A Sinister Splendor

by Mike Blakely

  “The first is the yellow fever season. The Mexicans call it el vomito. Veracruz must be secured before the annual return of this disease in the spring, and our army moved inland, away from the coast. Otherwise, the yellow fever will kill many more men than Mexican bullets would.”

  “I am aware of the vomito. The name somewhat amuses me in its horrific simplicity. I understand the necessity for haste, Ambassador Dimond. Now, what is your other concern?”

  “The possibility of enemy reinforcements arriving from Mexico City. Especially with Santa Anna back in power.”

  The name rankled Polk as he remembered how he had been duped into letting Santa Anna return to Mexico. “And according to the papers, he is back in control in Mexico because of my gullibility!”

  Dimond laughed. “Those fanciful stories in the Whig journals? I don’t believe a word of it!”

  Polk nodded his approval. “I wouldn’t expect that a man of your abilities and experiences would believe it. Now, about Santa Anna. Do you know him well?”

  “We have met, of course, but no one truly knows the enigmatic Santa Anna. He has always been a disaster for Mexico. He cares about himself more than his country. As a military leader, he has been known to spend more money on ostentatious uniforms and medals for his officers than on ammunition and food for his men. He will steal from anyone, any way he can, anywhere, anytime. He taxes everything under the sun, right down to the wheels of the peasants’ oxcarts. He forces the tiniest businesses to loan him money that, of course, will never be repaid. He even seizes properties from the Catholic Church and sells them cheap to his cronies and henchmen. It is said in Mexico that Santa Anna only wants three things: money, money, money.”

  Polk allowed himself a rare chuckle. “His history suggests that he excels at building large armies. How does he manage to recruit so many soldiers?”

  “He sends parties of ruffians galloping across the countryside, conscripting peasants and Indians like slavers preying on the tribes of Africa. But he also plays upon the patriotism of the wealthy class for money and leadership. As a propagandist, he knows no equal. He plays the press like a cheap violin. He blames everyone from Congress to his fellow generals for his defeats and takes credit for winning battles in which he barely participated. If he had not lost his leg on that pier in Veracruz, he would have been executed by now. And yet…”

  “Yes?”

  “He is capable of moments of absolute fearlessness in battle. He has a knack for seizing attention at the right moment to bolster his ambitions. He is unpredictable and dangerous.”

  Polk leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He had heard enough about Santa Anna. “This landing south of Veracruz … the following bombardment and investment of the city … how many men do you think would be required for its success?”

  Dimond shook his head carefully. “Sir, I served in the diplomatic corps. I have no martial experience.”

  “I understand this. Any recommendation you might make will be carefully scrutinized by military experts. But, Mr. Dimond, you have lived there. They have not.”

  Dimond seemed uncomfortable, yet he set his jaw and leaned forward. “No fewer than ten thousand men with ample artillery. And … Mr. President … were I in your shoes, I would prefer twice that number.”

  Polk rose to show Dimond to the door, very satisfied with the meeting and the information. “Your troop recommendations are quite similar to those of my top generals. Now…” He stopped at the door. “If you will consider one more favor.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. I am at your service.”

  “Can you remain in Washington a while longer? I would like for you to meet with my cabinet. I’m sure they will have more questions for you.”

  “I will be at my inn. And, Mr. President…” Dimond shuffled his feet and reached for the door handle.

  “Yes, Ambassador?”

  “Sir, my intentions upon returning to Rhode Island were to run for state legislature … perhaps governor someday.”

  “If I can do anything…”

  Dimond looked embarrassed and waved off the suggestion. “No, sir, it’s not that. I believe my plans may change. That is, if I can be of any service to my country. As an aide-de-camp, a guide, a translator. I daresay, after ten years in Mexico, I speak and write Spanish better than English. I know Veracruz and the road to Mexico City.”

  As a politician, Polk understood. There was scarcely a governor in the United States who could not claim some military experience. Dimond wanted his. He did not want to miss the coming fray, with all of its violence and possibilities of glory. But in spite of his political cynicism, the president could not have been more pleased with Francis Dimond. He beamed back at the ambassador.

