by F. M. Parker
Grant leaned with his back against the smokestack of the Raritan and waited for the unloading of Garland’s blue clad infantry to begin. The steamer was in its assigned station and halted with the big side paddle-wheels churning slowly to hold the vessel against the one knot current flowing between Isle de Sacrificios and the mainland. The smokestack vibrated, the tremor carried upward from the moving pistons of the fire breathing steam engine deep in the bowels of the ship. A light rain of soot settled out of the plume of coal smoke and fell upon the soldiers and the two cannons aft of the superstructure on the main deck. The soldiers gave no sign they noticed the soot.
Grant hadn’t been able to endure being left in the rear. He must be part of the landing and the battle that was sure to come. And so he had joined with Garland’s infantry when it transferred from the troopship to the Raritan for the two-hour journey to Mogambo Bay. He believed Garland would know that he was with the men readying for the landing. The fact the colonel hadn’t make an effort to spot Grant gave him encouragement to continue on with his plan.
A young private jostled Grant and drew hurriedly back.
“Sorry, sir,” said the soldier. “I didn’t mean to bump you, sir. The ship’s packed damn tight.”
“That’s all right, soldier. We’ll soon have plenty of room.” Grant chucked a thumb at the beach.
“Yes, sir,” said the private.
Every square foot of deck was jammed with soldiers. Each man carried a musket with bayonet attached, cartridge box on a white belt and holding sixty rounds, haversack containing two days supply of boiled beef and sea biscuits, canteen, and a blanket. Grant was equipped in the same manner, except his weapons were a saber and a brace of pistols.
The muskets of the brigade were second rate, and Grant regretted that. The soldiers had the standard army issue, a Model 1822, .69-caliber flintlock, smooth bore muskets. Patterson’s volunteers were better armed having the Model 1841, a .54-caliber breech-loading rifle. Grant had fired the newer weapon and knew first hand its effective range was at least three times that of the musket, and many times faster to reload.
Hazlitt was near the starboard railing of the ship. He had called his four sergeants to him and was giving battle orders. Grant watched and felt misused that he wasn’t granted the same privilege, a lieutenant leading men in a charge onto the Mexican shore.
Shouts arose. Hands pointed. “Look Mexicans. There’s Mexicans on the beach.”
A company of two hundred or so Mexican cavalrymen, called Lancers due to the ten-foot lances they carried, had appeared riding swiftly along the edge of the sea from the direction of Veracruz. Immediately the gunboats opened fire and dropped exploding shells among the Lancers. A score of horses fell with their riders. Several horses struck by flying iron fragments shied violently and tumbled their masters upon the ground. The Mexicans still mounted fought to control their horses, and to keep them from tramping on the fallen men. The officer shouted trying to bring order. Three more American shells fell among the Lancers. Their courage broke. The men on the ground that were able to mount sprang upon the rear of a comrade’s horse and the company fled into the chaparral.
Is that all the resistance we’re going to have? Grant wondered.
The Princeton now had the surfboats into position for loading, the sailors with deft movements of the oars holding them against the side of the hull. With Garland leading, the brigade swarmed down the ladders that hung over the side and into the boats.
Grant waited until Hazlitt’s company began to load and then went forward and down into the boat and took a seat beside the man. Hazlitt was pale and tense, as was his appearance each time he went into battle. Grant wasn’t concerned for he knew that once the fighting started, Hazlitt became a brave warrior and forceful leader.
“Sam, you’ve not been assigned to my company,” Hazlitt said.
“Bob, there’s going to be a battle and I got to be part of it.”
“You’re a glutton for fighting.”
“It comes with being a soldier.”
“I reckon it does.”
“And besides I want to get the blasted war over with so I can go home and get married.”
Hazlitt gave a weak smile at that. He was pleased to see Grant had come along for his courage in battle inspired both him and his men. In addition, Grant was an expert marksman. During the lull before the attack on Monterrey, several officers had discussed their skill with pistols. There was much bragging and friendly arguments arose. A contest to put the boasting to the test was quickly arranged. Grant, though he had remained silent during all the talk, had easily won the shooting match.
