by Jeff Shaara
Lee climbed onto his horse, intending to go, but the sounds held him for one awful moment, the voices blending with the sharp thunder from the hills. The horrible chorus of war filled his mind, consuming him, and he closed his eyes, said, No, do not do this. Take control. He spurred the horse, moved past the men until the trail abruptly stopped. Lee thought, This is the end, it’s as far as we could go without running into the enemy. But it should be far enough. The highway—the main road—has to be near here. He stepped the horse carefully through the thorns, over another rocky creek bed, where he could see movement again, more blue troops, shouts, the sharp crack of muskets.
Musket fire came from very close now, straight in front of him, and he dismounted, thought, Get down, you are too close. He moved slowly, pushed his way through a dense undergrowth, and was suddenly looking at a wide clearing, El Telégrafo up to the left.
Far out in the clearing there was a great flow of men, some wagons, broken guns, horses, all moving away from the big hill. Lee led the horse up a small rise, walked out onto a hard, flat road. He looked out, both directions, saw that the road ran straight into the big hill, then curved to the right, toward the main Mexican position. He clenched his fists, said aloud, “The road! It’s here!” He suddenly felt ridiculous, but there was no one watching him, and he thought, You were close after all. I wonder if General Twiggs knows?
He saw a wagon now, moving quickly toward him, and he backed away as it clattered past, its wild-eyed driver staring ahead. The man wore a strange uniform, short gray coat, and Lee felt his heart jump. Mexican! The road began to fill, more Mexican soldiers coming out of the brush, some moving straight from the big hill. Lee pulled the horse off the road, stood at the edge of the brush, thought, You’re in the wrong place again, Captain.
They did not pause to look at him, their flow was unstoppable, the raw panicked retreat of a beaten army. He pulled his pistol, thought, Prisoners, perhaps … but there are too many. He felt suddenly helpless, a spectator watching as Santa Anna’s troops scrambled away from their enemy in a confusion of strange and colorful uniforms, men in solid gray, some with red coats, gold and white, tall round hats dropping away as they ran from the soldiers in blue.
He moved slowly up to the road again, looked across the flat open space. In the distance he could see the river, and all across the ground the great flow of men was spreading. From the big hill cannon began to fire, the sounds streaking out above him. The shells landed far out in the field, great flashes of fire blowing gaps in the retreat, shattering pieces of the running men. More men streamed past close to him, and he read the panic in their eyes, their wild animal stare, men running from something inside them, some beast that took control, that took their fight away. They carried no muskets, no weapons at all. One man suddenly fell forward, facedown into the hard road, and Lee expected him to get up quickly, to run again. The man struggled to stand, and Lee saw the blood, the man’s back a dark stain. The man took a step, then fell facedown again, hitting the ground with a sharp smack. Lee stared at the man, who lay motionless. He began to feel sick again, some part of him wanting to pull away from the horror, but he could not look away, saw more of the Mexican soldiers run into the road, saw a wagon rumble past them, one man reaching up, trying to grab the horse, secure blessed escape, but the man could not hold on, was knocked away, fell into a heap. He fought to stand up, but the ground came alive with a blast of fire and dirt, just missing the wagon. Lee backed away, stared at the scene, saw what was left of the man. The shock was wearing off now, the horror becoming one great mindless blur as he watched the death of the enemy, the collapse and destruction of an army.
From the west came a new rush of sound, voices, shouts, and he saw a mass of blue push into the road, thought, Riley, the flank. There was even more musket fire now, and the tide of the retreat moved away from the road, Mexican soldiers running hard for some safe place where the guns could not reach them.
He looked toward the hill, high above the road, saw the flashes from the guns, but there was too much smoke, the hillside bathed in a thick white fog. He felt his heart pounding, thought, I have to see what is happening.
