by Jeff Shaara
Lee started to speak, but Scott continued.
“There are generals in this army who remember Cerro Gordo, and say, ‘Well, see, they ran away. They won’t fight. All we have to do is ride up to the gates of Mexico City, and we will win.’ That kind of thinking has cost this army a quarter of its strength.” Scott leaned back in the pew, took a long breath, said, “My fault. Ultimately, I am accountable.” He looked at Lee. “Remember that, Mr. Lee. The commander is always responsible. If your subordinates are incompetent, you had better remove them quickly. It is not them who will suffer for it, it is you.”
“I don’t believe I will face that predicament, sir.”
“Bull. You are born to it, Mr. Lee. Your heritage, your upbringing, your training. And frankly, Mr. Lee, I will admit to you, knowing full well this will embarrass the hell out of you … you are the best damned officer I’ve ever served with. You know that?”
Lee looked down, said, “Surely not, sir.”
“Ha! Told you it would embarrass you. Be honest with me, Captain. You don’t agree with my strategy, do you?”
Lee felt the burn coming back again, said, “My apologies, sir. But, you asked for our judgment …”
“Doesn’t mean I have to listen to it. It’s still my decision. I understand why you think the southern gates are the best route. It’s cleaner, more likely to be a quick fight, put us into the city with fewer casualties. But Davy Twiggs is right. Putting our flag in their city square may give President Polk a case of the giggles, but it doesn’t mean the war is over. We could be here for years, keeping the guerrillas away. And who do you think will command the guerrillas? Our friend, Mr. Santa Anna. There’s more to this war than good tactics. Remember what I said. We have to win, completely, utterly. Victory means conquest. Think like your enemy, understand how he sees things. That damned castle out there means something to those people, to all of them, the army, the civilians, the politicians. It’s a symbol of who they are. If we just skip around it because it’s inconvenient, the symbol will have survived. They will not respect our victory. Santa Anna would use that, you can bet your life. He can draw power from that. We have no choice, Mr. Lee. We have to defeat Chapultepec. It is the only defeat they will accept.”
Lee looked toward the front of the church, looked to the statue, the ivory face staring upward. “There is more to command than I expected. My apologies, sir.”
“For what? You did your job. No one could do it better. You’re still learning, Mr. Lee. That’s the important thing. Learn. I’m still learning, for God’s sake. A year ago I thought Davy Twiggs was nothing but a thick-headed old mule. But he’s also a combat officer, and with a stern hand guiding him, he’s a damned fine leader of troops. A year ago I thought Pillow would collapse under the strain, crawl back to Washington the first time he saw combat. But he proved me wrong. He’s not perfect, but he’s a fairly competent commander. You, you’re what, forty years old? You have a long career in front of you. And a hell of a lot to learn. When I’m put out to pasture, when some new pink-eared President decides my time is past, I’ll wager you’ll be ready. And the country will be better for it.”
Lee was feeling overwhelmed, said, “Thank you, sir. I try not to think about the future. God will decide what course I follow.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Lee. But sooner or later I’ll have a little chat with God, if you don’t mind. Bring a few things to His attention.”
Scott stood now, stretched his back again, groaned softly. Lee stood, faced him, waited for the final word, the formal end to the meeting.
“Tomorrow, you will begin placing the batteries. You’re in charge, I’ll make sure they know that. Hell, they know it now. But keep one thing clear when you set those guns. I want that damned castle blown to hell. If we can break up those walls, our job will be a great deal easier.”
He looked Lee squarely in the eyes. “We have one chance, Mr. Lee, one last chance. If we don’t take that place, there won’t be enough of us left to try again. If we don’t take that place, we will lose this war. There is more at stake here than where the hell Texans can graze their cattle. If we lose, it means we are weak. It means anyone who has enough ambition and enough strength can come after our land, our boundaries. The English, the French … we could have a generation of war on our hands. We have to win, Mr. Lee. We have to go home from here with the whole world understanding that you cannot conquer us, that our resolve and our borders are absolute. We have to win this war so completely that the whole world believes God said so.” Scott moved into the aisle, said quietly, “Good night, Captain. Get some sleep.”