  “Your offer is deeply appreciated, sir, and will be considered very seriously.”

  Part III

  MOUNTAIN, PLATEAU, AND BARRANCA

  The Bloody Ground of Buena Vista

  Major

  WILLIAM BLISS

  Saltillo, Mexico

  February 21, 1847

  Perfect Bliss rode a bay gelding down the cobblestoned street, past whitewashed buildings and under the budding branches of apple and cherry trees that lined the thoroughfare. He admired the beauty of the city of Saltillo, situated on an open plain, flanked by peaks of the Sierra Madre. He glanced at his traveling companion, General Zachary Taylor.

  “This Saltillo is a pretty little town, sir.”

  Taylor nodded. “I reckon the folks here didn’t care for it to end up like Monterrey.”

  A group of Mexican children ran out onto the street to wave at the American general and his adjutant.

  “Yes, sir, they have been quite hospitable.” Bliss smiled and waved back at the barefoot urchins.

  He liked the high desert air here at Saltillo. Since arriving, he had learned that the town boasted the nickname “La Ciudad del Clima Ideal.” City of the Ideal Climate. Another moniker, “La Tierra del Serape”—Land of the Serape—laid claim to Saltillo as the birthplace of the garment now worn all over northern Mexico.

  They passed a grand stone church with a bell tower and rode to the hitching rail in front of the American House, the unofficial meeting place for U.S. soldiers in Saltillo. From the outside, the American House looked like most other buildings along the street—a whitewashed stone structure with a flat roof, two small windows, and a carved pine door.

  Bliss heard Taylor groan as he dismounted. He winced for the old general. He knew his commander suffered various aches, but Taylor never complained. Both men wrapped their reins around the slick rail and entered the American House.

  Stepping inside, Bliss paused to allow his eyes to adjust from the brilliant blue sky to the darker interior of the combination hotel, saloon, and eatery. He saw several groups of soldiers enjoying drinks and conversation.

  From behind the bar, the proprietress of the establishment looked at the door to see who had entered. Her name was Mrs. Sarah Borginnes, but she was known as the Great Western and “the Heroine of Fort Brown.” The former army laundress’s second husband—a Sergeant Borginnes—had died of illness back at Matamoras. Single ladies were not allowed to work as washerwomen for the army, so she had shifted careers. She had opened her first American House in Matamoras, where she served drinks and food to the troops and rented out rooms. She had later moved her establishment to battle-ravaged Monterrey, and now to Saltillo.

  Here, Bliss had learned, Mrs. Borginnes allowed some of the local prostitutes to operate out of the American House. Indeed, he looked across the room and spotted no fewer than three senoritas sitting with men in uniform. It was rumored that the Great Western herself could be had for a price. Bliss didn’t know that this was true, and his moral sensibilities forbade him from finding out for himself, but the prospect was not completely uninteresting, for she was a fine-looking woman.

  Borginnes rushed to the door when she recognized General Taylor, her wavy auburn hair and her royal-blue skirt flying like the
mane and tail of a beautiful filly.

  “Oh, my, General, what an honor to host your return to the American House,” she gushed loudly in a southern drawl.

  Taylor smiled broadly. “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Borginnes.”

  She glanced briefly at Bliss, then trained her admiring gaze back on the general. “Would you like a private table? There’s a nice one in the back.”

  “That would suit well, my dear.”

  Borginnes executed a pirouette that seemed too graceful for a woman her size, for she was taller than Bliss or Taylor. Looking beyond his commander as they followed their hostess to the back corner of the establishment, Bliss could not help admiring the woman’s hourglass figure and graceful carriage.

  “General Wool will be joining us this morning,” Taylor said as he sat. “When he arrives, please show him to our table.”

  “Oh, my! It’s a two-general mornin’ here at the American House! May I offer you gentlemen a drink on the house?”

  “Tea for me, ma’am,” Bliss said.

  Borginnes nodded and looked lovingly at Taylor.

  “Do you have any sarsaparilla, dear?”