Pulling out his field glasses, he scanned the big hill, found a gap in the smoke. He could see troops again, American troops, the Mexican guns turned, firing into the retreat of their own soldiers. Then he saw a flag, held tight by the sharp breeze. It was the Stars and Stripes. He lowered the glasses, thought of General Scott, Yes, you did it! This was your plan, and it worked. The sickness was gone now, replaced by something new, unexpected, and he was smiling, felt pride in the old man, pride in the army. My God … we have won!
Men in blue began to flow past him, Twiggs’s men, officers with swords raised, hoarse voices urging their men forward to pursue the enemy. General Scott should be here, Lee thought, this was his fight. He should be right here, to see this. I will tell him, explain what this was like. He felt something open up inside him. He climbed on his horse, stood high in the stirrups and watched as more of the men in blue swept down from the big hill. He raised his hat, waving it high over his head, began to yell, something he had never done, to cheer the men, to cheer their commander, his voice blending with all the other sounds, sweeping away the horror of war. He could feel it inside of him, opening up some new place, the sounds deafening, glorious, the magnificent joy of victory.
9. SCOTT
APRIL NINETEENTH
HE WALKED ACROSS THE RUGGED GROUND, STEPPING OVER THE rocks and the littered remnants of Santa Anna’s army—clothes, boots, guns, flags. The Mexicans’ retreat had been so rapid, there was no organized withdrawal, no gathering of valuable equipment, no salvaging the tools of war.
The victory had been complete and overwhelming. Scott understood now that Santa Anna had ignored the flanking movement. Even when the mass of blue began to appear between the two hills, the bulk of the Mexican forces had stayed tight in their defenses, still looked to the front, still expected the main assault to come straight at their strength. When Twiggs’s men opened the flank attack with full fury, when the guns on Atalaya began to throw deadly fire into exposed Mexican positions, the surprise and panic had been complete, and the Mexicans had suddenly fled.
All around him stood prisoners, men with eyes downcast, their sadness and dull anger revealing their shame. Tattered strips of uniforms lay scattered, men with dirty bandages on arms and legs, one man’s head wrapped in a bloody white turban. They moved in a single file line slowly down through the brush. He watched as still more emerged from the rocks, and he thought of counting them, could see dozens, maybe a hundred, prodded along by men with bayonets. He had heard the first estimates, over three thousand prisoners in all. He knew he could not feed them, and had already decided to parole them, to turn them loose and hope they went home. If they chose to join Santa Anna again, they would have to fight them again.
The soldiers were watching him, and he could hear their cheers, exhausted men who felt that rare sense of pride, unique to the soldier. Two armies faced each other with deadly intent, and one prevailed. There was no doubt, no disputing the result, no arguing that either side could have claimed victory. He listened to the sounds of his men, thought, Santa Anna cannot go back to Mexico City and convince his people that he won this one. If there is any kind of government there, someone who can make decisions about peace, this will tell them that we are here to win. And we are coming straight at them.
He eased down through the rocks, saw his staff, an aide holding his horse. He took the reins, climbed the horse, sat solidly in the saddle, gazing up over the high ground as a swarm of blue pulling wagons came down from the hill. Very good, he thought, we can use those. Mexican wagons are something we will not set free. He saw more of his men climbing down from the hidden cracks in the hill, saw men carrying bundles of muskets, one man toting a thick bunch of swords like a sheaf of wheat. The men put their captured prizes into piles, guided by officers, and there was back-slapping, joyous talk. Men began to poi
nt in his direction, and he heard the cheers again. He waved to them, could not help but smile.
Enjoy this, he thought, this is no Vera Cruz. This is better than a siege. I don’t like sieges. I’d rather face the enemy, and drive him away. This is a victory.
He saw more men waving at him, heard shouts, and the men were not just cheering, but were moving toward him, calling to him. An officer with a short thick beard came forward, his coat open. The man was breathing hard, but was all smiles, and he said to Scott, “General … we have quite a prize here, sir.”
Scott looked toward the wagons, smiled, had been through this before. “Spoils of war, Lieutenant? What is it?”
“Sir, I had heard General Santa Anna has a wooden leg. It seems, sir—” The man stopped, took a breath, still grinning widely. “It seems, sir, that now we have it.”
