A Sinister Splendor

by Mike Blakely

  Many of his messmates sat on the ground around him, writing letters to the folks back home, as men facing battle often felt compelled to do. He returned to his boulder and prepared to catch up on his note taking. As a dragoon, he had spent the past few days riding day and night and had not had time to sleep, much less to write in his makeshift diary.

  He opened the bound booklet and flipped through the first few pages. Reading a few of his own passages, he was reminded of his travels since leaving Boston. Now just sixteen years old, Samuel Chamberlain had nonetheless done quite a bit of living in his time. Even as a child he had prowled the darker streets and back alleys of Boston. He had worked for a time sweeping up in a theater, where he had learned the rudiments of drawing and watercolor from the artist who painted the theatrical backdrops on stage.

  By fifteen, young Sam Chamberlain had grown weary of the same old street scenes in the city of his childhood. He decided to visit an uncle in Illinois—without his parents’ permission—taking his notebook, a sketch pad, and his watercolors with him. This visit had only ignited a powder keg of wanderlust that led him to lie about his age and enlist in the Second Illinois Volunteers.

  Marching south to San Antonio, Texas, he fell ill and was given a medical discharge, against his wishes. The discharge came with enough money to get back to Illinois, but he had no intention of missing the war. Recovering from his fever, he hung around San Antonio, gambling his money away, until he enlisted in the First U.S. Army Dragoons in San Antonio, under General John Wool.

  As he rode south into Mexico, he habitually slipped out of camp, and he tended to gravitate toward the same kinds of places and events that had lured him in at Boston and San Antonio: taverns, fandangos, gambling dens, brawls, brothels, and duels. All the while, he painted lively action scenes and tranquil landscapes and jotted down in his journal exaggerated accounts of his exploits with senoritas and Mexican gamblers.

  Arriving at Monterrey after the battle, he had spoken to many of the men who had fought it and had painted gory renderings of the three-day fight, though he had not witnessed it himself. He decided that, when he got around to writing his book, he would try his hand at fiction by claiming to have taken part in the battle. He would insist that he had fought shoulder to shoulder with the renowned Texas Ranger Sam Walker, down Iturbide Street!

  This would amount to a shameless fabrication, but he doubted anyone would ever read his bawdy memoir anyway. Hell, I probably won’t even survive to write it, he thought. Since leaving Monterrey, he had come close to some skirmishes with the Mexican cavalry but had yet to participate in a true battle. It appeared to him now, on the ranges of the Hacienda Buena Vista, that he would finally get his chance to see the elephant, whether he was ready for it or not.

  A cheer rose up from the rear. Chamberlain looked back toward the infantry tents and saw General Zachary Taylor ride onto the field to confer with General Wool. Taylor had been up at Saltillo all morning, securing his army’s rear. Chamberlain returned to his mount and slipped the notebook back into his saddlebag. He doubted there would be time for writing now, and he felt he’d better check his tack and his weapons and keep his wits about him.

  Looking toward Angostura Pass, he saw three six-pounders from Colonel John Washington’s artillery battery and Captain John Washington’s First Illinois Infantry guarding the narrows. It struck him that two officers named Washington held the pass on George Washington’s birthday. If this was an omen, he couldn’t be sure if it was good or bad.

  Two regiments of volunteer foot soldiers from Illinois and Indiana, and his own regiment of dragoons, held the high ground on the plateau, along with Braxton Bragg’s battery of flying artillery. Along the mountain slope to the east, the Kentucky Cavalry had been dismounted to serve as riflemen on the left flank.

  Sweeping his gaze southward, toward the enemy camp, he saw that a battery of Mexican cannon had been painstakingly disassembled, dragged up a steep slope, reassembled, and mounted on a singular hill a half mile away across alternating spurs and barrancas. He had heard that the Irishman John Riley commanded those guns with his deserters from the U.S. ranks. From this distance, he could just make out a bright green flag—the banner of the infamous Saint Patrick’s Battalion.

