Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  Beauregard jumped and slid down beside him, and Lee moved ahead, stepping carefully through soft dirt, rocks, keeping close to the side of the causeway. The ground out to the left was thick with grass, tall weeds, black patches of muddy water. There was a sharp sound of cracking brush now, and Lee raised his hand, Halt, could hear heavy movement in the weeds. Beauregard was silent behind him, and both men listened, staring into dense brush. There were more sounds, branches cracking, quick footsteps in water, and Beauregard pulled his pistol, pointed at the sound.

  Lee reached out, put a hand on his arm, whispered, “Easy. It’s probably a pig. I’ve already scared a few this morning. So far, they seem more inclined to run away than make a stand. Best to leave them be.”

  Beauregard didn’t seem convinced, hesitated, and Lee pointed to the holster, issuing a quiet command. The pistol disappeared. “Keep in mind, Lieutenant, that’s the escape route. It’s all we can do if they send somebody down this road. Follow the pig. I’d rather stay dry, if it’s the same to you.”

  He began to move again, pushed through a clump of bushes, then stopped, raised his field glasses, scanned a moment, heard Beauregard breathing heavily behind him.

  “There. That ravine. We can make it that far, then move away from the causeway. It’s clear ground on the far side. We have to get closer, see what’s happening up near the gate.”

  He stepped forward again, more brush, saw a low pile of rocks, extending out from the causeway, climbed up, saw a wide ditch filled with black water on the other side. He heard Beauregard make a small groan behind him. Lee stepped over the rocks, looked down at his dry boots, the soft mud, said, “Leave them on. Can’t chance what might be … down there. Better to have wet boots than bloody feet.”

  Beauregard sat on the rocks, shook his head, said with a frown, “I used to love to play in mud. When I was a kid, you couldn’t keep me in dry shoes. But I swear, Captain, there’s more mud around this city than the whole state of Louisiana.”

  Lee smiled, but had no patience for reminiscing, knew there was too much yet to be done. “Let’s go.”

  He stepped one foot into the black, his boot sinking down, quickly took a second step, the water now flowing over the top of his boot. He looked at the far side of the ditch, thought, Fast … do it now.

  He lunged ahead, taking long strides as he splashed his way to the far side. He moved up to another row of rocks, turned, watched as Beauregard struggled across. The young lieutenant reached the rocks, and Lee turned, began to climb up, and Beauregard said, “My boot! I lost my boot!”

  Lee turned back, saw Beauregard’s one bare foot, even the sock pulled away, the skin pale white. Lee turned away, self-conscious, not wanting to stare at the man’s embarrassment. Beauregard looked back at the swirling mud, stared for a moment, and Lee thought, No, don’t go back, let it go.

  “Lieutenant, you’ll have to manage. You’ll never find it.”

  Beauregard seemed wounded, moved away from the ditch, climbed the row of rocks, said, “I like these boots. Expensive.”

  Lee began to move again, heard small grunts behind him, the young man picking his way slowly. Lee turned, saw the young man stepping tenderly, felt his impatience rising again. “Lieutenant, I’m going up to that ravine, then I’ll try to move out to the right until I can see the gates. I suggest you … go back and get your boot. Join me when you can.”

  Beauregard saluted him. “Thank you. Thank you, sir. I’ll be along directly.”

  Lee moved away, still close to the edge of the causeway. He could see the ravine a few yards ahead, more thick grass, thorny brush. He felt his foot grabbed tightly, caught in a tangle of vines. He tried to twist free, then reached down to slide a thick ropelike plant off his boot, felt a sharp sting in his hand. He jerked his hand back, saw a spot of blood on his palm, saw the long thorns on the vine. His patience was gone now, and he felt his anger suddenly wash over him. Jerking hard, he ripped his boot through the vines, thought, What kind of unholy place is this? Is this some kind of message from God, go home, go back to green grass? He stood still for a moment, took a deep breath, said aloud, “Calm down, Captain.”

