by Bob Mayer
“I can go back to the supply column,” Grant said. “I know how to move what we need forward.”
“Going back through all the houses will take too long before we make the final assault,” Garland said.
“I can ride my horse,” Grant suggested. “I’ll make it in no time.”
“We bypassed many pockets of resistance in our push to the plaza,” Garland said. “And the Mexicans are growing bolder. You’ll be an inviting target as soon as you go out that door. The building across the street has a hornet’s nest of snipers on the roof.”
Rumble gestured toward some notches cut in the adobe wall, heading toward a wood trap in the roof. “I can give him covering fire from up there, sir. It’ll only be risking the two of us.”
Garland considered the plan and made the command decision. “Do it, gentlemen.”
As Grant readied Nelly, Rumble lay his shotgun down and stuck his head in the hole in the wall. “I need four rifles.”
The Mississippi volunteers reluctantly handed over their rifles. After checking that they were loaded and primed, Rumble slung all four across his back.
Grant had one foot in the stirrup, the other dangling free on the same side of the horse.
“Ready?” Rumble asked.
Grant nodded.
“Give me a minute, then I’ll give a shout,” Rumble said. He quickly climbed the ladder. A low wall topped with a double row of sandbags surrounded the flat roof. Rumble crawled to the side above the stable entrance. He un-slung the rifles, pulling back the hammer on each of them, then propped three against the sandbags.
Fourth rifle at the ready, Rumble stood and aimed toward the enemy position across the street. “Go!”
Grant and Nelly exploded onto the street below. Grant was holding himself in the saddle with the one foot in the stirrup and an arm around Nelly’s neck. His body was on the near side of the horse.
A muzzle flash exploded from the opposite roof and Rumble fired at it, tossing the expended rifle to the ground and grabbing the next. As more Mexicans popped up to shoot, Rumble fired the next three rifles as fast he could, drawing the attention of the enemy as Grant raced away. The last shot struck home and blood sprayed into the air as a Mexican rifleman’s head snapped back and he tumbled behind his sandbag parapet.
Rumble automatically began to reload the rifle as he had been trained. A bullet showered sand from one of the bags in front and Rumble dove behind his own wall as more shots flew overhead.
Galloping away, Grant sensed as much as felt bullets pass close by, but the firing dwindled as he got further from the center of town. Slowing the horse, he spotted a blood-stained American soldier standing guard in the doorway of a house and brought Nelly to a halt.
“What are you doing here?” Grant asked.
The nervous sentry jerked his thumb toward the house. “Full of wounded, sir. Making sure they’re safe.”
Grant dismounted. Hitching Nelly to a post, Grant went in the open door and was greeted with the sickly smell of fresh blood and the groans and whimpers of men in pain. He spotted a captain of the engineers that he vaguely knew just inside the door, a pistol in his lap. The left side of the captain’s head was bathed in blood and Grant could see that a bullet had ripped a piece of the man’s skull away. Another officer was next to him, hands preventing protruding intestines from falling to the dirt floor. There were more wounded men scattered about the room, along with several who had already succumbed to their injuries.
“I’ll get help,” Grant announced, the stench of blood and viscera bringing back memories of the tannery and forcing him to step back.
No one responded; all were involved so deeply in their pain.
Grant ran outside and leapt onto Nelly. He resumed his mission and soon found headquarters. Only to discover that while he had been coming back for ammunition, a courier had gone forward on a different route with orders for the 3rd and 4th Infantry Regiments to withdraw.
Grant went to Taylor’s headquarters and found his chief of staff. “Sir, there’s a house full of wounded that will be lost to the enemy if we don’t retrieve them.”
The chief of staff was busy writing out orders and barely acknowledged Grant’s presence. “Lieutenant, the 3rd and 4th fought bravely, but took heavy casualties. We have Monterrey invested but not taken. We must hold our lines and can’t spare the men. The western flank is pressing the battle and that’s where every spare man is being sent. I’m afraid the wounded will have to fare for themselves this evening. Perhaps in the morning.”
Grant reluctantly bowed to the military neccessity and went to his task as adjutant, trying to gain an accurate count of officers and men. He waited along the main road as the remnants of the 4th Infantry came staggering back, bloody but unbeaten. Rumble soon arrived, shotgun in hand, his uniform blood-smeared and his eyes distant.
“Are you wounded?” Grant asked.
Rumble shook his head numbly. “Tried to carry a wounded man back. Had him over my shoulder. Someone shot him. Shot a wounded man being carried to safety. I could feel the ball hit his body. Feel his last breath rattle out of his lungs.” Rumble’s hand fluttered along his left cheek. “I left him. We left many dead and wounded behind.”
“I know,” Grant said, still checking off names as men staggered by. “I told General Taylor’s chief of staff, but he had other priorities.”
“Abandoning our wounded.” Rumble shook his head.
“It’s war,” Grant said. “There’s a house crammed with wounded. You and I could—”
“I passed a house,” Rumble continued, as if the word had been a trigger. “It had been full of wounded, but now they’re all dead. The Mexicans had been through it. Every man in there had been bayoneted.”
