by Jeff Shaara
He moved over a small crest, past a wide shallow pit dug into dirt and rock, where the cannon were mounted. The cannoneers stood quietly as he passed, but he did not see them. Instead he was focused on the dull brass of the guns, the great power, the hard instruments of death. He moved through a gap in tall rocks, a dark passageway, nearly a tunnel, with a small shaft of light from a split in the rock over his head pointing the way. He was still climbing, felt the pain in his left leg easing, working itself out with the movement. He tried to pick up speed, felt his heart pounding, the exertion of the climb holding him back. Finally, he stepped into a clearing, and could see all across the face of the big hill. He moved toward a thick mass of troops with muskets, and they began to cheer.
He stopped. He always waited for this moment, when the troops would let their emotions flow out toward him, their love and their loyalty too strong to hold back. He knew the officers would try to keep the men quiet, but it never worked, and he would sometimes scold the officers, pick out some nameless lieutenant, would even threaten him with arrest, but he knew it was all a playful tease, even if the officers did not. Now, he just let them have their voice; no words, they would not dare to speak his name, just a song, a loud, joyous cry.
He fought to keep the stern look on his face, always aware of the solemn nature of the ritual. He met the gaze of the officers who watched him carefully, saw one young captain staring at him in silent fear. Santa Anna stepped toward the man, moved very close, leaned into the man’s face, said, “Do your men have some problem with discipline, Captain? They sound like nothing more than a mob.”
The young man tried to speak but the words were choked away, and Santa Anna backed up a step, said, “Well, we shall see if they obey you in combat. I will be lenient this time. But I will remember you, Captain. Do not give me cause to doubt your efficiency.”
The young man shook his head, saluted him, still had no words, and Santa Anna moved again to the trail. Hiding his smile, he thought, It is good for them to see the discipline, the danger. It is part of being a soldier, after all. A bit of fear will make them better in the fight, keep the fire moving forward. They should all carry the knowledge of what waits for them if they fail.
In front of him, a line of riflemen stood, men who had emerged from a fissure in the big hill, the gray of their uniforms blending into the rock, the line stretching in a great curve beyond his view. The sounds came from them as well, as though a single voice. He saw more officers, more of the fear, but he was growing tired of the game. One man pointed out beyond the face of the hill. He stopped, looked past the thick brush and jumbled rocks close to him, the hill dropping away into a rolling tumble of brush and dirt and small hills. He saw more cannon below, more lines of troops standing with their muskets in salute, a vast show of the strength of his numbers, the infantry uniforms a variety of colors and designs, reflecting their different commands.
He saw more men pointing out now, to the east, but he would not turn his eyes in that direction: He knew what he would see. Slowly raising his gaze, he could see where the ground flattened out, and beyond the base of the great hill, the low ridges gently rolled, revealing patches of dull green, and beyond, the neat blocks of dark blue. His heart jumped, and he smiled, could not help it, the moment adding to the glory of the day. Yes, there they come. They will march straight down the road, and in their arrogance they will tell themselves we are weak, that we can be brushed aside. He studied the neat squares of blue, saw motion now, the flicker of flags, saw men on horses moving behind the dark mass. Yes, bring them forward. March to your deaths.
* * *
HE HAD CLIMBED HIGHER, SAT NOW ON A WIDE FLAT ROCK, HIS stiff leg to one side at a painful angle. He still waited for the assault to begin, but the neat blue lines kept their distance, stayed too far away to have their strength counted. He stared out through field glasses, thought, They cannot be so strong after all. There are not that many. He had not known the enemy numbers, had never received an accurate report from the men who escaped Scott’s invasion of Vera Cruz. He knew his own numbers, down to the last gun, and felt a strange impatience. You dare to approach us with such small strength? It does not even look like an army, merely one division. I had thought the devil Scott would know what I would bring to this fight.
He felt suddenly insulted. How dare the yanquis believe I am so weak! Did they not believe I would confront them? Did they believe they could simply march across the heart of Mexico unobstructed? He was angry now, clenched his fists, shouted, “You will all die!”
