by Bob Mayer
Cord pulled out his flask.
Chapter Four
23 Sept 1846, Monterrey, Mexico
“Mules, mules, and more mules,” Grant muttered, in between issuing orders in functional Spanish to the Mexican teamsters trying to get the regimental baggage train unloaded and supplies sorted. The thunder of cannon fire echoed back from the front lines, a few miles distant.
Rumble ignored Sam’s grousing and peered through his telescope at the Black Fort guarding the approach to Monterrey, Mexico, unaware that Elijah Cord was on the march toward Monterrey, California. The city was a formidable obstacle. On the north, in front of Grant and Rumble, was the Black Fort, bristling with guns, built on the foundation of an unfinished cathedral. What was once to be a house of worship was now a house that dealt death.
On the south, the city was protected by the Santa Catarina River and the Sierra Madre mountains. To the east, a series of small redoubts guarded the way. And to the west, the Bishop’s Palace and Fort Soldado not only protected the city, they also kept open the Mexican’s supply line. It was a strategic puzzle that General Taylor had spent the last two days analyzing.
“I sent a request,” Grant continued. “Written up perfectly. Asking for duty that allowed me combat. I told the Colonel I did not want a posting that removed me from sharing in the dangers and honors of service with the regiment at the front.”
“Danger, I’ll grant you,” Rumble said, noting the muzzles of the cannon that lined the top of the massive wall of the Black Fort. They flashed as the Mexicans fired on the advancing American forces. “Honor, is another matter.”
It was near the end of September, 1846, and since the victory at Palo Alto, General Taylor had been forced to delay his advance further into Mexico because an influx of volunteers from the United States had swelled his ranks. The quick war was turning into a slugfest. While the army’s number was now much higher, discipline and training was much lower. Rumble noted the distinct difference between the Regular Army soldiers, many of whom were well-trained foreigners serving to gain citizenship, and the citizen soldiers who had rushed to volunteer at the prospect of ‘adventure’ in a foreign land and to serve the flag. Curiously, he also noted that many of the volunteer units had West Pointers as leaders; men who had resigned their active commissions, gone into the civilian world, but were now back in uniform when their country needed them.
Taylor may have spent the months training the volunteers, but it was clear from the way the army was deploying for the assault, that Taylor was counting on his regular army to do the heavy lifting as the volunteers were all being held in reserve.
“Remember in tactics class, plebe year?” Grant asked. “When they said that after forty-five days of being besieged, any fort will surrender?”
Rumble laughed. “And when the instructor asked Cord what he would do if he commanded a besieged fort—he said that he’d walk out and let the besiegers have the fort, then encircle them for forty-five days and take it back.”
“That didn’t go over well,” Grant said. “But it has a sort of logic to it. This is a daring plan, which the General has come up with.”
“’Daring’?” Rumble said. “That’s an understatement. The scouts say there are over ten thousand Mexicans defending. We number a bit over three thousand. I might not have graduated, but I do remember some instructor saying that an attacking force against a fortified position needs three to one odds. We have it backwards here. And worse, our army is split. East and west of the city. If the Mexicans sally forth and attack—” Rumble didn’t finish.
“You’re sounding a lot like Cump lately,” Grant observed. “Gloom and doom.”
“I’m a realist,” Rumble said.
Grant shrugged. “We’re just the diversion. The main thrust is to come from the west. I believe General Taylor feels the Mexicans lack the will to assault us from their defensive positions.”
“But our two forces aren’t mutually supporting, while the Mexicans have the advantage of interior lines,” Rumble pointed out, scribbling some notes in his ‘observation pad’.
“That’s true,” Grant agreed, before yelling out more orders to a pair of Mexican mule handlers.
A lower melody of death underscored the cannon fire as the rattle of musketry began, initially like a few drops on a tin roof, then increasing to a full downpour.
“It sounds like a warm day in the field,” Grant said, taking the telescope from Rumble.
“I’m heading forward,” Rumble said. “To observe. There’s only so much I can see and experience from a distance.”
