North and South

by John Jakes

  He soon discovered that she was not only beautiful but intelligent. “Father sent me away to a young women’s academy in San Antonio. He’s in favor of education for women. He’s really quite liberal for a man of his background. He says that believing in the Holy Trinity should never rule out a healthy interest in the secular.”

  George smiled, relaxing slightly. “I like your father.”

  “And he must have taken a liking to you, or he’d never have introduced us. I’m rather glad he did.”

  “You are? Miss Flynn, that’s splendid!”

  In a burst of enthusiasm, he swept her into another whirling waltz figure. A moment later she gently tapped his wrist with her ornamental fan. She wanted him to stop dancing. He obliged.

  He saw grinning faces all around. Even Orry was covering a smirk. Constance whispered to him, “The music ended several moments ago, Lieutenant Hazard.”

  “It did? My God. That is—Miss Flynn, I didn’t mean to curse in front of—“

  “Lieutenant,” she broke in, “I’ll be the one cursing if you permit me to fall into the hands of that dragoon bearing down on us. Please take me for a stroll.”

  “With pleasure!”

  George gave her his arm, then guided her toward the door of the barn. The major with the mustache pursued, looking more affronted every second. He was only three paces behind them when Patrick Flynn appeared to stumble. Flynn crashed against the major, almost dumping punch on his uniform. The lawyer bathed the officer with so much apologetic blarney he couldn’t be angry.

  By then George and Constance had slipped through the door into the darkness.

  “I’m in love,” George said a couple of hours later.

  “So that’s what it is,” Orry said. “I thought it was some sort of nervous condition. I’ve never seen you look so stupefied over a girl. Or act so tongue-tied, either.”

  They were trudging along the riverbank toward the white tents and lanterns of the encampment that had been improvised to shelter the men from the steamer. George started as a big jackrabbit leaped across his path. Then, after a distinctly lovelorn sigh, he said, “I think she likes me. But I’m not positive.”

  “Of course she likes you. She spent most of the evening in your company, didn’t she? And she could have had her pick. Not necessarily of men more handsome than you”—Orry’s mockery was broad but kindly—“but certainly of men she could look up to.”

  George called his friend a name and punched his arm. Orry laughed. Again George sighed. “I hope it takes them a week to repair the steamer. She invited me to dinner tomorrow. Boiled Texas beef and potatoes.”

  “Talking about her cooking already? You do sound as if you’ve found the love of your life,” Orry said quietly.

  “By heaven, you may be right. The instant I put my arms around her, I felt—well, something momentous. But there would be problems if it became anything permanent. She’s Irish. Catholic, too. Up North that isn’t always a welcome combination.”

  “You’re getting serious awfully fast.”

  “I can’t help it. I don’t care, either. George Hazard, master of the fair sex, is for once absolutely powerless. That’s the strangest part.”

  “No, it isn’t. I understand perfectly.”

  George knew Orry had said something, but he was too excited to hear the words, or the note of melancholy in his friend’s voice.

  A distant whistle sounded the last call for the lighter. George shook Patrick Flynn’s hand.

  “Good-bye, sir. You’ve been wonderful to a stranger.”

  “You’re no longer a stranger, lad,” the lawyer said with a swift glance at his daughter. Constance had put on a light shawl and was fussing with a parasol. Flynn laid his free hand on George’s shoulder and pressed gently. “We wish you Godspeed to the battle zone and a safe walk along the pathway of your duty. We want you to come back again.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  The words carried more hope than certainty. George had read the papers enough to know that many men had already died in Mexico, not only from enemy fire but from disease. Many others would perish before the war ended. A couple of days ago he hadn’t troubled himself about such things. Now, suddenly, in this ridiculous little village on a barren coast, life had become wondrously precious.

  He and Constance walked out of the house. George stepped off the plank porch into the mud and raised his hand. She closed her fingers on his, then stepped down beside him and opened the parasol.

  It was a dismal autumn day with a hint of winter in the gusty wind. He took charge of the parasol and offered his other arm. She pressed her breast against his sleeve, speaking to him silently that way. It began to drizzle as they hurried toward the pier where the last lighter was loading.

