Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  Twiggs snapped a salute, climbed his horse, watched as Scott moved away. He looked down at Lee now. “Captain, you have a horse?”

  Lee felt the man’s imperious glare again. “Yes, sir. Right over there, sir.”

  “Well, get to it, Captain.”

  Lee moved quickly, climbed his horse, pulled the animal close to Twiggs, who said, “Stay close to me, Captain. I’ll cut you loose when the time comes.”

  Twiggs spurred his horse, his staff moving in behind him. Lee hurried to catch up, thinking, Cut me loose? I’m supposed to be his guide. He doesn’t know the land. Lee felt a burn spreading in his chest, could suddenly taste coffee again, thought, Stop complaining. This is a war. And you’re about to ride right into the middle of it.

  TWIGGS HAD MOVED HIS MEN FAR ALONG LEE’S TRAIL BEFORE the Mexicans began to respond, and even then it was little more than a nuisance—brief, scattered musket fire, a few skirmishers. As the troops moved farther beyond the flank of El Telégrafo, they came into sight of the lookout on Atalaya, and Lee could see the flags waving frantically, signaling the troops on the big hill.

  Behind Lee the troops moved quickly, following the trail quietly. He led the way, Twiggs close beside him, silent and grim. Lee watched the man’s face, noticed a change coming over him, as though some aspect of the fight was reflected in his eyes. The old general’s eyes were sharper now, more alert. Lee understood then. Twiggs’s anger was not directed at Scott or him, but out there, at the enemy.

  Lee moved the horse carefully down a slope, the same place he had fallen on the scouting mission. But the slope was smoother now, the rocks hauled aside, the grade made less steep by good work from men with shovels. Lee waited for Twiggs to move his horse down beside him, could hear a light chatter of musket fire, from in front, the few Mexican soldiers on the smaller hill firing at the growing mass of blue snaking toward them. Far in front of Lee the Americans had a skirmish line of their own, clearing the way of any Mexicans who might be waiting to ambush the column. The skirmishers were close to Atalaya now, and Lee thought, Some of that firing may be from our own men. But we are still too far away. Twiggs was ignoring the sound of muskets. He looked back to his men, waiting for the first foot soldiers to reach the slope.

  “Come on, dammit! Let’s move!”

  Twiggs’s voice startled Lee, who thought, Please, quiet. We have too far to go yet. Not everyone knows we’re here.

  Twiggs spurred the horse, scowled at Lee. “You coming, Captain? Let’s move!”

  Lee drove the horse quickly beside Twiggs, keeping his eyes on Atalaya. He could see small wisps of smoke curling skyward from the musket fire, then he heard a sharp zip, slicing through the brush beside him. He looked to the side, saw nothing but stillness. He looked again at Atalaya, felt a thump in his chest. Well, that was something new. The enemy, indeed.

  They moved along the path through high brush, and since Lee could not see the big hill any longer, he thought they were still hidden. Twiggs had stopped to give orders to a courier. The man rode quickly away, and Lee thought, What message? We have to keep moving. No, Captain, that is not your concern.

  Twiggs did not look at him, moved his horse to the front, past Lee, and Lee spurred his horse, again moved beside the old man. The brush gave way, parted into the wide rock field, a flat path cutting down the center, cleared of rocks by Lee’s workmen. They were much closer to the smaller hill now, and Twiggs stopped, said, “All right, Captain. There’s your damned hill. Give my men a few minutes, and you can have it.” Twiggs turned, shouted, “Colonel Harney, up here on the double!”

  Lee cringed again at the volume from Twiggs, looked at Atalaya, thought, Well, surely our presence is no surprise by now. He heard horses behind him, saw an officer riding hard, moving close, an older man, grim-faced, handling the horse with the skill of a cavalryman.

  The man saluted, and Twiggs said, “Colonel, that’s your hill. Take two regiments, clear them away! Charge them to hell!”

  Harney saluted, and the other officers began to give the call. Twiggs moved off the trail, said to Lee, “Move out of the way, Captain.”

