by Jeff Shaara
Scott stared out into the dark, trying to prevent Twiggs’s sarcasm from penetrating. “There will be a hearing. This will be handled by military law. We must control our emotions about this. Any guard who abuses his position, anyone who causes injury to any prisoner, will be arrested.” He looked at Twiggs, endured his grim stare. “This will be handled in the manner I decide, General.”
Twiggs nodded slowly.
Scott looked away again, said, “I hope we can find out why. I can understand a man just breaking, coming apart under fire. But to turn against your own, to kill the men you served with …”
“They are not our own, sir. Most of them are barely even Americans. There’s quite a few Irish. You see their flag? Has the Irish harp, even the name was Irish, St. Patrick.”
Scott shook his head. “That isn’t a good enough answer. Being Irish doesn’t make a man a traitor. What about the others? Not all of them were Irish.”
“Catholics, then. It has to be the religion. When the shooting started, they decided it was the Mexicans who were their own kind, not the Americans.”
Scott thought of the church service he attended, the old priest who ignored him. Is this what that old man was hoping for, is the Church the only loyalty that matters? Angry again, he thought, Now I have to decide whether they should be executed for it. There was not enough loss today, now there must be death on top of death. He looked up, saw the stars and a tall white steeple. He realized suddenly he was standing beside a church, thought, I had not even noticed. The San Patricios are confined inside a church. I suppose there is some justice in that.
He began to move away, said to Twiggs, “Good night, General. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Twiggs said something Scott didn’t hear, and he was already moving out in the dark, saw the staff waiting for him. He could still see the cold faces of the deserters, heard the voice of Pillow, the words of the politician, victory, our cause. Words, he thought, ridiculous words. The cause lies out there on that awful ground. Those men did not fight for a Church, or some boundary dispute, and they aren’t dying for a President. They fought for the men beside them. Those are the heroes. And today we lost too many of them.
24. SCOTT
AUGUST TWENTY-FIRST
HE HAD MOVED INTO THE HOME OF THE LOCAL BISHOP, A grand estate above Churubusco. He was not sure how the invitation had come, whether his staff had arranged it or the offer had come from a man with enough political awareness to offer some kindness to the power of the yanquis. Scott had only met the bishop once, early that morning. Both men had extended strained cordiality. Their exchange was brief, Scott’s impatience and discomfort obvious, and it was plain to both men that there would be no point in additional pleasantries, no need for social conversation.
He sat now at the massive mahogany desk, ornately trimmed with gold. He had become used to this style of decor, of grand excess that he had seen in the homes of the upper class or the prominent politicians. He shifted himself in the deep leather chair, thought, How many servants did it take to load this thing in here? And how many of them are now carrying muskets for Santa Anna?
He was still exploring the desk, poking his hands into each drawer, all empty, the preparations thorough for the occupation of the conqueror. He thought of the bishop. What does he use this for? Is he so busy with earthly matters that he must have this grand office, all these drawers? The bishop was gone now, had left the house immediately as the staff moved Scott’s baggage inside, and Scott thought, He probably won’t stay here at all until we’re gone. If he did, he might have to answer for that eventually, explain his disloyalty. By now he’s probably in the city, telling his archbishop how we kicked him out. They do like their martyrs.
He had barely slept. Instead he had paced for long hours near the small huts the men had secured for sleeping quarters. The faces of the San Patricios still haunted him, but there had been something unsettling in the quiet darkness that overshadowed the image of the deserters. He could not hide from Pillow’s words, It might be over. All night there had only been silence, no skirmishes, no cavalry raids, only the glow in the north from the lights of Mexico City, and he had thought, Yes, Pillow could be right. The Mexicans are not sleeping either. They know what we did to their army, and Santa Anna could be in very deep trouble. That’s all it usually takes for those people. Their history is full of revolutions that seem to happen when the strong man shows he is not so strong after all.