Scott’s eyes opened wide and he said, “Are you certain, Lieutenant? I cannot imagine Santa Anna making a retreat on one leg.”
“Sir, we have his carriage, his personal belongings. There is silver, uniforms, and … a considerable amount of money, sir.”
Scott looked behind him, said to an aide, “Notify the provost. Have guards posted at that carriage.”
He looked at the lieutenant again, said, “We’ll keep the carriage intact, Lieutenant, protect Santa Anna’s property for a while. That could come in handy. My guess is that he has more than one wooden leg. I see no reason to protect that.”
The lieutenant snapped to attention, said, “Sir, it would bring a great deal of pride to the Fourth Illinois if we could keep the leg. My men put up a hell of a fight, sir.”
“I thought you might have something to say about that.” He smiled again, said, “It’s yours, Lieutenant. Take good care of it.”
The soldiers whooped loudly, pounding their lieutenant on the back, congratulating him and themselves on their great trophy. Scott laughed, before turning his horse toward the road. That’s a trophy to take back home, he thought. Every man in that regiment will have a story to tell, give birth to his own legend.
With his staff following him, Scott moved along the road, down into the rugged landscape, rode past the big hill. The signs of a fight were scattered everywhere. Besides the debris left behind by the retreat, broken muskets, pieces of wagons, shattered and broken cannon dotted the landscape. But most of the Mexican defenses were untouched, had been abandoned before the Americans could even try to reach them.
He looked out to the right, could see the smaller hill, tried to remember the name, thought, Captain Lee’s hill. He could see the Stars and Stripes up there as well, saw the cannon still in place. He stared out that way, thought of his engineer, the scouting mission, the good plan. There is no good strategy without good men to carry it out. This time, one engineer might have made all the difference. It was the only way to make a fight here, and it worked. We cannot afford brute force, we don’t have the strength. Maybe my commanders will understand that now, maybe Twiggs will see how this worked, maybe he learned something. Maybe we should pay a bit more attention to what these college boys have to say. This army could have been held up here for days, charge after bloody charge, thrown all our strength away against these rocks. Instead, a three hour battle and the enemy is swept away. Good work, Mr. Lee.
He moved the horse along the main highway, moved out past the big hill, where the scattered remains of the Mexican retreat spread all over the flat ground, all down along the river. Men in blue were moving through the debris, some were pulling bodies together, lining up the Mexican dead for burial. Now he saw more bodies, and a small group of men already at work with shovels. These dead bodies wore blue, and he stopped the horse, thought, For God’s sake, don’t count them, but he couldn’t help it, ran his eyes along the awful sight … fourteen. He saw two men emerging from the brush, dragging another corpse, laying the body heavily at the end of the row. The men saw him now, saluted with bloody hands, and Scott said, “You have many more out there, gentlemen?”
The men did not seem impressed with Scott’s presence, looked at him with no expression. This response surprised him, but he thought, No, take no offense. Look at the job they are doing. That is the priority here.
One man shook his head, pulled the hat off a balding head. A rough beard muffled his voice. “Quite a few, sir. It’s a rough place. The boys gave it their best, sir.” The man looked down at the bodies again. “I been hearing … lots of fellas been saying the Mexicans can’t fight. They ain’t no match for us. I expect …” The man paused, rubbed a shirtsleeve over his eyes. “I expect these boys here found out otherwise.” The man pointed to the gravesite, where the shovels lay still now, the men all watching Scott. “We best be gettin’ back to work, sir.”
The man moved toward the fresh dirt, picked up his own shovel, and Scott spurred the horse again, thought, It’s always the same. Every fight, every victory, someone has to do … this. What I have to do is send the letters, notify the War Department, give this place a name, so the people back home will know where their sons, their husbands, died. He thought of the map, a small village beyond the hills, Cerro Gordo. That’s the name, he thought, that’s what this day will be called. The Battle of Cerro Gordo. He rode past the graves, stared out down the wide road, recalled the man’s words, thought, You’re right, young man, I’ve been hearing the same thing, some of our people think we will walk into Mexico City without firing a shot, that the Mexican army has no fight. But there will be more of this. The veterans know it. The younger ones are just finding out. And they’ll just have to get used to it. They’re soldiers.