  Lee stepped more carefully as he eased down into the ravine, picking his way through the vines, more thorns, before moving across the bottom and climbing the far side. He could see movement, a long low line of brown, raised the field glasses. There was a fresh row of logs, cut trees, men moving around them, shovels, dirt flying. He scanned down the line. More men were dragging clumps of brush out of the ravine he was in, and beyond, a reflection off a brass cannon caught his eye. He spotted two more, a full battery. He looked back along the cut trees, saw a different color uniform, an officer, the man directing the workers. More officers, several standing together, stood and watched. The men in charge, he thought.

  He lowered the glasses, slid down the hill slightly and settled into the soft grass behind the edge of the ravine. He heard sounds coming up behind him now, brush cracking, saw Beauregard, the young man soaking wet, every part of him covered with a dark ooze. Beauregard climbed up close to him, said, “Found it, sir. Thank God! You see those thorns?”

  Lee felt the weariness flooding over him, did not look at Beauregard. “Take a look … carefully, Lieutenant. They’re building a defensive line.”

  Beauregard climbed up, wiped at his field glasses with a dirty hand, looked at Lee, his face a silent question. Lee already had pulled the clean handkerchief from his pocket, held it out. Beauregard wiped the glasses, scanned out, said, “My God. They’re expecting a fight.”

  Lee nodded, said, “It’s a very strong position, high ground, looks like a solid line of works running between the two causeways, supported by artillery. If anyone in this army believes the Mexicans are ready to turn tail, he should come here. They intend to make a stand.”

  Beauregard sat beside him now, held out the muddy handkerchief, and Lee glanced at it, saw the young man withdraw it, discreetly tuck it away. “Um, sorry, sir. I shall replace it.”

  Lee did not respond to the apology, was thinking of the artillery. “We must count the guns, we must report the number of cannon.”

  Beauregard raised himself up to the edge of the grass. “It’s just like this to the east, sir. Same way on the other causeway. They’re going to an awful lot of trouble unless they believe we’re coming this way.”

  Lee stared back toward the south, toward the position of the army, Scott’s headquarters. He sat up straight now, thought, Of course, nothing has changed. Even after all the fights, it’s the same strategy. They still expect us to come at them in a straight line. These gates … they’re the closest point, the closest to the center of our position, good solid roads running in a straight line right at the city. They still believe we will do this by their rules. But this time … they may be right.

  He turned, crawled up, saw Beauregard glassing out to the left, the west, and Lee looked the other way, toward the San Antonio gate. It is the closest … the straightest line, he thought. The ground is difficult, and their artillery will make the causeways nearly impassable. But with our strength, with quickness, we can push through.

  Beauregard still glassed to the west, said, “It’s impressive, isn’t it? The Halls of Montezuma …”

  Lee looked in that direction. He had grown used to seeing the massive stone hill, the thick walls of Chapultepec emerging straight up from the rocks, a part of the hill itself. Lee said, “Remember Vera Cruz. We do not have to attack their strongest point. Our goal is the city. Chapultepec dominates the ground. It would be a difficult place to make an assault. The cost could be very high.”

  Beauregard lowered the glasses, looked at him, said, “Sorry, but I don’t agree, Captain. The enemy is preparing a strong defense of these gates, the southern gates. They don’t expect us to attack the fortress itself. That’s why we should.”

  Lee slid back down the hill, put the glasses in his coat, said, “That fortress has dominated this place since before Cortez. If we try
to hit them there, it could make Santa Anna very happy. These gates … the southern gates are vulnerable, much harder to defend. If we move quickly enough …”

  Beauregard was beside him again. “Sir, with all respect, my report to General Scott will include a recommendation that we make the first assault from the west, toward Chapultepec. If we are successful, there may be very little fight left in the Mexicans, and the city will certainly fall. We might not even have to fight to get through the gates.”

  “If we are not successful, Lieutenant, then the city will never fall. We will lose too much.”

  Beauregard moved down to the bottom of the ravine. “Sorry if I’m out of line, Captain. But I have a responsibility to report the situation here as I see it. General Scott will give your report more weight than he will mine. But I cannot see how we can just … ignore that big fort. Half the Mexican army could be in that place.”

  Lee felt the weariness clouding his brain, thought, This is no different from Vera Cruz. I will not argue this, not now.

  “We better get moving, Lieutenant. General Scott will be anxious to know what we saw out here.”