Grant looked at the Mexican teamsters lounging in the shadows of the few buildings of the village. “They don’t need me here. I’m joining you.”
Rumble didn’t protest his friend abandoning his assignment. They rode swiftly toward the firing. They encountered the bulk of the 3rd and 4th Infantry regiments hunkered in a depression, out of direct fire of the Black Fort.
Within minutes of arriving, the order to advance was relayed down the chain of command. As one, the men rose up out of the depression and charged. Rumble noticed that he and Grant were the only men on horseback.
“Sam!” Rumble called as he hopped off his horse and let it gallop toward the rear, showing more smarts than any of the humans. But Grant was pressing forward and the sound of cannon and muskets was too loud for him to hear.
The fire from the Black Fort and the right flank was devastating. Within minutes, a good portion of the attacking force lay dead or wounded and officers were shouting to retreat. Due to the volume and direction of the incoming fire, the troops moved left, to the east, not backwards. The instinct to survive dictated the direction of the withdrawal.
It was a disorganized movement. Rumble saw Grant trying to rally some troops and ran toward his friend. “Sam!” He slapped Grant on the leg.
But Grant was looking past Rumble. An officer was staggering back with the troops, completely exhausted.
Rumble gripped Grant’s leg as he recognized the officer. “Give Hoskins your horse.”
Grant looked confused for a moment, then nodded. “Certainly.”
Grant hopped off his horse and holding the bridle, stopped the regimental adjutant. “Take my mount, Hoskins,” Grant said.
He received no argument and Hoskins gratefully took to the saddle.
The color bearer for the 4th Regiment came hurrying by, then cried out in pain as a musket ball hit him in the spine. He fell to the dirt, dead. Grant grabbed the standard before it struck the ground.
“Come on,” Rumble urged. As they withdrew, Hoskins came galloping by, low in the saddle. It did him no good. A bullet tore though his body and he tumbled off the horse. There was no time to retrieve the body as the heavy fire continued and the horse sprinted away.
Rumble and Grant finally reached the safety of an outlying village and, along with the surviving troops, hunkered down, out of immediate danger. Over ten percent of the attacking force lay dead or dying out in the open.
Rumble spotted a church steeple and grabbed Grant, who handed the regimental colors over to an enlisted man. “Come on, Sam. We can see from there.”
The two went into the church and Rumble halted, startled. The dark and cool of the interior were so different from the heat of the battlefield. Grant immediately headed toward the door to the belfry. They climbed up and Rumble extended his telescope.
He tried to make sense of what was happening. The assault of the 3rd and 4th Regulars on the Black Fort had failed. Of that they were witnesses. But further south, to the left, Rumble could spot a mass of men in blue moving toward the wall of the city.
“There,” he said, handing the telescope to Grant.
“The volunteers,” Grant said, seeing the unit flags. “The Tennesseans and your fellow Mississippians are over there. Colonel Jefferson Davis leads the men from your state. Class of ’28.” Grant stiffened, as he observed the action. “They’re doing it. They’re carrying the position. I see men going over the
wall. The volunteers did it.”
“Bet Taylor is surprised by that,” Rumble said.
“The volunteers have spirit,” Grant allowed. “Maybe that counts for more than we suspect.” Grant lowered the scope. He closed his eyes, weariness taking over. “We might as well rest while we can. It’ll be our turn again soon enough.”
As the volunteers took the outskirts of Monterrey, darkness fell, bringing an end to the battle for the day. The city was surrounded, but not taken.
As soon as the sound of firing died out, Grant sought out Rumble in the evening gloom. “We need to find Hoskins’ body. Bring him back before the dogs and vultures get to him.”
Rumble had a metal flask in hand. An ‘off to war’ gift from Benny Havens, who said that his experiences in the War of 1812, confirmed that there was always a time and a place for a quick swallow, although he hoped Rumble would never experience such a time or place. Rumble took a swig and stood.