He ignored the men below him, the faces watching him, the cannon primed, prepared for the first wave of assault from the blue enemy who had only then begun to creep forward. He looked out through the glasses again, his anger billowing out of his impatience for the assault to begin.
Why do they wait? Has the devil Scott realized the foolishness of his plan? Perhaps it is the soldiers themselves. They know what waits for them, perhaps it is they who will not obey, they who will not march into certain disaster. Why should the yanquis be different from any other army, after all? The generals may be fools, criminals, but it is the soldiers themselves who understand what war truly is. They must know the evil that commands them. And perhaps by now they know who is up here waiting for them. They know, as the people of Mexico know, the power behind this command.
He suddenly slid down off the rock, the guards moving up quickly to assist him, and he waved them away, said aloud, “They are too slow. I have no patience for this.” He stepped back behind the rocks, moved through the stiff brush, feeling hungry again. He thought of wine. Yes, I should summon the chef. He glanced out to the north, out beyond the big hill, saw smoke drifting up from the thick rolling ground near the far hill, the smaller rise they had told him was Atalaya. He saw men moving on the rocks below him now, his soldiers, scrambling up toward the cannon pits where the gunners still waited for the enemy to come close.
“What is that? Who are those troops?”
He stepped out on a narrow ledge of rock, looked down into the thick underbrush and rugged ground at the base of the hill. Nothing. No movement. He heard sounds, a short chatter of musket fire. He looked again into the dense thickets between the two hills.
The voices of his men rose up the hill to him, the soldiers scrambling toward him, some calling out, pointing back toward the ground below. He saw an officer, the man’s gray uniform torn, the white shirt a smear of dirt. As the man pulled himself into a gun pit, he called up to him, “Excellency, the enemy!” The man stopped, doubled over, his chest heaving from the climb.
Santa Anna felt the raw power of anger as he stared down at the soldiers coming up toward him, more men now emerging from the thorny brush farther below. He looked again at the wisps of white smoke drifting up out of the deep rolling ground between the hills, shook his head, feeling the full fury of what he was seeing building in his chest. He shouted, “Cowards! It is only cavalry! You run from a few horses!”
He looked at the young officer, the man now backing away, shaking his head, and Santa Anna shouted, “You! These are your men! You have run away from a scouting party! I will see you hang!” He backed away from the edge of the rocks, his fury full red on his face. He moved past his guard, ignored the other officers who had gathered behind him, men who heard the sounds, who had seen the smoke. Climbing back toward his own perch, he saw the face of the young officer in his mind. He imagined his sword cutting the man down, killing him in front of his own traitorous troops. His anger complete, the man’s image swept away. How do I endure these cowards? he asked himself. I will have to order cavalry to push the yanquis away. We should already have had horsemen between the hills. It is carelessness. There will be punishment.
He climbed up to his flat rock again, flexed his hands, tried to relax, to revive the morning’s bright promise. He looked out again to the masses of blue still gathered to the east. Laughing, he shouted at them, “You still delay, yanqui. Has no one taught you how to fight a war? Bring
your men here. Their fate awaits them.”
He heard more sounds then, again from the north, from the direction of the smaller hill—the chattering of muskets, voices of men, faint cries, shouts. He looked that way, saw more smoke rising. Around him, men began to see it with him, officers close by moving toward him, one man calling, “Excellency! We have reports! The enemy is advancing beyond our flank!”
Santa Anna looked at the man, saw a group of officers gathering, some still pointing in the direction of the sounds. He shook his head, said quietly, “You are all cowards. If you knew how to be soldiers you would stop this foolish panic. The enemy is right where I want him to be.”
At great peril to themselves, the officers murmured protests, but he would not hear it now. His patience exhausted, he turned away from them, looked again at the blue mass to the east, raised the glasses. He studied the distant flags, the blue-coated officers on horseback, saw more motion, the blue masses beginning to march forward, and he smiled, nodded, said quietly to himself, “They have played their games. Now, they will come.”