  “Will you write to me, George?”

  “Regularly. Daily! Will you answer?”

  “You know I will. You must come back as soon as you can.”

  “I promise. I want to show you Pennsylvania. Introduce you to my family.”

  He knew Constance could charm them and perhaps even overcome the suspicion of Catholics that was so prevalent in the nation. But if by some chance the family didn’t welcome her, he would no longer consider himself a Hazard. In just these few days, she had become his universe—and his reason for fearing some random Mexican bullet as he had never feared it before.

  “Father’s very impressed by what you told him about your family,” she said. “He thinks most Texans are fools because they won’t admit factories are becoming more important than farms.”

  “My friend Orry’s family won’t admit that.”

  “Southerners can be so narrow-minded sometimes.”

  No more narrow-minded than Northerners, he thought, recalling an incident in Philadelphia the week he had set off for Mont Royal. Obscene words and statements had been slathered in red paint all over the walls of a Catholic church. Even his brother Stanley, no admirer of Papists, had been scandalized, though more by the language than by the motivation for the act.

  Three senior officers sat in the lighter. All were frowning with impatience. The helmsman signaled for George to hurry. Another gust ripped the parasol out of his hand and sent it sailing into the water, where it bobbed like a lacy boat.

  The men in the lighter laughed at him. George didn’t care. His mind and heart were filled with Constance: her fiery hair blown loose by the wind, her blue eyes searching deep into his, her cheeks rain-speckled—

  No, he realized with a start. That wasn’t rain but her tears.

  “Constance, I’ve never said this to any other girl. You may think me rude and forward since we’ve known each other such a short time. Still, I’m compelled”—he drew a quick breath and plunged—“I love you.”

  “I’m in love with you, too, George. Kiss me?”

  “In public?”

  “In public. In private. Anywhere—and forever.”

  The last word came out as a little cry. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him ferociously.

  He pulled her close, his body rising against her to make the parting all the more intense and sorrowful. Her red hair kept loosening and blowing against his cheeks. He felt unmanly tears on his face—not hers, his own—and didn’t give a damn about that, either.

  The helmsman shouted, “Last call, Lieutenant. Get aboard or they’ll report you for desertion.”

  Out by a sandbar the steamer sounded its whistle. George tore away and ran down the pier. He jumped into the lighter, falling against an artillery colonel who cursed him roundly. He sat on the middle thwart as the oarsmen strained and the lighter pulled away. Rain pelted him. He realized he had lost his hat. It didn’t matter.

  Constance Flynn stayed on the pier, her hair completely undone now. It flew over her shoulders and down to her waist like a red banner. “I’ll come back,” George said softly. The officer seated next to him stared.

  He said it again silently, watching the girl’s figure diminish along with the town’
s rude buildings. I’ll come back.

  It was a promise, but it was also a prayer.

  11

  SERGEANT JEZREEL FLICKER PEERED at the empty beach. “Not a sign of a greaser. Mighty funny. We sure ain’t made a secret of this here invasion.”

  Seated next to him in the rocking surfboat, Orry growled, “When are they going to send us in, damn it? If there are sharpshooters behind those dunes, they can pick us off like fish in a barrel.”

  Flicker’s moon face remained imperturbable. He was a regular Army man, a laconic Kentuckian ten years older than Orry. Both of them understood that he was the one who ran the platoon. In response to Orry’s nervous outburst he said, “Now, now, Lieutenant. I know you’re anxious to see the elephant. But believe me, it ain’t that pleasant.”

  Orry scowled. It was all very well for Sergeant Flicker to sneer at the glory of battle; he had been in the thick of it at Monterrey and elsewhere and survived. But Orry was as yet untested. He had already spent almost six months in Mexico, and the only guns he had heard were those of the damned volunteers who were always getting drunk and blowing their own toes off.

