Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  “I’m glad you understand protocol, General. There will be plenty of time for official reports, plenty of opportunity for everyone to get his name in the paper. Anything else?”

  Worth took a breath, and Scott saw the man’s frown, the disappointment etched on his face. “No, sir. Thank you for the time, sir.”

  Worth moved out of the office, and Scott waited for the door to close before he pushed the chair back from the desk. They’ll all push me now, he thought. They all want to talk about it, make damned sure their names are mentioned. It’s time for the politics again, the great clash of ambition. And out there in the field, their men are still getting shot at. His anger rose, unexpectedly; he had not wanted to feel this way. He picked up a pen from the desk, rolled it hard between his hands, his heart pounding. This is a time for celebration, and still they find a way to infect everything with their pettiness. How dare they feather their own nests, how dare they look to the newspapers, while their soldiers are still under fire. He slapped the pen down on the desk, stood now, moved to the tall window, looked out toward the grand cathedral. He tried to relax, put the anger out of his mind, thought, Such a beautiful place, a grand old city, a country with so much of the charm of old Europe. And such chaos in running it.

  They unify in war, fall into line behind one strong leader, but Santa Anna goes away, and the problems return. He thought of the Congress, the ministers. No one has come forward yet. Santa Anna is still out there somewhere, that damned charisma of his, and he still has followers. No one here wants to risk offending him. They know we’ll leave eventually, and when we do, anyone who dealt kindly with us could find himself branded a traitor. Hell, Santa Anna or someone just like him could march right back in here and take over. Who would stop him? The best they can do, the best idea anyone came up with around here … me. Let me do it. And not as president, not even some kind of occupying administrator. No, let’s just jump right to dictator, another strong man to run the show.

  He heard noise outside the office, voices, and there was a knock on the door. He turned, said, “What is it?”

  The door opened, and he saw his son-in-law, and the young man said, “General, it’s all arranged, sir. They’re waiting for you in that big staff room down the hall.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Major?”

  “The reporters, sir. General Worth had said there was a great need. I assumed you’d enjoy the attention, sir. They’re quite eager, and I understand the Mexican government is providing transportation to the coast, so they can get their reports out quickly. They’re ready whenever you are, sir.”

  He felt the heat rising, said, “Reporters? Now? Who the hell authorized you to bring in … reporters?”

  The young man’s face drained of color, and he said, “I thought it was a good idea, sir. General Worth and I discussed it earlier. He agreed, was very supportive. I assumed you’d want to get it over with as soon as possible. They’ve been waiting all day.”

  “Damn!” Scott turned to the window again, thought, Damn you, William Worth. I have no choice now. They think they’ve been invited by me, and if I send them away, they’ll write God-knows-what. And sure as hell, something will get back to Washington. He took a breath, said, “What are they expecting me to say? How much time do I have to give them?”

  “I don’t know, sir. A few words, I guess. Take questions.”

  Scott moved toward the door, reached for his hat, saw the young man pressing back into the wall, waiting for him to move past. He stopped, put a finger in the young man’s face.

  “Major, if you or General Worth ever make another arrangement without consulting me, I’m sending you both out on sniper patrol.”

  He moved into the hallway, could hear the hum of voices, the open doorway at the end of the wide corridor. He straightened his coat, saw a uniform rounding a corner, a tall thin man, the familiar face.

  “Ah, General Twiggs! Excellent, good timing. I need some support, reinforcing. Follow me, please.”

  Twiggs seemed confused, said, “Why? Where are we going?”

  “Reporters, General. Foreigners, Europeans, hell I don’t know. I’ve been ambushed into talking to them. You can help.”

  Twiggs stopped, said in a whisper, “Reporters? But I came to see you about … God, no, I can’t talk to reporters. I have nothing to say. I can’t, sir.”

  Scott saw how wide-eyed he was, thought, My God, I’ve never seen him look this way. He’s … afraid. Looks like he’s going to cry.

  “All right, General. I’ll go it alone. Wait for me in my office. If my son-in-law gives you any trouble, shoot him.”