Lee watched as Scott made his way slowly toward the door, and he thought, I can never speak of this, can repeat none of this. It was not appropriate for him to share this with me. He still felt embarrassed, his mind racing with Scott’s words. He is right about one thing. You have a lot to learn. Perhaps he is right about … all of it. He thought of his father now. Would this have been the same? Would the lessons have come from him as well? He heard Scott’s words again, your heritage. Does that matter after all? Is that what destiny is about, what brought me here? He felt a wave of frustration. No, I am not supposed to know the answers. I may never know.
He looked up, scanned the darkened glass of the windows, focused on the small paintings on the ceiling, angels and cherubs. His eye caught motion, and he realized now Scott was still there, standing by the door, watching him, and Scott said, “If you’re going to stay here awhile, Captain, it couldn’t hurt if you’d put a good word in for the rest of us.”
The battle for Chapultepec (Library of Congress)
29. LONGSTREET
SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH, PREDAWN
HE LAY ON HIS BACK, THE BLANKET FOLDED UNDER HIM, AND stared up at a sky filled with stars. The moon had set, falling away to the west, and he knew the sun would come soon and that around him the sleeping army would begin to stir. But there were always these few moments, the quiet time when he would come awake, listen to the silence, and stare up at the sky.
He saw the quick dart of a meteor, the streak of light fading away, and he smiled. He had always enjoyed this, the feeling of floating in the endless dark, the small thrill of catching the glimpse, the piece of burning rock, the last fiery gasp on the long voyage. He turned to one side, felt a dull pain in the shoulder, flexed the arm, thought, Not too bad, still stiff. It won’t bother me today. There will be other concerns.
The men of the Eighth Infantry had already seen the hardest fighting of the war, had been part of Worth’s bloody awful day at the Molino. The regiment was gathered close now, the units reorganized, the wounded long taken away, to a hospital a mile behind them, a small village with a name few of them could pronounce. To the men who slept under the stars, there would be little time for missing the men who were not there, and over the last two days all conversation had been about the great fortress. Even the men who had been stubborn about learning a few words of Spanish, whose crude pronunciation twisted the name of every town, knew the name Chapultepec.
The regiment had accepted this blessed rest, stayed quiet, and for the most part the commanders left them alone. Longstreet had spent the day before playing cards, but there was no spirit in the game, no bawdy jokes, none of the quiet tales of the strangeness of William Worth. One by one the players had moved away, thoughts of poker overshadowed by thoughts of what would happen tomorrow, how early the orders might come, how few men they had left. And if anyone had sought the quiet space, to be alone with his thoughts or his prayers, those moments had been swept away by the steady thunder of the artillery barrage.
The shelling had lasted nearly all day, the batteries relentless, pouring their shot into Chapultepec until it was too dark to find the target. A few of the men had gone forward, moving up through Pillow’s camp, seeking a better view. They cheered, as did Pillow’s men, when the good aim found the tender spot and a piece of the fat stone wall came apart, shattering under the impact of a twenty-four-pound shell.
Longstreet rolled over on his back again, knew the dark would give way soon. He let his eyes relax, waited to catch the next quick flash of another meteor. He heard sounds coming from the hills far to the south, a long low howl, then higher, the short quick yelps of a coyote, protesting this large intrusion into its domain. He thought of Texas then, the coyotes everywhere, darting across the flat grassland, filling the dark with the strange, frightening sound many of the soldiers had never heard before. Here, the coyotes stayed far away. Back then there had been contests, the men who knew how to hunt claiming some prize for actually shooting one, but they were rarely successful. He smiled, thinking of his friend, Sam Grant, trying to shoot the shotgun. His target was far out of range, and the smoky blast from the fat gun knocked Grant off his frightened horse. They had plenty of time for such things then. They were in wild country, a place of adventure for the men from the cities, sometimes experiencing wide-eyed fears, snakes, spiders, the scorpion. The officers had fished, hunted, played poker, but then it was time to move south, begin the march with Zachary Taylor, and the good times had ended. He knew Grant was close by, the Fourth Infantry, another piece of Worth’s division, and he thought, Sam’s still sleeping. He won’t wake up until he has to, the last man out of his blanket. Stay low, Sam. This could be a difficult day.
