It’s the tequila distillery. On the other side of it is La Teneria—the fort that was blasting the hell out of us a minute ago.”

  The sergeant grinned. “Listen here, boys!”

  Captain Backus was surprised to hear the man speak with a thick Irish brogue. It was rare for an immigrant to attain the rank of sergeant in this army.

  “I said shut up and listen to your orders!” A bullet hit the adobe wall a foot from the Irishman’s head. “The captain has ordered us to take the next building, and by God, we will take it!” He looked at Backus. “Captain?”

  Backus saw no reason to hesitate, as the enemy musket fire grew on his current position, the bullets popping through the leaves and stalks of corn. “On your feet, men!” He drew his saber. “Charge!”

  The captain and his new sergeant began running between rows of corn, toward the distillery no more than a hundred yards away. As his band of survivors trailed along behind, Backus heard the battle yell welling up from the desperate men. He, too, loosed a scream, which scarcely sounded as if it could have come from his own lungs.

  When the Mexican defenders on the top of the distillery looked over the walled-in roof, they seemed astonished to see Americans charging their position from the west. They hastily opened fire. Backus heard screams and shouts behind him as men were hit, yet he charged on. He sprang over an irrigation ditch and took cover behind a rock wall enclosing the compound of the distillery.

  “Halt here!” he ordered, gasping for breath. “They’re reloading. Prepare to fire at the rooftop when they appear again!”

  As the men took cover behind the wall, using it to steady their muskets and rifles against their heaving lungs, the heads of enemy soldiers began to appear again over the top of the tannery roof. The first Mexican soldiers to show themselves were killed almost instantly.

  “Shoot through the windows! Make it hot for them in there!”

  The men released a rough salvo at the few windows on the west side and soon saw Mexicans pouring out of the building and running toward the next earthen fort to the south—a smaller, horseshoe-shaped redoubt called El Diablo. One of the captain’s American riflemen killed a fleeing Mexican as he ran.

  Backus waited for a few men around him to reload, but could hesitate no longer. “Bayonets!” he yelled as he leaped the wall, waving his saber. “Charge, men, we’ve got them on the run!”

  As he sprinted among strange vats and pine shipping crates, a long-legged private outran him to the nearest door. The young soldier jumped into the doorway and fired his musket as a Mexican bullet tore through his chest, sending him reeling backwards. Backus charged in, wielding his saber in the relative darkness of the room. He smelled the strong, sickening odor of fermenting agave as he felt his blade hit someone. As his eyes adjusted and scores of Americans swarmed in behind him, he focused on enemy soldiers crawling out of windows. Guns fired and bayonets rushed forward as the Americans overwhelmed the defenders, killing some and chasing others up the stairs.

  The Irish sergeant led the charge up the stairway, followed by his enlivened troops. Falling in at the bottom of the stairwell, Backus could hear the hand-to-hand melee above him. He felt astonished at the bravery of his men, and even at his own courage, as the momentum swept him upward and he became oblivious to any thought of personal injury.

  Bursting onto the second floor, he slipped in a pool of someone’s blood but quickly recovered his balance. His men had killed the few enemy defenders on the upper floor. Captain Backus saw a ladder that led through a trapdoor to the rooftop. He sheathed his bloody saber so he could climb the ladder. Emerging into the daylight, he found only corpses of Mexican soldiers on the roof. He pulled himself up, gasping for breath. Taking his campaign hat from his head, he peeked over the two-foot rock wall that protected the roof.

  Now Backus noticed something he had been unable to see from the roof of the farmhouse. There was another building, 120 yards away, that was closer still to La Teneria. He knew from briefings and councils of war that this was the tannery that had given name to the new fort—La Teneria. The old tannery, a large stone building, had been fortified by
General Ampudia’s soldiers. As he looked harder, he realized that the enemy soldiers on the tannery roof were firing north at the retreating Americans, over sandbags stacked on the roof. But on this side—the west—there were no sandbags. The Mexican musketeers were exposed and were unaware that the distillery had been taken.

  Backus scrambled back to the trapdoor and shouted down to the floor below. “Sergeant! Where are you?”

  “I am here, Captain!” the man yelled back.

  “What is your name, Sergeant?”

  “Maloney, sir.”

  “Sergeant Maloney, order half the men to defend the doors and windows downstairs. Order the other half to reload before they climb to the roof. Tell them to keep low and out of sight once on top.”