  Lee pulled his horse aside, watched the column of blue troops moving past quickly, the sweating faces of men whose eyes stared to the front. Lee felt his chest pounding, could hear the chatter growing from Atalaya. He raised his field glasses, could see the Mexican soldiers firing down the hill, the brush below the skirmish line draped in a light cloud of smoke from the musket fire. Now the sounds grew louder, the rattle of muskets straight out in front, and then voices, shouts, as Harney’s soldiers swept past the skirmish line and began climbing the hill. Lee strained to see them, looked out just above the brush and rocks in front of him. A mass of blue spread up from the base of the hill, moving higher, and he could see the Mexicans suddenly running, disappearing over the crest of the hill. The men in blue reached the lookout post, and Lee saw the flag cut down, Harney’s soldiers continuing to spread out over the crest of the hill in pursuit of the enemy. Lee lowered the glasses, his hands shaking. He looked at Twiggs, who was still watching Harney’s men.

  Twiggs glanced over at Lee. “There’s your hill, Captain. Get your damned cannon up there, if you still think you can.”

  Abruptly, Twiggs spurred his horse, moved away toward the front, his staff hurrying to keep up. Lee felt a small wave of panic, thought, What’s he doing?

  Lee could hear a new wave of musket fire, Harney’s men now moving beyond Atalaya, still pursuing the Mexican retreat, a steady flow of sound and smoke, moving toward the big hill. On the lower slope of El Telégrafo he could see the Mexican soldiers, retreating in panic, men climbing frantically to the safety of their strong defenses. Harney’s men were still chasing them, and the voices carried back to Lee. No, he thought, there should not be a general engagement, not yet. He turned, rose up in the saddle, listened, thought, The demonstration, General Patterson’s attack hasn’t started yet. The enemy will put all their energy back here. We will be cut off.

  He yanked the horse around, spurred hard, moved back along the trail. Seeing the next regiment of infantry, waiting, officers talking calmly, Lee stopped the horse, shouted, “Where is Captain Steptoe? I need his guns!”

  The officers looked at Lee. One man shook his head; another, a young major, said, “Well now, Captain, I’m sure Captain Steptoe is back here somewhere. What you planning on doing with his guns?”

  Lee felt an explosion boiling up in his chest, took a deep breath, fought it, thought, Get control, clenched his jaw and said, “I need a courier, now, to locate Captain Steptoe. By orders of General Scott, Captain Steptoe is to move three twenty-four-pound guns to the front, under my direction. I do not have time to explain.”

  Lee saw another officer, followed by a man holding a small flag. He knew the face, fought for the officer’s name, an older man who sat tall in the saddle, broad-shouldered, who did not have to shout to be heard. The man moved close, said, “You would be Captain Lee, the engineer.”

  “Yes, sir.” The name flowed into Lee’s mind now, and he said, “Yes, Colonel Riley. Sir, I need to locate Captain Steptoe.”

  “He’s coming. You still think you can get up that hill?”

  Lee felt relief, thought, He knows my orders, thank God. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, good luck, Captain. My men are moving out to the right. You get those guns up there, you can make our job a good deal easier.”

  Riley nodded to Lee, moved his horse off the trail, said to his officers, who still looked at Lee, “Let’s move out. By the right flank, march!”

  There was a surge of motion behind Riley, and the blue wave began to flow out through the brush. Quickly, the trail behind him was clear, and Lee saw a young man riding hard, waving at him. The man stopped the horse beside him, a cloud of white dust blowing over them both as the young man said, “Sir! Captain Steptoe, at your service. Where do we place the guns?”

  Lee could see them now, rolling forward, each pulled by a pair of horses. He t
urned and pointed. “Up there.”

  Steptoe nodded, then shook his head, said, “That’s what they told me. It’s a hell of a haul.”

  Lee said, “Then we had better get started.”

  Steptoe said, “The horses won’t do. We’ll need some men. There’s not enough manpower in my crews.”

  Lee saw the major again, Riley’s man, leading another column of infantry forward. The man moved up to Lee, the annoying indifference gone now, said, “Captain, Colonel Riley has ordered me to provide you with any help you need.”

  Lee felt a wave of relief, thought, Thank you. Whoever is responsible … thank you. He pointed to the hill again, said, “Right there, gentlemen. Right now.”