“Must be the same place,” Grant said. He placed a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. “Most of those men had mortal wounds. They were put out of their misery.”
“You put a horse out of its misery,” Rumble said, “not a man.”
“War changes things,” Grant said, his voice slipping into the calming mode he used on horses. “Perhaps you might partake of Benny’s salve.”
Rumble blinked, coming into the here, the now. He pulled the flask out and took a long drink. He offered it to Grant, who demurred. “You need it.”
“This should be over tomorrow.” Grant guided Rumble to an over-turned gun carriage that promised cover for the night, near the regimental headquarters. “A good sleep will do us both well.”
There was no fighting the next day. A Mexican emissary bearing a white flag appeared in front of the American lines and relayed a request for a cease-fire and a parlay between the Mexican commander and General Taylor. Both were granted.
In his role as observer, Rumble positioned himself at headquarters. Grant, out of curiosity to see how generals conducted themselves, joined him. They stood behind the army staff officers as Taylor negotiated the surrender of the Mexican forces.
What they witnessed was surprising and unexpected.
Taylor’s terms were shockingly lenient: The Mexicans were to depart Monterrey and withdraw a minimum of sixty miles. They could keep their arms, their horses, and six light artillery pieces. There would be no more fighting for eight weeks.
“Why did General Taylor do that?” Rumble asked Grant as they returned to the 4th Infantry headquarters. “One day we’re killing our enemy, the next we’re paroling them. War makes no sense.”
“It makes sense in its own way,” Grant said as he sat down on a bench with a barrel serving as desk in front, his makeshift office as adjutant. “To continue the fight would’ve been bloody. And perhaps a lasting peace might come out of this. Taylor also wishes to spare the women and children of the city from further bloodshed.”
“He didn’t seem too concerned about them the other day.” Rumble leaned his shotgun against the wall behind the bench. “Well, I must—” he paused as a dusty rider bearing a canvas bag rode up to headquarters.
“Hey, fella, you know wh
ere I can find the headquarters of the 4th Infantry?” the soldier shouted, having no idea Grant was an officer because of his plain blue tunic.
“Lieutenant Grant, adjutant, 4th Infantry.”
“Sir.” The rider dismounted, untied the canvas bag, and handed it over. “Latest mail from the States.” He looked about at the destruction. “Looks like I missed a heck of a fight, Lieutenant.”
“Be grateful for the small favors of fate,” Grant said as he opened the bag.
The courier wandered off in search of sustenance for both himself and his mount. Grant began sorting the mail by company, along with an extra pile.
“What’s that one for?” Rumble asked, looking over Grant’s shoulder.
“The dead.” Grant paused in his sorting. “A letter for you. Sergeant Major Lucius Kosciusko Rumble, attached to the 4th Infantry,” he added with a smile.
“Thanks, Sam.” Rumble took the letter and walked away a few feet to read it. The purple stationery indicated the originator as much as the flowing script.
Palatine
Natchez, MS
12 August 1846
My Dearest Son,
I pray this letter finds you well and out of harm’s way. We heard reports about the fighting and it all sounds quite frightful. I am glad you are just an observer and not in the middle of it.
Your brother received your missive from New Orleans. You will be heartened to learn that John Dyer is no longer among the living. I am sure he is quite at home amongst the other twisted souls Satan can call his own. Unfortunately, his son still breathes and has taken his father’s place.
Your brother spoke to Sheriff Wallace about St. George and suspicious activity on the river, unaware, or perhaps unwilling to accept, that the sheriff is cut of the same cloth as St. George. Most likely in his employee, at the very least, indebted to him. Who knows what beastly things happen in Shanty Town? It will take more than spoken words to stop St. George and get the sheriff to act. Fortunately, Rosalie is on the task.
The grandchildren are flourishing. Ben grows taller and stronger each day. He enjoys the Angel Fountain as much as you did, if not more. He will be riding soon, and I will insure he has the best possible mount and instruction.
He does not go down to the river.
Abigail is darling and I am doing my best to instruct her in the finer things in life a lady must understand. As does her aunt Rosalie.
Your father is the same.
As am I.
It is as if there is a great pause as war rages in Mexico and the entire country is holding its breath. What will happen when everyone exhales, I haven’t the slightest clue. All I know is my desire for you to pass through this ordeal unscathed and return home to your children.
My prayers and love to you.
Violet Rudolph Rumble
Nothing about what he’d witnessed in New Orleans. Violet was always very particular about what she discussed and what was not to be spoken about.
As Rumble slid his mother’s letter into his shirt pocket to join the sketch of Lidia and other letters, Sam Grant had finished sorting the mail and had not been rewarded with mail of his own. He pulled out a well-worn sheet of paper, Julia’s last letter to him, over three months old, and opened it on top of the barrel he was using as a desk.
The tone of the letter was light-hearted and carefree. Julia mentioned being pursued by other suitors among the handful of officers left at Jefferson Barracks.