  He turned, moved toward the open doorway as Twiggs moved quickly away. He waited a moment, stepped into the room. Faces turned, men in suits, and the room was abruptly quiet. He moved through the center of the room, saw a small podium, moved behind it, said, “Hello, gentlemen. I have nothing prepared. You have questions, I’ll try to answer them.”

  There were small sounds of shuffling paper, then one man cleared his throat, raised a hand. He was small, bony, and wore round glasses on a long hooked nose. Scott pointed to him, nodded.

  “General, is the war over?”

  Scott heard the accent, thought, French maybe. “We have won the Mexican capital. We have whipped Santa Anna’s army completely. But, sir, I am just a soldier. It was my job to make the war. It is up to the politicians, to the men who write treaties, to make the peace.”

  He stopped, thought, Good, I like that. This might not be so bad after all.

  Another man motioned, short, heavy, thickly bearded. “It is widely accepted, señor, that the United States has waged a bully’s war. I believe that is the English word for it. Mexico was a weak adversary, helpless, much inferior for your army. Do you have a response?”

  Scott let the man’s words hang in the air. Of course, they would all ask this. He looked down, thought, Remember this, you’ll be asked again. He looked squarely at the man. “Señor, there are a good many American soldiers buried in the soil of this land who were killed by the soldiers of that army you call inferior. General Santa Anna brought an army to the field that outnumbered us by three to one. But to say that we prevailed because the Mexican fighting man was inferior to us is a grave injustice to soldiers of both sides. I cannot tell you why the United States won this war. History will make that judgment. If there is a difference between our people, it might have something to do with leadership. Sir, the people of Mexico did not elect Mr. Santa Anna to lead them. He commanded his army, his generals, by the strength of his hand, by intimidation. It’s not a system that works very well, anywhere. In our system, our President, Mr. Polk, appoints me to command—”

  He stopped, felt the words choking him, swirling around him in nonsense. His face began to flush, the heat filling his head. The journalists watched him, seemed to lean forward, waiting for his next words. He tried to breathe, held the podium with his hands, thought, This was not such a good idea after all. They want a damned speech.

  “Enough of this, gentlemen. I can’t explain war to you. I can’t explain it to myself. You all go write up whatever you like, send it on back to wherever you’re from. Print whatever you like, you’re going to do that anyway. But I would ask you … no, I challenge you, any one of you, to write about what really happened here. I am surrounded by generals who can already taste their glory, are already imagining the great big parade that waits for them back home. I’ve heard that General Taylor is being asked to run for President. Well, that’s all fine with me. But I challenge you to tell your people what these soldiers did. Men on both sides were ordered to march into the guns of the enemy, and they obeyed, they stood tall, and most of the time they did not run. The Mexican soldier who stood up to us at San Cosme gate is as much a hero as the man who finally pushed him back. A great many men bled and died on the ground around this city. They marched into the fight because their commanders told them to. That is what being a soldier is about, gentlemen.”

 
; He paused, felt the heat slipping away, felt a rhythm now, the words building inside him.

  “I have read how newspapers describe war. I have seen accounts of great battles, always quick to single out which general did God-knows-what wonderful thing, but I have never read, anywhere, what it felt like. I have never read about the soldier who takes his bayonet and charges the man who fires the cannon, or the cavalryman who spurs his horse straight into the face of a thousand muskets. I have never read of the man who is first up the ladder, climbing over a wall into certain death. Generals aren’t heroes. The heroes are still out there, patrolling the streets, walking their post, or … buried in that ground. That’s my challenge to you. Write about that. And leave the politics and the damned generals out of it.”