  7. SANTA ANNA

  APRIL EIGHTEENTH, MID-MORNING

  HE HAD SLEPT LATER THAN USUAL, WAS STILL IN HIS TENT, THE rich white silk billowing softly, rustled by the light breeze. He sat at the dark wood table, held the silver knife in his hand, reached out to stab at the dark slice of meat. He nodded to the chef, a small quivering man in a white apron, “Yes, this will do. If there is nothing better to be found, I will sacrifice.”

  The chef withdrew, and Santa Anna ignored the relief in the man’s face, studied the rest of the grand breakfast, the rich red of the strawberries, the sharp smell from the ripe cheese. He picked up a piece of the dark brown bread, stale and dry in his hand, turned it over with a look of disgust, tossed it out the opening in the tent. How hard can this be, he thought, how difficult is it to provide the basic comforts? They can bring the meat, the fruit, but no one here can bake a simple loaf of bread? Are we so far from the comforts of the city that I must be tolerant of those who cannot do their job? He stabbed at the berries, stuffed one in his mouth, the sweetness soothing him.

  I will be lenient, this time. That incompetent chef is fortunate that God has granted me such patience. And, today, I would rather have only the pleasant tasks. I will repay God for His kindness. Today, I will destroy the American infidels who soil our land.

  He drank from the silver goblet, the wine warming him, sat back in the deep velvet of the chair, put a hand down on the thigh of the left leg, prodding and probing the dull ache. It bothered him every day, but especially in the morning, when the artificial limb was first attached. He still tried to do it by himself, but his patience would slip away, and he would shout for the doctor, the man whose only job was to comfort any pain that might torment him. The leg was fastened tight now, would serve Santa Anna as well as anyone could expect. But the pains brought the reminder of the bungling doctors, the incompetent men who had done the operation that had taken his shattered leg away.

  The wound had come at the hands of the French, occurred during their retreat from their brief conquest of Vera Cruz, nearly ten years before. Santa Anna had risen again to command the army, a command no one thought he would ever see, not after the disgrace of the loss of Texas. But when Vera Cruz fell to the aggression of the French, an embarrassing surrender to a small force, Santa Anna could not stay away, could not ignore the inner call to duty, the passion that consumes anyone who calls himself a patriot. He had assumed command of the Mexican forces still scattered around the city, demanded that the French withdraw, and his presence and the threat it represented was enough to intimidate them into leaving. But Santa Anna had paid a heavy price for such an easy victory—a round fired from a retreating French cannon that shattered his leg. He had nearly given up then, his spirit flowing out through the awful wound. Despite the clumsiness of the doctors who took the leg, his life was spared, and though there had been a time when he had wished for it, eventually he came to understand that God was not yet ready for him to die. Every day since, the pain reminded him that being a patriot required more than waving a flag or blustering like a politician.

  He pulled at a narrow leather strap, tightened the leather collar to the skin of his stump, his face twisting at the pain, thought, It is why I am out here, after all, where the cannon point east, toward the heart of the invaders. The politicians who hide in the soft comforts so far away, they are not the patriots, they are not Mexico. It is the soldiers, the people, and they know the difference, they have learned that there is no one in Mexico City who will defend the honor, no one who can repel the invaders, no one who has the power of God behind him as I do.

  He drank from the goblet again, thought, More wine perhaps, it should be a day for celebration. He motioned to the servant standing outside the tent, a small thin man who ducked inside, said quietly, “Yes, Excellency?”

  Santa Anna studied the empty plates on the silver tray, thought, Perhaps something sweet as well. The chef always has something saved for me, something to make me smile.

  There was noise outside the tent, and he looked past the servant, saw an officer, the man’s uniform already showing the dust of the rocky ground. The man was speaking to a guard, who replied, “No, not yet. It is not yet time. He is not yet through with his breakfast. Come back later.”

  Santa Anna put the goblet down, ignored the servant now, said aloud, “He may enter. This is a glorious day. I will be patient.”

  The officer moved slowly into the tent, his hat in his hand, glanced at the silver, and Santa Anna saw the excitement in the man’s rugged face, the sharp black eyes darting around the tent.

  Santa Anna said, “You are Colonel Reyes, yes? Tell me what has you so agitated, Colonel.”

  Reyes bowed deeply, saying, “Excellency, you must see it. The yanquis are moving into formation for their attack. We have been scouting the camps, and we can see them moving into position.”