  “I stashed a few bottles away just for you, General Taylor.” She winked.

  “Dear, this is your establishment. You are the commander here. Let us dispense with the formalities. Please call me Zachary inside these walls.”

  Borginnes gasped, then collected herself and smiled, revealing a gleaming row of straight teeth. “And you will kindly call me by my given name as well. It’s Sarah.”

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  “I’ll bring the beverages, Zach.”

  Bliss chuckled as the hostess hurried away. “She skipped ‘Zachary’ and went straight to ‘Zach.’”

  “It’s all the same, Bill.” The general pulled a stack of envelopes from his coat pocket. He tossed about half of them at his adjutant. “Help me sort through the mail.”

  “I’ll prioritize the envelopes for you, sir.”

  As Bliss combed through the correspondences from Washington and elsewhere, he was reminded of everything his commander had accomplished and endured since the victory at Monterrey. The best of it was the meteoric growth of Taylor’s popularity in the newspapers—especially the Whig periodicals. The worst of it came from Washington, DC—particularly from President Polk and Secretary of War Marcy.

  Polk and Marcy had sent scathing missives scolding General Taylor for not completely destroying Mexico’s Army of the North at Monterrey and for allowing them to withdraw with their arms. They had ordered him to end the armistice immediately and to continue to prosecute the war. Then, curiously, they had directed him not to advance any farther south than Monterrey. Taylor boldly disobeyed this order and marched to Saltillo, taking the city without bloodshed, as there were no Mexican troops garrisoned there. He marched southeast to Victoria, also taking that town without firing a shot. Learning that Tampico had been captured by the U.S. Navy without resistance, he marched back to Saltillo, leaving a small force to hold Victoria.

  Now he had established a line of defense stretching from Tampico to Saltillo and beyond, to Parras. It became known as “Old Zach’s Line” in the newspapers. Then came the next assault from the rear—from the President’s Mansion. Polk ordered Taylor to give up his best troops—General William Worth’s division—for an invasion somewhere along the Gulf Coast—probably Veracruz. A painfully cordial letter from General Winfield Scott made it clear that Old Fuss and Feathers was assuming the command of the U.S. Army over Old Rough and Ready. Taylor was reprimanded for advancing to Saltillo and was told to go back to Monterrey with his depleted army, now made up mostly of newly arrived volunteers.

  The insult was more than Taylor could bear. He had virtually broken off communications with Washington and had begun to conduct the war as he saw fit. Hence the meeting with General Wool today. Scouts and spies had discovered that Santa Anna was on his way from San Luis Potosi with some twenty thousand troops. Even with his ravaged army of six thousand, Taylor intended to stop Santa Anna and hold Old Zach’s Line, whether the president wanted him to do so or not.

  Thinking over all of this as he sorted through the mail, Bliss came across an envelope from the secretary of war. “Sir, here’s one from Marcy,” he said, handing it to Taylor.

  Taylor took the envelope and scowled at it for a moment. “I’ll prioritize this one myself,” he said. Then he leaned sideways in his chair and slipped the letter under his rear end.

  Bliss could not hold back his laughter. It became contagious, and he and the general had a long overdue chortle over the disrespectful gesture.

  When Sarah Borginnes brought the drinks, she also brought an unexpected guest. Bliss knew the man—a legendary Texas Ranger, Ben McCulloch, veteran of San Jacinto, Plum Creek, and countless other battles under John Coffee Hays. He had served with distinction at Monterrey. Because of McCulloch’s uncanny aptitude for tracking, trailing, and slipping behind enemy lines, General Taylor had brevetted the thirty-six-year-old to major and had appointed him chief of scouts.

  “I thought I might find you here, General.” The Texan removed his felt hat, unveiling a pale brow. His receding hairline revealed the shape of his regal crown. A short but thick beard, a straight mouth, and a wild, glaring pair of eyeballs rounded out his features. Like Taylor, he wore common civilian clothes.

  “Sit down, Ben,” Taylor ordered. “You look a might spent.”

  “I’ve come to report, General. I stayed the night before last in Santa Anna’s camp.”