  As he shook his head at the lunacy of deserting the United States to fight for Mexico, he saw his company’s first sergeant striding his way.

  “Stand to horse!” the noncom yelled.

  Men rose to catch their mounts, which had been unbridled to graze. Chamberlain took his headstall from a saddle ring and slipped it over the ears of his little sorrel mustang, which he had given the exotic Arab name of Soldan. The pony tried to twist away, but the private held fast to his mane.

  “Now, Soldan, I know you don’t like your ears touched. Easy, now, and I’ll do it quick.”

  With his bit and bridle in place, he decided to meander over closer to General Taylor’s position. He might overhear something he could put in his book someday. As he approached, he noticed that Lieutenant Colonel May’s dragoons had accompanied Taylor from Saltillo. May’s men had been battle tested at Palo Duro, Resaca de la Palma, and Monterrey. A couple of them looked disdainfully down at Chamberlain as he approached, leading his mount. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for the bastards. May himself was a known blowhard who claimed to have captured General Romulo Diaz de la Vega back at the resaca, when witnesses all agreed that the Mexican general had presented his sword and surrendered to a regimental bugler. To this day, there wasn’t a bugler in the army who would toot a note for Lieutenant Colonel May.

  Ambling nearer, Chamberlain realized that officers from several regiments had gathered around generals Taylor and Wool for a council of war. Taylor had given Wool command for the day, so Wool was haranguing the officer corps as Private Chamberlain shuffled within earshot.

  “… and certainly you are all aware that today is the anniversary of the birth of the father of our country! I call upon each and every one of you, as soldiers and patriotic Americans, to celebrate this anniversary in a way that will confer an additional honor on the day!”

  The officers raised their fists, applauded, and cheered their commander.

  Chamberlain heard General Taylor give verbal orders to the commanders of the Second Kentucky and Third Indiana volunteer infantries. “You gentlemen find a way around that canyon yonder to the west and position yourselves on the other side of it.” He pointed vaguely to the area he wanted occupied, a mile or so away. “If Santa Anna tries to slip around our right flank over there, you do your damnedest to turn him!”

  After the officers had returned to their regiments, Chamberlain hung around Wool’s headquarters, waiting for the battle to begin. Loitering ever closer to the generals’ position, he overheard a courier report to General Taylor.

  “Sir, the advance guard of the Mexican infantry is on the move with cavalry and artillery support.” The rider pointed south.

  Chamberlain turned and watched until he saw the colorful tunics and pennons of the enemy winding in and out of the ravines a couple of miles away. They came in column formation, like a great viper slithering down into the barrancas and up over the fingers of the plateau. Fluttering pennons and glinting steel made the beast seem to quiver and writhe as it moved his way. When the wind was right, he could hear a brass band belting out a military march, but in the distinctive Mexican style, with beautifully slurred notes that spoke of both joy and sorrow all in the same breath. As the minutes ticked by, the enemy came closer. His dust cloud arose. The band played louder. The columns dispersed right and left like segments of the snake splitting off, until they covered the whole country in front of the U.S. line.

  “Shit a brick,” Chamberlain said to Soldan. “There’s a mess of them, ain’t there?”

  Now he saw a puff of smoke emerge from the muzzle of one of the guns under the emerald standard of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion. The sound of the cannon shot made Soldan flinch, as a solid ball came screaming toward the U.S. line
, landing in a spray of dirt a furlong short of Braxton Bragg’s battery. A cheer rose up among the Americans and rippled all the way across the front.

  Smiling, Private Chamberlain added his voice to the battle cry. Then he saw the surgeons setting up their tables near the hospital tent and laying out their bone saws. The smile slipped from his face.

  After a while, he noticed that the Second Kentucky and the Third Indiana had found a trail to their position across the canyon. They were now so far away from action that they might as well have been camped on the Brazos. He wondered why Taylor had made the fool decision to send those men so far out of harm’s way.

