by Tony Roberts
“Drunk! You horrible excuse of a soldier! Typical Irish drunken bastard! It’s trouble for you, O’Driscoll, you’ll see.”
Michael swayed, then vomited all over Mason’s uniform. The sergeant screamed mindlessly, hands held in claws above his steaming attire. Michael dropped his musket and put his hands to his head.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Mason bellowed. “Fuck!” He turned towards the groaning soldier. “FUCK!”
Michael focused on the dripping mess in front of him. “Urgh! I’m sorry sergeant.”
“What’s all this going on?” Lieutenant Bradman inquired, marching up to the two men. The rest of the parade were standing stoically, staring ahead, but there were red faces, twitching mouths and muffled noises emitting from many. Case bit on his lower lip, trying not to laugh. He had to look up, away from the purple-faced sergeant, or he knew he would.
“This creature has just vomited over me, sir!”
“So I see,” Bradman wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell. “Dismiss the parade and sort out the man responsible. Then go change and report to me.” The lieutenant made a hasty retreat. A few sniggers sounded.
Mason whirled round. “What’s so funny?” Nobody answered, but a number of men were sucking on their lips. Mason stepped up to one, who happened to be Feisler. “You! What’s so goddam hilarious about being puked on?”
Feisler shook his head, unable to speak. Another man moaned, unable to suppress himself. Mason swung his head and stamped along the line. “You want to join this bastard O’Driscoll on punishment duty? I’ll have you cleaning out the latrines!”
Michael held his stomach, groaning. Mason came back up to him, a waft of stale vomit preceding him. “Shut up! You’re in deep shit, soldier!”
Kenny, unable to prevent something giving, farted loudly. As he said later, “I couldn’t possibly clamp tight both ends at once. One had to give!” More men made snorting noises. Mason’s eyes bulged dangerously. “Who gave you permission to fart on parade, Kenny?”
It was too much. Case’s shoulders began shaking and Jimmy, next to him, chuckled uncontrollably. Mason stepped in front of the two. “Shut up! Shut up!” The next moment guffaws broke out and the entire line was convulsed with mirth.
“You’re all on a charge, damn you all! Dismissed!” Mason yelled and stamped off towards his quarters, leaving the company laughing fit to burst. Case finally stopped and slapped the ashen-faced Michael on the shoulder. “You dumb bastard,” he said, “you’ll get it now. But what a way to do it! The look on that man’s face, what a portrait!” He laughed all the way to barracks.
Fortunately for all of them, including Michael, Mason’s wrath was headed off at the pass, because General Taylor had decided that morning to make his move.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monterey lay on the northern bank of the Santa Catarina River, protected by high ground to the west and across the river to the south. The Mexicans had reinforced the defenses and the approaches to the city so that any attacking force would have to fight through them before tackling the city itself.
Two forts had been constructed; one to the east of the city, Fort Teneria, covering the river approach from the east and protecting any landward approach in that direction. The other was Fort Soldado, across the river to the south west of Monterey on high ground, commanding any approach from the south or west. Two roads approached Monterey from the north, and they converged just before the city limits. The main road was from the north, the Camargo Road, and it was down this that the American army had advanced, sweating under the late Mexican summer sun. Although it was now September it was still blisteringly hot and uncomfortable.
Of the 6,000 men who had left Matamoros, only 5,500 had arrived. The rest had fallen on the road to sickness and heat exhaustion. Medical care was virtually non-existent and if you fell ill that was it. You were left to your fate while the army marched on.
Case and his regiment were with General Worth’s division, arranged on the right flank. It was clear they were earmarked to attack through the western approaches, and that looked as bad as it could be. Just to the west of Monterey a hill rose and upon the peak stood the Bishop’s Palace, a heavily fortified building, commanding the western route into the city, the Saltillo Road. To the west of that hill was a small gap before another hill rose and this went on westwards out of sight.
