Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  There were couriers delivering reports from close to the front. Lee tried to listen over the roar of the big guns drowning out the voices. Worth turned toward him, pointed straight down, and Lee understood the silent message, Come here, and moved quickly that way. The last courier was already gone, jumping down the steep stairway.

  Worth said, “Find a gun, Captain! A big gun. A twenty-four. Position it out front, close to the gate. We’re ready, Captain! Do you understand? I want a hole … a big damned hole blasted right through that defense! Blow it to hell!”

  Lee hesitated, thought, In front? “Sir, do you mean … out in the open?”

  Worth seemed to explode, said, “Don’t question me, Captain! Move! Get a big gun out there and make a hole! We’re going in!”

  Lee hurried down the steps, his mind racing with the heat of Worth’s anger. He passed the horses, did not ride, knew there was a battery down a side street, more of the guns he had brought forward, waiting for their instructions. He turned the corner, saw the wagons, the caissons, saw the men un-lashing the ropes that held one gun close behind the draft horses. Lee waved, shouted, “Prepare to move! General Worth’s orders!”

  The words left him, and he didn’t know what else to say, thought, How do I order them out in front, with no cover, no protection? It is … suicide.

  He saw the officer now, the man moving toward him with the tall dignity of a veteran, his expression full of questions.

  “Lieutenant Hunt, I have orders from General Worth. Your twenty-four pounder is ordered to advance beyond the cover of the houses, to begin a short range assault at the gate itself.” Lee hesitated, waited for a protest, but Hunt nodded, listening to every word. “The general is specific, Lieutenant. He wants a hole blasted in the enemy works. The infantry will follow behind you.”

  Hunt still said nothing, considered the order, then let a strange smile spread across his face. Lee moved to the side, watched Hunt climb his horse, his men scrambling up to the caisson. Hunt said, “We have a job! Let’s go!”

  The gun rattled past Lee, the crew hanging tight to their seats, and Lee followed on foot, watching the gun and the men roll out toward the gate, toward the thick smoke of the fight. He ran, moved to Worth’s lookout position, climbed the steps, his breath coming in hard gasps. Worth did not look at him, was focused to the front, as were the others, watching as Henry Hunt’s single gun rolled forward, out past the houses, the low stone walls, past the men who fired their muskets, past the last bit of cover, out into the flat open ground of the wide plaza. The Mexicans began to respond, and Lee saw the men on the caisson hunched low, one man falling away, sprawling out behind the gun, left behind by Hunt’s charge.

  Lee could hear Worth shouting, “Yes! That’s it! Closer! Take it to them!”

  Hunt was far in front of any support, and Lee began to lose sight of them in the thick smoke. He caught a glimpse, saw the gun spinning, the muzzle now facing the Mexican works, the crew jumping down, doing the good work, swarming in one rush over their precious gun. One horse fell, then another, swept away by the storm from the enemy muskets, and Lee felt a rising heat in his chest, thought, My God … they will never come back. This is … insanity. He could see Hunt now, behind the gun, saw more of the crew falling away. But then the gun fired, one sharp blast, followed by a bloom of smoke. Lee strained to see, the gun bathed in its own fog, a blur of motion from the men still working. The gun fired again, and Worth shouted, “That’s it! One more … one more …”

  Lee could not look at him, felt his stomach clench, but now he could see the gun, Hunt, the men, still up, still working. The gun fired again, and Worth yelled, “Go! Send the infantry! Order the charge!”

  The men on the roof were quickly gone, and Lee lowered the glasses, Worth moving by him, toward the stairway. Worth looked at him, said, “We’ll have our victory now, Captain! The whole world will know what we did here!”

  Then Worth was gone, and Lee moved to the edge of the roof, raised the glasses. He could see the storm still blowing out from the fight at the gate, but now the troops were moving up, the thick wave of blue building behind the low walls, and he watched, waited, saw the officers moving down the lines. The wave began to burst, spilling over their own cover, the troops rushing forward, straight through the shattered defense of the enemy.