  Chamberlain suddenly noticed Taylor, Wool, and Perfect Bliss monitoring the left flank with spyglasses. He followed the trajectory of the optics and saw what looked like a battalion of Mexican infantrymen—maybe three thousand strong—ascending the mountain slope to the east, to test the Americans’ left. To flank the U.S. forces, they would have to cross a precarious gorge that slashed down the mountainside. But the dismounted horse soldiers of the Kentucky Cavalry were waiting with their rifles on this side of the gorge.

  He leaned closer to Soldan’s ear. “I wouldn’t want to be a greaser in the iron sights of them squirrel-huntin’ Kaintucks.”

  “Sir, there’s a white flag approaching!”

  It was Perfect Bliss’s voice that Chamberlain had heard. He saw the rider galloping across the high ground, carrying the banner of truce. The rider dismounted in front of General Taylor. To Chamberlain, the rider looked decidedly paler than the rank-and-file Mexican soldier.

  “Who the hell are you?” Taylor said, rather irritably.

  The man saluted. “I am Major Liegenburg. I am a surgeon in the employ of the Mexican Army. General Santa Anna sends his regards, along with this missive.” He pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his coat. It was sealed with a wax stamp.

  Taylor snatched the message from the major’s hand. “Are you Dutch, Major?”

  “I am German born, General.”

  Taylor pulled the wax seal off and tossed it over his shoulder. He unfolded the paper and looked at the ink handwriting at arm’s length. He handed it to William Bliss. “Bill, read this out loud and clear.”

  Private Chamberlain cupped his hand behind his ear and leaned closer.

  “‘To His Excellency, General Z. Taylor,’ et cetera,” Bliss began.

  “Illustrious Sir. You are surrounded by twenty thousand men and cannot in any human probability avoid suffering a rout and being cut to pieces with your troops. But, as you deserve consideration and particular esteem, I wish to save you from a catastrophe, and for that purpose give you this notice in order that you may surrender at discretion under the assurance that you will be treated with the consideration belonging to the Mexican character, to which end you will be granted an hour’s time to make up your mind, to commence from the moment when my flag of truce arrives in your camp. With this view, I assure you of my particular consideration.”

  Zachary Taylor jutted his chin forward and glared at Major Liegenburg. “Tell Santa Anna to go to hell!” He turned to his adjutant. “Major Bliss, write that in Spanish and send it back by this damned Dutchman!”

  Chamberlain chuckled and elbowed Soldan. A moment later, a rattle of musket and rifle fire began from the left flank. The private turned about to view the conflict. The Mexican infantry was attempting to get around the very head of the steep gorge so that they wouldn’t have to cross the gorge to attack. But the Kaintucks had better weapons and held the high ground.

  A Mexican soldier, shot by an American, tumbled down the mountain slope, apparently dead. A cheer rose from the U.S. ranks. A second enemy attacker slid down into the gorge; a third cartwheeled. More hurrahs arose, but soon the men grew wary of cheering death and settled in to watch silently.

  “John,” Taylor said to General Wool, “you have the field. I will return to Saltillo to see to the defenses in the rear.”

  After Taylor mounted Old Whitey and left with Bliss and May’s dragoons, Chamberlain overheard General Wool issue a directive to his adjutant, Captain George Lincoln: “Dispatch orders for those two regiments across the canyon to return to the field of battle. Tell them not to leave until after dark, so Santa Anna will assume they will still be there in the morning. We are going to need every man available here tomorrow.”

  Chamberlain nodded approvingly. He was happy to have Wool commanding. He liked Old Rough and Ready as much as any soldier but considered Wool the better strategist.

  The battle on the left flank continued sporadically until dusk, and news came back to headquarters saying that the Kentucky Cavalry had suffered seven men wounded while inflicting multiple kills upon the enemy. Private Samuel Chamberlain began to think he might actually get some sleep tonight, for a change. Then he saw his friend Boss Hastings trotting his way.

  “Sam, we’ve received orders,” Hastings said.

  Chamberlain gave a weary sigh. “What the hell for?”

  “Our squadron is to stand picket duty at the heads of all the ravines, all night.”

  Chamberlain spit on the ground. “Why us? The infantry is rested. They ought to go.”

