Soldiers of Conquest
Page 12
“That’s enough to make a good fight,” Grant said and looking past the Dragoons toward the river. Behind him the caravan was rapidly consolidating into an eighth of a mile long block of men, horses and vehicles. The wagons and their teams were being arranged in a double column, between which a space had been left and that was now being used to pen the horses and mules, including the mounts of Grant’s and Hodding’s men who had dismounted. Along the wagons and on the side from which the enemy was approaching, the sergeants were forming up their men two ranks deep.
“I see them now,” Grant said. The Mexican Lancers had remained out of his view for a time by following a swale leading from the floodplain toward the Americans. Now they had come up onto the plain and were in sight streaming toward them two abreast and with battle flags snapping. The corporal hadn’t exaggerated the number of Lancers; in fact he might have underestimated it by a few.
Grant spoke to Chilton. “There’s way too many for your men to fight on horseback.”
“I agree,” Chilton said and eyeing the large company of enemy cavalrymen racing over the green plain toward them.
“Dismount your troopers and form them up in a double rank there on the end of Hodding’s men,” Grant directed Chilton.
Chilton moved away shouting. “Sergeants, dismount your men with their arms and cartridges boxes. One trooper out of five will hold the horses. Form the rest there beside those men.” He pointed. “Move it, you’ve little time.”
Grant saw Chilton’s orders were swiftly obeyed and he liked that for there wasn’t time to sort things out if there was confusion. He looked back at the Mexicans.
The captain of the Lancers halted his column of men on the plain some three hundred yards away from the Americans. He called a command to his two lieutenants. They broke rank and in less than a minute had brought their men up to form a single line left and right of their captain. Grant noted the practiced speed with which the Lancers responded and knew they were drilled and disciplined cavalrymen and would make a hard fight.
Grant turned to his men now in double ranks. Hodding’s men were in the center with bayonets fixed, Grant’s small squad with muskets ready on Hodding’s right, and Chilton’s Dragoons with their carbines and sabers on the left. The Dragoon horse handlers with their charges, had worked around back of their dismounted comrades. The drivers of the wagons had set the brakes and climbed down and were holding the bridles of their lead teams to prevent them from bolting when the guns started banging.
“With the wagon drivers and horse handlers out of the fighting, we’re outnumbered two to one,” Chilton said. He had come up and was standing beside Grant.
“They might ride right over us,” Hodding added.
“We’ll knock a hundred out of their saddles with a good volley and that’ll help even the odds,” Grant said.
“Even if we can do that, it’ll still be a tough fight,” Hodding said in a tight voice.
“There’ll surely be some hand-to-hand,” Grant said and continuing to watch the Lancers where the captain in his blue and red uniform and black shako hat with its long black feather set at a jaunty angle was riding along the line of his men and gesturing with his hands and arms as he gave a war talk to build courage for the coming battle.
“I found out up north that Lancers, when led by a brave man, fight hard,” Grant said. “But we’ll stand fast and give them the best we have and try to knock the spirit out of the. Now it’s time we tell our men what to expect and what to do.”
With the two lieutenants beside him Grant walked along the double ranks of blue uniformed troopers and Dragoons and calling out again and again in a calm voice to them. “We’ll give the Mexicans a volley when they’re in range. Pick your target and don’t miss. Don’t fire until I give the signal.” He pivoted to retrace his steps. “The Mexicans don’t take prisoners. In Texas they massacred every man who surrendered at Goliad. This fight is to the death.” He finished in a loud voice, “Wait for my signal to fire.”
Grant looked into the tense faces of Chilton and Hodding. This encounter with the Mexican Lancers meant the formula for battle and death had been brewed and there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. “We must not be defeated so fight to the last man,” he said. “Go stand with your troops and lead them bravely.”
“If I get hit, take care of my men,” Chilton said and looking into Grant’s calm, enigmatic face.
“Same here,” Hodding said.
“Right,” Grant said. What would happen if he were the one to be struck down?