8. LEE
APRIL EIGHTEENTH, MID-MORNING
HE LED THEM UP THE SLOPE OF ATALAYA, THE MEN STRAINING against the ropes, pulling the field guns over the ragged ground. Where the hillside was steep, they would gather close to the gun, shoulders under the thick barrel, hands gripping the wheels, lifting and pushing until the next level spot gave them relief. He looked above him, toward the top of the hill where the cavalry waited. The men Harney had left back were keeping tight control of the precious high ground. Lee felt anxious; he could hear the musket fire all out through the thickets toward the big hill, but he forced himself to focus again on the curses and groans of the men who pulled Steptoe’s guns up the hill.
He saw Steptoe himself pulling on a long rope, as more of his men moved to help, inching the wheels of a twenty-four-pounder up and over a narrow ledge of rock. The gun moved more easily, and Steptoe pointed the way. He stopped and smiled at Lee, said, “We’ve made it, Captain. By damned, we’re doing it!”
Lee pointed to the crest of the hill, the ruins of the Mexican lookout tower. “There! Put it back behind the crest. Protect yourself with the contour of the ground.”
Steptoe smiled again, said, “Yes, sir. That’s what we’re here for.”
The gun moved past Lee. More men were moving up, backing over the ledge, another rope, wheels appearing, shirtless men with broad sweating backs giving the final groaning push, lifting another gun up to the flat ground. Steptoe, already there, issued quick and precise orders. Lee felt his anxiety easing as he looked toward the big hill where Harney’s troops still pushed the enemy back. He saw the thin white smoke rising, could hear the musket fire echoing out of the ridges and thickets between the two hills.
Then Steptoe was beside him, and Lee turned, saw the third gun moving into position, the crews swarming over them. Steptoe said, “You have a target in mind, sir?”
THE GUNS HAD BEEN FIRING FOR SEVERAL MINUTES. LEE HAD stayed close at first, but could see clearly that Steptoe knew his job. The young man directed the aim with precision. From his vantage point, Lee could now see the enemy’s response to the flanking move by Twiggs, the Mexican commanders finally moving men and guns around the defenses on the big hill, confronting the flanking assault. But Steptoe had the range, and as the Mexican gunners began to answer the sudden assault from Atalaya, many of their guns were shattered into silence.
Just below the Mexican entrenchments, Lee could see scattered patches of blue. Harney’s men were pinned down, helpless against the Mexican muskets just above them. Harney had gone too far, could not call off the pursuit of the retreat from Atalaya, the Americans infected by the success of their attack. There were waves of smoke from the volleys of the Mexican muskets, drifting over the face of the big hill. Then Lee heard a new sound, far to the left, from the far side of El Telégrafo. Patterson’s demonstration had begun, finally, and Lee thought, Yes, hold them. If more of the enemy moves this way, we could be in serious trouble.
Lee wondered about Twiggs’s whereabouts. He thought, What am I supposed to do now? I should be … somewhere. He thought of the road, the main highway leading west out of the Mexican position. I can still find it. I should have found it before. Maybe that’s where Twiggs is. He looked at Steptoe, but the young man was scrambling back and forth between the guns, and Lee thought, No time to be polite. He won’t mind my leaving. He moved back down the hill, encountering more soldiers coming up toward him, carrying heavy wooden crates filled with powder and shell. The men, grunting and cursing, climbed past him. Lee reached the bottom of the hill, saw a private holding his horse, the man clearly disgusted with the duty, and Lee said, “Thank you, soldier. You may resume … uh, you may return to your unit.”
The private was gone without a salute, and Lee moved the horse toward the trail; it shied slightly from the sounds of the fight above him, the thudding impact of the shells against El Telégrafo and the response from the Mexican guns. He patted the horse’s neck to calm it. A new wave of musket fire broke out to the right, beyond Atalaya. Lee thought, Colonel Riley, General Shields … it’s the rest of the division. They’re in the rear!