“May I partake?” Grant indicated the flask.
Rumble was going to demur, given alcohol’s effect on Grant, but after the events of the day, he handed the flask over.
Grant took a deep drink. And didn’t hand the flask back. Rumble grabbed a bloodstained canvas stretcher while Grant screwed the top back on the flask.
“There will be worse scavengers than vultures out there,” Rumble said as he picked up his shotgun.
They departed the village, retracing the route of their retreat earlier in the day. The further they went, the more bodies they passed.
A furtive figure was off to the left, bending over a body. “Get!” Rumble yelled, pulling back the hammers on both barrels. The thief, whether Mexican or American it was hard to tell, ran off into the gathering darkness. Rumble and Grant continued forward.
Rumble couldn’t help but notice something about many of the corpses: their clothes were in disarray, as if they had been pawed at.
“Damn scum have already been stealing from the dead,” Rumble said.
Grant peered at the bodies. “Yes. Some. But others haven’t been touched by thieves. Doesn’t make sense.”
A deep voice from behind startled them. “Did it to themselves.”
General Taylor sat on Old Whitey, his straw hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Sir,” Grant said, snapping to attention, Rumble following suit.
“Man gets shot and he isn’t killed right off, he starts tearing at his clothes, looking for the wound,” Taylor said. “It’s a strange thing, but not so strange knowing that if you’re gut shot, you’re dead. Just not right away. Hell, you’re eventually dead most any place you get shot.” His voice was low, as if he were speaking to himself. “Saw it first time back in 1812.”
Grant took a step toward Taylor. “General, isn’t it a bit dangerous for you to be out here?”
“Isn’t it for you also?” Taylor asked. He noted the stretcher. “Searching for someone in particular?”
“Our regimental adjutant, sir,” Grant said. “He was killed during the fighting and we’re recovering his body.”
“Good,” Taylor said. He was looking past them, at the field of dead. “A general always has to remember this before he fights the next battle. Remember the true coin of war.” Taylor twitched the reins and Old Whitey started to amble back toward American lines. Taylor looked over his shoulder. “We took a beating today, boys. My fault. But we’ll lick ‘em tomorrow. Or the next day. But we will lick ‘em.”
And then ‘Old Rough and Ready’ was gone in the darkness.
Grant took out the flask and drank long and hard, then gave it back. Without a word, they continued.
“Hold on,” Grant said, a slight slur in his voice, as they heard a moan.
Rumble remained on the road, shotgun in one hand, stretcher in the other. Grant knelt next to someone, giving him water, then wiped the man’s forehead with his handkerchief. Rumble waited for several minutes, before Grant slowly lowered the man’s limp head to the ground and rejoined him.
“He asked for his mother at the end,” Grant said in a low voice.
“What did you tell him?”
“That she was close.” Grant’s tone was shaky, something Rumble had never heard before. “That she’d be here soon. Then he just died.”
Rumble licked his lips and peered about, trying to get oriented. “Hoskins fell somewhere over there.”
They walked in that direction and finally found the dead officer face down in the dirt, his uniform rifled, his possessions looted, his West Point ring gone. Loading him onto the stretcher, they headed back toward the village and the regiment, carrying the body between them.
“I never knew death weighed so much.” Grant sounded surprised.
They made it back to the regiment and turned the body over to the grave detail. Rumble and Grant found a small dark corner of an abandoned house. They both slid to a sitting position, backs against the mud brick walls. They were exhausted beyond endurance, too tired to talk. They knew what the morning meant: bloody, close-quarters, street-by-street fighting to take the city.
“Your flask?” Grant asked.
Dawn came quicker than most of the surviving men in the 4th Infantry would have liked. Preparatory orders were issued, weapons were checked and the men assembled for combat.
But nothing happened. General Taylor was consolidating the footholds he’d gained in the city, preparing for the final assault. And letting his troops rest after the brutal battles of the first day’s assault.
