by Tony Roberts
After an hour of hard intense fighting there were no more Mexicans left to fight; they were either dead, wounded, captive or had run from the death that awaited them if they had remained. Case leaned against a wall, drawing in deep breaths, his face drawn and tired. Next to him, covered in sweat and blood, were both Jimmy and Kenny. They sat down, backs to one of the crumbling adobe walls, not even bothering to check what was lying on the ground. Jimmy pulled out his canteen and took a deep pull. “Jaysus,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll be glad when we’re out of this war. One attack after another. Sweet Mary, can’t we rest for a while?”
Case grinned and nodded northwards. “Take a look out there, Jimmy.”
The Irishman craned his head around the corner of the wall he was resting against. Beyond it there was a gaping hole where cannon fire had blown the wall out and the countryside was visible. In the near distance loomed a rocky crag, with trees all the way round at its base. From the old mill where they were to the trees stood gently undulating grass and marshland, dotted here and there with clumps of shrubs or the occasional building. Atop the crag stood a squat white-walled fortress with the green, white and red tricolor of the Mexican republic fluttering from the flagpole on its highest building. “Oh no!” he groaned, “surely not?”
Case shrugged. “Two suicidal frontal attacks so far. Any bets on a third?”
“Up there? Not even Worth would be that daft!”
Kenny snorted, pulling his cap over his eyes. “I’m not making any bets. Wake me when the war’s over.”
Other American soldiers sat down, exhausted by the fighting. The wounded were taken to a hastily assembled hospital where the surgeons got to work, trying to repair the damage the generals had created, but it was a tough call. Over a hundred Americans had been killed and 670 were wounded, many from the Forlorn Hope. The Mexicans had once again suffered terribly, over 2,000 having been killed or wounded and 700 taken captive. Another two thousand had run off into the city, now only protected by the fortress, called Chapultepec.
Case went to check on Hamble, who was lying in the hospital, bandages swathed round his middle. He was sweat-soaked and ashen-faced. “You’ll be shipped back to New Orleans and looked after real good,” Case reassured him.
Hamble smiled weakly. “Hell, and I’m gonna miss the final party. Typical luck!”
“We’ll let you know how it goes.” Case stood up and nodded towards Hughes who was standing close by. “You’ll have a day or so to rest, then I expect we’ll be thrown against the fortress.”
He left the stinking medical center, sick of the blood, sweat, and unmistakable taint of rotting flesh. Gangrene would claim more victims, adding to the death toll. He hoped the Texan would survive. It was touch and go, but if he was as tough as he looked, then he’d pull through. Hamble’s war was finished either way. Case eyed the fortress and then the distant buildings of the capital. The Aztecs’ causeways were still there, and those were the only way into the city. And each was covered by the cannons from the fortress. It would be carnage. The Americans would have to assault and take Chapultepec.
And more men would die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Amongst the Mexican prisoners were seventy survivors of the San Patricio regiment. Riley, their commander, was amongst them. The entire army was assembled into a vast square to view the punishment meted out on the Irishmen who had deserted the army to fight for the opposition.
Riley and nineteen others were lashed fifty times, then branded with a ‘D’ on their faces, marking them as deserters. They were then released, to live out what lives they would be able to have in Mexico. General Scott did not want them back at any price. Twenty more were selected at random and hanged en masse, again to demonstrate to the men that desertion would not be tolerated. Case pulled a face. This wasn’t the way for soldiers to meet their end; the Irishmen had fought bravely and heroically, and they didn’t deserve such an end.
The other thirty were kept prisoner for the time being.
Over the next day or so the senior officers under General Scott studied the topography and geography of their position and knew there were only two directions they could move in on the city; from the south or from the west. Either way, the fortress had to be taken. It was a heated debate, with Captain Lee recommending a southerly approach, bypassing the fortress and going on directly to the city, but he was opposed by a young lieutenant called Beauregard. Beauregard insisted the fortress could be and should be taken. It stood 200 feet up on top of the rocks above the causeways and housed 2,000 defenders, but it dominated the southern and western approaches to the city and had to be taken.
