by Jeff Shaara
There were sounds now, coming from the other ships, and Lee saw for the first time sailors lining up along the rails of the closer ships. Lee glanced up the tall mast, saw Scott’s red and blue flag, waving a crisp salute to the fleet. He could hear the sounds clearly now. All through the great mass of strength, across the decks of two hundred ships, were the soldiers who had waited in patient misery, and the sailors who worked around them. Now, the misery and the work was put aside. A dozen bands began to play, spreading a cacophony of sounds across the water, but above it all was the sound of men cheering. Lee felt the men around him stiffen. He turned, saw General Scott emerging from below.
Scott climbed the short ladder, his huge hands pulling on straining ropes, the steps slow and ponderous. He wore a grand uniform, the gold braid draped over the shoulders, the long hat punctuated by the thick feather. Lee looked carefully at the old man’s heavy round face, saw fatigue, more than the effort at climbing the steep stairway. Lee was suddenly embarrassed, glanced at Johnston, who stood stiffly now, as he did. The general appears to be in some discomfort, he thought. He looked down, scolding himself, No, it is more likely the strain, the enormous responsibility. He looked up again as Scott reached the deck, saw Scott take a deep breath, one hand on the broad expanse of his stomach. Scott glanced briefly at the men who stood at attention, but stared past them, moved forward. The staff stood aside, watched quietly as the big man moved to the rail, and now the only sound came from across the still water, from the other ships. Lee heard the cheers grow louder as the troops saw him, and Scott seemed to respond, stood taller, his discomfort gone. Lee saw a smile spread across the older man’s face, Scott enjoying the moment, the great figure in blue and gold standing large on the deck of his flagship. The commanding general had arrived.
“CAPTAIN LEE, YOU WILL ACCOMPANY US.”
Lee saluted, did not hesitate, followed Scott down the narrow passageway. Scott had rarely spoken to him, and Lee had not expected to go with the others, was not even sure where they were going.
He waited at the rail while Scott climbed slowly down onto the deck of the smaller boat, a steamer named Petrita. He looked at the faces below, now looking up at him, was surprised to see Joe Johnston, standing unsteadily among a cluster of young staff, and a few old and very senior commanders.
“Any time now, Captain.”
The words came from below, from General Twiggs, a tall, grim man whom Lee had barely met. Lee started to salute, thought, Not the time, get over the side, now. A sailor stood by helpfully as Lee moved to the ladder, and Lee nodded to the unsmiling seaman, climbed down to the boat.
Scott did not look at Lee, turned, said, “We may proceed.”
From a platform in the bow of the small steamer, Lee saw a different uniform, very navy, very dignified. Johnston sidled closer to Lee and said quietly, “Commodore Conner, himself.”
Lee nodded dumbly, thought, This much brass in one place … amazing. He saw Conner nod to Scott, and Conner gave his own order to a sailor at the helm. Suddenly the steamer coughed a great black cloud and began to move. Lee steadied himself, saw the others move to the security of the railing, and he looked at the old faces, ran the names through his mind, David Twiggs, General Worth, General Patterson. Nearly hidden by Scott’s frame was a younger man, frail. It was Scott’s son-in-law, Major Henry Scott, the man who struggled to endure the confusion about his name, the odd coincidence that the commanding general’s daughter would marry a man with the same last name. The younger Scott served as his father-in-law’s chief of staff.
The steamer was clear of the big ship now, churning its way toward the distant shoreline, pointing just south of the city walls. Lee moved beside Johnston, whose discomfort was still evident. Johnston gripped the handrail, looked painfully at Lee. “There was nothing at West Point about boats.”
Lee smiled. He had no idea what to say, but saw another face, much younger, both hands anchored to the rail on the far side of the boat, wearing the same look of agony that possessed Johnston. Lee had met the man in Texas, another engineer. Lee caught his attention, nodded pleasantly, but the young man glared at him, seemed to glare at everything. Lee noticed the man’s white-knuckle grip on the handrail.
Johnston said, “Lieutenant Meade shares my … affliction.”