Dammit. Pillow could be right about that too. I don’t like believing he’s right about anything. Santa Anna cannot stand up in front of his people this close to the city and not give them a victory. He might be gone already, some other strong man telling their Congress that he knows a better way. Right now the better way may be to save face the only way they can. If they cannot win on the battlefield, then they must settle this thing by keeping their honor intact, even if they admit military defeat. At least they have their scapegoat. Santa Anna has filled that role before, after they lost Texas. He can sure as hell fill it again.
Scott had not ordered a new assault, made no plans for the new dawn. Instead he had given the commanders instructions only to get the men in shape, close up the lines, bring the units together. The only change in position would be the artillery; he’d already arranged the heavier batteries in a wide arc, in preparation for a siege, the same strategy they had used at Vera Cruz. If the troops were to be sent in against the walls of the city, it would be very helpful if the walls were broken up first.
The casualty reports were more accurate now, and Worth had been right, the army had lost over a thousand men. We still don’t know what strength the Mexicans have, he thought, and we will probably never know just how many we faced yesterday. But our numbers have never been good, and after yesterday they are worse. It would be damned convenient if somebody out there decided this should end without us having to break down the doors.
He closed the drawers, ran his hand over the smooth black desktop, looked to one side, where he saw the wooden boxes filled with his papers, books, the growing pile of reports that would eventually go to Washington. He leaned down, pulled one box toward him, then stopped, sat up straight, said aloud, “I’m not in the mood for paperwork.”
He saw a face now, Sergeant Dunnigan peering around the huge doorway, and Dunnigan said, “You called, sir?”
“No, dammit!” His voice echoed in the large room, seemed to push the small sergeant back into the hallway.
Dunnigan hesitated, came forward again, said, “Sorry, sir. I thought I heard you say something.”
“Tell me something, Sergeant. Do you spend your whole day perched just outside my door, waiting to pounce on every peep I make?”
Dunnigan pondered the question, said, “Um, no, sir. But Major Scott was very clear, sir, when I was assigned to this duty. If the major was unavailable, it was my responsibility … your needs were very particular, and you expect only the most rapid response. Major Scott said that you don’t like to be kept waiting, sir.”
“Major Scott said that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that the fuss part of Old Fuss and Feathers?”
Dunnigan seemed to shake. “No … uh, I don’t know what you mean … oh God.”
“At ease, Sergeant. I don’t mind it. I know the men have to call me something. It’s a tradition of every army that ever marched. Actually, has a bit of flair to it. Better than simply calling me the old man.”
Dunnigan seemed able to breathe again. “The men have nothing but respect, sir.”
“Yes, well, I appreciate hearing that. But there’s perhaps a bit less respect today than there was yesterday. It was not this command’s best performance.” He paused, rubbed his hand across the desk again. “We lost … a lot of people yesterday, Sergeant.”
Dunnigan said nothing at first, then stepped closer, said, “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”
“Not much anybody can get me right now. Unless it’s an open route to Washington. I have
to tell them, you know. It will be official, black and white, for everyone to see. Men are dying down here in astounding numbers, both sides. Mexico’s had their share of wars, but they’ve never had an enemy like us, never this efficient.” He paused, his finger tracing the gold trim on the desk, his mind beginning to wander. He looked up at Dunnigan again, saw patience in the small man’s face, thought, He’s a good listener. Maybe I need that right now.
“We’re killing more of them than they are of us, I’m certain of that, Sergeant. As a military commander, that is supposed to make me happy. It makes General Pillow positively giddy. And that’s a strange thing, because he’s not a soldier anyway, he’s a politician. The only reason a politician is happy about bad news is when he can blame it on somebody else. Pillow knows that his friend James Polk is too far removed, too far away to be blamed. But someone has to answer for this, someone has to be responsible. When we get back home, the news of what happened down here will already be there, the people will already have read the newspaper stories, seen the numbers. There will have to be some answer, a damned good answer about why their husbands, sons, brothers, and neighbors died.” He stopped again, tried to see the President’s face in his mind, thought, Good God, I’ve forgotten what he looks like.
