by Bob Mayer
Rumble jumped to his feet and reached for the cart handles to climb again. A red-hot spike of pain seared through his shoulder. He felt wetness and looked down to see a small black hole in his fatigue shirt, just below the shoulder blade, with a spreading stain of red surrounding it. He tried once more to climb. But now he couldn’t raise his left arm above the shoulder; the pain was unbearable.
Cursing to himself, chagrined that he could not follow Grant, he spotted Fred Dent leading a squad down an adjacent street. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Rumble ran after them. Just before he reached the unit, a blistering scythe of musket balls from an ambush cut into the group, dropping half the men immediately. The rest ran. Except for Rumble, Dent, a sergeant and a private, who stood their ground as four Mexican soldiers charged forward, bayonets at the ready.
Dent began swinging his empty musket like a club, bashing in the head of the lead Mexican. Rumble fired his shotgun and took out a second. The private was bayoneted by the third Mexican in the stomach, but Dent immediately broke the man’s skull—and the stock of his musket. The sergeant shot the fourth Mexican with a pistol and for a moment all was eerily still.
“I think you’re wounded,” Dent said, still holding his broken musket by the barrel, and breathing hard.
“I—“ Rumble didn’t get a second word out as another volley of musket balls punched through the air. Rumble felt the tug on his shirt as a ball ripped through the loose cloth at his side, but didn’t hit flesh.
Dent wasn’t so lucky. A ball hit his thigh, spinning him about. The sergeant tossed away his pistol and grabbed Dent by one arm. Rumble looped the sling of the shotgun over his wounded shoulder and grabbed Dent’s other arm. Together, bullets buzzing by like angry hornets, they hauled Dent over a chest high stonewall into the relative safety of a courtyard.
“I’ll get help,” the sergeant said.
Rumble could see the fear in the man’s eyes. The sergeant had gone as far as he could, fought to his limit and now he was done. He would not be back.
“Be careful,” Rumble said, un-slinging the shotgun and loading it. “I’ll keep the lieutenant safe.”
The sergeant needed no urging. He was over the far wall and gone in a flash.
“This is a fine mess,” Dent said, pressing his hands against his wound.
For the first time, Rumble took stock of his own injury. The pain wasn’t as sharp, more a pulsing throb. It was a through wound, the entrance a small black hole that oozed red. The exit was a chunk of missing flesh in the rear, dripping blood freely. Thankfully, it didn’t seem as if any bones had been shattered. Rumble ripped off part of his sleeve.
“Could you plug this?” Rumble asked, holding out the cloth and turning his back to Dent.
“Certainly.” Dent shoved the cloth into the exit wound and Rumble clenched his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.
“Now, let’s take a look.” Rumble turned back to Dent. Using his knife, he cut away the cloth covering the wound. It was bloody, but hadn’t severed the artery or broken bone. What they were beginning to call a ‘lucky wound’. Rumble fastened a bandage from the rest of the pant leg, cinching it down around Dent’s thigh, but not too tight that it entirely cut off the blood flow.
Dent was pale from loss of blood and blinking hard, trying to stay conscious. “Write my mother if I don’t make it,” he told Rumble.
“You’ll make it,” Rumble said, more concerned about getting over-run by Mexican infantry than Dent’s wound in terms of lethality.
The sound of musket and cannon fire punctuated the air in all directions. Given that the initial assault had been launched in the dark around three a.m., it was still early in the morning. Rumble looked up in the sky and saw a pair of vultures circling, immune from the carnage below and waiting to feast on the results.
“Did you know Sam is engaged to my sister?” Dent asked.
“I do,” Rumble acknowledged.
“It seems I was one of the last to find out, although I did know they had feelings for each other.”
“He’s deeply in love with Julia.”
“I am sorry about your Lidia,” Dent said, his eyes closed in weakness.
The burst of pain in Rumble’s heart overwhelmed the throb in his shoulder for a few moments. “Thank you. I—“
He paused as a man poked his head over the wall. Rumble lowered the shotgun and breath a sigh of relief that the newcomer wasn’t Mexican. He had red hair and a bushy red beard and sported a broad smile revealing bad teeth.