Lee said nothing, was still distracted by the power of the other men around him, thought, Why are we here? I still don’t understand what this boat ride is about.
He could see Scott up on the platform, talking to Conner. Conner was a tall, thin man, elegant in any uniform, but he did not compare in physical stature to Scott. Lee thought of West Point, of meeting General Scott for the first time, both men serving on the Visitors’ Board. It was not that many years ago, but Scott was not as … large then. There was always the unmistakable feeling from anyone near him, that sense of … Lee tried to think of the right word, perhaps aura. General Scott’s position, his authority was certainly intimidating. But even the old guard, the veterans who knew him from 1812, had to admit that no one else could ever dominate a conversation, no one else could ever be the center of attention, when Scott was there.
Lee watched the other generals now, gathered below the platform, maneuvering for position, each trying to be a part of the conversation taking place above them. Now the younger Scott came toward the junior officers, looked with disdain at the suffering of Johnston and Meade, and said quietly, “You may move forward, gentlemen. The commanding general will advise us all of his plan.”
The young man turned quickly away, officious and curt, and Lee followed him forward, thought, What must this be like for him? Your wife’s father, that kind of presence.
Scott turned to speak to the officers now gathered close to him. “Commodore Conner has suggested this stretch of beach south of us to be the landing site. I am pleased to agree. I am asking the commodore to command the landing forces until such time as they are ashore. The navy has done a commendable duty here. Once we are on land, it will be the army’s turn.”
Lee could not take his eyes from Scott, was riveted by the deep voice, the sheer mass of the man commanding everyone’s attention. Abruptly, Scott turned away, and now the only sound was the steady cough of the steam engine. From the bow of the boat a sailor called out, “Sir! Commodore, we have an audience!”
The men looked toward the walls of the city, now close enough that they could see it clearly without field glasses. Lee moved to the rail, could see motion along the wall, saw hands waving, hats in the air. They cannot know, he thought. They cannot know who is on this boat. But still …
They were too far away from the sound of cheering, but clearly, the people of Vera Cruz were not at war with these yanquis, the Mexican people’s greeting more like a celebration. Lee glanced up at Scott, was surprised to see the general waving back to them, a wide smile on the old man’s face. Lee shook his head, thought, But this is a war.
Scott said, “As I suspected. They’re glad to see us.” He turned, looked to the junior officers. “A lesson, gentlemen. Despite what we may have been told, this fight is about liberation, after all. They can see our strength, they know we’re coming ashore. You’d think it was a grand parade. Well, we’ll give them a show.”
“Sir! Off to starboard!”
The sailor’s tone of voice struck Lee, something deadly serious about it. Lee looked out to the right, beyond the city, to the great fort, could see the trail of white smoke rising above the wall. He looked at the sailor, saw the man staring hard at Uloa, thought, What?
He heard the sound, the air above them ripped by the scream of the ball, and just beyond the boat the sea was punched by a heavy fist, water rising up suddenly in a tall plume. Lee looked at Scott, saw his face twist into disappointment, the party interrupted. Now Conner made a quick motion to the helmsman, and the boat lurched to one side, turned away from the fort.
“We’re a bit close, don’t you think, sir?”
There was a tremble in the voice, and Lee turned, s
aw the ashen face of George Meade, still gripping the handrail. Scott did not look at Meade, waved a final greeting to the people lining the walls of Vera Cruz.
Conner said, “Best not give them another shot. Might improve their aim. A direct hit might be cause for concern. With your permission, sir.”
Scott nodded toward Conner, turned to the men again and, smiling broadly, said something Lee did not hear. Lee stared out at Uloa, waited for the next puff of smoke, the next gun to fire. He held the handrail in a firm grip, so hard he began to shake. He caught himself, loosened his hands, looked down at his white palms, felt the cold stab in his chest. Yes, he thought, it is a war. And no matter what has already happened, no matter the fights that have already passed, that was yours, your first taste of combat, the first time anyone has ever fired at you.
The boat was moving back out to sea now, and as Lee stared back at the great old fort, Scott and Conner and the others were watching the beach, eyeing the key places, making the final plans for the great invasion.