Chilton and Hodding hastened away to take a position in the center of the ranks of their men.
Grant moved to a position in front and midway of the Americans, and watched the Lancers. They came trotting their mounts and gaining sped with each step.
Grant spoke to the men. “Front rank kneel. Smartly now and get ready to fire. We’ll give them a volley they won’t like. Wait for my call to fire.”
He went quickly and took a position beside O’Doyle in the double ranks of his men. O’Doyle gave him a grim look and a nod.
The company of Lancers had closed half the distance. They moved over the green meadow as if on parade, their line straight and their uniform clad bodies erect in the saddle. Their horses were all of a dark color, ranging from dark brown to black. Each man held his carbine across the saddle in front of him. The long lances were fastened by the staff just behind the Lancer’s leg and in such a manner that they pointed upward and slanted slightly to the rear. From that position they could be easily unlimbered for close in fighting. Green and red guidons flapped from the staffs of the lances just behind the foot long iron points.
The officer with his black hat with the waving plume was very conspicuous among the rank and file with their white hats. He like, the American officers, would draw many bullets. Field officers who fought with their men lived a very precarious life. Grant pulled his pair of pistols and checked their readiness.
“Prepare to fire on my command,” Grant called out above the rumble of the hooves of the enemy’s horses.
He cast one last glance along the ranks of the Americans. All preparations were as ready as they would ever be. It was now win or die. He looked to the front at the solid rank of swiftly approaching Lancers. There was always this moment of a few short seconds before the crash of the first shots when he felt vulnerable. After that the battle consumed all his thoughts and strength, and death was a thing that happened always to some other unlucky soul.
The captain of Lancers shouted out and his men replied with high, piercing yells. The captain spurred his horse and his men instantly did likewise and their mounts leapt ahead in a full out run. The company of Lancers, one animal wanting to fight, charged down on the Americans.
Grant heard Hodding calling in a calm voice to his platoon. ”Steady, boys. Steady now. Wait for Lieutenant Grant. He’ll know when to let go at them.”
The distance between the opposing fighters shortened swiftly. The thudding of the horses’ hooves was a rumble that swiftly rose in volume. The faces of the Lancers could now be made out; eyes boring straight ahead and mouths open and shouting keening battle cries.
Carbines crackled and puffs of smoke blossomed along the line of Lancers. Grant heard lead balls tearing past him with a deadly, whirring sound. A quick crunching sound of lead cutting flesh came from close on his left. Immediately came a guttural gasp of pain. One of his men was hit. Grant felt guilty thinking the shot was probably meant for him.
He knew the Lancers had fired their short-barreled carbines from too great a range, and shooting from a running horse didn’t allow for great accuracy, so hopefully not many Americans had been hit. The Lancers rammed their single shot carbines into scabbards and grabbed their lances from the straps that held them to the side of their mounts. Gripping the shafts fiercely, they lowered the sharp iron points to chest high and charged down upon the Americans.
“Fire!” Grant shouted at the top of his lungs.
Grant saw scores of Lancers scythed away by the concentrated fire of the Americans, ripped from the backs of their running horses as if they had hit an invisible wire. Another two score dropped their lances and badly wounded clung to their mounts. A third that many horses were struck by American bullets and fell with their riders onto the ground in a jumble of kicking and thrashing legs. Frightened and riderless horses veered steeply away from the solid wall of American riflemen and their wagons.
The Captain of Lancers had miraculous ridden through the blizzard of American musket balls. He charged on with the men of his company reining their mounts to fill in the gaps that had been blasted into their rank. His tall black hat was gone; blown away by a bullet. He had jet black hair and a fierce black beard that was split by a gaping mouth rimmed with white teeth. He was locked on Grant, and riding straight at him with his pistol shoved out ahead and aimed.
Grant fixed on the hate filled eyes of the captain and read them as clearly as shouted words. The captain had but one goal, to kill this officer of the enemy and the cost wasn’t considered.
