Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

  Longstreet looked like a crazy man, a far cry from the polished First Classman preparing to train plebes at West Point they had said farewell to when departing on furlough. He sported a bushy, unkempt beard and long hair that stuck out wildly, weeks removed from a bath. His uniform was dust covered and torn in places. He had two pistols stuck in his belt along with a well-sharpened saber that had seen action.

  “This is dumb,” Longstreet said, handing the scope back to Grant for a look. He might not be taking bets for the moment, but he was never shy about sharing his opinion. “We shouldn’t be on the offensive when the enemy matches or exceeds our number and they’re entrenched behind a stone wall. Why don’t we cut their supply lines and make them come hunting for us? We’ve been chasing these rascals all over Mexico for a year since Monterrey and we’re almost always the ones attacking.”

  “You’d rather defend?” Grant asked, slowly scanning the terrain and the enemy.

  “I’d rather be sitting up there behind those walls with the 8th and have them Mex’s down here in this ditch,” Longstreet said. “I say we grab our spades and dig in.”

  “Sound strategy,” Rumble agreed. “Except they are up there and we are not.” He laughed. “A little while back, Sam and I were talking about when Cord said he’d give up a fortress to the enemy and then surround them for forty-five days.”

  “Elijah always had a different way of looking at things,” Longstreet agreed. “The whole Silence thing we did to him seems childish given our current situation. What do you think?” He asked Grant when he finally lowered the scope.

  “Tough going,” Grant said, handing it back to Rumble. “Not much cover and no concealment. I don’t like a frontal assault, but we don’t have many options. Terrain dictates we can’t flank the fort. It has to be subdued or else we can’t take the city. And we must take the city to end this war.” He glanced at Rumble. “As you once pointed out, it’s not enough to defeat the enemy’s army, we must indeed break their will to fight.”

  “What do you see?” Longstreet asked Rumble.

  Rumble collapsed the scope and put it in the leather case. “I see a lot of bodies lying out there soon. The dead out of their misery. The wounded wishing they were dead.” He shrugged, forgetting about his shoulder and immediately regretting it as he winced. “And nothing anyone can do about it, is there?”

  “A bit grim,” Longstreet said. “Since when do you read the future?”

  “Since I gave up trying to control it,” Rumble said.

  “Lucius is realistic, but pessimistic,” Grant said. “We had a hard go of it yesterday.”

  An understatement if there was one. Worth’s division, of which the 4th Infantry was part, had suffered twenty-five percent casualties clearing the way for this assault on the fortress. A greater casualty rate than at Monterrey. According to what they had been taught at West Point, that made the 4th combat ineffective. Along with many other ‘rules’ they had been taught, that was another that had gone by the wayside in the heat of combat and become another notation in Rumble’s book.

  An officer of the engineers came boldly striding down the ditch, making no attempt to hunch over or duck, even though a Mexican shell occasionally flew by.

  “Is that Lee?” Grant asked.

  Longstreet tore his gaze away from the objective. “Yes. He’s all over the place. General Taylor places the greatest trust in him. Lee found the mountain trail we used to outflank Santa Anna in the Sierra Madres and was in charge of the engineers who made it passable for the artillery.”

  Lee’s uniform was impeccable, his rank glittering on his shoulder. “Gentlemen,” he said as he walked up.

  “Major Lee,” Grant said, getting to his feet, as did the other two men.

  Lee paused and looked at Grant, a slight frown crossing his forehead as he searched for rank, then spotted the small, dull insignia sown on the shoulders. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, Lieutenant--”

  “Grant, sir. Ulysses Grant. This is Lieutenant Longstreet. And Sergeant Major Rumble, a special observer sent from West Point.”

  “Pleased,” Lee said, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He looked past the three soldiers. “This is all quite splendid isn’t it?”

  “Sir?” Grant was confused.

  “Men at the extreme,” Lee said. “It brings out the best.” He pulled a pocket watch out and checked the time, then looked to the east as if confirming the sun was doing its duty. “It will be in God’s hand soon.”