  THE TROOPS HAD SPREAD OUT INSIDE THE GATE, HAD MOVED into the houses and buildings that once held the enemy muskets. The Mexicans were still there, a heavy force, infantry mostly, their big guns left behind, captured by the surge of American troops moving past the gate. There was no easy advance now, the dense buildings inside the gate offering protection for soldiers on both sides. Worth’s men began to spread farther into the city, burrowing through basements, fighting their way in a slow push from house to house, musket fire above and below, from cellar and rooftop. If the daylight would be gone soon, there would be no retreat, no pulling back to regroup. At the Molino, these men had made the good fight for no good reason, had occupied a place that had little value, endured the shock of a fight that left many of them bitter at the commanders who had ordered them forward. But that was forgotten now, Worth’s men focusing on the fight straight in front of them, pushing hard into the city, each man driven by the fire, by the raw heat, moving house to house, pushing the bayonet closer into the heart of the enemy.

  THE SHARP SUNLIGHT HAD BEGUN TO SOFTEN, THE LONG AFTERNOON giving way to a cool dusk. Lee forced himself to sit upright, held himself high in the saddle, the horse perched alongside the intersection just west of San Cosme. Worth had ordered some of the units out of Chapultepec, men still fresh from the celebration of their victory, now on the march again, reinforcements for the thrust through the San Cosme gate. Lee had been sent back as a guide, and he accepted the duty numbly, did not have the strength to protest, to insist anymore that he was overdue for a report to General Scott. He sat now at the obvious intersection, watched as a small column of troops moved quickly past, pointed the way to officers who did not need him to tell them where the fight was still hot. The column was past now, and Lee tried to clear his eyes, his mind, thought, Where should you be? What … else is there?

  He had not seen Scott for a few hours now, thought, I should find him … report to him. He will be angry if he is kept in the dark. I will explain that General Worth required my presence. He should know that General Worth would have expected me to stay.…

  His vision began to blur, and he blinked hard, wiped at the fuzziness in his eyes with the back of his hand. This is not good. Get hold of yourself, no excuses, no apologies. Do the job. He will tell you what he wants done. Now, just find him. He spurred the horse, moved south on the wide road, could see riders moving toward him bearing a flag. He tried to focus his eyes, moved to the side of the road, waved them on impatiently, Come on, move on. He gave them the guidance silently, could not even speak the words, the directions any officer would see for himself. He felt himself sagging again, suddenly jerked himself upright, fought it, sat upright, another hard blink through bleary eyes. He began to wave now, automatic, motioning them past, said, “Follow the road … turn right at the intersection. General Worth is near the front.…”

  The riders stopped, and Lee focused through a fog, saw now the broad chest, the grand uniform, and he blew the fog from his mind, a sudden stab of panic.

  “General Scott! Sir! I wish to report—” He stopped, the words a tumble of confusion.

  Scott moved close to him, leaned forward, said, “Good God, Mr. Lee, are you all right?”

  Lee was feeling the fog again. “No wounds, sir.” He fought his exhaustion, the words forming, said, “Sir, we have advanced into the city. General Worth’s division has made a strong foothold inside the gate. The general is waiting for you, sir. He is quite pleased to be the first one into the city.”

  Scott shook his head. “Is he now? This has been a magnificent day for this army, Captain, and they’re more concerned with who wins the damned race. Mr. Lee, you should know that
General Quitman’s people broke through the Belén gate three hours ago. I guess it’s up to me to break that news to General Worth. Maybe the shame will cause him to resign.”

  Lee felt his head swirling, tried to focus on Scott’s face. “That is … wonderful news, sir. General Worth will certainly be pleased.”

  Scott looked at him closely now, and Lee blinked hard, tried to focus on Scott’s face. “When was the last time you slept, Mr. Lee?”

  Lee tried to think, realized he had no idea what time of day it was. “I’m not sure, sir. It has been … a while.”

  “Stay with me, Captain. I don’t think you’re in any condition to be out here on your own. Your detached duty is concluded for now.”

  Lee nodded, felt a small alarm go off in his mind. “Sir, I can still perform my duty. There is much to be done. General Worth is still heavily engaged.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lee. We’re on our way there now. Let’s ride, shall we?”

