by Jeff Shaara
The class system here is just as it has always been in Europe, and the leaders all believe that the mass of people at the bottom simply don’t know anything, have no idea how to take care of themselves, must be disciplined and led by a strong hand. But they’re wrong, have always been wrong, and if the people begin to understand that the power is theirs, that their numbers alone are a power that puts fear into the dictators and kings, then … change happens, and dictators become just as vulnerable as the people they hold down. Even that priest must understand this. And maybe he understands it all too well. Maybe we’re a threat to his power as well.
He picked up a piece of hard black bread, held it in his hand, stared out a wide window, could see a church steeple nearby, thought, How can these people be inspired by a man like Santa Anna? He tried to picture the Mexican commander, was not sure just what he looked like, how he might stand at the head of his few remaining troops, what his speeches, his calls to the fight, might sound like. He thought, Whatever he does … it worked for a while. He mobilized an army. He might still make a war against us, still convince some of these people to fight us. But in the end we will win.
We have to.
He laughed at himself. Yes, old man, you are well trained. This is one argument you do not have with Washington. You believe you are doing the right thing, that this is a just war, a necessary war, all the things a good soldier must accept with absolute certainty. And all of that is reinforced by these Mexicans, by their graciousness and their smiles, and their wonderful food. But Santa Anna has had some good soldiers too, and they believe something very different. We cannot be too confident. There may still be a fight to be had.
He thought of Trist, who had been with the army for weeks but had not yet met with him. Instead, Trist sent a series of letters, each one angering him even more. He’s still just a damned clerk, Scott thought. He doesn’t think there’s a fight anymore, but no matter how much power he believes they gave him, this is my army, and my war.
He knew Trist had begun to correspond with foreigners in Mexico City, mainly the British representatives. He was angry that Trist had tried to reach the Mexican government as though this was just some argument to be solved by flowery words. Scott looked past his plate, saw a letter on his desk, the latest report of Trist’s efforts, and he saw a round blot of brown juice on the paper, a careless spill from his dinner. He wiped at the juice, the ink beneath it smearing, thought, Yes, you damned fool, that’s how significant your letters are, how effective your strategy. Wipe it away with my thumb.
He backed the chair away from the desk, stood, laid his napkin across the plate, saw Sergeant Dunnigan moving slowly into the room.
Scott said, “You been watching me, Sergeant? Not necessary to hover over me like some damned vulture.”
Dunnigan shook his head. “Oh, no sir. I just thought you’d want me to remove your plate quickly. Sorry, sir.”
Dunnigan seemed frozen to one spot, and Scott thought, How did he get this job? Scott said, “Take the plate, Sergeant. I won’t bite you.”
Dunnigan moved quickly, swept the plate and silver away in one motion. Backing toward the door, he said, “I hope you enjoyed the veal, sir. The rancher was particularly proud—”
“Veal?” Scott glared at the sergeant, felt his stomach turn. “That meat was veal?”
Dunnigan seemed stunned, nodded slowly, backed away as though expecting Scott to shoot him. “Yes, sir. I thought you knew that, sir.”
Scott put a hand on his stomach, turned away, moved to the wide window, said, “Damn. Wish I didn’t know. Try never to eat the stuff. Can’t stand the idea. Horrible, barbaric. Baby cows.”
Dunnigan paused at the door, said, “I am terribly sorry, sir. I will be certain no more veal is served at headquarters, sir. I will tell the cooks.…”
Scott turned, thought, Good God, he’s going to cry. He pointed out the door, said, “Never mind the cooks, Sergeant. It’s all right. You are dismissed.”
Dunnigan was quickly gone, and Scott looked again at the window, said aloud, “Actually, if he just wouldn’t tell me, we should have it again. I rather enjoyed it.”