He rode along the desolate trail, felt strangely alone, swallowed by the sounds of the fight above him. He spurred the horse harder, the trail still empty in front of him. Reaching a patch of open ground, he stopped the horse, realizing that he had ridden right out in the clear. He could see both hills now, on either side of him, the bright streaks from the big guns ripping the air high overhead. He looked up, absorbed the stunning sight, bright orange coming from Steptoe, and from the big hill, the blue of the copper Mexican shells. He stared up, felt childlike again, watching one shell explode too soon, a bright burst of blue fire, thought, My God, I’m in the middle of it. I’m … underneath it. He could hear shouts, orders, and looked around frantically, thinking, I’m in the wrong place … move to cover. He saw blue, a line of men emerging from the brush, and he could hear the words. English, thank God. The soldiers moved toward him, and Lee saw an officer, a young lieutenant, a thin blond man carrying a small sword.
“Sir! Do you know where Captain Holcomb is? We are supposed to be … up there. Lieutenant Jeff Garrett, sir, Company E. We’re supposed to link up with Company B.”
The man was out of breath, and his men began to gather around Lee. Lee pointed up the trail, said, “Follow me. There’s cover up ahead.” He suddenly remembered the spring, the rocky trail that the Mexicans had used. “Yes, come on!” He spurred the horse, moved out of the open into thicker brush, stopped, waited for the men to catch up, thought, This is ridiculous. They can’t follow me like this. Get down! He dismounted the horse, and the men were with him now, and he said, “This way, up here!”
They followed him up a short rise, and he pushed past the thorns, saw the great dead tree. He felt a breath of relief, Yes, you found it. He could still see his imprint in the dirt, the small dug-out place beneath the log. He moved quickly around the log, pointed at the small opening in the rocks, said to the lieutenant, “There. That goes straight into the enemy’s camp. Be careful … I’m not sure what you’ll run into.”
Garrett looked around, appraising. Then he looked at the spring, saw the footprints in the mud, the trail. He turned to Lee and said, “I don’t know you, Captain, but appears you’re a mighty good scout. We’ll find Captain Holcomb soon enough.” He turned to his men, said, “Quiet! Let’s do some sneaking!”
Garrett scrambled quickly up into the rocks, the men filing behind him, and Lee backed away, moved around the log, climbed his horse and rode back to the trail.
He saw more troops moving into the trail, some marching in formation, others lying on the ground. Lee moved among the wounded men, his eyes fixed on their bloody clothes, saw other soldiers tending to the wounds. He halted his horse, dismounted. A man stood holding his side, his shirt ripped open. A loose flap of skin hung from his chest, a great dark stain on the man’s pants. Lee
thought, Help him, do something. He moved close, knelt down beside him, but the man did not look at Lee, merely stared at the ground with wide eyes, his face ghostly, pale. He rocked slowly, his breathing coming in sharp, short bursts. Seeing the man holding his own body together, blood flowing through his fingers, Lee felt the sickness rising in his gut, wanted to back away, move far away from the horror. He fought it, forced himself to say, “Can I help you, soldier? What can I do?”
The man still did not look at him, continued to rock, and Lee stood straight, thought, He cannot survive this. He is … dying.
“It’s all right, Captain. We’ll take him, now.”
Lee turned, saw two men holding a litter, a dirty white cloth tied to two fat sticks. Lee backed away, watched them roll the man over, and the man did not protest, stared ahead calmly, still held his side with both hands as they laid him out on the cloth.
“Ready … up.”
The two soldiers moved away, carrying the man back down the trail. Lee watched them disappear into the brush, thought, He was alive, but … he was waiting to die. He knew it. Lee felt a cold chill. That’s the hand of God, the gift of peace. He turned, looking for his horse among the confusion of more men, more litter-bearers and, scattered out through the brush, more wounded. One man screamed, a sharp high wail, and then another. The sounds multiplied, some men praying, loud calls to God, some not uttering words at all, just a haunting inhuman wail.