  Some of Orry’s men were looking bilious; a strong offshore current kept the surfboat in constant motion. Forty feet long, the boat was one of the 150 General Scott had ordered specifically for this assault. Each boat carried an eight-man naval crew and forty to fifty soldiers. Only 65 boats had actually been delivered, and these were strung out in a line just off Collado beach, opposite Sacrificios Island, some two and a half miles below the port city of Vera Cruz. It was here, out of range of the city’s defensive artillery, that Scott intended to launch his drive inland to Mexico City.

  George and Orry were serving in two different companies of the Eighth Infantry. Both companies were part of the first landing wave, along with other regular infantry and artillery units comprising General Worth’s First Brigade. Orry’s platoon consisted of Irishmen, Germans, a couple of Hungarians, and six native-born Americans. Even in peacetime, immigrants made up a large percentage of the country’s military manpower.

  The eight oarsmen struggled to keep the surfboat in its assigned place in the long line of similar craft awaiting the signal to go in. A couple of hours had already been lost because the line was constantly disrupted by the current swirling around Sacrificios. Behind the surfboats lay the troop ships and the rest of the invasion fleet, dozens of vessels of every size from steamers to small gunboats. The yards and tops of the biggest ships were filled with spectators: sailors as well as other soldiers who would go in with later waves. While Navy gunners loaded their cannon with grapeshot, the bands on various vessels competed with one another. Orry could hear “Hail, Columbia” and “Yankee Doodle” above the slap of the waves against the surfboat’s hull and the oaths and complaints of the men.

  He admitted they had plenty to complain about. They groused about everything from their government-issue shoes—cheaply made and designed to fit either right or left foot—to their India-rubber canteens. One private took a drink, grimaced, and spat over the side.

  “No treat to swallow hot water, is it, Novotny?” Sergeant Flicker smirked. “Should have listened to what I told you last week. Rubber heats up. First chance you get, throw that away and fix yourself one of these.” He tapped his own canteen, a gourd carried on a thong.

  The men groused about being sent ashore burdened with haversacks and greatcoats. And they groused about their weapons. A few units had been issued 1841 percussion rifles, but Orry’s men still carried old smoothbores, simply because the high command believed muskets could be more easily maintained by men of limited intelligence. Orry despaired of that kind of thinking. When men knew they were considered worthless, that’s how they acted.

  It was a mild, cloudless afternoon—perfect weather. Northwestward, the domes and rooftops of Vera Cruz were visible. Straight ahead, the spectacular snowcapped peak of Orizaba jutted up through a light haze some distance behind the beach. But Orry was too preoccupied to notice the scenery. He was reflecting that his view of soldiering had changed since his arrival in Mexico. He still wanted an Army career—that was why he was eager to get into combat—but much of the glamour with which he invested the profession was gone.

  First of all, his war duty thus far had not only been frustrating, it had been downright disagreeable. The steamer from Corpus Christi had anchored in the harbor of Brazos Santiago, at the mouth of the Rio Grande. He and George had traveled inland, with other troops, and on the second night Orry had been stricken with dysentery—a standard initiation for newcomers, he was informed. Not even his surroundings—the cool, pleasant uplands of the Sierra Madre—could compensate for his misery.

  The friends reported to their regiment in Saltillo. They were assigned to replace line officers wounded at Monterrey. Orry’s company commander was a lazy complainer named Wilford Place. Captain Place seemed to dislike everyone above or below him, but Orry quickly discovered Place’s attitude was typical rather than unusual. In the United States Army, animosity was a way of life.

  West Point men scorned officers who hadn’t graduated from the Academy. All the regulars hated the undisciplined volunteers, who were prone to burning Mexican houses, stealing Mexican property, and raping Mexican women. Native-born soldiers distrusted the immigrants and vice versa. Even the highest echelons weren’t free of antagonism. Since the start of the war, General Worth had been feuding with General Twiggs over who outranked whom. That ludicrous quarrel had created factions within the Army and finally put an end to the friendship of Worth and Zach Taylor, who had known each other since the War of 1812.