  An officer came scurrying down the trench. Another West Pointer. The opposite of Longstreet in appearance, but not quite the same as Lee. The man had long hair, curling down to his shoulders. His uniform held all the accoutrements of rank one could possibly sew or pin on and had somehow been freshly cleaned and repaired.

  “Major Lee, may I present George Pickett, ’46,” Longstreet said by way of introduction. “Also of the 8th Infantry.”

  Pickett only had eyes for Lee. “Major, I—“

  “Time,” Lee said, flicking shut the face of the watch and heading down the trench, continuing whatever task the general had assigned.

  Pickett was staring after Lee, red-faced. More concerned about the lack of acknowledgement from the West Point legend than the pending assault.

  “He’s an exacting fellow,” Rumble noted.

  Longstreet checked his own watch. “We attack in five minutes.” He slumped down in the ditch, putting his back against the dirt, using the interval to get some rest.

  “You’ll be fine, Pete,” Grant said.

  Longstreet gave a crooked grin. “We both have to get back home and get married. Can’t keep the women waiting.”

  “How’d you know I was engaged?” Grant was surprised.

  Longstreet grinned. “My girl knows your girl. Women can’t keep a secret worth a damn.”

  Rumble shook his head. “You never met my mother.”

  Grant relaxed. “True, but if Julia’s father—“ Grant stopped in mid-sentence as a bugle blared and Longstreet drew his saber. “My watch must be off. Love to stay and talk—really would, but duty calls.” He jumped out of the ditch, Pickett at his side along with hundreds of men rising up out of the ground, casting long shadows in the dawn, bayonets glinting in the early morning sun.

  Grant watched the advancing troops. “Your scope, Lucius?”

  Rumble handed over the leather case. The rattle of musketry indicated that the advancing Americans had come within small arms range of the fortress. Despite the fire, the mass of blue clambered up the hill toward the citadel. The flashes of musket fire along the parapet and the larger blazes of cannon fire punctuated the growing cloud of smoke drifting over the battlefield.

  Grant stiffened, peering through the telescope. “The standard bearer of the 8th is down! Old Pete has the colors.”

  Even without his scope, Rumble could see the regimental flag waving back and forth and moving inexorably toward the walls of the fort. Grant and Rumble started out of the ditch when the flag suddenly dipped to the ground as Longstreet fell to his knees, wounded. Another officer, Pickett, grabbed the colors from Longstreet and dashed forward, displaying them over his head with dash and screaming for the men to follow him. He reached the wall of the fortress and climbed up on the rubble where the cannons had done the job of breaching the stone. Pickett paused for a moment, bullets flying all about him as he waved the flag, then disappeared into the fortress, a flood of blue clad soldiers following, an inexorable tide of destruction.

  Grant and Rumble found Longstreet lying with his back against a boulder, blood flowing from a wound in his hip.

  “George is something isn’t he?” Longstreet greeted them. “Never hesitated.”

  “You were something,” Grant said. “Didn’t see you stopping either, till you got hit.”

  “It’s nothing,” Longstreet said. “A flesh wound.”

  Rumble knelt next to Longstreet and checked the wound. “It isn’t bad.” He reached into his haversack and
pulled out some bandages. “I put the odds at ten to one you’ll be walking within a week.”

  Longstreet laughed through his pain. “I won’t bet against myself. One of my rules.”

  Rumble tightened down the cloth. He spotted a couple of stretcher-bearers and called them over. Bugles blared to their rear.

  “Assembly for the 4th,” Grant said. He put a hand on Longstreet’s shoulder as the stretcher-bearers lifted him. “Take care of yourself, Pete.”

  “Both of you stay safe,” Longstreet called out as he was carried away.

  Elijah Cord’s slightly blurred focus was on a cluster of supply wagons. Four bound men were crowded on the rear of each wagon. Around their necks were ropes. The ropes were tied to wood beams over their heads. Teamsters milled around the horses shackled to the wagons. Everyone, including the condemned men, were looking to the west and up: a fortress, spouting thunder and lightning at the blue forces assaulting it, loomed in the distance. Crowning the highest part of the fortress was a Mexican flag, flapping in the breeze.