He shook his head and continued, “Polk handed us a war, a nasty little fight about land, all about boundaries and territory. My job was to end it, simple enough. Conquer the peace. All right, we’re winning. But it won’t be Polk who will hear it from the people who lost family today. It won’t be Polk who will send those damned San Patricios to the gallows. It will be me.”
He looked up at Dunnigan now, saw something different in the small man’s expression, the nervousness gone. Dunnigan said, “Sir, I don’t know much about politics and the like. I learned when I joined this army to do what I was told and don’t say nothing about it. Forgive me for saying this, sir, but there’s not a man I know in this army, not an enlisted man anyways, that doesn’t believe in what we’re doing here.” The nervousness began to overtake him, and Dunnigan hesitated.
Scott intervened, “Go on, Sergeant.”
Dunnigan thought for a moment. “Sir, I never knew much about the fight in Texas or about Santa Anna, but when my unit was told to march south, when we got on the boats at New Orleans, didn’t none of us ask why. It was our duty. That’s what being a soldier is all about. If there’s a problem for you when we get back home, you got a whole army here that’s gonna stick up for you. You can depend on that, sir.”
Scott was stunned. He stared at Dunnigan, felt something tighten in his throat. He fought it, blinked hard, wanted to say something, but saw his son-in-law now, standing at the door, a look of horror on the major’s face, staring at Dunnigan’s back. The young Scott said, “General, I’m sorry. I was out for a moment. Is there a problem? Has the Sergeant done something …?”
Dunnigan stood aside, seemed to shrink again, and Scott said, “Calm down, Major. I asked Sergeant Dunnigan to come in. Nothing of concern.”
The young Scott glared darkly at Dunnigan, said, “Sergeant, you may return to your work. I will handle things now.”
Scott watched the scene play out, thought, My daughter loves this man. I have no idea why.
Dunnigan headed out the door, and Scott said, “Sergeant. Thank you.”
Dunnigan looked back, nodded quietly, and was gone. The young Scott grunted, said, “Any insolence should not be tolerated, sir. My job—”
“Your job, Major, is to do what I require. I requested that Sergeant Dunnigan come in here. You will not think any more about the matter.”
The young man’s face tightened into a sulk, and he said, “No, sir, of course not.”
“Is there anything else, Major?”
The young man’s eyes widened and he said, “Oh, yes, sir. Forgive me. Mr. Trist is outside.”
TRIST BROUGHT WORD FROM THE BRITISH DIPLOMATS THAT HE should expect a visitor, some official from the city. But Scott did not want to stay in the office, decided instead to ride forward, move through the men. If there was to be some delegation, he would not sit and wait in the bishop’s house, but would meet it on the road, surrounded by the energy of the troops.
They rode out near the artillery batteries, and Scott watched the men moving the larger guns into position, Duncan’s battery, and he could not help but become involved, had asked politely if he could sight one of the guns himself. He estimated the arc, turned the small wheel to raise the barrel of the first gun that would carry the deadly shell straight at the old castle, Chapultepec, the strong fortress that had always dominated the defense of the city and might do so again.
He backed away from the gun, stepped up into the road, looked out toward the fat walls of the castle, said aloud, “That should have some good effect. You men carry on. And, thank you.” He walked back to his horse and climbed up.
Scott looked at Trist now, who had sat quietly while he worked with the gun, and he said, “I rather enjoy that, you know. Don’t have much chance to help the men. There’s always been something appealing about artillery, the power of that.”
He looked toward the gun crew, could see the officer nervously waiting. “Best get moving. They need to correct my aim, repair whatever damage I might have done, and they won’t do it while I’m watching them.”
Trist laughed, and Scott turned the horse, moved away. He saw Trist glance back, and Trist smiled again, said quietly, “It seems you’re correct. They’re climbing all over the gun.”
Scott smiled, said nothing, stared straight up the road to where a squad of cavalry moved slowly toward him, and behind, a black wagon.