  Lee moved down past Beauregard, stepped through the vines, heard the young man close behind him. He was very tired now, felt the soreness stiffening his knees again, the soggy wetness in his boots. I do not make the decisions, he thought. Thank God for that. I could not weigh it all, decide this right now. We’re just engineers, we have no right to choose the fate of this army, to throw our reports in the general’s face as though we have the experience, the wisdom, to know what is best. That is the job of the commander. He stopped, glanced back at Beauregard, saw the young man moving up close, curious, waiting for Lee to say something. Lee saw the defiance still on Beauregard’s face, wanted to make his argument, but he needed all his energy for the march back. His mind was already far ahead, moving him through the mud and brush. He turned away, began to move, could see the low rocks again, the awful muddy water, looked up toward the roadway, pointed, said, “This way.”

  He climbed up to the road, reached back, pulled Beauregard up, and the two men moved quickly on the open roadway, crossed a small bridge over the wide ditch. Lee stopped to look back, stared at the city walls. He could still see the motion of the workers on the defensive line. The sun was falling low now, and he looked toward Chapultepec, the dull white walls reflecting a soft glow of sunlight, thought, No, not there. He is wrong. Surely he is wrong.

  28. LEE

  SEPTEMBER EIGHTH, NIGHT

  SCOTT HAD MOVED OUT OF THE BISHOP’S GRAND ESTATE. AS A result, the meeting was held in a church, the only large building in the small village of Piedad. The meeting had been Scott’s way of getting all the input he could, listening to all the arguments, the opinions, about what strategy the army might use to assault the city. It had been awkward at first, and they all knew it was because of General Worth. He had entered alone, and the talk grew quiet, the faces of the staff watching him, the other senior commanders attempting not to. Worth had tried not to notice, moved self-consciously to a seat behind even the junior staff. Lee could not help watching Worth suffer in quiet pain. It led him to think of words, something to say to help. But on a deeper level, even Lee understood that Worth himself would have to find some way past the awful cost of the fight at the Molino.

  As the meeting began, Scott did not speak directly to Worth at all. Lee wondered if the two men had engaged in quiet conversation before, words from the commanding general to heal Worth’s wounded pride, to soften the strange hostility between them. All through the meeting Lee had glanced back, trying to read the man’s face, but Worth barely spoke at all, spent most of his time staring down between the pews, lost in his own depression.

  The focus of the meeting was strategy, and Lee had spoken his mind about attacking the southern gates, still believed the cost in casualties would be far less than sending waves of troops up the sloping approaches to the big fortress. The other engineers had agreed with him, but Beauregard had made his case as well, and now the engineers were silent, having given as much as Scott would allow.

  Scott sat back in the chair, faced the others, spread out in the rows of pews. He looked at Twiggs, said, “General, you’ve been fairly quiet tonight. I would like to hear from you.”

  Twiggs shifted his weight on the hard wood, slowly stood and leaned forward, laying his hands on the back of the pew in front of him. Staring down, he spoke very quietly, matching his tone to the meeting’s somber setting.

  “My views are well known, sir. It has been difficult for me to accept that what I have often considered to be the best strategy is usually disregarded by the commanding general.”

  Twiggs paused, seemed to be forming his thoughts, but he spoke no more. Lee studied Twiggs’s face, saw his strange sadness, quiet frustration. He glanced around, saw the others looking down or glancing away self-consciously, and Lee thought, He seems defeated, as though he expects no one to listen to him.

  Scott said, “I would like your views, General.”

  Twiggs looked at Scott now, leaned forward again, exhaled loudly. “If we are to beat these people … if we are to win this war … we must beat them completely. This is a big country. General Santa Anna can make war against us forever unless we take him out, eliminate his command. It accomplishes very little if all we do is rush into the city and put up a flag.”

  Twiggs sat down, still showed the frustration, and Lee looked at Scott, who stood up slowly, said, “Beginning tomorrow, I want the engineers to coordinate with Captain Lee. I want sites chosen for the placement of batteries. The artillery will be our most important asset. When the guns are in place, I will direct the placement of the troops. I can tell you now that the southern gates to the city are critically important.…”

  Lee felt his heart jump, thought, Thank God, he agrees with me. I had so hoped …

  “They are critically important,” Scott continued, “because Santa Anna believes they are important. We must convince him we agree. We will make a significant demonstration in that area, a full brigade at least. The rest of the army will focus their attack … on Chapultepec. This meeting is over. You are dismissed.”