  “Hell, don’t blame me, Sam. I didn’t give the order. Come on!”

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Chamberlain found himself standing guard as a vedette in the dark, his greatcoat doing little to beat back the cold mountain air and the freezing drizzle that had begun to fall. He shivered as he fought off the seduction of sleep, and he wondered why he had ever enlisted in the first place.

  A half hour ago, Boss Hastings had wandered away in the dark, though the men were supposed to stand guard in pairs. Chamberlain figured he had gone to take a crap or something, but he had been missing a long time now.

  Since Hastings left, something had begun to stir across the ravines in the Mexican camp. He could hear large groups of men shouting, cheering.

  “Viva México!”

  “Libertad o muerte!”

  “Viva Santa Anna!”

  He imagined that General Santa Anna was rallying his troops with oratory. Perhaps planning a nighttime attack? They might be sneaking up the ravine below him right now. He could also hear some commotion at the base of the mountain. Were they building a new artillery emplacement? What the hell had happened to Boss Hastings?

  A hoofbeat on gravel made him lift his carbine. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  “Just me, Sam.”

  “Boss! What the hell? You near scared the shit out of me.”

  Hastings chuckled. “Now, don’t soil your tongs. Lookee what I got ahold of.” He rode up next to Chamberlain at the head of the barranca and pressed a glass bottle into his hand.

  Chamberlain pulled the cork stopper and smelled. “By God, brandy!”

  “French brandy.”

  “Where the hell did you get this?” Chamberlain took a welcome swig.

  “I went to see Dr. Hitchcock at the hospital tent. I told him Captain Steen requested a stimulant against the cold. Damned if he didn’t give me the whole bottle, with his compliments. Save some for the boys holding the horses and I’ll bet we can get them to spell us awhile so we can sleep.”

  Chamberlain took a bigger gulp and felt the burning liquid plunge past his gullet, warming him from within. “You’re a real chum to share it with me, Boss.” He handed the bottle back to his messmate and smiled into the dark night, feeling much restored at the sudden turn of his fortunes.

  General

  ANTONIO LÓPEZ DE SANTA ANNA

  Buena Vista

  February 23, 1847

  She called herself Consuela. She was his favorite of the eight, though he was happy enough to have the other seven along as well. He could never feel satisfied by the touch of just one woman—not even the most talented and wanton Consuela.

  He had stayed awake until two o’clock in the morning, haranguing his various regiments and overseeing a new artillery emplacement that would surprise the enem
y at dawn. He had then summoned Consuela to his tent and had slept a few hours after coupling with her. Now he lay awake, listening to her familiar kitten-purr snores and feeling grateful for the warmth of her body against the cold of this night.

  What will I say at dawn? How will I address the officers, the regulars, the conscripts? The usual rhetoric, of course. Invading heretics … Honor of Mother Mexico … Glory forever … Liberty or death …

  He decided his delivery would matter more than his words. First of all, feign passion! It wouldn’t be difficult today. His career—and perhaps even his life—depended upon the coming battle.

  Second, choose the right uniform. The hat was especially important. No parade plumes today. That would be seen by his men as ostentatious and would make him a target to the enemy. He would don a common campaign hat and a drab cavalry duster. But under the duster, he would wear an infantry officer’s blue tunic and white pants to appeal to the foot soldiers as well as the cavaliers.

  Third, choose the right horse. Yes, the chestnut gelding. The little mustang possessed heart and unaccountable endurance. And his mount’s smaller size would make him appear larger by contrast as he harangued his army from the saddle.

  For months he had worked toward this day. Since that lukewarm reception on the pier, back in August, his task of regaining power had challenged and almost daunted him. After coming ashore at Veracruz, he had withdrawn to his Hacienda Encero, claiming that his leg gave him too much pain to travel to Mexico City. In reality, he thought it better to wait until the people demanded his return to lead the army against the greedy, bloodthirsty invaders from the north.

  The public mandate came sooner than he expected, and he returned to the capital in triumph.