  “Who are you?” A nervous, young private in blue, his hands clutching a musket, blocked Cord’s way.

  Cord didn’t look like a soldier, never mind an officer. He sported a scraggly beard; not from fashion choice, but the result of months removed from a razor. His skin was sunburned and weather-beaten. He wore an un-tucked flannel shirt over deerskin trousers. He carried a long rifle in the crook of his arms, a bedroll over one shoulder and looked every inch the intrepid mountain man. And he was a bit inebriated.

  “Elijah Cord!” An officer called out from where he lay on the stretcher and Cord had to look past the tangled beard to recognize him.

  “Old Pete!”

  Longstreet sat up. “I’ll be damned. What are you doing here?”

  “I was always assigned to the 4th,” Cord said.

  Cord noted the bandage on his hip. “You were injured?”

  “A flesh wound. Done running around the frontier?” Longstreet asked, taking in the outfit, and the redness in Cord’s eyes. Along with the stink of alcohol.

  “The west coast is ours,” Cord said. “The Californios surrendered in Los Angeles back in January. There was no need for me to stay. My duty there was done.”

  “I suppose you have some stories to tell,” Longstreet said.

  “Not particularly,” Cord said.

  “You walked all the way here from California?” Longstreet was amazed.

  “I had to go to Fort Leavenworth first,” Cord said. “What’s going on here?”

  Longstreet grimaced, from both the wound in his hip and their surroundings. “The rest of the Irish prisoners who deserted.”

  “’The rest’?”

  “Hung the first batch yesterday,” Longstreet said. “These are the rest.”

  “What are they waiting on?”

  Longstreet pointed at a senior officer. “Colonel said the instant,” he pointed now to the west, “that Mex flag over Chapultepec comes down and the United States flag goes up, they dangle.”

  “Rumble up there in the assault?” Cord asked.

  “Yes. And Sam Grant.”

  Cord started forward. “I should join my regiment.”

  “The attack is joined. Not much you can do now. Best wait here.”

  “It’s my regiment,” Cord said.

  “Was your regiment,” Longstreet said. “You wouldn’t recognize over half the officers and men now.”

  Cord stiffened. “That bad?”

  “That bad,” Longstreet confirmed. “Wait here a bit with me.” He gestured. “Go take a look through the scope and tell me what’s happening.”

  A large telescope was set on a tripod and officers were taking turns watching the assault.

  The uniformed officers stared at Cord as he leaned over and peered into the eyepiece. The men in blue charging the castle seemed an unstoppable tide. Already, some were climbing over the wall and the defensive cannon were falling silent one by one.

  “Their military academy,” Longstreet said. “Rumor is some of the cadets stayed to defend it to the death.”

  “Then death they are receiving,” Cord said. He squinted. “They’re falling back on their flag. Some of the cadets are gathering at the base of the pole. Fighting to the end. Oh!” Cord pulled his eye back and wiped at it, as if dust had gotten into the orb. He leaned forward. “One is left. He’s fighting like the devil. He’s—he’s down. Swarmed under by bayonets. One of ours, by God, George Pickett, the devil’s own, is at the pole.”

  Everyone could see the Mexican flag begin to descend. The distant sound of cheering began to echo over the valley. The Mexican flag disappeared and then the Stars and Stripes began their ascent. Their cheering was contagious, every man roaring at the tops of their lungs.

  None more so than the twenty-nine men standing in the back of the wagons.

  As the United States flag reached its zenith, the Colonel cried out the command. The teamsters ordered the wagons forward and then those cheers were gone forever.

  “There’s no danger! See, I’m not hit!”

  Lieutenant Tom Jackson stood in the middle of the road, as oblivious to the rifle and cannon fire shredding the air around him as he had been to the hooves when Rumble jumped York over his head. Jackson’s gunners were hiding among boulders on the side of the road, not wishing to share the fate of a half-dozen of their fellows, sprawled lifeless about the young lieutenant.