  Far-off Washington joined in the game of mutual distrust. After whipping the enemy at Monterrey, Taylor had given the Mexicans generous terms. Too generous, some complained; as commanding field general, he had let the beaten army slip away past an armistice line. His detractors said he should have ruthlessly destroyed the Mexican forces and ended the war.

  President Polk used this as an excuse to criticize Taylor, whose unpretentious nature and unmistakable courage made him extremely well liked by his men. Taylor’s rising popularity with the kingmakers of the Whig party may also have had something to do with Polk’s enmity. Polk was, after all, a loyal Democrat.

  The President had wanted an independent second front in the south, a direct thrust at the Mexican capital. To achieve this objective, he had no choice but to put a second Whig general in charge—the supreme commander of the Army, Winfield Scott.

  For the proposed amphibious landing, Scott took about nine thousand of Taylor’s regulars, leaving the latter with an army composed mostly of volunteers. With this Taylor was supposed to face a huge Mexican force rumored to be moving to attack him. The Mexicans were under the command of Santa Anna, the self-styled Napoleon of the West. Less reverent admirers called him the Immortal Three-fourths, because of his wooden leg.

  All the strategic maneuvering and professional backbiting had meant but one thing to Orry—no immediate opportunity to go into combat. As part of Worth’s command, he and George had marched all the way back to Santiago in early January, there to languish on the beach while the quartermasters coped with delays in the arrival of everything from casks of water to troop transports. To pass the time, Orry wrote long letters to Madeline. As soon as he finished one, he tore it up and started another.

  Now, here it was the ninth of March, 1847, and he was bobbing in a surfboat, still unblooded, still seeing action only in his imagination. The waiting was surely worse than the fighting would ever be.

  The sudden crumph of a cannon hurled him back to reality. Out in the thicket of masts and spars, a puff of smoke was drifting away from the steamer Massachusetts. Excitement roughened Orry’s voice as he spoke to Sergeant Flicker.

  “That’s the signal.”

  “Yes, sir, so I figured.” Flicker sounded tense for a change. It reassured Orry to know he wasn’t the only one anticipating the prospect of resistance on shore.

  A strange, unfamilia
r roar brought puzzled looks to the faces of the men in the boat. Private Novotny was first to offer the explanation. “It’s from the ships. Tattnall’s sailors and cannoneers. They’re cheering us on.”

  The sixty-five surfboats surged toward the beach. Late-afternoon sunshine flashed from the several thousand fixed bayonets. The oarsmen propelled the landing craft between the gunboats of the covering squadron. Caught up in the splendor of the moment, Orry forgot the illness and the boredom, the drudgery and the pettiness of the last few months. This was the high art of war, the glorious side of soldiering.

  A naval gig pulled ahead of the other boats. Its oarsmen rowed frantically, obviously intending that the gig should be first on the beach. Standing in the bow, sword drawn, was a man they all recognized: their handsome, white-haired leader, General Worth.

  Sergeant Flicker tore off his hat, waved it, and cheered the general. Orry joined in, and so did his men. Soon every soldier in the first wave was screaming himself hoarse.

  A half minute before the keel scraped in the sand, Orry unsheathed his own sword. He stood up and was first to leap from the boat, flourishing the sword and shouting, “Here we go, men! All the way to the Halls of Montezuma in Mexico City!”

  For that, they cheered him, too.

  After such a rousing start, the next hour was an anticlimax.

  The regiment formed on the colors, then, with bayonets extended, charged to the top of the first dune. The charge quickly ran out of steam because there were no Mexicans lying in wait, not one enemy foot soldier or dragoon visible anywhere. The only foes the Americans met the rest of the afternoon were sand fleas and the rising wind that flung gritty particles of sand into their eyes, noses, and mouths.

  For the invasion, Scott had reorganized his men into three large forces. After the first two went ashore—Worth’s regulars, then those in General Davey Twiggs’s Second Brigade—the volunteers landed. General Patterson was in overall command of this brigade. Within it were units from South Carolina, Tennessee, and Pennsylvania, led by a man named Gideon Pillow who had but one qualification for his recent appointment to the rank of general. Before the war he had been Polk’s law partner.