  Taylor let the letter in his hand slip from his fingers to the tabletop. He stared for a moment with his mouth open. “How close is he?”

  “He’s at Encarnación. Sixty miles south. Probably moving this way right now.”

  “Tell me about your visit.” Taylor sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together across his belly.

  “After dark, I posed as a laborer, slipped into the enemy camp, and climbed a hill. Come dawn, I got a good look at Santa Anna’s army. He’s got at least ten thousand foot soldiers, about four thousand lancers, and sixteen guns, ranging all the way up to twenty-four-pounders.”

  Bliss’s brain added the numbers without effort. Fifteen thousand troops, give or take. What was left of Taylor’s army amounted to six thousand men scattered from Saltillo to Agua Nueva. He thought he saw a hint of surprise in General Taylor’s eyes.

  “How did you get out of the enemy camp in broad daylight?” Taylor asked.

  “They were burning green wood in their cook fires. I slipped out on a wisp of smoke.”

  “Very well, Major,” the general said. “That’s all I wanted to know. I am glad they did not catch you.”

  McCulloch stood and grabbed his hat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, General, I haven’t et or slept in three days.”

  Taylor nodded and shook the major’s hand. McCulloch did not so much as look at Bliss as he turned away.

  The general nonchalantly went about sorting through his mail again, but Bliss knew he had to be a touch worried. He had not thought Santa Anna so near to Saltillo. Bliss kept his mouth shut and let his commander think things through. After a few minutes, he felt an imposing presence approaching from the front door and looked up to see General John E. Wool, who had ridden up from the south for the meeting.

  Wool wore a smart uniform and a riding cape. His officers’ forage cap was tucked under his elbow. When Taylor stood to greet Wool, Bliss grabbed the letter from Secretary Marcy and returned it to the table. It would not do for Wool to see Taylor plopping his ass on a letter from a member of Polk’s cabinet. Bliss did not yet know where Wool’s political sympathies resided.

  The three men exchanged salutes and handshakes. Sarah Borginnes brought a mug of black coffee for Wool. She placed it on the table and turned dutifully away.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” Wool said, taking his seat.

  “Not at all,” Taylor replied. “Any trouble?”

  Wool s
hrugged casually. “Some guerillas took a few shots at us coming up Angostura Pass, but drew no blood.”

  “Have you talked to Ben McCulloch?”

  “Yes, he reported to me this morning on his way here.”

  Bliss studied the old New Yorker as he and Taylor talked over the situation to the south. Bliss knew that both generals had been born the same year—1784. Like Taylor, Wool had fought the British in the War of 1812. He had rapidly made rank, due to his courage and organizational abilities. Recently, Wool had recruited 2,400 volunteer troops in San Antonio, Texas, and marched them south through Piedras Negras and Monclova to join Taylor in Saltillo. Wool’s brigade was now at a place called Agua Nueva, waiting for Santa Anna’s army to emerge from the vast desert to the south.

  This was the first opportunity Bliss had had to study Wool’s features up close. He was a lean man of average height, clean-shaven, and balding over the top of his head. What hair he did have on the side of his head swept forward toward his temples, as if he stood with his back to a stiff wind. His eyes gave the impression of haughtiness. Bliss had never seen Wool’s mouth smile.

  Taylor savored another sip of his sarsaparilla. “Major McCulloch believes Santa Anna is marching north now. You know the ground, John. Would you make a stand at Agua Nueva?”

  Bliss pictured the village of Agua Nueva in his head. Several miles to the south, Taylor had established a supply depot, guarded by the Arkansas Volunteers, who called themselves Rackensackers.

  Wool frowned. “I don’t like the ground there. It’s wide open. We will be outnumbered almost three to one, Zach. I fear we’d be flanked by their lancers, surrounded and destroyed by their artillery. We need ground we can defend.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Hacienda Buena Vista, just above Angostura Pass.”

  “When I rode through there with my staff, I did not study it as a potential battleground. What is our advantage there?”

  Wool leaned closer to his commander. “It is as if God has built a rampart for us at that place.”