CHAPTER 17
Grant brought his right hand pistol up and sighted down the black iron barrel at the Lancer captain’s chest. He fired. The pistol bucked in his hand and flame and smoke chased an invisible bullet that struck the man exactly at Grant’s point of aim.
The captain flung both arms wide. An expression of great surprise swept his face. Still holding a grip on his pistol, he fell backward from the saddle, and rolled and tumbled on the ground.
Mounted Mexicans and horses with empty saddles crashed into the American lines. Men were bowled over by the horses, stomped upon by iron shod hooves, kicked. The Mexicans attacked with their long lances. Hodding’s men fought back with bayonets. Chilton’s men swung their sabers. Grant’s men reversed their empty muskets and swung them as clubs.
On both sides of Grant the hand-to-hand fighting was savage, with fierce shouts, and thud of blows striking, and cries of pain. He barely heard the sound for his breath was whistling through his teeth as he dueled with a Mexican trooper trying to impale him on the iron point of his lance. Grant had shot a man with his second pistol and now fought with his saber. Sidestepping a powerful thrust by his foe, Grant swung the saber and struck the iron point with a clang of metal on metal and deflected it away. He immediately jumped forward and stabbed out and up at the man. The saber blade slid past the high pommel of the Mexican’s saddle and plunged into his stomach. The man’s face contorted with sudden pain and he sagged over the blade.
Grant ripped his saber free and whirled to look for another enemy. He found none. The courage of the Lancers had broken. By the twos and threes and then larger groups, they were pulling back from the Americans. As if on some signal that Grant couldn’t hear, the remaining Lancers whirled their mounts and spurred away. Those who had had their horses shot from under them ran off on foot, most hobbling or limping
“Reload! Reload!” Grant gave a stentorian shout that swept over the Americans and snapped them into action.
On both sides of Grant, the men worked swiftly biting off the ends of the paper cartridges, pouring the powder down barrels and inserting the lead balls and seating them with the ramrod jerked from under the barrel of the muskets.
“Get set to fire,” Grant called.
Grant watched the Mexicans as he reloaded his pistols. They had reined their mounts to a halt some two hundred yards distant and were bunched and talking and gesturing as they decided what to do next. He estimated that half their original number still sat their saddles. A few gathered around one man and looked expectantly at the others to see what action they would take. No others joined this group. One man wheeled his horse and rode away. A half score followed, and then every one of the mounted men, carrying behind them those who had been unhorsed in the charge, streamed away across the meadow.
Hodding let out a great triumphant yell that was quickly joined by Chilton and all the men. They had broken the will of the Mexicans to fight and they were running, leaving many of their comrades dead and wounded on the battlefield. The two lieutenants laughed at each other knowing they had fought bravely hand to hand with death up close.
Grant saw both had an expression of pride upon their faces. They had just received a lesson in what it took to be an army officer. He called out to them. “The wounded need tending and then got to the hospital as fast as we can. Assign men to do that, and others to gather up the Mexicans’ horses and arms.”
The laughter ceased and the men began to look for friends, to see if they too had won safely through the hail of bullets and thrusts of lances.
“You’ve been hit,” Grant said to Chilton.
Chilton touched the side of his face where blood ran from a long wound on the cheek. He looked at the blood on his fingers. “Yeah, I know. Burns like hell. That Mexican almost got me with his lance.”
Grant faced his own men. “Hackett get out the medical supplies and pass it around. O’Doyle, take some men and empty five wagons by shifting cargo so the wounded and the dead can ride. We’re rolling soon as everybody’s bandaged up.”
“What about their wounded?” Chilton asked as he stared at the Mexicans lying on the green grass, many dead, others alive but wounded and bleeding and groaning.
“Their comrades will come back for them soon as we’re gone.”
“A man in death looks damn lonely,” Chilton said as he stared around at the crumpled, motionless forms on the ground.
“Yes,” Grant said. “It’s best not to be one of them.”