“You lads hurt?” he asked in an Irish brogue.
“Yes,” Rumble said.
“Drop the shotgun, son,” the man said, pointing a musket over the wall directly at Rumble. Three other men clambered over the wall, dressed in ragged army blue, but sporting wide, red bandanas around both arms. They all also had large wooden crosses hung around their necks by a cord.
“What are you doing?” Rumble demanded as they disarmed him and Dent.
The redheaded man climbed over the wall. He was dressed all in black with the white collar of a priest. “Pleasure to meet you gents. I’m Father Declan. And these,” he indicated the other three, “are good servants of our Lord Jesus Christ who have seen the light. We’re fighting to protect the Church from infidels in this most pious of lands.”
“Turncoats,” Dent said.
“We serve a higher cause,” Father Declan said.
“Let’s be getting it over with and get out of here,” one of the men said, checking the priming on his weapon.
“Put them against the wall,” Father Declan ordered.
While Father Declan kept guard, two grabbed Rumble and slammed him none-too-gently against the wall. They reached down and lifted Dent, pushing him next to Rumble, but Dent’s thigh couldn’t support him, and he collapsed to the ground, cursing at the Irish.
Rumble reached for his breast pocket and Father Declan aimed his musket. “Easy, lad.”
“Not a weapon,” Rumble said. He pulled out Grant’s etching. “If this is to be my death, this is the last thing I want to see.”
“What do you have?” Declan came over as the other three men shifted about nervously. “She’s a pretty lass. Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“And your son?”
Rumble nodded.
“We need to go!” One of the men urged, peering over the wall. “Soldiers are heading this way. Let’s use the steel and be done with it. They’d show us no mercy.” He brandished his rifle, the long bayonet glinting in the morning sun. The man stalked over to Rumble and Father Declan. He glanced at the drawing. “Guess his mother has to be taking care of the boy forever. Or some other fella be taking care of both of them.”
“Now, now,” Father Declan said. “No need to be insulting.”
“His mother’s been dead for five years,” Rumble said.
“Ah,” Father Declan said. “Now that is sad. I lost my little lass many years ago. We had no children, though. Led me to the collar.”
“Soldiers getting close,” another man hissed, peeking over the wall.
“Let’s leave these fellows with their futures intact,” Father Declan ordered. He patted Rumble on the unwounded shoulder. “May the Lord bless you and your son.” He hefted Rumble’s shotgun. “I will be taking this pretty piece with me though.”
Then the four turncoats were over the wall. Rumble slid the picture into his pocket and slumped down next to Dent.
“How are you?” Rumble asked.
“My leg hurts,” Dent said. “I’d heard rumors the mutineers were executing the captured, particularly officers. War brings out the worst in souls.”
“We’re alive,” Rumble said. “Maybe it also brings out the best of some.”
9 September 1847, San Angel, Mexico
Rumble combined getting his bandage changed with a visit to Fred Dent who was recuperating in a field hospital in the town of San Angel. Grant accompanied, glad to be away from camp for a little. The mood of the troops w
as low after the bloody battles of the past week. Mexico City was still not taken and the confidence the army had manifested on the march here was wavering after the slaughter of the past several days. All morning church bells in the city had been ringing, extolling what the inhabitants believed to a tremendous victory in defeating a Yankee assault to seize the city, not realizing it had only been a spoiling attack.
The two found Dent on the second floor of a warehouse, the breeze from a nearby window helping to alleviate the September heat. He had a sack of cotton wedged behind him, allowing him to be half-inclined on the bloodstained army cot.
“How’s the healing, Fred?” Grant asked as they gathered round Dent.
Dent had been staring out the window with a frown, but a smile broke upon his face when he saw the three. “I still have my leg and the surgeon says I will be fit for duty within a month. And you, Lucius? The shoulder?”