General Worth concurred and set the attack on Chapultepec for September 12th. It was going to be another bloody fight for the infantry, and Scott split them into two divisions, Generals Pillow and Worth would take the castle from the west while Quitman and Smith would attack from the south. This would be the one to decide the war, for if the fortress fell, then Mexico City would be at their mercy.
As Case and his company – or what was left of them – marched up to their positions that morning, they bypassed a large scaffold with the thirty surviving San Patricio prisoners tied up, sat with nooses round their necks on the edge of a number of horse-drawn wagons. Case nudged Jimmy and they stared at the sight as they marched past. It seemed the last of the deserters were to be executed after all.
All through that day the guns belched shot at the forbidding walls of the fortress. The Mexicans fired back, defiantly, and the watching men wondered just how they were going to take that mighty stone and brick redoubt, high up on that rock. Case passed the time thinking about Montezuma. How would he feel about what was happening now, in the place he used to rule?
The night fell and still no attack had been called. Orders did come however, whispered by officers to sergeants and sergeants to the men. Pillow’s division was to make the main attack. Worth’s men, having been mauled badly in the attacks over the past few weeks were to give support only. Case didn’t mind; he’d had enough attacking dug-in opponents for the time being. Some of the men groaned but the smiles that came with it betrayed the relief they all felt.
One unit of men attracted Case’s interest. They were the detachment of Marines from Puebla, with Rick Jackson and his comrades. In all there were about forty of them and they had been assigned to General Pillow’s division to help storm the castle. Listening to their talk he gauged they’d be guys not worth crossing; they knew their stuff and would be hell to face. Jackson spoke out just as Case was walking up to them. “Think we’ll find any of Montezuma’s treasure up there, Case?” He grinned at the sight of the heavily built corporal.
The name stopped Case. Montezuma, or as he’d known him, Moctezuma, had been the last of the Aztec kings and an honorable and pious man. Pity his religion had taught blood sacrifices or he’d might even have fought for them against the Spanish. “No, Rick,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness and maybe a little nostalgia, “all his treasure was taken by the Spanish hundreds of years ago. I don’t think even any of his buildings are left.”
“Aw hell,” the Marine groaned, “an’ here I was hopin’ for some gold! Not even his huge halls are left?”
“Maybe, maybe not. One way to find out, eh?”
The Marine grinned. “Sure is, Case. You fightin’ tomorrow?”
“I’m part of the reserve. I hear you lot are going to attack in the first wave. Good luck to you boys.”
The Marines voiced their thanks. Case stayed awhile, sharing a few drinks and stories before resuming his way, waving to the marines before he walked off into the night.
The next morning the attack came. Men threw themselves up the slopes to the base of the mighty walls while shot and bullets cut them down in clumps. The soldiers milled around the base of the walls but they could go nowhere. “Oh for heavens’ sake!” Case exploded, realizing what had happened, “some damned fool’s forgotten the ladders!” He led his small knot of friends to th
e commissariat. “Where’s the damned ladders? They’re being massacred!”
The commissary officer eyed Case with dislike. “It’s not your place to decide these things Corporal. Where’s an order from a senior officer?”
Case snarled and cocked the hammer back on his rifle and stuck the barrel under the pompous man’s nose. “This is my order you fool,” he growled, his ice cool eyes boring into the commissary officer’s. Behind Case the others all hefted their guns and stood in a threatening line. Case jerked his head behind him. “That’s our men dying out there. If these ladders aren’t sent to them in the next five minutes I’ll report that you refused to distribute them. I think there’ll be a few thousand angry men wanting to discuss the fact with you. Don’t you?”
The ladders turned up in double time and Case escorted the panting commissariat soldiers to the walls. Case and his unit advanced, shooting up at the walls in an effort to keep the defenders occupied while the scaling party did their piece. Men lay in groups all around, and one man got Case’s attention. It was a lieutenant, a man he’d seen before. “Lieutenant Longstreet, sir!”
Longstreet sat up, clutching a wound in his shoulder. “Corporal Lonnergan! Can you help me? I’ve been hurt.”