  Santa Anna set the goblet down on the table, nodded slowly. “It is a marvelous sight, is it not, Colonel?” He smiled, deep satisfaction transforming his expression. “An army preparing for its own destruction. I have seen armies before, all the dress and the banners and the music. The yanquis play music as well. It is one thing I respect. It is the one part of them that is civilized.”

  He leaned forward, placed his hands on the table to support his weight while he pulled his right leg under him, the stiff wooden left leg still out to one side. He strained to pull himself up to his feet. Reyes stared wide-eyed, uncertain of the proper protocol, finally held up his hands. “Excellency, may I assist?”

  Santa Anna was on his feet now, the pain that gripped his thigh holding his face in a tight frown. The servant had moved close, and Santa Anna ignored him, said to Reyes, “Colonel, you will not speak of this. I do not require anyone’s assistance. There is no weakness here. None! Do you understand?”

  “No, certainly not, Excellency. My apologies.”

  Santa Anna moved out from behind the heavy table as his left leg swung forward slightly, like a pendulum beneath him. He stepped to the opening in the tent, straightened himself, pulled at the short coat of the uniform, ran his hand up to his throat, the stiff tall collar wrapped tightly around his neck. He turned to one side to gaze into the small mirror that hung against the side of the tent, stared a moment at the wave of his hair, the brown giving way to a slow spread of gray. He smiled at that, thought, Fifty-three years old and only now does God remind you that you are no longer a young man.

  But He has not taken away what the people see, He will never take that away. The Americans were foolish enough to believe I would return to my home to betray my people, that a patriot would walk on his own land and tell his people not to fight. The people knew why I came back, and even the politicians—those weak traitorous fools who had prayed for my death—even they knew that when I marched again into Mexico City, they could not stop fate, could not stand in the way of Destiny.

  He still looked into the mirror, ran his hand across his chest, straightening the row of small medals, thought, Yes, there is no one else, there has never been anyone else for these people, and the people know that. Now, it is time to show them what a patriot must do. We must destroy our enemies.

  He examined the rest of the uniform, the rich gold braid draped from his shoulders, ran his finger over the top of
the epaulet, touched the small brass figure of the eagle. Now they will see, the world will see what the Mexican people already know in their hearts. Even God will sit back and admire the glory of it, even He will be impressed watching me destroy my enemies.

  He stepped into bright sunlight, saw the troops close by rising at his appearance, the men standing stiffly in line. He ignored them, moved past the thick fat rocks that surrounded his camp, past the grand carriage that had brought him to this wonderful place, this perfect ground to fight a battle. He glanced briefly at the horizon, the distant mountains rising up as a gathering of great sentinels, silent and respectful, waiting for the day to unfold. He stopped, looked all around, thinking, Yes, it is more than just the people, it is the land, all of it, every part of Mexico smiling on this glorious day. He stepped close to the horse, saw the groom standing back behind, looking down, respectful, fearful, tucking the thick brush behind his back.

  Santa Anna ran his hand over the horse’s rich black coat, touched the black mane, the strong animal nodding to greet him. He put his hand on the harness, saw the gold trim, the buckles and hooks all bathed in gold leaf. He looked back at the carriage, the driver standing quietly to one side, head down, prepared to hear some command. He scanned the carriage itself, more gold leaf, admired the ornate designs of pure grandeur, wiped spotlessly clean by the servants. Pride welled up inside him, and he stood back from the horse, thought, Not even Napoleon was so loved, so respected. If he was here now, he would fight for me. Even he would know that his name could not rise over this land with so much glory as mine. And today, that devil himself, that fool General Scott, he will know what it means to face the anger and the fury of this Napoleon.

  He moved past the carriage now, while his honor guard, the handpicked men who stayed close to him wherever he was, the men whose loyalty would never be doubted, moved into formation at a discreet distance behind him. He examined their uniforms, quietly inspecting the gray and white accented by the gold on their shoulders, the stiffly creased clean white pants. He nodded his quiet approval, then turned away and moved up into the rocks. He climbed stiffly, stepping across small round boulders, moved past the taller uneven rocks, some larger than the carriage. In between were thick masses of dull green brush, a patchwork spread all along the rise of the great tall hill, El Telégrafo. A trail had been cleared for him, and the guards stayed back, knowing not to help him, not here, where the troops could see.