Outside of Monterrey, Rumble was trying to analyze what had occurred, since this was the first major setback for the Americans in Mexico, although the battle was far from over and the words among the troops was that the main assault on the west side of the city by the volunteers had had far greater success.
He was sitting with Grant on a bench outside a half-destroyed house. Not far away the screams, pleadings and moans of the wounded could be heard in a symphony of pain and despair. Men were lying on the ground all about, spent from the previous day’s action, although how many would find sleep this evening was questionable, given the assault that was sure to be renewed the following morn.
“What happened, Sam?” Rumble asked. “General Taylor said it was his fault.”
Grant was checking requisition forms from the companies, sending soldiers off to fulfill them. Top of the list was water, then ammunition, and then food. He paused, pencil in the air.
“First, the army was divided before the attack, as you noted. By itself that wasn’t a problem. The problem came when our attack went beyond being a diversion, as General Taylor initially envisioned, into being an actual assault on the Black Fort. We should have feinted to the depression, held there while making a demonstration of charging, then pulled back once the main assault in the west had achieved it’s goal. Instead we charged, with the results we lived through, but others didn’t.”
“Then, instead of making a quick decision to press the attack or withdraw completely, reinforcements were thrown into the fray piecemeal and I believe that’s where General Taylor feels his fault lies. Our charge was ill-conceived and poorly executed.” Grant went back to writing on his forms and Rumble went back to making entries in his notebook.
Inside of Monterrey, the Mexican commander ordered a tactical withdrawal, pulling his troops back to surround the city’s central plaza. This tightened his lines, a sound tactical move, but had an unexpected effect on the soldiers: they were giving up terrain they had successfully defended against the American assault. The withdrawal had the bitter taste of defeat in the mouths of many of the Mexican soldiers who had fought so bravely.
As sometimes happens in war, both armies felt defeated after two days of battle.
On the second morning, the assault into Monterrey began in earnest. Grant, made acting adjutant of the 4th Infantry with Hoskins’ death, no longer had to stay with the supply train and Rumble accepted his duty was at the front so they were both at the head of the regiment.
Surprisingly, the goin
g was easy at first. The Americans moved forward, meeting no resistance. Even the Black Fort was undefended. But things changed when they came closer to the city’s central plaza where the Mexicans had rallied their defense. Every house, every store, every inch of advance became a bloody affair. The roads were barricaded and many were covered by canister and grape shot. The Mexicans had learned the hard lessons from Matamoros and adapted their artillery. The roofs of the one and two story buildings had been fortified with walls of sandbags, giving the defenders the advantage of plunging fire.
It was brutal on both sides. By the afternoon, American artillery shells and mortars were indiscriminately raining down on the central plaza. The Mexicans requested a cease-fire to evacuate women and children and the battle halted temporarily while General Taylor considered the request.
Grant and Rumble heard about it from a courier as they hunkered inside a house two blocks from the plaza. They’d crawled into the house through a hole in the adobe wall from a stable next door, as far as they could go on horseback without being shot out of the saddle. The Americans had quickly learned cutting through the walls was safer than trying to fight down the barricaded streets raked with musket and artillery fire. Rumble made a note of the improvised tactics on the small pad. This had not been taught at West Point.
The room was filled with men, both regulars from the 4th Infantry and a handful of Rumble’s fellow Mississippians with their rifles. Units had been jumbled together in heat of combat and the close quarters of the battle precluded reorganization.
Colonel Garland, the regimental commander, poked his head through the hole and gestured for them to join him. Grant led the way and they crawled into the stable where Garland was dusting off his uniform. “General Taylor’s turned the truce down.”
“Whatever for, sir?” Grant asked.
Garland edged toward the stable door and carefully peered toward the plaza. “General Taylor said the Mexicans will use up their supplies faster having to feed the civilians. Coldly calculating, but true.” He turned to Grant and Rumble. “The regiment will be pushing forward soon. We’re dangerously low on ammunition. The Mexicans recognize that, they’ll counter-attack and we’ll be forced to rely on the bayonet.”