  Captain Backus heard Maloney barking orders below. Soon infantrymen began to climb to the roof, their bayonets leading the way through the trapdoor. He ordered the bloodstained soldiers to crawl and spread out along the inside of the east wall, facing the tannery. Sergeant Maloney now appeared at the top of the ladder, on the roof.

  Backus pointed at the tannery. “That will be our target, Sergeant.”

  “Glory be,” Maloney said, looking over the wall at the tannery. “They didn’t expect anyone to get this far, did they, sir?”

  “I want four ranks, Maloney. The first rank will fire, then fall back to reload, and so on. Understand?”

  “Perfectly, sir!”

  Maloney began dividing the men into four ranks of about ten men each. When they were in place, Backus gave his orders.

  “First rank! On my order!”

  “Wait!” Backus said. “Listen, men. You are sharpshooters now. Aim accordingly and don’t waste a single ball. Go ahead, Sergeant.”

  “Prepare to fire!” Maloney ordered. “Ready … Aim … Fire!”

  The musket salvo peppered the sandbags and uniforms atop the tannery.

  “Fall back! Next rank, forward!”

  The men in the second rank crawled forward and used the wall as their rifle rest. “Ready … Aim … Fire!”

  The third rank fired, then the fourth. The first rank had reloaded by now, and the well-timed barrage had cleared the tannery roof of defenders.

  Captain Electus Backus heard the strains of a bugle through the ringing in his ears. “Sergeant, can you make out that bugle call?”

  Maloney cupped a bloody hand behind his ear. “It’s the retreat, sir.”

  Backus saw the American battalion he had so recently been a part of drawing ever farther away, leaving him and his handful of men alone on the outskirts of Monterrey. He saw Braxton Bragg’s battery of flying artillery stranded, its horses killed, wounded men huddled between the fieldpieces. He saw scores of dead lying on the battlefield between the two Mexican forts and knew that many more had been dragged along with the retreat.

  “Retreat?” the captain said, scoffing. “Through the canister again? The hell we will. We’ve got a foothold here, Sergeant.”

  Maloney nodded his agreement.

  “Old Rough and Ready never quits a fight once it’s started. He’ll order another bayonet charge.”

  “Sure but he will, sir. And when he does, we’ll be in place to attack the old tannery building from the rear.”

  “Pick two riflemen to man opposite corners of the rooftop as lookouts. The rest of you men take cover downstairs. El Diablo is bound to start shelling us any second now. They know we’re here. When Taylor orders the next charge, we will attack the tannery. Be sure you are reloaded, rested, and ready!”

  Second Lieutenant

  SAM GRANT

  Monterrey

  September 21, 1846

  He twisted in the saddle and looked back at the supply wagons he was leaving behind at Walnut Springs. As regimental quartermaster for the Fourth Infantry, Sam Grant’s orders were to remain behind to guard the supplies. But the morning’s cannonade and musket fire had roused his curiosity, so he had mounted a horse to ride to the front.

  A few minutes’ canter brought him to the swale in the terrain where the foot soldiers of the Fourth guarded the two twenty-four-pounder howitzers and the ten-inch mortar that were attempting to shell the Black Fort, without much success. The mortar seemed especially ill-suited for the task, looking more like some witch’s cauldron than a proper artillery piece.

  The Black Fort. Grant knew the Mexicans called it La Ciudadela—the Citadel. Why not call it by that name to avoid confusion? The other fortifications east of Monterrey—La Teneria and El Diablo—were called by their Spanish names, so why not La Ciudadela? Second lieutenants did not enjoy the authority to make such decisions, so Grant kept his mouth shut and went along with “Black Fort.”

  As he rode past the artillery, he saw the men of his regiment standing in formation, fixing bayonets and buckling cartridge belts in apparent preparation for an advance. A flash of white fabric caught his eye, and Grant focused on one of the regimental surgeons spreading a sheet on the ground. Upon this sheet—in plain view of the infantry—the sawbones began casually tossing surgical implements with reckless delight, all the while smiling and chuckling at the soldiers who were about to march into battle. At first glance, Grant thought this bit of theater cruelly unnecessary. Then he considered the possibility that the surgeon might require such cavalier antics to prepare himself for the gruesome tasks of the day.