“Sure thing, sir. Hey, Hughes, Kenny, help me with the lieutenant here.” The three men lifted the injured officer and Hughes and Kenny carried him back to the medical center. Longstreet was grateful and the two men returned to the action. By now the attack was becoming concentrated around the base of the wall; the ladders were resting against it but so far nobody had managed to get up. The Mexicans were shooting at anyone who climbed up.
Case spotted the marines in a group and led his men over to them. “Hey, Jackson,” he yelled, scrambling over a sharp rock, ducking as a bullet struck a nearly stone, “this enough action for you?”
Jackson grimaced and nodded at a couple of bodies of his men. “Too much for those poor guys. How are we gonna get up there when those bastards are killing anyone who moves?”
Case looked at the grim-faced marines. “You guys want to see the Halls of Montezuma?” There were nods all round. “Okay, then we’re gonna have to show everyone else how it’s done. Think the marines are up to it?”
Jackson looked at Case. “With thirty fit men?”
“I think ten fit marines could clear that wall, don’t you?”
Jackson looked at Danek. “Hey you Slav, think we can shoot those Mexicans off that wall?”
“Consider it done,” Danek replied, eyeing the massed defenders pouring fire down on the hapless Americans below. “Marines!” The grey-trousered men got to their knees and raised their rifles. Case nodded at his men. “Think you like to be out-shot by the webbed foot brigade?”
“Webbed feet my ass,” Jackson muttered and fired up. A Mexican clutched his shoulder, span, and vanished out of sight. Jimmy chuckled and aimed deliberately, closing one eye. His shot skidded off the parapet and ricocheted up into a Mexican’s throat, which exploded in a shower of red. Next second a volley from the marines blasted out, showering the wall with bullets. Five more Mexicans were hit, one slumping over the edge to hang grotesquely down, the others fell backwards out of sight.
The trapped men below whooped and began climbing, suddenly free of the suppressing fire they’d been under. Case watched carefully, and saw one defender run to the edge, rifle ready. He held his breath, sighted carefully, and shot up. The bullet took the man in the chest, lifting him up. The gun flew up and spun lazily down behind the wall, and the stricken man sank down, clutching the wound.
“Good shootin’, Case,” Jackson said, reloading frantically.
“Your boys shoot well too,” Case said, biting off a cartridge.
“Well, we’re trained to shoot at all angles. Ships ain’t stable platforms!”
Other defenders came running to try to replace those fallen, but the marines shot them as they approached. The soldiers on the ladders got to the top and began fanning out along the wall. “Okay boys,” Case got to his feet, “want those guys to beat you to it? Come on!”
The marines yelled, and Jimmy, Hughes and Kenny followed suit as the men ran to the foot of one ladder, pushing past the amazed men of Pillow’s division. “Hell,” one said loudly, “anyone’d think these guys want to be shot at!”
“We’re the marines,” Jackson replied proudly, “First to Fight! We ain’t scared of no-one!”
Case smiled as he scaled the wall. These marines are one sure tough bunch of boys. At the top of the wall he looked round. The marines and his three men waited for his decision. “Okay, let’s go up there,” he pointed to a staircase leading up into the thick wall of the next level. The attackers had reached the first level and hand-to-hand fighting was breaking out all round the fortress. Case stopped and examined a Mexican soldier lying dead. He’d been bayoneted repeatedly. “Aw, hell. This is only a kid,” he said in dismay.
The others stopped and looked. Sure enough, it was a cadet, hardly into his teens. “Damned kid must’ve refused to surrender,” Kenny commented. “Died defending the entrance.”
Case shook his head and resumed leading his group into the fortress. Sounds of fighting could be heard but the lower levels were quiet now apart from the occasional groan. Bodies littered the place, and other groups were moving in to check the wounded. Case led his men out into a courtyard. They looked up at the roof of what had been the palace in the days of the Spanish Empire. A lone figure was defiantly waving the Mexican flag and soldiers were taking pot shots at him. Case shut his eyes as he saw it was yet another kid. The academy must have been here too. He opened his eyes in morbid fascination as the cadet ran along the roof, shouting defiance. Suddenly he was hit, spun round, and then fell off the roof out of sight. The watching troops cheered, but those nearby stopped when they saw the look on Case’s face. “How many of you boys have a kid that age?”