Grant’s heart was strumming nicely, just a little higher in his chest than normal that proved he hadn’t conquered all his concern about being struck by a bullet or exploding shell. He had no guilt from leaving his post and being here. This was war and he was committed to it. Being with the men satisfied something within him. He thought the something came from the belief that life was action and passion, and war contained both.
He checked the troopers and the sailors on the oars. Several men showed fear, their faces pale and taut and their eyes large and showing much white. Those that didn’t show fear, were they simply better at hiding it? Or had they done as Grant had, accepted the danger that lay ahead and resigned themselves to whatever happened.
A young soldier not far from Grant spoke to the young soldier beside him. “Billy Boy, you know something?”
“What’s that?”
“We’re just seven dollar a month targets. And that’s all we are.”
“That’s too damn cheap,” replied Billy Boy. “I feel that I’m worth a hell of a lot more than that.”
“Then maybe some day you’ll make sergeant and be a ten dollar target,” said the first man with a boyish laugh.
Grant was a sixty-four dollar a month target and he too felt he was worth more than what he was being paid. He smiled to himself.
The loading of the brigades was completed, and with the Princeton once again hooked onto the surfboats from both the Raritan and Potomac, they were towed into position four hundred yards behind the screen of gunboats. To the rear of the surfboats, Patterson and his volunteers and marines waited on the steamer Porpoise. Twiggs and his regulars were farther back on another naval vessel.
Grant scanned the anchored foreign warships and merchantmen. The decks were crowded with crewmembers and passengers, with some having sought the highest possible perches on the ships, even the crow’s-nests were full, from which to better see the Mexican cannon devastate the foolhardy Americans charging the shore. Beyond the gently undulating water of the bay was the white sand beach framed with dense green brush, and inland Mt. Orizaba with its snow-capped crown rising sparkling and bold above the forested foothills in between.
The grand scene didn’t relieve Grant of his worry about the timing of the landing. The day had been eaten away by the loading of the men onto the naval vessels, followed by the trip to Mogambo Bay, and lastly the transfer to the surfboats. Now the landing was being made just before sunset with night but a couple of hours away. That allowed little time to land, fight a battle, and secure the beach. Darkness would give all the advantage to the defenders in entrenched positions, knew the lay of the land, and could be reinforced as needed.
A thunderous roar jarred the air and Grant whirled to look to the north. Ulua and Veracruz had fired a barrage from their big cannon. Every shot fell short, their impacts into the sea sending huge gouts of water leaping skyward. Another six to seven hundred yards range and one of those shells could have struck a surfboat where men, packed like sardines, would have been killed by the scores. Still the barrage was of a benefit to the Americans for they now knew the maximum range of the Mexican’s guns and could anchor with the knowledge they were safe.
The signal gun boomed on the Massachusetts. The bands of the regiments struck up the Star Spangled Banner. Cheers rose from the American sailors and soldiers on the ships.
The surfboats cut loose from the Princeton, and with regimental pennons fluttering from the stern of every one, speedily formed in a line abreast the shore. Bull-voiced General Worth gave a war cry and the sailors bent to their oars and the surfboats raced for the beach. The boats darted through the screen of gunboats and into the open where they were fully exposed to the Mexican artillery that would be hidden behind the sand dunes. Grant expected that any moment camouflage would be flung aside and the Mexican cannon would be blasting the Americans with exploding canisters.
The sailors pulled powerfully and the boats sliced landward through the water. Worth, in a sleek gig rowed by four sailors, sprinted ahead of his men. In less than a minute, they were so close to the shore that the American gunboats couldn’t fire over their heads to knock down enemies should they suddenly threatened them.