  Rumble and Grant were in the forefront of the 4th Infantry. The unit was swinging around the captured fortress of Chapultepec to finally advance on Mexico City itself. They were dashing along the road, using the embankment for some semblance of cover from the blistering cannon fire ahead. They paused and peered in dismay at the lone officer standing on the road among the abandoned cannon.

  “It’s a bit warm out in the open,” Grant yelled to Jackson as the infantry hurried by Jackson’s stalled artillery unit.

  Colonel Garland came up. “Lieutenant, you may withdraw!”

  Jackson frowned. “Sir, with all respect, it’s as dangerous to withdraw as to stay in place. We can put fire on the enemy and aid your advance.”

  Garland shook his head in resignation. “That’s insubordination, Lieutenant, but carry on.”

  They were still outside the walls of the capitol city and the army was anxious after so much time in Mexico to finish things. The end was in sight with Chapultepec taken, but the remnants of the Mexican Army still stood in the way. Rumble’s notebook of observations was now four notebooks. Every evening he sat with Grant and they discussed what General Scott, who now commanded, was doing. And how the forces under Scott’s command executed those orders.

  The most surprising development had occurred just after the army crossed the Sierra Madre Mountains. Following the example set by Cortes centuries earlier, Scott severed his own supply line and set out for Mexico City, his troops living off the land as they passed through. It was a radical and dangerous military maneuver. For Grant, returned to duty as quartermaster of the 4th, it had meant he had to scour the countryside for food and supplies to sustain the regiment. It was an exhausting procedure and Rumble accompanied his friend on many of these foraging parties. It too was a type of warfare that had not been emphasized in the tactics classes at the Academy.

  Rumble stayed close to Grant, his newly requisitioned musket at the ready. They reached a point where flanking fire from a house caused the troops to halt.

  Grant held his hand out and Rumble placed the scope in the Lieutenant’s hand. Grant took a moment to check the house and the terrain between.

  “There’s a way to get there,” Grant said. He turned to the soldiers. “Follow me men, trail arms.”

  Grant took as much advantage of the concealment the terrain offered. As they got closer to the house, they could see the Mexicans who had been firing on the column retreating. The Americans took the building without loss. Rumble and Grant climbed the ladder to the roof of the house. While Grant scanned the terrain, sev
eral other soldiers joined them.

  “The advance is still bogged down,” Rumble said. He pointed. “See the enemy in those positions?”

  A series of ditches filled with water and plants criss-crossed the plain in front of the walls of Mexico City. Mexican troops clustered about the main road were delivering a blistering fire at the lead elements of the American advance.

  “Look.” Grant had his hand on Rumble’s shoulder, turning him slightly to the right.

  A church was to the south of the main road, its belfry raising high above the surrounding houses.

  Rumble immediately understood Grant’s intent. “We passed a pack howitzer near the aqueduct.”

  “Would you do the honor, Sergeant Major?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rumble climbed down and ran back the way they had just come. He quickly found the small group of artillerymen with their howitzer hunkering down behind one of the arches.

  “Lieutenant Grant requests you, and your gun’s, presence,” Rumble told the senior enlisted man.

  The artillerymen had been fighting and moving that gun for over a year. They quickly broke it down into man-portable loads, along with a supply of shells. Rumble led the party toward the church and caught up to an irritated Sam Grant pounding on the church’s door.

  “If someone doesn’t open up soon, I’m going to—“ Grant said, but stopped as the tall door creaked open and a priest poked his head out.

  “I am sorry, senor, you can not enter.”

  “I am sorry, too, padre,” Grant responded in halting Spanish. “However, we must enter.”

  “You cannot.”

  “We must and we will.”

  “I am so sorry, senor, but this is a place of worship, not war.”

  The men carrying the parts of the howitzer and the ammunition shifted under their loads. Rumble stepped forward. “Let me convince him.”

  “Easy,” Grant said. He smiled at the priest and used that tone Rumble recognized. “Padre, if you wish this place of worship to remain safe, you should open the door. And, if you wish to remain with your church and not become a prisoner of war, you will allow us entry.” Grant took a step closer to the priest and his tone grew colder. “And finally, Padre, I intend to enter whether you wish it or not.”