JULY FIFTEENTH
The rides through the city were becoming monotonous now, the routine an annoyance to endure, just as the fleas had once been. The weeks dragged on and the army was still not prepared to move. Scott knew that he was still at the mercy of Washington, the paperwork and the slow arrival of the ships that brought reinforcements to his army. When the calendars told them it was July Fourth, Independence Day, there had been a subdued celebration, nothing with the pageantry and energy the men would have enjoyed back home. The army was after all on foreign soil, held in place by forces they could not control, and few felt independent at all.
TRIST MOVED SLOWLY, SEEMED TO BEND EVERY JOINT IN HIS body as he walked into the office. Scott sat, watched him carefully, thought, A stiff wind could do damage to that man. He pointed to the chair, said, “There, Mr. Trist.”
Trist seemed grateful, moved to the chair, paused, said, “Excuse me, General, but since this is our first meeting …” He held out his pale right hand, which quivered like a fragile old man’s. “Sir, I am delighted to meet you. It is an honor.”
Scott tilted his head, looked up at the man’s sickly complexion, expected to see a patronizing smirk, the same kind of oily smile he always received from Gideon Pillow. But Trist was watching him patiently, his thin face almost sorrowful.
Scott said, “By God, you’re serious.” He pulled himself slowly up out of the chair, reached out, engulfed Trist’s hand with his own, and Trist nodded his head repeatedly while saying, “Thank you, sir. I had thought … you might not have appreciated my meaning.”
Scott motioned to the chair again, and both men sat, and Scott said, “You are right about that, sir. I haven’t appreciated much of anything you’ve tried to do since you’ve been here. In fact, as long as Washington refuses to offer much support to this army, my attitude is entirely justified. Or, would you disagree?”
Trist looked down, stared at his hands, flexed his fingers, said, “My authorization, the orders you were sent regarding my authority …” Trist paused, and Scott thought, Of course, here it comes, pulling rank, reminding me just how much power he has. Trist said, “General Scott, I feel I have been misunderstood. I have no intention of telling you how to run this war. I feel the Secretary’s letter is confusing, and quite possibly overstates my responsibility. I do not believe that Washington expects me to come down here and single-handedly end the war.”
Scott leaned forward, said, “Well, Mr. Trist, so far we are in agreement. Continue.”
“Sir, I have begun to make some overtures to the Mexican government.”
“Yes, I know. The British, I believe.”
“Yes, of course. The British are motivated to see this war concluded. I believe they are concerned that if we tend to pursue a policy of aggression anytime we have a border dispute, this may eventually mean a war with them. Despite our rather, um, shaky history, it is clear that the British would rather be our ally than our enemy. To that end, they have gone to some lengths to get assurances that the Mexican Congress can be persuaded to accept our terms. We have been told that with the careful … with the discreet application of the money I am authorized to spend, key individuals in the Mexican government will agree to a cessation of fighting.”
Scott stared deeply into Trist’s eyes, and Trist seemed to flinch. Scott felt a flood of heat spreading up the back of his neck, the weeks of simmering anger boiling into an explosion. He clenched his jaw to hold the fire inside. He spoke with a barely tempered ferocity, “Mr. Trist, are you telling me that you intend to end this war by bribing the Mexican government to stop fighting?”
Trist’s face suddenly changed, and Scott saw a smile. Trist nodded. “I know. It sounds rather … outrageous. Please let me explain, sir. The Secretary has authorized me to distribute as much as three million dollars—”
Scott suddenly co
ughed, grunted, and a low sound rolled up again from deep inside. “Three million dollars?”
Trist nodded again, said, “Please, sir, let me explain. The British have received encouraging reports from some of the Mexican officials. The request has been made with some enthusiasm that we proceed with the transfer of funds. Even though my orders seem to give me the authority to proceed on my own, I admit I am uncomfortable. I cannot make such an arrangement without your permission, or your support.”
Scott sat back, looked at the ceiling, his eyes following the lines of a delicate painting that swirled around the small copper chandelier. He suddenly felt like laughing, thought, This is truly amazing. All of them, Washington, perhaps the whole world, they’re all going mad.