2. SCOTT
MARCH EIGHTH
CONNER HAD HOPED TO LAUNCH THE TROOPS OUT OF THE GREAT ships the next morning, but that night the stars were suddenly swept away by swirling clouds, the strong winds churning the calm water into a froth. It was a norther, and the sailors had been through it before, knew that along the Gulf coast these storms would blow up without warning, strategy and planning be damned. If the soldiers feared the worst, curled up into the quiet agony of the tossing ships, the sailors knew it would not last, because as suddenly as the black skies roared over them, the storm would be gone.
The cabin was small, but it was the largest space on the ship, what would normally be the captain’s quarters. Now, the dark office in the ship’s stern was for the commanding general. The young Scott stood off to one side, his boot idly prodding the corner of the glorious Persian rug, the one piece of grandeur Scott had brought with him. Scott ignored him, did not consider the young man a part of the conversation now filling the small space.
In front of Scott, Conner sat straight, hands by his side, calm and unsmiling. Off to one side, General Worth sat nervously, pulling at his uniform, glancing around the room, his legs bouncing. Behind the small fat desk, Scott stared at a piece of paper, read slowly by lamplight, the oil in the lamp rocking back and forth with the motion of the ship. He had received these dispatches before, in Texas, and the anger still came, but he was inured to it. He had been too angry at Washington for too long. Now came the frustration, the numbing sense that there was nothing he could do. He stared at the dispatch, the words now a blur, felt the great weight of weariness, thought, You are getting old. He shook his head, said, “What the hell is the matter with these people?”
No one spoke, knew Scott did not require an answer. He put the paper down, looked at the calm face of Conner, said, “The quartermaster at Brazos says there are no supply ships. Should have been a dozen more from New Orleans by now, more after that. But … nothing. No wagons, no horses, no reinforcements.”
Scott leaned back in the chair, took a long deep breath, felt the familiar heat in his chest, the back of his neck, said, “This is Washington’s fault. They have placed every roadblock … caused every delay.”
Conner studied Scott carefully, and Scott thought, He’s discreet, waiting for an opening. All right, go ahead, Commodore. Conner said, “General, I am well acquainted with General Jesup. Surely, he is doing the best he can—”
“It’s not Jesup, not the damned quartermaster’s office. It’s higher than that, much higher.”
Scott looked at Worth, saw the man’s discomfort, felt a stab of uneasiness, thought, This will make the papers … anything said around him always makes the papers.
“General Worth, do you object to my tone of voice?”
Worth seemed to flinch, his hands clasped now, twisting together. He leaned back in his chair, shook his head. Scott saw Worth’s attempt to appear calm. Worth offered a weak smile and pulled his hands apart before saying, “Uh, no, not at all, sir. The commanding general is entitled to his views.”
Scott grunted. “Spoken like a politician.” He looked at Conner now, said, “That’s the problem, you know. They all talk like politicians. Every damned one of these generals is running for President. Or at least, that’s what Polk thinks.”
Worth sat upright, said, “Sir! That is simply … inaccurate. I have no ambitions in that regard!”
Scott looked at him for a long time, tried to read the man’s face, saw indignation. “No, certainly not, General Worth. Would you say the same for General Taylor, General Quitman, General Pillow …?” Scott laughed now, moved his huge frame forward, leaned heavily on the desk.
“Commodore, it is clear to me that President Polk has determined that I am to sink or swim with these men and these ships we currently have on hand. I am certain he expects me to sink, and take this army with me.”
Worth was wide-eyed, the hands twisted together again. “Sir! That is scandalous! To suggest that the President does not care for these men—”
“He cares very much, General. Sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, but I have no doubt that Mr. Polk wishes to see the name of every one of these men at the ballot box. And if my plans do not succeed, Mr. Polk is confident that those soldiers who survive will gladly place their vote for him.” He paused, looked for a reaction. “And not for me.”
Scott winked at Conner, smiled. “Mr. Polk is assuming, of course, that I have my own ambitions.”
