Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma

by Tony Roberts

  General Taylor wasn’t that brilliant a tactician. He was bull-headed and aggressive, and his men had won despite some poor tactical ideas. Case would have sited his artillery on the opposite hill to the slope they’d attacked up today and blasted at the Mexican lines from there, lobbing shells down onto them. Instead, the infantry, the P.B.I., the Poor Bloody Infantry, had been thrown up a murderous slope and won, despite receiving nearly 10% casualties. It reminded him of the British assault up Bunker Hill way back in 1775 when Case had been one of the Patriots shooting the hell out of them, and the redcoats had won only because ammunition had run out. Losses had been appalling.

  “Think we’ll win tomorrow, corp?” Pickering asked, puffing on a pipe.

  Case grinned at the title. He’d been many ranks in his time, and corporal was just another. “Sure. Once we get in amongst them they’ll fold. It’s the run up to the palace that bothers me. They’ll be shooting at us from 75 yards and it’ll be like target practice.”

  “So what would a European army do in our place, corp?”

  “Well, the British army would march up to the Mexicans in line, bayonets fixed, then halt about 50 yards or even less away, fire one damned mass volley, then charge. It nearly always works.”

  “So how come they lost the Revolutionary War?” Pickering asked easily.

  Case opened his mouth, then shut it. He stared at the contentedly puffing soldier. He almost had given a precise description of a battle that had been seventy years ago before he realized the trap. “Well, Pickering, I think it best to ask an officer who studied that war at West Point. That young Lieutenant Grant would probably give a good talk on the subject. Maybe the Patriots were better. They were British after all at the time, fighting in what was in reality a civil war. Then they had French help as well.”

  “You’re well informed, corp,” Kenny said, rolling over onto his belly. “You study history or something?”

  “I’ve spoken to many who have,” Case nodded. “In the British army they like to speak of their past exploits.”

  Jimmy grunted and threw more twigs onto the fire. “Ever served in Ireland?”

  “Never,” Case said. “South Africa.”

  The men fell silent and Case glanced at Pickering. There was something about him that bugged Case. He was cleverer than the rest but never made it obvious. Then his glance fell across Michael. What could he do with a man who’d murdered his own sergeant? Would he confront him or remain silent on the matter? Strictly speaking he ought to speak to an officer about his suspicions but he thought it best to keep quiet. The matter was best left to die; Michael was his responsibility and he’d been whipped under Mason’s orders. Best to let it go. But he would have to make sure the brooding man stayed in front of him when they attacked.

  The morning brought a clear, bright day. Perfect for the defenders to see what was coming towards them. The officers scoured the defending forces with their telescopes and suddenly Lieutenant Grant exclaimed and focused on something that excited him. “Corporal Lonnergan,” he said, “what do you make of that green flag over there by the door to the palace?”

  Case, standing no more than eight feet from the officer, strode over and took the eyepiece offered to him. Grant pointed and Case followed his line of sight and found it at once. It was a bright green banner with a golden harp upon it and some words. Case concentrated and gradually made them out. “‘Erin go Bragh’. That’s Gaelic.”

  Jimmy, standing within earshot, stared in disbelief. “That means ‘Ireland forever!’”

  Case cursed and dropped the telescope to the men standing beneath it. “Quinn.” The figure of Case’s antagonist was clearly visible. “And the others who deserted us at Matamoros.”

  Grant took the telescope back. “Then they will be treated as deserters,” Grant commented, and resumed his study of the enemy lines. It wasn’t long before the senior officers arrived on horseback and got the men lined up ready for the attack. Everyone loaded up, checked equipment, fiddled nervously with webbing or said final prayers. Lucky charms were touched, kissed and stroked. Case went up to Michael and leaned forward to whisper into his ear. “This time Michael, don’t fire until I give the order.”

  Michael started and swung round, his face strained. Case nodded once and leaned back. Michael looked down and realized Case’s own gun wasn’t pointing anywhere else than his back. The young Irishman nodded and turned his attention back to the front.