“Mr. Trist, do you know how much three million dollars will buy? For starters, that’s exactly how much President Jefferson paid for the whole damned Louisiana Territory.”
Trist nodded slowly. “Oh, yes, I know, sir.”
“Even if Washington believes ending this war is worth that kind of money, do the British believe that these cooperative individuals include General Santa Anna?”
“Oh, quite so, sir. The word is that the general is eager to accept our proposal. I have communicated with his representative myself.”
Scott closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, looked at the still smiling Trist. “Santa Anna is willing to take your money. And in return he assures you he will surrender.”
“That’s what we are being told, sir.”
“And Washington thinks this is a good idea?”
“Don’t you, sir?” Trist paused, the smile gone, and he looked down, said, “General Scott, may I speak frankly?”
“At any time, Mr. Trist.”
“Sir, if we can end this war by making a payment to the Mexican authorities, is that not a better way than the loss of lives? Is not three million dollars a good deal less than what this war is costing us to fight?” He paused, looked up again at Scott. “Sir, I am not a politician. I have no political agenda. If the war can be brought to an end, I am not concerned with what my reputation might be, or what the President will say. I am more concerned what it will mean to your men, and to our country. And … I am authorized to secure funds from the Treasury, and even, sir, from you.”
Scott was surprised, said, “Noble of you, Mr. Trist. I’m not terribly accustomed to selfless motives around here. However, I’m also very doubtful that anyone in Mexico City will take your money and then tell their people they have lost a war without at least defending their capital, and oh by the way, now they are very rich. I doubt seriously that any of Santa Anna’s share will end up benefiting the public good.”
Trist nodded slowly. “Sir, my contacts with the British, and with the Mexican authorities, have been most encouraging. I understand there are risks, but this plan has the blessing of the President.”
“I have no doubt of that, Mr. Trist. The President has no faith at all that I can actually win this war by fighting it. That is, after all, why he sent you down here in the first place.”
“Please, General, do not judge me harshly. I am beginning to suspect that Washington, that perhaps even the President, is not in the best position to know what is happening down here. Frankly, sir, since I have been here, I have been impressed with the spirit of this army. They are certainly willing to make a fight. But, would it not be better to avoid one?”
Scott leaned back, folded his arms across his chest. “Tell you what, Mr. Trist. I’ll agree to this plan, I’ll even provide funds for part of this payment. But first I want to see a signed peace treaty. I want to see General Santa Anna’s signature on a piece of paper. If he does that, it will be hard for him to change his mind. Your friends the British would have a serious problem if he did.”
Trist smiled again, said, “Thank you, sir. That is the most I can ask for.”
“And, after all, Mr. Trist, this will please the President. General Pillow can write him now that I have seen the light, that I have come around to Washington’s way of thinking. I should caution you, however …” He paused, leaned forward, stared hard at Trist. “The war is not yet over. This army has been promised another column of reinforcements very soon. Once they arrive, we will begin the march to Mexico City. You may continue your talks however you wish, with one very important condition. You are traveling with this army now, and despite whatever your damned papers say, you are under my command. This is still a war, and this army will continue to operate accordingly. That means you will not discuss our operations, our troop movements, or our strategy with either the British or the Mexicans. Do you understand the definition of treason?”
“I understand it very well, sir.”
“Good. Now, assuming we occupy Mexico City, we will likely need you to negotiate a treaty, whether we have to pay for it or not. My feeling is that there will only be peace when Santa Anna is utterly defeated and we have occupied their capital. That’s how wars are concluded, Mr. Trist. You don’t buy peace at a marketplace.”
14. LEE
AUGUST EIGHTH
THE REINFORCEMENTS CAME IN SLOWLY, SOMETIMES ONLY A single company, or part of a regiment. But then the larger columns began to arrive, complete with the blessed wagons and fresh horses, and by the first week of August the army could count over ten thousand men fit for service. To the regulars, already veterans of this fight, the frustration of the wait was finally over.