He licked the end of his pencil and began to write on the back of a blank requisition form:
4th Regiment
Vicinity, Monterrey, Mexico
25 Sept 1848
My Dearest Julia,
I received several weeks ago your letter regarding Jefferson Barracks and potential suitors. I know you are trying to lighten my heart, but you will soon learn that many of those you once knew at the Barracks are no longer with us. The toll among officers has been frightful. Lucius Rumble and I just recovered Lt. Hoskins body and--
After Grant wrote that last line he put the pencil down and tore up the piece of paper. He started anew.
My Dearest Julia,
When you write to me again, tell me if your Pa ever says anything about the possibility of our engagement and if you think he will make any further objections.
But Julia, I hope many more months will not pass over before we will be able to talk over this matter without the use of paper. How much I do want to see you again, but I know you would not recognize me. When you see me as you often do in your dreams, you see me as I was, not as I am, for climate has made a change. I mean a change in appearance, but in my love for Julia I am the same, and I know that she has not changed in that respect, for she writes me such sweet letters when she does write. Won’t you continue to write to me often for it gives me so much pleasure to read and to answer your letters.
Julia, if the 4th Inf should be stationed permanently in the conquered part of Mexico would you be willing to come here or would you want me to resign? I think probable though that I shall resign as soon as this war is over and make Galena my home. My father is very anxious to have me do so.
Grant looked at that last line and closed his eyes briefly. “Lucius.”
Rumble had his shotgun broken down and was cleaning the weapon. “Yes?”
“Your flask, please.”
Rumble put the shotgun aside and reached into his haversack. He pulled the flask out. “Bad news from the States?”
“No news from the States. I am writing Julia.”
“Ah.” Rumble handed the flask to Grant, who took a quick swallow. Rumble waited a moment for Grant to hand it back, but when his friend went back to writing, placing the flask near to hand on the barrel top, Rumble went back to cleaning his shotgun.
Grant continued.
Julia, aren’t you getting tired of hearing war, war, war? I am truly tired of it. I do wish this would close. If we have to fight, I would like to do it all at once and then make friends. If these Mexicans were any kind of people they would have given us a chance to whip them enough some time ago and now the difficulty would be over; but I believe they think they will outdo us by keeping us running over the country after them.
Grant took another drink.
We have just had a hard fight. Harder than any before and costlier. Twenty-Seven officers of one-hundred and twenty-two on the rolls have been killed. Many from those you knew at Jefferson Barracks. I am now the Regimental Adjutant as Charley Hoskins, whom you knew well, is no longer with us.
I wish this were the last battle. I hope it may be so for fighting is no longer a pleasure.
What made you ask the question, Dearest Julia, ‘if I thought absence could conquer love?’ I can only answer for myself, that Julia is as dear to me as she was two years ago, when I first told her of my love. From that day to this I have loved you constantly. You have not told me for a long time, Julia, that you still love me, but I never thought to doubt it.
Grant tilted the flask once more. Blinked a couple of times to focus on his writing, which was becoming difficult. He added one more paragraph:
Speaking of you coming to Mexico, Dearest, I do not intend to hint that it is even probable that the 4th Inf. will remain for I think it will be one of the first to leave the country. Give my love to all at White Haven and write very soon and very often to
Ulysses.
Grant took a deep breath, folded the letter and then slid it into an envelope and addressed it, ready for the next dispatch rider to begin the long journey back to the United States. He dearly wished he were making that trip along with the letter as his head drooped and then lightly landed on the barrel top.
Rumble walked over and removed the flask from Grant’s slack hand. He pulled Grant’s field jacket up over his head. Then he handled the business of adjutant for the 4th Infantry as best as possible while his friend slept.
Chapter Five
14 Dec 1846, San Luis Obispo, California
“He should be shot,�
�� Lieutenant King demanded. Throwing in a belated “Sir” as he addressed newly promoted Lieutenant-Colonel Fremont, also newly the commander of all American military forces in the California territory.
“Aint you tired of killing?” Kit Carson muttered in a voice that only Cord could hear.
Fremont sat in a high-backed chair in front of the altar inside the San Luis Obispo Mission. He wore a deerskin blouse and leggings, both of which showed much wear and tear from the constant travels of the past months. He was flanked on each side by a pair of Delaware Indians that had become his bodyguards as the fledgling army had gone up and down California, from San Francisco to San Diego and back north, sometimes by land, sometimes by sea. They’d taken Los Angeles months ago, but lost it when the native Californios revolted against the harsh military commander Fremont had left in charge: Lieutenant George King. Now King was claiming that the civilian standing tall in front of Fremont was the man who had led that revolt, been captured, paroled, and captured again.
“Don Jose de Jesus Pico, you have violated the parole so graciously given you,” Fremont said. “You have taken up arms against the army of the United States.”
“I took up arms to defend myself and my home,” Pico said. “We have all heard what happened to Senor de Los Reyes Berreyesa and his nephews at your hand.”
Fremont leaned forward in the chair. “And what have you heard?”
“That they were shot although they had committed no crime,” Pico said. “That they had no weapons. Do you think any of us would be foolish enough to make the same mistake?”