In reply, Rumble rotated his arm in a complete circle, suppressing a slight expression of pain. “It functions and the bleeding has stopped. No bones were broken.”
“I owe you my life,” Dent said. “I will never forget.”
Rumble waved away the statement, this time grimacing at the un-planned movement. “Any of us would do it for the other.”
“Of course,” Dent said. “But you did it for me. I am in your debt.”
“And I too, then,” Grant added. “Julia would be most morose if I returned to White Haven minus Fred. It would put a damper on the wedding.”
Dent laughed. “Your concern is touching, Sam.”
“The war isn’t over yet,” Rumble noted.
“You’re sounding more and more like Old Cump, Lucius,” Grant said.
“Facing death directly has a way of making one a tad reflective,” Rumble said.
Grant disagreed. “It should make you happy to be drawing a breath. All of us have faced death and all of us are still among the living. We should focus on that. Not what might or might not happen tomorrow.”
“Unfortunately,” Dent said, “death is happening today for some and they are well aware of it.” He pointed out the window.
A row of carts carrying men trussed at the ankles and wrists was rumbling up to a set of hastily constructed scaffolds. Most of the men seemed resigned, but a few were struggling against the chains holding them in the carts. There were four carts, with four men shackled in each.
“Ah, the Battalion San Patrico,” Grant said.
“The what?” Rumble asked.
“Saint Patrick’s Battalion,” Grant explained. “Catholic Irish soldiers who deserted and joined the Mexicans. The ones who almost killed you.”
“Why did they betray their own?” Rumble asked, having been more focused on his notebooks and battle than politics.
“Several reasons,” Grant said. “Most believe they serve their God before they serve their country.”
“And what do the few believe?” Rumble asked.
Grant shrugged, eyes on the condemned. “Catholics are a minority in the army. Most officers are Protestant. I do think there is a case to be made that in some instances, there was prejudicial treatment toward some of these men by their officers. Combine that with the way some of our men have been treating the Catholic Mexicans and it’s a difficult issue.”
“They swore an oath,” Fred Dent said.
“Is it that simple?” Rumble asked. He could see ropes being placed around the men’s necks and tightened.
“They won’t have a drop,” Grant observed.
With the crack of bullwhips, the wagons lurched forward. The men’s feet scrambled on the wood cargo bay until the slipped off the edge. The bodies twitched and twirled as the men slowly choked to death. Even before they were all dead, more wagons came rolling up, crowded with a different group of men. Those who had escaped a death sentence, but still had to face punishment for desertion.
Several fires had been burning for a while. One by one, held tightly between two soldiers, the Irishmen were marched up to a fire. A brand was pulled out of the red-hot embers and a D was burned into their right cheek, marking them for life. The marking was bungled on one man, the brand placed backwards on the right cheek, so the mistake was remedied by marking the left cheek correctly. It was not a day for mercy.
“Rumble,” Dent said. “There. On the left.”
There was no mistaking Father Declan’s bulk or his black garments. He was among a cluster of American officers and several civilians, including a woman.
“Why isn’t that bastard dangling?” Dent asked.
“That ‘bastard’ saved our lives,” Rumble said.
“Saved our lives by not murdering us,” Dent said. “The logic is a bit skewed. You might see if they recovered that fancy shotgun of yours. And find out why his neck isn’t wrapped with rope.”
Rumble left Grant and Dent in the makeshift hospital, discussing plans for life after the war as if one could dare to think of such a thing now that they were at the gates of Mexico City.
Rumble ignored the bodies dangling from the ropes. An argument was going on among the American officers and the civilians standing between them and Father Declan. The accent of the civilians was British. Politicians from the Consulate, interceding on behalf of the priest. The woman was the wife of the British Consul, an obvious ploy to add some ‘decency’ to the barbarity that surrounded them.
“Ah, my friend with the beautiful child and the wife who passed before her time,” Declan cried out, spotting Rumble.
All negotiating stopped and everyone turned to look at Rumble. Colonel Garland spoke up. “You know this man, Sergeant Major?”