  The drummers began the long roll and the men of the Fourth marched toward the battle raging east of Monterrey. Grant sat on his horse, feeling left out. He thought about his orders to remain behind. He knew he should follow his orders and return to the supply train. He tried to rein about and ride back over his mount’s hoofprints, but he could not. The next thing he knew, he was spurring forward to join his regiment in the assault. The men were moving double-quick, but he caught up to them easily by trotting down the road that led from Walnut Springs into the city. Scanning left and right of the road—both ways up and down the line of advance—he saw bristling bayonets, the regimental colors, a line of drummer boys. But he saw no one mounted, other than himself.

  A horrible whistling scream pealed through his ears as a round of canister from the Black Fort played the plains like a drumhead, then ricocheted into the line, taking half a dozen shrieking men off their feet.

  Oh, God, I should have obeyed my orders. He could not turn back now. He could never turn back.

  The Black Fort seemed too far away to the right to reach the men, but another round of hellish projectiles proved that assumption lethally flawed. This line of assault is madness! Had the combat engineers not ranged the big guns of the Black Fort?

  Now, La Teneria—dead ahead—also opened up on the Americans, with more canister. He had never dreamed of seeing human bodies ripped so casually into carrion. He saw things he could scarcely believe were real: shattered bones sticking out of writhing men; a man trying to hold his intestines inside his ruptured torso; a corpse without a face. Horrors assaulted his senses: the smells of urine and feces, sulfur and smoke; the screams of men and flying projectiles; the sting of gravel peppering his hands and face from a near miss by an exploding shell; the taste of his own vomit, which he had coughed up and choked back down.

  Minutes ticked by like hours as Grant kept a tight rein on his horse and watched the men stagger forward, splattered by the blood of their comrades, until fully one-third of them were dead or wounded. Finally he heard some officer shout an order to march left, to the east, away from the cursed Black Fort.

  “Follow me!” Grant yelled at the nearby men, his voice cracking. “Move left!”

  He rounded up some survivors and herded them east, out of range of the Black Fort. As he trotted to the new position, Grant saw Lieutenant Charles Hoskins waving at him. Grant knew Hoskins, the regimental adjutant, to be in rather poor health.

  “Sam!” the adjutant yelled. He doubled over, coughing. His face was beet red and he seemed about to collapse.

  “Are you all right, Hoskins?”

  He wagged his head back and fo
rth and drew a wheezing breath. “Your horse, Sam … May I? I can go … no farther … on foot.”

  “Of course.” Grant got down and helped Hoskins up onto the Ringgold saddle.

  “Thank you, Sam. I must find Colonel Garland. I will return your mount later.”

  “Godspeed, Charles.”

  Looking around, he spotted a private on a horse. He ran toward the soldier. “Hey, Private! Dismount! I need your horse.”

  The private obeyed.

  Grant found the new mount more skittish than his first, and more powerful as well. This he liked. He might find himself in need of mobility. He heard an order to march farther south and moved that way at a trot, encouraging stunned men to follow him. Though out of the Black Fort’s range, La Teneria could still fire upon the Fourth as they pushed on. Canister once again tore into the ranks.

  Noticing a cornfield ahead, Grant shouted at the enlisted men nearby. “March through the corn, boys!” As he cantered forward, looking for an officer in charge, he saw a horse galloping full speed to the rear, no rider in the saddle. It was the mount he had given to Lieutenant Hoskins. He loped on and recognized his regimental commander, Colonel John Garland.

  “Sir,” he said, saluting. “Lieutenant Grant reporting for duty.”

  The fifty-four-year-old colonel’s gaunt face showed the strain of the awful morning. “Why are you here, Grant? Shouldn’t you be with the supply train?”

  “I got curious. Sir, have you seen Lieutenant Hoskins?”

  “He’s dead. You’re my adjutant now. Stay close, Grant. We’re going to charge that fort again.”

  Major General

  ZACHARY TAYLOR

  Walnut Springs

  September 21, 1846

  Angrily, the general wadded the note from Colonel John Garland’s courier between his thick palms.

  “Goddamned Twiggs and his laxatives!”

  He had counted on General Twiggs to lead the assault on eastern Monterrey this morning. But Twiggs always took a laxative the night before a battle, to loosen his bowels in case he got gutshot, as if that would make the least bit of difference to a Mexican musket ball. Taylor had long believed that Twiggs, though a brave soldier, took the laxatives to avoid soiling his britches in battle. Unfortunately for some three hundred dead or wounded men, Twiggs had taken too much of the laxative and was so cramped this morning that he could not even stand, much less fight. So Taylor had called upon Colonel John Garland to lead the advance.