“It seems, Mr. Trist, we have a visitor.”
The troops stood aside, watched the wagon roll slowly through the lines, following the escort of Harney’s cavalry. The word had passed quickly, the soldiers already beginning to speculate, the rumors beginning to flow. The men who actually caught a glimpse of the well-dressed Mexican passenger were the first authority, spreading the word of something very official, certainly an envoy to see General Scott. One word began to find a voice all along the lines: surrender.
Scott watched the cavalry move close, and the horsemen moved to the edge of the road, the wagon slowing. Scott waited, thought, Protocol, stay on the horse. The first move comes from them. Well, hurry up. Damned politics.
Trist leaned close, said, “It’s General Mora. I met him with Mr. Bankhead, back in the spring.”
Scott heard the excitement in Trist’s voice, said quietly, “At ease, Mr. Trist. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Mora stepped from the carriage, glanced briefly at the gathering soldiers, then turned to face Scott. The Mexican general bowed slightly from the waist. He eyed Trist for a moment, seemed to study the two men, his face locked in a somber seriousness. Then he slowly drew a folded paper from his pocket, held it out toward Trist.
Trist said quietly, “Uh, sir, may I? I believe this is my position here.”
Scott stared at the paper in Mora’s hand, said, “Go.”
Trist climbed down from the horse, said something in Spanish Scott did not understand, then took the paper and glanced back at Scott. “Allow me, sir?”
“Go on, Mr. Trist, read it.”
Trist unfolded the papers, turned slightly so Scott could see the pages. Trist read slowly, and Scott saw more than one document, thought, Whatever it is, it’s complicated. We’re not invited to a party.
Trist said something to Mora again, and Mora moved back to the carriage, climbed in, and Scott said, “That’s it? He’s leaving?”
“Oh, no, sir. He’ll wait out of earshot while I explain this. Diplomacy, sir.”
Scott felt suddenly out of place, like a child at an adult gathering. “Well, can I get off the damned horse?”
Trist moved closer, said, “Oh, certainly, sir. He will wait while you and I discuss … this.”
Trist handed the papers to Scott, and Scott saw the crown, the British seal, thought, At lea
st this is in English. He read the short letter, said, “Bankhead. You’ve mentioned this one before. Friend of yours?”
Trist nodded. “Yes, quite so, sir. I spent some time with him after I arrived here. He’s been on the side of peace from the beginning. The British have spent a considerable amount of energy trying to bring the Mexican officials to the peace table, with no success. It seems that may have changed.”
Scott sniffed. “Yes, having an army outside the gates of your capital will do that.”
“I know from personal conversation that Mr. Bankhead’s frustration has been extreme. This is all the more reason, sir, to take this seriously. Mr. Bankhead is endorsing this letter from the Mexicans. He would not do so if it was, um … a waste of time.”
Scott scanned the Spanish words, said, “You understand this?”
Trist hesitated, said, “Yes, sir. Should I read it to you, sir?”
Scott scanned the papers, said, “Just tell me what it says. Are they surrendering?”
“No. This is a first step, though. Mostly they are demanding concessions, terms that I suspect you would find, um, unacceptable. They are certainly under a great deal of pressure to save face, and this letter reflects that. It is not very constructive, though … it is a first step. They are open to your point of view.”
Scott handed the letters to Trist, said, “My point of view is that we’re about to reduce their capital city to rubble. Your friend Bankhead endorses their demands? Frankly, Mr. Trist, I’m confused. The Mexican authorities should be asking for peace, not making demands. I believe we’re holding the cards here. The Mexicans aren’t in any position to demand anything.”
“No, sir. But they have to start somewhere, they have to put on the good show for their people. Then they can blame … the enemy, if the terms are not generous.”
Scott laughed, shook his head. “They can blame me. Fine, whatever it takes, Mr. Trist. But surely they understand we are prepared to assault the city. If we march into the city square, there won’t be much to talk about.”