To the south of the Bishop’s Palace and the hill it rested upon ran the river, and directly across this rose the southern hill defenses and Fort Soldado. Case sat cleaning his musket, not impressed with what he knew was going to come. Michael sat next to him silently doing the same. The young man had hardly spoken since the parade incident, and Mason had got his revenge, having Michael lashed for his drunkenness and illness. Michael had taken the punishment silently and now he rarely spoke, save to ask for food or answer questions. Case couldn’t fathom out what was wrong but one day maybe he would learn. The rest of the group looked nervously at the hills and the enemy troops positioned there, counting the cannon and the soldiers. They would have to run the gauntlet to capture those heights, and many wouldn’t live to see the end of the day, that was for sure.
The rest of Taylor’s army was lined up in two divisions under Generals Butler and Quitman, facing the eastern defenses and the city itself. Their approach would be across flat, open terrain, perfect for guns to blast at them, so their line of attack was no better than Case’s. At least Worth’s division had hills to shelter behind if they got that close.
The order to form up came and Case and Michael stood up, checking their equipment. Much of their uniform was now dirty, shabby and needing repair, but the baggage train behind the army had not kept up and besides, they were short of supplies and the men just had to carry on getting scruffier and scruffier. General Taylor wasn’t one who was interested in tidy soldiers, just fighting soldiers.
General Worth attached a battery of cannon and howitzers to his division, and then gave the order to march towards the gap in the hills in between the bishop’s palace and the longer hills to the west. Case marched on, looking apprehensively at the Mexican forces encamped around the tops of the hills, and hoped things wouldn’t get too hot down on the plains. Michael looked up at the summits too and began whispering something under his breath; Case guessed it was a prayer.
Alongside these two were Jimmy, Kenny and Jackson, each as dust covered and ragged as the next. One well-aimed shot could kill them all. Case hoped not, as he’d come to feel part of this little ‘family’ of men who fought and lived together. Men you could rely on to help you out in battle. When time came to part, he hoped it was after the war, not at some roadside grave.
The Mexicans watched as the division marched smartly through the gap and then beyond. Case’s regiment and two others were detached to stand guard at the base of the hill to the east they’d just passed, while the rest carried on to the Saltillo Road, cutting the city off from the west. And no shot had been fired.
They spent an uneasy night sleeping out in the open on the approach to the hill, and next morning the guns with Worth opened up on the Mexican lines on the hill, exploding shells amongst them. Lieutenant Bradman walked up, sword and pistol drawn, and stood in front of the company. “Okay guys,” he began, his face grim, “today we’re going to storm those troops up there on Independence Hill in front of us. The whole army will be watching us, so let’s not let them all down. It’s going to be tough, but I know you’re the guys to do it. Follow me.”
Case gripped his musket tightly. They all had bayonets fixed and one shot loaded. They wouldn’t have the chance to reload while climbing the slope, and so a strong pair of lungs and stout legs would be needed this morning. And luck. Case slapped Michael on the shoulder. “Good luck, lad.”
Michael jumped, then nodded, swallowing. “And to ye, Case.”
Kenny spat and whistled tunelessly while Pickering went through a strange ritual of stretching his muscles. Case stared at him for a moment, then looked away, his stomach
turning over. He’d seen moves like that once before, so far back in his past he’d almost forgotten, yet he knew what they were. Shocked at seeing them again, his mind cast itself back to a gentle yet wise face. Shiu Lao Tze.
He shook the memory away and concentrated on the job ahead. It was straight forward enough; get up to the top without being shot and kill the enemy. Or else lose. The guns blasted away at the top of the hill, then suddenly fell silent. “Company, forward!” Bradman ordered, pointing his sword at the hill. All along the line other company officers were doing the same.
Case was in the third rank and followed the backs of those ahead. Like some gigantic organism they moved up to the lower slopes and up, peering up at the Mexican lines. They got halfway up when suddenly a mass of evil muzzles appeared and aimed at them.
“Oh, shit” someone gasped.
The line of muskets blazed and the air was full of deadly balls whistling past. The man in front of Case staggered and fell sideways, a red stain spreading across his chest. Three more within eyesight fell, two of them screaming in pain. Again, many of the shots went high. Bradman cheered and urged the men on, while the sergeants snarled from the rear, prompting the stragglers to push on. The attacking force roared their defiance and went on up, higher and higher towards the enemy lines.