  He stopped, and there were no more words. He saw nods, men writing on pads of paper. He stepped away from the podium, moved through the silent room, into the corridor. He stopped, was surprised to see a group of officers, an audience gathered outside the room. He saw Twiggs, and his son-in-law, more familiar faces. They spoke in low voices, sir, and he moved past them, felt his uniform cold with sweat, his heart beating heavily. He stopped again, looked at his son-in-law, said, “Don’t tell General Worth, Major, but I rather enjoyed that.…”

  37. LEE

  SEPTEMBER TWENTIETH

  THE STREETS HAD BEEN CLEARED, THE SNIPERS NOW GONE, AND the worst behavior of the American soldiers had been brought to a halt. Despite Scott’s published orders, despite efforts from the senior commanders to avoid problems with the civilians, there had been looting, mindless destruction, the soldiers letting go of the months of anger, all the emotions boiling over, the horror of death and fear replaced by a need for revenge. Scott’s orders had been strict and clear, respect for the city, for the citizens, but in the end the emotion had won out, reinforced by liquor and temptation. The spoils of war were easy to find in a place where the people could no longer protect themselves.

  Order had finally come with the silence from the rooftops, when the threat from the hidden muskets of the snipers ended. With the enemy finally gone, the attention turned inward, and the officers could finally take control. The sources of liquor began to dry up, the guards could patrol the streets without risk of attack, and finally the army took to their own care. The camps were spread throughout the city, every open plaza, every square, the officers finding quarters in the larger haciendas. The wounded were tended to, the uniforms cleaned and repaired. The nights were growing cooler now, and there were parties, a spirit of playfulness the men had not felt since the war began.

  There were still details to work out, and so, technically, the war was still in place. They all knew there was some kind of treaty, men working long hours behind closed doors, the strange and sickly Nicholas Trist, the Mexican officials who still insisted on some fragment of honor. Whatever final document emerged from behind the doors of the palace would not matter to most of the men. What they waited for was that final command, each day bringing them closer to the words they dreamed about, the order that would take them to the coast again, where the big ships waited, the ships that would take them home.

  LEE RODE SLOWLY, TURNED HIS HORSE INTO A NARROW STREET, passed through a cloud of wonderful smells. There were no shops now, the street lined tightly with small houses, and he stopped the horse, thought, No, wrong again.

  He had been advised to take an escort, but the men were busy with their own duties, or they were out, like he was, exploring the city for the first time. He had thought, Just stay out in the open, stay with people, it should be all right. But now, as the horse moved back along the same street he had come, he felt a nervous stab in his gut, thought, Admit it, you’re lost.

  He had gone beyond the big plaza, searching the small shops, where the boisterous commerce of the city, the joyful enthusiasm of the street vendors, was returning to full speed. He had bought toys for the children, bright feathers on straw animals, the gifts that would eventually find their way to Virginia. But there had been a treat for him as well, for the eye of the engineer. He had marveled at the architecture, the beauty of the stone and tile, even the most modest shop adorned with great care. Everywhere there was color, from the walls of the buildings to the dresses of the women. As he rode farther away from the camps of the army, he had felt more out of place, thought, There is no enemy here, no evidence of war at all. I’m just … a visitor.

  He knew the sun would set soon, moved the horse at a faster pace, saw a wider street ahead, felt a wave of relief, assumed it must lead to the plaza. He stopped the horse, was bathed in more smells, something sweet, suddenly felt the rumble of hunger. He looked around, saw a narrow alley, dark, a small glow of light from a window, a small sign in Spanish, Pan. Perfect, bread, eat something. He climbed down from the horse, saw motion in the window, shadows, said aloud, “Hello? El pan, por favor?”

  A face appeared in the window, an old woman, and she looked at him strangely, said something he could not understand. He felt frustrated, thought, You should know how to speak to these people. This is their country. He put a hand up to his mouth, motioned as though eating, said, “El pan?”

  The old woman shook her head, spoke a long sentence of words that meant nothing to Lee, and she pointed down the alleyway, seemed anxious now. He looked that way, saw only dark walls, and he thought, All right, no bread. He bowed, said, “Gracias, señora.”