Worth’s gig grounded and the general sprang into the water and splashed ashore. Just like the general, Grant thought. He had to be first to set foot upon the hostile shore. The general had courage and spirit, but was too impetuous, too quick to act, and because of that was dangerous to the men he led. Grant hoped the general wouldn’t get them killed.
With wooden bottoms grating on the sand fifty feet from the shore, the wave of surfboats came to a stop and the whole brigade jumped into the shallow surf. Holding their muskets and cartridge boxes high, the men ran for the beach
The captains and lieutenants of the companies, gripping their sabers and the color bearers with their muskets slung over their backs on leather straps, moved out a few yards from the water’s edge. The company of soldiers they led hastily formed behind them in battle order.
Worth shouted at Garland and Clark and swung his saber to point at the ridge of tall sand dunes at the end of storm surge a hundred yards inland. He wheeled around and charged toward the dunes. Screaming a mighty battle cry, the brigades of staunch and battle-hardened veterans ran after him in a long blue line.
Grant pulled both pistols and holding them ready to fire ran beside the big sergeant carrying the colors for Hazlitt’s company. Any second now the Mexicans would rise up above the ridge of dunes and a blast of muskets and grapeshot and exploding canisters would strike and riddle the Americans.
He veered away from the color bearer. As an officer he would draw more than his share of fire. It was foolish to also be in the storm of enemy bullets the color bearer would draw. Grant crossed the bare beach and plunged into the sand dunes. Slipping on the loose sand, he stormed ahead and scrambled to the crest of the dunes.
The sergeant with the colors had beaten Grant. Now the big soldier was shouting with jubilation and whipping his flag about over his head. He gave a mighty war whoop, made a last proud wave of the flag, and stabbed its staff into the sand.
With heart pumping from the all-out run, Grant swiftly scanned the land between the crest of the dunes back to the chaparral and was amazed that not one enemy could be seen. The Americans had taken possession of the shore without a musket being fired. The Mexicans had had more than ample time to march to the beach in force after the landing place of the Americans could be determined with certainty. They had not and had missed a perfect opportunity to slaughter the American invaders.
The brigade burst into tremendous victory cries. From out on the bay answering cheers come rolling from the soldiers waiting to land, and from the sailors of the American ships. Something within Grant told him that the celebration was terribly premature.
Worth shouted orders at his brigade commanders. The orders came speedily down the ranks to the lieutenants and the men and they moved out to expand and consolidate the beachhead.
Grant cast one glance at the surfboats heading back for Patterson’s volunteers, then looked for Hazlitt.
“Well, are you coming?” Hazlitt called.
“Can’t,” Grant said and shaking his head sadly. ”With no fight, I’ve got to get back to the supply ships. The colonel will expect me to get everything ashore, and have a camp set up for the men in short order.”
“You be sure and do that for I don’t like to sleep in the rain. And help the commissary fellows get the kitchen set up too so we can have hot food.” Hazlitt grinned, waved and ran toward the men held in formation by his sergeants.
CHAPTER 7
The lively sea breeze blowing through the open portholes and the doorway of the officers’ mess on the Massachusetts had cooled steadily after the setting of the sun. Its gusting breath often reached the vents of the three ships’ lanterns hanging above the dining table and sent their flames dancing and flicking. The ship now and again jerked and rattled the dishes on the table as it was brought up short against the end of its anchor chain.
Lee had remained silent during the late evening meal with General Scott, the generals of the divisions, and several other officers. The conversation had flowed freely but Lee had grown tired of it because everybody avoided discussing the situation of the army that was on his mind. As an aid of the general he had to endure the session, still he wished it would end. Lee could see the general was also restless. The mess orderly made the round and poured the final cups of coffee and left.
Scott tapped his coffee mug with a spoon. “Gentlemen, let me interrupt your conversation and discuss our actions for tomorrow. As you know, General Twiggs landed the last of his troops at 10 tonight, and that includes the one thousand Louisiana volunteers that arrived late today. We now have all three divisions on the shore, nine thousand and six hundred men. Pickets and roving patrols are in place.”