  “Fourth regiment,” a captain called out, white gloves clean and unsoiled, “ready!”

  Ninety men stood, tensed. To their left the third regiment stood similarly and to the right were the first. All were under strength. “At an easy pace, for-ward!”

  They began their march. As soon as the last of them had dropped below the line of the artillery muzzles, the American artillery opened up, blasting at the line of Mexicans waiting around the base of the great building. The palace had a great tower in the center directly above the entrance and more soldiers could be seen waiting up there. The land fell away to the right but the building was buttressed by huge white stone blocks and an arch supported the southern wall from sliding down the slope in that direction.

  All along the roof Mexican troops waited, muskets loaded, while on the ground in front of the palace cannons were arrayed, loaded with shot. Monterey was visible to the left of the palace, down on the plain, with ornate gardens in between the foot of the hill and the city proper. Ahead, the land ran more or less levelly with a few shrubs and hedges dotting the ground, but it rose for the last 60 or so yards and this would give an attack a disadvantage.

  A shell struck one of the Spanish cannons and it exploded, the wheels spinning away and the casing toppling forward, spilling the barricade outwards. Smoke drifted up from the impact and the Americans marched on, mouths dry with fear. At any moment the enemy gunners would open up. Case checked the men in front of him; Michael and Jimmy to the left, Kenny, Pickering and Feisler to the right. Hamilton was immediately to Case’s left, and on the other side walked the last man in the small squad, a taciturn man by the name of Walt Zuckermann. Zuckermann hailed from New York State and was descended from Germans who had stayed in the States after the defeat of the British forces in 1783. He was a solid, dependable man who rarely asked for anything but got on with his job.

  The report of a cannon ahead of him brought his attention back to what lay ahead. “Look forward, boys,” he said, “here comes their shot.”

  Cannon balls flew at them, one passing overhead a few feet above Jimmy who ducked involuntarily. “Jaysus!” he exclaimed, “that bastard was close!” Screams to their left marked a hit. They walked on, conserving their strength. They could now see the gunners working frantically to reload, and to lower their sights. Many of the shots had gone too high but the shot from the gun in front of the green flag of the deserting Irish unit had gone clean into their target. Thankfully Case’s unit was too far to the left to be worried by that one.

  A shell fizzed overhead and smashed into the wall of the palace behind the gun that had fired too high at them. Shards of stone rattled amongst the gun crew, causing them to cover themselves, but then they rose once more and continued loading. Case tramped over a broken shrub and judged the distance to now be a little over 100 yards. Coming into musket range.

  It all depended on the infantry’s training. If they were facing, say, a British unit, Case would have the feeling of sick dread in him for what would await them, but these troops up ahead had so far shown little discipline and poor technique. He decided to spook them.

  “Squad, take aim ahead!” The range was ludicrously far, and the prospect of hitting anything remote, but if it frightened the defenders into firing too soon, then it would be worth it. The men with him frowned but obeyed, aiming slightly above their intended mark. The range was 90 yards. “Fire!” Case yelled.

  Seven muskets fired, causing their colleagues to left and right to stare in amazement. Comments to their detriment were even beginning
to come their way when a volley from the barricade ahead rent the air. Two came close, one in fact passed in between Case and Zuckermann, but none had hit. “Now boys, they’re defenseless!”

  The squad suddenly realized what Case had done, tricking the jumpy Mexicans into volleying too soon. They cheered and began running for the barricade, bayonets leveled. Squads to left and right saw what had happened but by now the range was down to sixty yards and too close to pull off such a trick. Grimly they pressed on, and at fifty yards they heard “fuego!” and a rippling volley rattled out at the blue jacketed troops.

  Men toppled, span round and slumped to the ground as musket balls struck home. But Case’s unit ran unmolested at the barricade ahead. They could see men frantically trying to reload but they were hopelessly too late. A cannon was dragged round to the right and the gunners jumped back as they managed to achieve their task. Case saw the danger, fifteen yards away. “Down! All of you!” he screamed.