Longstreet had been out of the Point now for five years, had risen to the title of adjutant for the Eighth, the title a simple reward from Worth for good service in the field. But with the experience had come something new, something disturbing. He still worried about the men, as he worried about his friend Grant. But he felt little concern for the enemy, for what these men and their guns would do to those men across the way. He thought of the strange feeling, the cold numbness, stepping across the bodies at Resaca de la Palma, and then the first glimpse of one of his own, a young corporal from Tennessee, the man shot dead right in front of him. He had cried, had to pull hard at his own discipline, keep going, move forward. But the face of the boy had stayed with him, even as he fired his pistol into the chest of a young Mexican soldier.
At Cerro Gordo he had stepped over the twisted bodies of more Mexican soldiers, ignoring the horror of their bayonet wounds. He focused instead on the enemy who could still run, chased the panicked Mexicans as far as his lungs would allow. His sword raised high, his throat hoarse with the high screams that came from someplace inside him he had not known was there, he raced headlong and outran his fear and reached that place that was inside all of them. It gave him a chill even now, and he thought, It is so easy to do that, to become a killer. What is it that makes them the enemy? He had asked himself the same question after every fight, and he settled for the vague notion that it was, of course, the duty, the soldier’s duty. And the commanders seemed to understand that the unexplainable quality was clearly in this man Longstreet, and had pointed him out, recognized him in the reports. Lieutenant Longstreet was a good soldier.
He began to feel restless, knew he was fully awake now and there would be no more sleep. He did not have a watch, had no idea what time it was. Maybe you should get up, he thought, find the coffee. There was always coffee, somewhere, a small fire still glowing red. But he was suddenly anxious, felt the nervous twist in his stomach, thought of the dawn, the first light, when the hard sounds from the big guns would begin again.
No, there is no hurry. Think good thoughts, something pleasant. He saw her face now, the wonderful Louise, the devilish smile, a hint of mischief. He thought of Grant again, this time at Fort Jefferson, near St. Louis. Sam, you chased that poor Julia, that adolescent, all over the countryside. Finally she chased you back, served you right, and even you knew it was love, mad, stupid, childlike love. But Louise … very different, something very adult. He could remember the first time she winked at him, winked, and he smiled again, thought, It scared me. Women don’t do those kinds of things. But it became their secret code, the forbidden signal in the crowd of her family, always embarrassing him. He thought of her father, the unfortunate coincidence.
Colonel John Garland, the old soldier, the crusty veteran of 1812, was one of Worth’s two brigade commanders. He’s right here, Longstreet thought, probably a few yards away, and he certainly hates you, probably hates anyone who looks that way at his daughter. Good thing my orders come from Colonel Clarke. I’d probably be in front of every assault. He remembered the argument, Garland putting a finger in his face, the only argument a father has left: She is too young, Mr. Longstreet. But he knew there was more left unsaid, thought, Colonel Garland is a veteran. He knows what the orders mean, what can happen when soldiers march away. No matter how much some young man loves your daughter, there is always the chance that he might not come back. But I will. God help me, I will.
The stars were fading now, and he heard a bugle, far in the distance, then closer. Around him, men began to move, muttering the small curses that greet every bugler. He sat up, rolled to one side, felt the soreness in the shoulder again, pushed himself up. The faint daylight was growing in the east, and he looked out across the camp at a dozen campfires, men moving to stir the ashes, the clanking coffeepots ending what remained of the silence.