  Lee turned the horse, felt himself sliding away. He pulled on the reins, felt the leather slip from his hands, tried to see Scott, wanted to speak, his brain shouting at him, fighting through a swirl of dizziness, I’m falling … help.…

  * * *

  “HE’S ALL RIGHT, SIR.”

  Lee tried to see the face above him, heard the familiar voice of the young major. Lee sat now, his hands pushing into soft dirt, felt a sharp stab in his back, and the young man said, “He’s awake. You all right, Captain? Nasty fall.”

  Lee shook his head, saw Scott standing above him, huge, his face far away. Lee said, “I’m sorry, sir. I must have fallen.…”

  The young Scott said, “You fainted, Captain.”

  There was faint disgust in the voice, and Lee felt embarrassment, pulled his legs under him, forced himself to his feet, fought past the pain in his back. “My apologies, sir. This is most … inappropriate. Please allow me to return to duty. I am fine now, sir.”

  Scott reached out, put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Lee straightened, pushed against the old man’s hard grip. Scott said, “I would like you to accompany me to see General Worth. Hell, I don’t even know where he is. I suspect you do.”

  Lee tried to stiffen his legs, holding up the weight of Scott’s hand. “Of course, sir. I can take you to him by the most direct route.”

  Scott seemed to be watching him, measuring. “Let’s move, shall we? From the sound of it, he still has his hands full of a fight.”

  Scott moved to the horse, climbed up, and now Lee saw his own horse, the reins held by an aide. He took the leather straps in his hand, pulled the horse toward him, felt another unsteady moment, a small wave of dizziness. He reached up, gripped the saddle, held himself against the side of the horse, thought, Stop this, get control. This is not the time … there is much work still to be done.

  He climbed up, held himself upright in the saddle for a moment, saw Scott, the others, all watching him. Scott shook his head, spurred the horse forward, still looked at Lee, said, “Mr. Lee, once you have taken me to General Worth, you will do a greater service to this army if you will just … get some sleep.”

  34. SANTA ANNA

  SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH, LATE AFTERNOON

  HE HAD LEFT THE BELÉN GATE, HAD NOT BELIEVED THE ENEMY could penetrate there, and when the guns from Worth’s batteries began to pound San Cosme, he had led the reserves close to the fight. He had stayed out of the carriage, walked among the troops, led them in the chorus of song, patriotic hymns, the great rallying cries that kept the fire in their eyes. When he learned that the defenders at Belén had given way, he directed his fury toward the men at San Cosme, and for a while they had responded. He was not usually in the middle of the fight, and he had seen the troops’ faces light up with the inspiration, the sight of their commander, so close to the danger from the guns of the yanquis.

  He believed it was treachery that had allowed the enemy through the Belén gate, but now, at San Cosme, it was the steady persistence of the enemy, the artillery that pounded his defenses into rubble. His men could not endure, had pulled back completely from the gate now, and the yanquis had moved into the defenses, had turned his own guns around, the Mexican cannon now pouring a new horror onto the men who could no longer defend them.

  He tried to slow the retreat, limped forward through the smoke, shouting into the faces of the men who still looked at him with that vacant stare. Even the most panicked began to slow, some stopping in front of him to just stare at him, hearing his words. His anger was complete and consuming, and at first he had shouted into their faces with the fire of God, blaming them for the unspeakable act, running from the enemy. But the anger was gone now, and he felt the exhaustion, drew it from the faces of his men, beaten back by the relentless wave, the hard assault by their enemy.

  He began to direct them into cover, the officers standing aside as he moved past. But his troops were still there, paralyzed, the mad retreat away from the gate blocked now by their attention to him, the sight of him, the glorious uniform, the long golden sword held high in front of him. He watched them gather, the voice screaming in his mind, No, I do not want an audience. I want an army. Now the anger had returned, and he waved the sword in a wide arc, shouted, “Move, go, fire back! Fight!”

  The faces began to turn away, some men moving to new cover, men appearing on rooftops, kneeling, crouching low, the muskets firing again. He watched the troops fall slowly into some kind of line, an officer slapping his men with the sword, and Santa Anna shouted at the man, “Yes! Turn them around! Give the Devil a taste of hell!”