  He pulled the hesitating Zuckermann down and saw the rest hit the dirt just as the cannon blasted out. A hail of lead flew over their heads but none came close. The men got to their feet, puzzled. “How could they have missed?” Hamilton demanded, a fierce look on his face.

  “The damned fools blew half their own barricade away,” Case pointed. “That took the lower half of the canister balls. And they killed some of their own men!” Ahead, some of the Mexican troops had been hit by their own gun. “Now, at them!”

  The squad ran the last few yards and jabbed bayonets through the makeshift barrier at the quailing defenders. Case kicked at the wood and knocked the top over. It had been weakened sufficiently by the cannon. The squad thrust forward, pressing to get at their enemy, but the defenders kept them back by sheer weight of numbers.

  Shots were ringing out and suddenly a ball smashed into the ground by Case’s feet. He looked up and realized it had come from the roof. “Damn them,” he cursed. Glancing to his right he saw the gunners desperately trying to reload their gun once more, one was even thrusting a canister into the muzzle.

  “Fucking gunners,” Case muttered. He pushed again at the barricade and it fell back, over a feebly moving Mexican who had been wounded a few moments before. Stepping over he came face to face with an officer, pistol in hand. Case flashed at him with his bayonet and the officer swayed back in alarm. Stepping forward he ran the point of the bayonet towards the officer’s throat. The Mexican slammed into the solid wall of the palace and had nowhere to go.

  The pistol swung round to point at Case but he leaned on the musket and the officer died in a spray of his own blood. Jerking the weapon back, Case swung round to see how his men were doing. Hamilton was down, clutching his chest, and the Mexican who had stuck him was preparing to finish him off. Case ran up to the soldier and ran him through the back. The Mexican jerked in agony and then fell across the stricken Hamilton.

  Jimmy and Michael had crossed the barricade and others were pouring in behind the breach. Suddenly the cannon bellowed and shot flew everywhere. Five Americans went down and others staggered about, screaming. “Get those damned gunners!” Case snarled. Three men turned and fought their way towards the gun. The gap in between the wall of the palace and the barricade was about ten feet, and there was just enough room to make way behind the struggling men. Zuckermann was wrestling with an opponent and Case slammed the butt of his musket down onto the Mexican’s head. The soldier collapsed like a stone.

  The whole place was a mass of curses, shouts, struggling men and sweat. Frantic orders shouted in English and Spanish filled the air, and Case desperately turned this way and that to see where danger was coming from. More and more Americans were coming over the broken barricade and the Mexicans had fallen back towards the palace entrance, where the green flag still flew defiantly.

  “How’s Hamilton?” Case demanded of Jimmy.

  “Dying,” Jimmy said grimly. “Got a bloody bayonet through his chest, so he did.”

  “Shit,” Case said. “And no damned doctors to help.”

  “He’s beyond that, Case. Sorry, corp. Bejesus, what a bloody mess this is!”

  “Let’s go sort out those bastards by the front entrance. Come on, let’s wheel this gun round and load it.”

  Jimmy nodded and waved the others to help him. While they were doing that, Case knelt by the white-faced Hamilton. “See you got a bad one, Dermot,” he said gently.

  “Ah, it’s just a scratch,” Hamilton breathed painfully. Blood oozed down from the side of his mouth, and he coughed, spraying blood into the air. “Tell me ma will ye, Case?”

  “You can tell her yourself, Dermot,” Case replied.

  Hamilton seemed to shrink and his eyes became unfocussed. Case shut them and got to his feet with a sigh. He went over to the squad who had wheeled the gun round and were pushing it towards the struggling mass of men over by the front entrance which was shut.

  “Let’s load up” Case said, bringing over a canister. The others rushed to bring the rest of the equipment and under Case’s direction, clumsily loaded up. The Mexicans here were doggedly resisting, and bodies were piling up around them.

  “Troopers!” Case yelled, “fall back!”