  He moved back to the horse, sensed something, stopped, saw a man moving toward him from behind the horse. Lee felt an icy chill, watched the man’s hands, saw a large coil of rope cradled in them. The man said something, and Lee saw his smile, dull yellow teeth, saw him touch the side of the horse. The man now took a step closer to him, his free hand slowly loosening the coils, the smile gone now. Lee put a hand on his pistol, thought, It’s loaded … I think it’s loaded. He drew the pistol, let it hang low, pointing at the ground, and the man looked at it, smiled again, more words, and now stepped back. The rope was still now, and the man nodded to Lee, said, “Buenas noches, señor.”

  Lee looked at the horse. “Yes, noches. Getting late. Excuse me, sir. I’ll be leaving now.”

  Lee moved slowly to the horse, the man still watching the pistol. Lee climbed the horse, the pistol still in his hand, and he turned the horse back to the open street, spurred hard, and the animal jumped forward. He did not look back, saw the light ahead from the wider avenue, moved the horse quickly around the corner. He felt his heart pounding, gripped the reins with icy fingers, put the pistol in its holster. He rode hard, the hoofbeats rattling across the stone pavement, and he saw more people now, heads turning, watching him move past. He saw a familiar storefront, a cluster of black-haired children, pointing and laughing at him as he rode by, and he slowed the horse, thought, Enough, you’re all right now. He stopped, looked behind him, the street busy with people, some looking at him, many more ignoring him, doing their own business. He laughed. No need to report this. General Scott would not appreciate that his staff officer had been sent in a mad retreat by one man armed with a rope.

  He looked around the familiar street, turned the horse toward another avenue, knew it would take him to the great plaza. The sun was nearly gone, the street coming alive with flickers of lamplight from the windows. He rode through more of the smells, felt the rumble again, thought of the old woman. She was either out of bread, he thought, or she knew I wouldn’t live long enough to pay her. He laughed again. Next time, Captain Lee, take an escort.

  OCTOBER FIFTH

  He climbed the short white steps, moved into the grand hacienda that was now his quarters. He passed a group of officers engaged in intense conversation, moved into the hallway, toward the door to his room. He heard voices coming from an open doorway down the hall, smiled at the sound of one familiar voice. He moved that way, stopped at the door, peered around, saw Johnston sitting on the bed, two other men standing, the discussion a flurry of arms and hands.

  Johnston saw him, said, “All right, enough talk. I have to
make preparations.”

  The two men glanced at Lee, gave smiles, short nods, then moved past, disappeared down the hall.

  Lee stepped into the room, said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Johnston shook his head, laughed briefly. “You’re too polite, Robert. Politics … that’s all they want to talk about. Who’s getting promoted, who’s getting the recognition, who’s been slighted. They argue about who’s the greater hero, which general should become President.”

  Johnston began to pull on a boot, and Lee saw he was wearing his dress uniform, the pants a crisp white. Johnston grunted, his face a twist of pain. Lee stepped forward. “Here, let me help.” He pulled the boot up, and Johnston let out a breath.

  “Still feel it. Hurts when I try to do anything at all.” He looked at Lee, lowered his voice. “I didn’t say that. Don’t tell anyone. They tried to keep me out of action as it was. The wound at Cerro Gordo was bad enough. Seems I can’t keep myself out of trouble.”

  Lee stepped back, looked at the rumpled bandage that lay on the bed. “How bad?”

  Johnston pushed the bandage off the bed. “Nothing serious. More aggravation than anything else. But, three times … three holes in my uniform at Chapultepec. I’m lucky, Robert. I’m blessed. Any one of them could have killed me. I should have been dead at Cerro Gordo.”

  Lee moved to a small chair and sat. “God has something else in mind for you, some road you haven’t traveled yet.”

  Johnston reached for the second boot, slipped it over his foot. “I had thought it was the infantry, the Almighty deciding I needed to pull my head out of engineering manuals and lead foot soldiers into battle.”

  Lee wasn’t sure if Johnston was serious, saw the man’s face twist in pain again as the boot slid on. Johnston leaned back on his elbows, took a deep breath. “I insist you try it some time, Robert. I swear, going up that road, leading those men into Chapultepec, it was horrible, it was magnificent. I’m counting on God to agree with me on this. It’s what I was born to do. It’s what I want to do.”