He led his mixed group on. A knot of defenders blocked the passage and sent out a wild volley that caught two marines, both slumping to the floor with groans. “Present!” Case snapped. Thirty guns were raised as the men automatically went into two ranks. “Fire!”
The volley smashed into the Mexicans, shredding them to pieces. Only three were left standing and they ran wildly, throwing away their guns. Case stepped over the carnage and followed them deeper into the fortress. The sound of shooting subsided and he saw another figure lying on the floor and bent down to examine him. Another youth, a cadet of no more than fourteen. He had died facing his enemy while grown men ran away.
He walked in disgust into a long, wide room with windows that looked out onto the inner courtyard. Long tables, covered with a thin film of dust and a few lumps of stone, stood in the center. Nothing else of note stood here. He looked round at the hall-like chamber and wondered if this was what had become the Spanish version of Montezuma’s palace. It looked like a viceroy would have dined here once, long ago. Now all was ruin and decay. Sadly he sat on the edge of the table and his mind drifted back to the age of the conquistador. A similar story to what was happening now. A foreign invasion that led to the destruction of what was here. Was that Mexico’s fate? Would it occur again?
Jackson’s feet crunched on the stones scattered across the marble floor. “Shee-it,” he said in wonder, “were these the Halls of Montezuma?”
“Not quite,” Case replied, “but he’d’ve been happy with this.”
The marine nodded absently, not really listening.
More marines came filing in, eyes wide in wonder. Case looked at them. “Well boys, here you are. Not quite Montezuma’s, but impressive enough. Go over to those windows over there and you can see the city.”
The Marines grinned, sweat, dirt and bloodstained, and crowded in wonder overlooking the beleaguered city. One of them sat at the table and pulled out a pencil and a notebook. As he began scribbling, Case came over to him, intrigued. “What you writing, son?”
The marine grinned self-consciously and looked up. “Thought th
is would make a good song,” he replied. Case looked at the words. “From the Halls of Montezuma,” it said. “What you going to put after that?”
“Oh, whatever we do next. Who knows, maybe others will sing it? We need a good song to get our morale up, and I thought one that lists our victories would work.”
“Good idea.” Case grinned. “You boys certainly did your bit today.” He went up to Jackson who was leaning tiredly against a wall, looking down at Mexico City. “You guys did well. It’d be a pleasure to fight alongside you again.” He shook the marine’s hand. Jackson smiled. “Likewise. Any time you boys want help, ask the marines.”
“No-one I can think of who’d be better,” Case said and slapped the tired man on the shoulder.
* * *
Mexico City fell soon afterwards. With nothing left to stop the Americans, the army, or what was left of it, surrendered. General Scott had his victory and at last the fighting stopped.
Case visited the main buildings in the city but there was precious little he recognized. Cathedrals stood where temples had once; Spanish palaces had replaced Aztec ones. There was nothing here for him. Then the post arrived and Case opened the one addressed to him from Lynchburg. His blood ran cold.
“Case, please return home as soon as you can. Whitby has taken Elizabeth and he won’t let her go until you take her place. He says he’ll kill her if we go to the sheriff. Only you can set her free, Whitby says. He wants your life for hers. Please come back, we’re at our wits end. Ann.”
The thought of that kid in the clutches of that warped bastard Whitby turned his stomach. Case put the letter into his pocket and went to Jimmy and the others. He told them he had to leave, but it would mean desertion, and he didn’t want to hang like the San Patricios. The three men agreed to help him and they hired a drover to transport Case in a wagon of food supplies bound for Vera Cruz.
It was an emotional farewell and the others promised they’d swear ignorance of Case’s whereabouts. He then left, dressed in common clothing, clutching the rifle and a cartridge case. He was going home to Lynchburg to finish something that had begun long ago in Philadelphia.