  The American soldiers stepped away, surprised at the order. A sergeant came running up to demand an explanation but saw what was about to occur and halted, barking out an order for the men to form a line instead. The Mexicans stared at Case as he prepared the fuse, waving it in the air to make sure it was aglow, and horror filled their eyes. The cannon was a mere twenty yards from them, and they knew, without having to be told, that it was loaded with canister. It would be carnage. The green flag was picked up and waved defiantly. Case saw it was Quinn, now in a Mexican uniform.

  “Quinn, you bastard!” Case snarled.

  “God damn your heathen eyes, Lonnergan!” Quinn fired back, “and may he rot your unholy soul forever!”

  “That he has done already,” Case said, and lit the touchhole.

  The cannon blasted out and it rolled back on its wheels. A torrent of balls flew against the walls like hail, and the soldiers in its path were shredded. The smoke cleared and what greeted their eyes were a pile of bodies set against the entrance. One or two staggered away, weaponless, calling out for their mothers, but the knot of resistance in front of the way in had gone.

  With a whoop of delight the sergeant led the soldiers up against the door and battered away at it. Case threw down the fuse and waved Jimmy and the others forward, but he had no compulsion to join them. The act of blasting the Mexicans away from the door had doused his fire, and he wandered forward, musket held loosely in one hand, to examine the dead. A few soldiers passed him by as the door gave way, and the shouts of triumph were replaced by more shots, then curses and grunts of men fighting hand to hand.

  Quinn was not there, neither was the flag. Case searched about, amazed that the Irishman could have escaped, yet he must have. There was a path round the side towards the steep slope and Case rounded the edge of the palace and stared downhill. Quinn, holding the flag, was limping towards the city. Case briefly thought to shoot him, but decided he’d killed enough that day. He returned to the entrance, now just an opening marked with bodies, and stepped inside. The Mexicans were being driven out through the hallway to the other side, and many were leaping through open windows and running downhill for the city. A few shots outside reminded Case that there were still some on the roof, so he whistled to his squad to climb the staircase, but load up first.

  With Case in the lead, they carefully ascended to the first floor. Long corridors ran left and right, and the staircase continued up again to the tower. Case went up this and there was a ladder at the top poking through a trapdoor in the ceiling. Case motioned for his men to cover him and he went up, musket in one hand, holding his breath. Sounds of shots were still coming from above and he stuck his head through to see the enemy all with their backs to him, aiming down and firing at American troops who were trying to shoot back. Case waved his men up and th
ey all took up positions around the trapdoor and aimed.

  “Fire!”

  Case’s shout turned Mexican heads, and lead balls ripped through their chests and heads, blowing three over the parapet onto the main roof. Now cleared of the enemy, the men reloaded and leaned over the tower edge and shot at the Mexicans on the main roof. It was over in moments. Caught between two levels of fire, the remaining enemy surrendered.

  Now all that was left was the city itself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next two days were hell. The Mexicans under Ampudia refused to surrender and so General Taylor ordered his troops in from two directions; Butler’s men entered the eastern part supported by Quitman’s from the captured Fort Teneria, while Worth’s units from the Bishop’s Palace descended the slopes across the gardens and into Monterey from the west.

  Street fighting was new to many of the Americans, and Case found the defenders stubborn and almost impossible to dislodge. Many lay on the flat rooftops of the houses and fired down onto exposed heads, so every house had to be taken and the enemy flushed from the interior and roof. A tactic evolved; they would occupy a house, smash a hole through the adobe and rock walls into the next and attack that way rather than go out onto the deadly streets.

  Case found his small band of men grew closer throughout that ordeal. In some ways they ‘grew up’. None thankfully were hurt in the street fighting but that was due mainly to a combination of luck and skill. Case made sure they took precautions by covering each other and one at a time would advance while the other seven provided covering fire. It was slow work and casualties mounted, but the Mexicans were slowly but surely pushed back.

  General Taylor eventually got tired of waiting and brought a 10-inch mortar along to lob shells into the central plaza. This was the final straw for Ampudia who requested a surrender on terms. He still had 9,000 men fighting back to back in Monterey and managed to negotiate out of Taylor a deal whereby his men could march away south in return for the city falling to the Americans.