Worth seemed put in his place, sat slumped in the chair. Scott thought, that will give him something to chew on. Let that one get around, President Winfield Scott. They think I’m hard to serve under now.
For a long moment there was no sound but the groans of the moving ship. Scott glanced up toward the thick curtains drawn shut over the wide glass across the rear of the office. The air was thick and warm now. The place needs more windows, some breeze, he thought. He glanced at Conner, saw no change in the man’s expression. Do all naval commanders act like him? Total dedication to duty, no distractions. Makes sense, if you spend all your time in a dismal place like this. I never would have made it in the navy, would have wanted to stay up on deck, put a bed right outside, fall asleep feeling the wind like an infantryman ought to. The silence was growing thick, and Scott pulled himself back to the matter at hand, moved papers on his desk, saw one, headlined, Current Roster. He moved his finger down the list of ships, smaller boats, said to Conner, “Are we ready?”
Conner seemed relieved that the conversation had resumed, said, “If this is all the strength we are going to receive, then, yes, we are ready.”
“The storm? Any estimate how long it should last?”
“The winds have already calmed a bit. A few hours more, perhaps. It likely will be a clear dawn.”
Scott nodded, glanced down at the paper, felt the weariness again, breathed the stale air. Enough of this. He stood slowly, felt the stiffness in his knees and the ship’s slight roll. He reached out and caught the corner of the desk with his hand, steadied himself. “I’m tired of ships. No offense, Commodore. But I’m as ready as those men out there to put my feet on dry land. If it’s a clear dawn, then we go.” He smiled at Conner, said, “I hope your cannoneers can shoot straight. If the Mexicans try to stop the landing, you’ll be shooting over our heads.”
Conner did not smile, said, “We will give you our best, sir.”
Conner stood, bowed slightly. Worth was up as well, moved quickly to the door, where the young major held it open. Scott looked at his son-in-law, raised his chin slightly past perpendicular, signaling out, and the door closed. Scott turned to the wide curtains, pulled them open, stared out at small flecks of light, the only evidence that the water around him was a mass of ships. He felt the ship list to one side. With his hands on polished mahogany, he waited for the ship to rock back again.
Yes, slower now. Conner was right, the storm is passing. Conner, so prim and utterly efficient. Marvelous, Gen
eral. You probably offended him too. Your greatest gift. The rest of them deserve to be offended. Why aren’t they like him? Is there a difference because he’s navy? All these old soldiers, they’re leftovers, relics. They all want to see me fall on my face, and every one of them wants to pick up the pieces, turn some failure of mine into his own personal success, go back home to his own private parade.
He thought of the younger men, the lieutenants and captains fresh from West Point. He had traveled there often, especially in the last few years, had made a point of meeting them, speaking to the graduating classes.
Training professionals for this job is invaluable. We have lost too much, suffered too many casualties to officers who came by their title because they happened to be from aristocratic families, happened to be gentlemen. He thought of his generals, the men Polk had appointed to command his troops. We’re all just old fools, veterans of a war that ended thirty years ago. If any of us falls on our face, it’s those cadets who will pick us up, the young officers who will save our skin. The damned parades had better be for them.
He stared out at the flickering lights, above them even more lights.
Yes, stars. Conner was right: a clear dawn. Finally, we can go to work.
MARCH NINTH
The stars did not lie. The dawn’s low clouds quickly thinned and then drifted off. By late morning the smaller gun ships had lined up along the beach, their crews staring anxiously past the flat beach to the rolling sand dunes beyond. Conner’s men had supervised the loading of the surfboats, each now filled with a mass of blue, slipping through the slick calm of the water toward the shallows along the beach.
Scott stared through field glasses, watching the motion of a hundred oarsmen, the song of the oarlocks the only sound in the stark silence, replacing the bands and the sailors who had cheered him when he first appeared. The men were as focused as he was. He raised the glasses slightly, looked past the small boats, scanning the white dunes, where he saw small black shapes. He felt his heart jump. Soldiers … the Mexicans … But no, there was no movement, the dull shapes were simply clusters of brush, scattered along the dunes.