  Lee felt a shock, sat still while the others began to move away, sliding across the polished wood, standing in the aisle. He looked to the side, saw Twiggs still sitting as well. Twiggs slowly stood, his eyes on Scott. Twiggs’s sadness was gone now, replaced by something Lee could not name. Scott glanced at Twiggs, and Lee saw the quick nod, the acknowledgment, two old commanders sharing something the young officers could not understand.

  Twiggs moved away, glanced quickly at Lee. His expression was different now, softer, and he made a brief nod toward Lee, then turned and walked slowly up the aisle. Lee still sat, waited for the aisle to clear, saw Scott stretching his back. When Scott saw Lee, he asked, “You decide to hang around for a bit of religion, Mr. Lee? It’s a Catholic church. If you do any praying, best keep it to yourself.”

  Lee nodded, didn’t know what to say, felt a tumble of words rolling through his mind.

  “Something bothering you, Mr. Lee?”

  Lee felt a low burn on his neck, thought, Stop this, this is not your place. He shook his head slowly. “No, sir.”

  “Bull. What’s on your mind?”

  Scott moved to the aisle, slid into the pew, sat heavily. “Damn these hard seats. Makes it hard to spend much time in these places.”

  Scott shifted his weight, tried to get comfortable. “We have a hell of a fight in front of us, Mr. Lee. I believe it is the last fight. This war could have ended any time we sent their army packing. But there was always some negotiation, some piece of paper signed by Mr. Trist. But Davy Twiggs is right. Unless we defeat Santa Anna, unless we remove him from power, there will still be a war.”

  Lee glanced to the rear of the church, saw the young Scott watching, waiting impatiently. Scott followed Lee’s gaze. “Dismissed, Major. I’ll call you if I need you. Mind the door, no visitors.”

&n
bsp; The young man disappeared outside, the large wood doors swinging shut quietly. Scott looked at Lee, said, “My son-in-law needs to be in some office, locked away in some damned big building in Washington.” Scott paused, seemed to clear his mind.

  “Maybe you need to know this, Mr. Lee. Maybe you need to hear this before you feel comfortable talking to me. I’ve been in a uniform a long time, a damned long time. My friends consider me an outstanding commander. Hell, so do I. My enemies, and there’s a few, they think I’m a foolish old peacock. Davy Twiggs thinks I’m soft. Gideon Pillow thinks I’m dangerous. Worth … God knows what Worth thinks. I’m his personal tormentor. Point is, Mr. Lee, command is all about the minds of the people around you, understanding how they think, how they see you, and how they see themselves. Am I making sense, Mr. Lee?”

  Lee nodded. “I believe so, sir.” He studied the old face, tried to see Scott’s eyes, the old fire, but Scott was looking away, seemed to study the small statue behind the pulpit, pale yellow marble, the Virgin Mary.

  Scott shook his head. “It’s a hell of a thing we do here. We sit in a house of God and plan the conquest of our enemies.” He turned to Lee.

  “War is not a natural state, Mr. Lee. It is not a fact of nature, something man must adapt to or accept, like floods, or smallpox. We create it. We perpetuate it. And it is incumbent on us to do the best job we can, or we suffer the consequences. The worst consequence of fighting a war is not if you lose, Mr. Lee. The worst thing you can do is win badly. The losers go back to their people and endure the shame, or the humiliation, and the politicians make excuses, we were outgunned, outfought, but still they hold on to their cause, create their martyrs. The winner, he has proven his cause is the stronger perhaps. Might makes right. The glory, all the celebrations, the parades are his. But if the winner has not won completely, efficiently, the loser will not respect him, will never accept that the defeat was just. They will begin to find strength. The cause, the martyrs, will come back to life, and before you know it, there is another war, and if the winner isn’t careful, all his boasting and bluster may make him blind to history.” He stopped, looked up, scanned the walls of the church, the artifacts, seemed lost for a moment.