With Patterson and the volunteers already on the boats carrying them home, the army was now organized into four regular divisions, two commanded as before by Worth and Twiggs, but in Patterson’s absence, seniority fell to Gideon Pillow, and the other senior commander, John Quitman. The advance was to be staggered, Twiggs in the lead, the others following with only a few miles between each division. The guerrillas could still be a problem, but now, with a contingent of marines, and the uniting of the cavalry patrols that had been scattered along the road to Vera Cruz, all the army’s strength could be put forward.
LEE WAS ON FOOT AS HE MOVED QUICKLY DOWN THE NARROW shadowy street, the faint first rays of daylight blocked by the tall homes. The army camps were spread throughout the city, and as long as there was no threat from Santa Anna, there had been no need for urgency, for keeping the men billeted together. The urgency had been more in keeping the men busy, avoiding the boredom and monotony that might cause discipline problems. For weeks now the troops had spent most of the daylight hours enduring the routine of drill, units gathered in every open square to practice the precision for fighting a battle that some were beginning to believe might never come.
As the weeks passed and the fresh troops arrived, the drills took on more meaning, and even the bored veterans felt a new energy when the word came down that finally the army might begin to move.
Lee could hear the voices beyond the dark street, the sound of a bugle. He quickened his pace, taking long strides over thick cobblestones. He passed a group of small children, boys with black hair, emerging from the narrow space between two stone houses. He could not hold back the smile, laughed as they marched in line with long sticks on their shoulders, one boy saluting him. Lee stopped, returned the salute, saw the young dark eyes examining his uniform, saw all the eyes focused on the pistol in his belt. He had a sudden uneasy feeling, thought, What do you know of Santa Anna? He heard the blast from a bugle again, thought, No time for this, said, “As you were, soldiers.”
Ahead of him was brighter daylight, more voices, commands from drill instructors, more short blasts from bugles. He passed a wagon spilling over with colorful blankets and an old man who smiled at him and reached up to unroll a dark red blanket. The man nodded cheerfully, trying silently to convince Lee that the thick wool was truly a blessed bargain.
Lee smiled, shook his head, said, “No, gracias.”
There is no time for shopping, not today. He kept moving, could see the street opening up now into a wide square. The soldiers were lined up in thick rows, muskets on their shoulders. Lee saw the fl
ag, the Fourth, one of Worth’s regiments. Across the square another line of troops stood, others were marching in a tight formation, drilling. The troops close by were turning in line now, and Lee saw the officers in charge, one tall in the saddle, thin, unmistakably a veteran’s face, the other a small man with a thick dark beard. The shorter man was shouting something, pointing to a mistake, a small collision near the end of the line. Lee smiled, thought of West Point, the drilling and marching and formations that became a part of every cadet. He looked again at the smaller officer, thought, Definitely young, probably a recent graduate.
He saw more officers on horseback, across the square, thought, The brass, I should check with them, ask someone there. He began to move again, tried to slip unnoticed by the frustrated officers, the jumble of troops now straightening out by the forceful pulls and tugs from the hands of profane sergeants. The younger officer turned, glared at Lee, and quickly the man’s face seemed to soften.
Lee nodded and said, “Sorry. Don’t mean to interrupt.”
The man tipped his hat, and now one of the senior officers was riding quickly toward them, the horse’s hooves clicking across the uneven stones of the street. Lee saw a colonel, the face familiar, and the man yelled, “Lieutenant Grant! Spend more time on your instruction and less on chatting with visitors! This is the infantry, mister, not your comfortable quartermaster post!”
The officer saluted, said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, Colonel Clarke.”
Lee was embarrassed, thought, Wrong place for me to be. He waited for the colonel to ride closer, prepared his own apology, but the man turned abruptly, rode back toward the other horsemen. Lee began to walk again, glanced toward the back of the young lieutenant, both of the officers purposely ignoring him.