  He had seen the first wave of blue as it came through the gate, saw them again now, still moving forward, darting quickly into the gaps, small spaces, pieces of cover. He moved forward, up close to the men with the muskets, stared hard through the smoke, saw one man falling now, sprawling into the street, the blue uniform ripped apart, the man’s life flowing out on the hard stones, and he cheered, raised his hand, shouted again, “Kill them … yes, kill them!”

  He could see more blue, the yanquis still coming forward, more of them now, lining up behind low walls, filling the narrow ditches. The man beside him suddenly backed away, disappeared into the smoke, and Santa Anna shouted a noise, no words, a sharp scream of rage, thought, What are you doing? You are no man.…

  He looked down, saw the man’s musket, reached for it, the rage pounding in his chest, searched the smoke in front of the low wall, held the gun upright, thought, A target, any target. I will kill them myself! He tried to fire the gun, felt nothing, the gun empty, and he threw it down, looked out, saw the targets, many targets, moving closer to the thin lines of his defense.

  The musket fire was a storm now, and he began to back away, some voice in his brain, calm reason, Leave this place, do not die here. He saw his guards, the men surrounding him now, pulling at him, and his own anger was answered by the desperation of the men who protected him, one man shouting close to his face, the voice rising above the roar from the growing fight, “Please, Excellency, we must find cover!”

  He saw an opening in a fat stone building, moved that way, moved behind its thick hard walls, felt the ground jump under him, the impact of a shell close behind. The floor of the crude house was a pile of rubble, the ceiling already coming down, the walls crumbling from the impact of the yanqui guns. The guards followed in close behind him, and he fought through the smoke. Through a small window he watched the chaos following him in the street, his troops still flowing back away from the gate. Again his hot anger grew, the voice of reason pushed away, something uncontrollable filling him, animal rage, and he began to shout through the window, “Turn around … fight them! You will all burn in hell!”

  He felt a hand pull him back, heard the sharp whistle of the shell, the road in front of him bursting into flame and dust. He turned, focused his rage at the man who held him, thought, I will kill you … and the man released him, glanced down, said, “Apologies, Excellency. You were in danger.”

  Santa Anna felt his ha
nds shaking, wanted to reach out, grab the man by the throat, unleash all the frustration focused in his fingers, take the life away from this one impudent man. The other guards moved close now, and the man backed away, faded out of sight. Santa Anna looked at their faces, felt his control coming back, the hard pain in his chest giving way to the cold black reason.

  “How has this happened? Who is in command here? What traitor has allowed the yanquis to enter this city? There will be punishment!”

  There was no response, and he thought, No, there is never a response, no one will admit his treachery. But I will find him. I will know who has done this! And he will die by my hand! He moved to the doorway again. “Let us move back. I must find some order. We must organize the men, bring the commanders together. We are still strong. This fight is not over!”

  He stepped into the street, the guards filing out quickly, and he felt them moving him along, past the gathering lines of his men, his troops now finding the will, the courage, to stop their own retreat. He could see muskets firing again, holding the blue flow back, holding the enemy tight in their cover, and he shouted again, “Yes! Fight them! Kill them!”

  He looked for officers, saw a young captain, the man moving his troops forward, spreading them along a garden wall, giving the order now, directing the volley from their muskets. Santa Anna pulled free from the guards, moved close to the man, said, “What is your name?”

  The young man appeared stunned, saluted him, said, “Lezar Menendez, Excellency!”

  “Captain Menendez, you will command a division today! This is an army of traitors! I need good men, men who know how to fight!”

  The young man nodded, his face still holding the shock of Santa Anna’s words, and then there was a rush of hot wind, the ground bursting between them, the shell ripping into the wall, blowing rock into the air. Santa Anna covered his eyes, the sharp blast pushing him back. He felt arms holding him, pulling him again. He tried to see through the smoke, saw the bodies of men blown back from the shattered wall, one man twisted horribly. He wanted to shout again, but there were no words, no voice, just the hands, still pulling him to some safe place.