Most of the men were up and moving about. Longstreet reached under the blanket for the tin coffee cup, blew the dirt out, ran his finger along the scratches, the initials. He had picked the cup up in the cornfield, the horrible ground near the Molino. The fight was by then over, the sounds of musket fire scattered, and he moved among the bodies, counting, looking for the men who had marched in his command. The cup had been dropped, kicked away. The initials, L.L.S., had been scratched with great care, probably with the point of a bayonet. He had looked over the roster, tried to find the name, but the initials made no match, and so he wondered if it was not those of a soldier, but someone else, a remembrance, a girl.
No one had claimed the cup, and he could not just hand it over to the cook, had thought, It was important to—one of them. If we are to leave so many behind, bury so many in foreign soil, there should be something, some memory, some symbols we bring home. Maybe someday I will find out who L.L.S. might be.
The losses were staggering, and among the officers a strange feeling of dread began to grow as they watched the strong units dwindle away. It had been sickness at first, from the first landing at Vera Cruz, and even before, in south Texas, the tormenting misery of heat and strange food, insect bites and water that carried some odd odor. There were always long lists of men on sick call, and a horrifying number of men did not return at all, would be buried in this hostile land a victim of some unknown plague. As the fighting grew bloodier, the beds were filled with the wounded, and the men with knotted stomachs would have to find some other place to endure their misery. As the numbers continued to fall away, the officers could not keep the question to themselves: Are we, after all, enough of an army?
Longstreet thought of the low conversations, the quiet fears, the young lieutenants watching their small commands grow smaller still. The commanders still believe, he thought, they know how many of them we will face today. If we are so many fewer, they are as well. Thank God for General Scott.
He had no patience for jokes about Scott, would not tolerate the nicknames, had given many of his men a good dressing down for their loose comments. If Taylor were still in command, he thought, we might still be up there near the Rio Grande, in some godforsaken desert, waiting for Santa Anna to make the next move. Yes, thank God for Winfield Scott.
He moved toward a fire, saw a coffeepot hanging, felt the sudden need. A few officers had begun to gather, some sitting close to the coals, and he stayed a step back since he could feel the dampness in his shirt, was already beginning to sweat. The heads began to turn, drawn by the smell of frying bacon, and he saw men already forming a line, waiting for food. He shook his head, thought, Too early. How can anyone come out of sleep just to eat? He looked again at the coffeepot, saw a corporal move close, the man’s uniform barely evident, the blue cloth stained black with soot and gr
ease. The corporal saw Longstreet watching him, picked up the pot with a gloved hand, said, “Sir? Might not be too good, same grounds I been using for a week.”
The corporal poured, and Longstreet watched the steam, nodded, and the man moved away, the other cups rising now. Longstreet blew at the steam, tasted carefully. His tongue curled, and he made a small grunt, thought, God-awful. He stared into the dark liquid, and the corporal said, “There’s sugar there on the wagon, sir. Can I get you some?”
Longstreet nodded quietly, and the man retrieved a small brown bag, came back to the fire, held it toward Longstreet. He felt inside, his finger wrapping around a hard lump, and he tried to ease it into the cup, but let it drop, hot coffee splashing his hand. He thought of Colonel Garland again, the old veteran. Did he ever enjoy this?
There was a voice now, the first loud sound of the morning, a brief explosion of profanity. The faces all turned, and Longstreet saw George Pickett moving past the wagon, up to the fire, wrestling with a button on his coat, saying, “By damned, if I ever find the scoundrel …”
There were quiet laughs, shaking heads, then Pickett saw Longstreet, said, “Well, Pete! A good morning to you, sir!”
“Morning, George. What’s the trouble?”
Pickett smiled, seemed for a moment to forget he had been angry, then remembered his temper, frowned again, said, “Oh, well, I am in some distress, Pete! Last night I had been graciously rewarded with the presence of a truly fine lady, who was sympathetic to the pain and suffering endured by us fine American soldiers. She was kind enough to offer up this fine local brew, a bottle of this fine tequila, and …”