Scott continued in a pleased voice and his eyes sparkling. “Not one man was lost. General Morales has made a serious error in not attacking us as we landed. Two or three coordinated cavalry charges at us while we were in the water to our crotches could have turned the landing into a slaughter. Now give us another day to dig in and it will take an army twice, no, three times our size to rout us out.
“Because of the late landing, we weren’t able to start building the siege line today. Colonel Totten, tomorrow at first light, I want you and Captain Lee to accompany me ashore to select the location of the line. Your engineers will guide the divisions in its construction.”
“Yes, sir,” Totten said.
“Now let’s discuss how we will take Veracruz. And it’s ours for the taking. Any army that locks itself behind walls and fights from there can’t win. For him to win, he must come out and drive the enemy away. It’s obvious that General Morales isn’t coming out.
“We have all studied the drawings and written material that is available describing the defenses of the city, and we have examined what we could see from the sea. And we have what the Britisher Giffard told us. So now let’s hear recommendations on how to proceed.”
“General, we can take the town by storming the walls,” said Worth. “Wait for a dark night and steal up close. Then rush the walls in force before the Mexicans could assemble and prevent us from getting over. I’d lead the attack with my regulars.”
Twiggs nodded quick agreement. “Right. We can have them in a few hours once we’re set to attack.”
Lee was dismayed that the two generals would consider charging such strong walls where the defenders would be expecting just such an action. Surely Scott wouldn’t agree to it.
Scott spoke to Patterson. “And you general, what do you say to a frontal attack?”
“I wouldn’t advise storming any walls that the cavalry couldn’t jump and so be able to help the infantry,” said the old gentleman and shaking his gray head. “And that means that I wouldn’t recommend attacking Veracruz’s high walls.”
Lee was pleased with Patterson. He would watch these generals and learn much about them during the coming campaign.
Scott caught first Worth and then Twiggs with a penetrating look. “How many men would it cost to take the city by storm?”
The two officers glanced at each other. Then they looked away with neither meeting Scott’s eyes.
Slowly rotating his coffee cup on the table, Scott waited
for one of the men to reply.
Worth squared his shoulders and faced Scott. “There would be losses but we could immediately march into the highland and avoid the yellow fever.”
Scott spoke and his tone grew harder with each word uttered. “I estimate we would lose more than a thousand men killed and wounded. That would leave us with a very small army to fight our way nearly three hundred miles to Mexico City. Could we capture a nation with so few men? And consider this, it may be weeks before we get reinforcements.”
Scott eyes smoldered as he looked into the eyes of each of his generals. In a stern voice he said. “Gentlemen, we are greatly outnumbered and that’s a hard fact. Every battle will be fought against superior numbers, and most likely with them behind fortifications as here at Veracruz. We can’t afford to lose one man unnecessarily. Above all we dare not lose one battle for that would mean disaster, the very end of our campaign.
“I have decided that we will throw a siege line around Veracruz and bottle it up to prevent reinforcements from arriving. Once that has been accomplished, we will take the city by siege and bombardment. We will pound them with every gun we have. If we lose more than a hundred men, I shall consider myself a murderer. Your orders are to establish the siege line and place our cannons where they will do the most damage, and do it swiftly. Once Veracruz is taken, we shall turn our guns on Fort San Juan de Ulua and take it also. Should the bombardment not succeed in a reasonable time, we will be preparing for storming the walls.
“Tomorrow morning headquarters will be moved to the shore. Now, gentlemen it’s getting late so I say, goodnight. Go and make preparations for what must be done.”
Lee filed out of the mess with the other officers, and then veered off and walked to the ships railing. Joe Johnston came up and stood beside him. They silently stared out across the black sea. On the shore a thousand bivouac fires burned with leaping orange flames. The voice of a man raised in song came to them.
“He had better do his singing now,” Johnston said. “We’re going to have a lot of American blood on the ground before this war is over.”