“WE WILL MOVE OUT TOMORROW, MARCH GENERAL WORTH’S division to Jalapa. I don’t expect any resistance.” The commanders watched Scott, some nodding in agreement. He paused, sat back in the chair, said, “The official reports will go out to Washington very soon. The Secretary …” He glanced at Pillow “… and the President want to know what happened here. They expect to hear the worst. It will be a delight to give them good news. However, I want to caution anyone here who feels they should present their own version of events. There is only one official report.”
There was silence, and Scott looked at the faces one by one. Twiggs was looking down, shrugged his shoulders slightly. Scott thought, No, not him, he could care less what Washington thinks. He saw Patterson looking at him, nodding slowly in quiet agreement. Next to Patterson, Pillow was nervous, moving in his chair, and Scott thought, Of course.
“Yes, General Pillow, you have something to add?”
Pillow stood, turned, briefly nodded to all the others, as though greeting them for the first time. “Sir, I just want to be sure that the official report gives credit where credit is due.”
“And what do you want credit for, General?”
Scott saw Patterson squirming slightly, and he thought, You should be nervous, General. You’re his commanding officer.
Pillow said, “Sir, given that there was considerable activity on our right flank, I just want to be sure that the actions in the enemy’s front are not forgotten. My brigade succeeded in forcing the enemy before us to surrender. It should be so noted.”
Scott watched as Pillow sat down, saw the prim satisfaction of a man who has shed light on his own importance. Scott looked at the others, said, “Very well. I will make the appropriate investigation, and if your claims are accurate, if you, General Pillow, did in fact cause the enemy to surrender, it will be so noted.”
The others murmured their reactions, and Scott felt suddenly very tired, thought, No more meetings. Not today, not for a while. If I had the power … not ever.
“That’s all for now, gentlemen. I will have your orders for the march to Jalapa soon. You are dismissed.”
The men stood, and no one spoke, there was none of the social banter typical of the men in command. He watched them move away, thought, They are not friends, not even cordial. I suppose that’s good. Hard for them to conspire some plot against me if they can’t stand each other.
He saw P
atterson standing alone, seeming to wait for the others to move away. Scott stood and asked him, “Can I do something for you, General?”
Patterson looked at the ground, then slowly looked up at Scott. “A moment, sir?”
Scott pointed toward the tent, stepped toward the opening, said, “Would you be adding something to General Pillow’s report?”
It was sarcastic, and Scott expected some indignant response, the same response he always seemed to get from the rest of them. But Patterson shook his head, seemed to struggle for words, finally said, “Sir, for the sake of accuracy …” He paused, frowned. “My feeling is that General Pillow’s version of events is not entirely accurate.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Sir, please understand. I am aware that General Pillow is my subordinate, but it has been made clear that he has the President’s ear. If he does not perform quite as efficiently as he should, it might not serve the interests of your command to make mention of that.”
“General, give me your version of what occurred this morning under your command.”
Patterson moved inside the tent, sat in the small chair, said, “General Scott, at the appointed hour, the order was given to General Pillow to advance his brigade in demonstration against the enemy. The order communicated specifically that if General Pillow discovered an opening in the enemy’s defenses, he would pursue that opening to our advantage. In fact, sir, General Pillow was considerably delayed in moving his troops into position. The demonstration did not begin as ordered, and when his troops were finally in position, the enemy had already begun to withdraw. For him to claim credit for the surrender is … amazing, sir. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Scott moved behind the table, sat down, reached behind him to a small wood cabinet propped up and fastened to a tent pole. His hand wrapped around a bottle of brandy, and he clamped two small glasses between his fingers, turned, set the glasses on the table.