He insured the thirteen wounded were as comfortable as they could be made in the wagons, and the four dead had been loaded, and then left to examine the Lancer captain he had shot. As he passed through the fallen Lancers, he looked down at their brown faces and black eyes, some blank and staring in death and others filled with pain and fearing the Americans would kill them. Three of these dead were by his hand, and he would spill more blood before Mexico was conquered and the war ended. He was a soldier and must not feel regret at his past deeds nor of the future ones to come, for he fought men who had an equal chance to kill him.
He came to the Lancer captain lying crumpled on the grass, his chest bloody and eyes wide and unseeing.
“You were a brave one,” Grant said to the unhearing officer.
The captain’s horse, a magnificent black animal, approached timidly. Its ears were thrust forward and gold-flecked brown eyes warily watched Grant. It wanted to be with its master regardless of the strange man standing over him.
Grant picked up the captain’s pair of pistols heavily inlaid with silver. They were .45-caliber cap and ball pistols with octagon barrels. He hefted them and found they were excellently balanced, better than the pair he owned. Examining them closely he saw the name Morales engraved in the silver of the butts. Was this young officer the son of General Morales who had been commander of Veracruz? He unfastened the cartridge box from the man’s belt. Carrying the pistols and box, he approached the captain’s long legged mount.
The animal began to back away. “Steady, old fellow,” Grant said in a soft voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m thinking you and I should get acquainted. I need a mount and you need someone to look after you.”
The horse stopped, trained not to desert its master. It trembled as Grant’s strange hand touched its neck. “Horses have always liked me. You will too.”
The bridle and saddle, like the pistols, were resplendent with silver inlays. Here too he found the name Morales. “You look fine with all that silver, but I’ve got to take it all off. If I don’t everything will be stolen some dark night.”
“Lieutenant, he’s got gold on him.”
Grant saw one of Hodding’s men squatting beside the officer and holding up a leather pouch heavy with coins. “Soldier, put t
hat back. A dead enemy’s weapons and mount are property of war and fair game for a victor. What’s in his pockets isn’t. That belongs to his family.”
“Sir, how do I get it to them,” asked the private. The expression on his face spoke clearly that he didn’t agree with the difference Grant was making between taking the pistols and horse and taking the coins.
Grant looked about and saw other men were waiting his answer before they too began to search the dead. He turned back to the captain’s horse without answering. Let the men take what they wanted for hadn’t they won it by their blood? As for him he had drawn a line between horse and pistols and what he considered personal to the man. But was he right, or was he too just a thief scavenging the dead?
*
Lee wound his path through the people on the boulevard fronting the sea. Evening shadows were growing, still the streets were crowded with Mexican citizens and American soldiers and all going about the business of buying and selling and the search for pleasure. The fears of the citizens to be out and about in the occupied city had vanished quickly upon Scott’s swift execution of the American Issac Kirk who had raped a woman of the city.
Scott had a gallows built in the public square, borrowed the city’s public executioner, and with Justus Bustamente, Alcalde of Veracruz, the townsfolk, and all off duty soldiers present, Kirk was hung for all to witness. The executioner, a tall, gaunt man in dark pants and shirt and tall leather boots and a black mask, alone was sufficient to put fear into a man.
Lee came upon a score of Mexican hucksters bawling out their goods at the tops of their voices. One vendor was selling fresh oysters and Lee wished Connally had been here so that he could buy some for the mess. He walked on passing the camp followers selling zinc coffins and the embalmer. The two men bragged about their wares and promised they would bring you back from the place where you caught the bullet to your home and loved ones. Of course payment had to be made in advance. A few soldiers were inside and talking with the proprietors. A Mexican lad went by selling copies of the American Star. Within one day after the fall of Veracruz, the publisher of the newspaper, John Warland, Quartermaster Sergeant of the Ninth Infantry, had set up his printing press and put out his first edition. Lee bought a copy. The newspaper always quickly sold out for it was immensely popular with the soldiers wanting to know what was happening, be it only rumors.