“He spared Lieutenant Dent’s and my life,” Rumble said. He saw his father’s shotgun in the back of a wagon. Along with a noose waiting for Father Declan.
“Spared you how?” Colonel Garland asked.
“Stopped his men from executing us when we were in his power, sir.” Rumble went to the wagon and took the shotgun.
“So he didn’t kill a prisoner,” Garland said. “Commendable.” The irony was clear to all.
“Aren’t you killing prisoners now, sir?” St. Declan asked.
“They’ve been tried and convicted,” Garland said.
Rumble broke open the shotgun. Two rounds were in their chambers. He saw boxes in the wagon, underneath the rope. Marked with transit stencils. Through Natchez, MS.
“But since Father Declan did not desert from your army,” the British Consul argued, “you have no right to execute him. He is Irish. A subject of the Crown. You’ll be provoking an international incident if you hang him.”
“Aye, and it would look bad in the newspaper, my being a priest and all,” Declan threw in.
Garland rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. “Take him with you,” he told the consul. “But if we find him once more on the field of battle, he will be shot on the spot.”
As the British and the priest turned to leave, Rumble stepped up to Declan and showed the muzzle of the shotgun into the soft spot under the man’s jaw.
Declan’s eyes went wide. “Easy, lad.”
“I’m not a lad,” Rumble said. “What was in the boxes?”
Declan’s eyes shifted over to the wagon and back. “Guns. Got to be going now.”
Rumble didn’t remove the shotgun. “Who sold them to you?”
Declan lowered his voice. “I can’t be telling you that, lad.”
“You’ll tell me or you’ll be losing the top of your head,” Rumble said.
“Sergeant Major,” Garland said, his voice more weary than commanding. “The deal is done. Let him go.”
Rumble reluctantly removed the shotgun from Father Declan’s chin. The British Consul dragged Father Declan to the safety of the Consulate.
Chapter Eight
13 Sept 1847, Chapultepec, Mexico
“Well, Pete, any wagers on today’s action?” Grant asked.
Using Rumble’s telescope, James Longstreet kept studying the approach to the Castle of Chapultepe
c. Cannon balls from American heavy artillery commanded by Major Lee arced overhead and pounded the fortress, continuing a long range duel that had lasted through the night. It was as if Longstreet looked hard enough, he could penetrate the stone with just his gaze.
Chapultepec was built on a rocky hill, rising one hundred and fifty feet about the surrounding country-side and commanding the approachs to Mexico City. It was built of stone, the main portion one hundred feet above the ground with a single dome raising up another twenty feet, giving the occupants superb observation in all direction. It was an imposing edifice, surrounded by two walls, ten feet apart and each over ten feet high.
“I don’t wager when blood is involved, Sam,” Longstreet answered. “It’s bad luck.” He pointed at the castle. “That fortress is the Mexican version of West Point. The Coleio Militar. They aren’t going to give it up easy.”
“We wouldn’t give up West Point easy,” Rumble said.
Grant was checking his pistol. “If you’d have asked me my plebe year, I’d have opened South Gate for the attackers.”
“Still feel that way, Sam?” Longstreet asked.
Grant shook his head. “No. The Academy prepared us well. And since wars seem to be inevitable, our country needs people like us to fight and win them.”
Rumble was still focused on the objective. “There’s got to be Mexican cadets in there; kids, ready to fight us.”
“Some of our volunteers aren’t more than kids,” Longstreet pointed out. “The other day, I saw a young fellow in Jeff Davis’s Mississippi unit who couldn’t have been more than fourteen.”
The three were crouched in a ditch as the preliminary military bombardment to ‘soften up’ the defensive position continued. Dawn was just beginning to show in the east and Longstreet’s unit, the 8th Infantry, along with five other brigades, was to lead the assault. After fierce fighting the previous day during the approach to this position, the 4th was in reserve, but Rumble and Grant had made their way forward; Grant always desiring to be closer to the action, Rumble doing his duty as observer.