Case stepped over another body and climbed on. He was now in the second rank and musket balls were crackling past to left and right. One passed so close he felt the air move. Panting strongly, he grabbed at a clump of grass and pulled himself up a steeper part of the slope, and suddenly he was on a flatter part and heading for the enemy. The Mexicans were crouched behind a makeshift barricade, and in between the squads were cannon, waiting.
“Oh fuck!” Case exclaimed despite himself.
Canister.
Canister was a nightmare. A tin packed with ball bearings and lead shot, it exploded outwards when fired, spraying the balls all over the place, cutting down men in huge swathes. Cannons used this at point blank range as a kind of last resort when opposing infantry got too close. He got sight of the gunner bending forward, a burning match in his hand. Without thinking Case whipped up the musket to eye level and fired in one movement. His shot took the gunner through the chest, the impact jerking the man back, match spinning out of his hand. Michael, Jimmy and Kenny all joined him as Case swiftly knelt and grabbed a cartridge out of his belt. “Stop anyone firing that damned gun!” he snapped and began to reload.
Alongside, other troops had reached the level ground and were beginning to trade shots with the Mexicans. One American fell forward, a hole in his skull while off to the left a cannon boomed and the hideous rattle of ball bearings reached their ears, as did distant screams. Case replaced the ramrod and got to his feet, cocking his musket. “Okay guys,” he breathed, “let’s go get them!”
The squad yelled and ran at the barricade, bayonets thrusting forward. Two shots rang out from behind it and Jackson staggered, folding over himself. Case, screaming in fury, jumped the barricade and landed on his feet, taking his weight by bending his knees. A Mexican to his right whirled, pistol in hand, but Case blasted him aside and swung his musket at a second man who thrust out in panic with his bayonet. The butt struck the man across the face and he collapsed into the wooden planking and slumped to the ground.
Jimmy shot a third and Michael chased off one who was trying to fire the cannon. Suddenly the Mexican line was fleeing to the Bishop’s Palace, across the hilltop some three hundred yards away, and a second line of defenders could be seen barricaded in front and upon it. That would take some taking. The Americans kicked over the barricade at the top of Independence Hill and halted, waiting for orders.
“Where’s Lieutenant Bradman?” Kenny demanded, reloading. His face was blackened with the discharged powder marks, like the rest of them.
“Dunno. Lost sight of him on the way up.” Pickering shrugged and looked back. “How’s Jackson?”
“Think he’s alive but he’s got a gut wound,” Jimmy said, breathing heavily.
Case checked the scene. About forty troops had secured this part of the hill and other units had made the top to left and right. Bodies littered the slope and a few lay around the crest. Losses had been heavy and the Mexicans, although they had fled the hill, had gotten off lightly in casualties.
A dark haired lieutenant arrived, nodding at the men. “Well done!” he said warmly. “Can you guys turn those cannon round and aim them at the Mexicans? We’re bringing up more to bring to bear on the palace.”
“Yes sir.” Case stood up. “Where’s Lieutenant Bradman?”
“He’s wounded, soldier, but he should be okay. Shoulder wound. I’m Lieutenant Grant, 4th infantry. I’ll temporarily command this unit until you’re properly assigned a new officer.”
Grant organized the unit fairly quickly, and Case had to admit he knew his stuff. One of the brighter West Point graduates, no doubt. West Point had been churning out a series of officers in the past few of decades, all keen to be top of their year. Case wondered how Grant had done; he didn’t look all that old so he must have been a recent graduate.
Case organized his unit to swing the gun round so it was pointing across the open stretch of land to the Bishop’s Palace, gleaming white in the sun. Grant eyed Case shrewdly. “You’ve commanded before, haven’t you, soldier? What’s your name?”
“Private Lonnergan sir.”
“Well, Lonnergan, I think your skills could be used better. You’ll need a corporal and I think you’d be perfect. I’ll recommend you to General Worth. What do you say?”
Case wiped his hands on his jacket. “Corporal Lassiter is dead, Lieutenant?”
“No, not Lassiter. He’s been made sergeant. It’s Sergeant Mason who’s dead.”
“Hell,” Case said, staring down the slope. “How many have we lost?”
“Not sure, Lonnergan, but we’ve been hurt bad. More coming up the slope to reinforce us now, though. Can you hold this area while I go report to General Worth?”
“Sure can, sir.” Both saluted and Grant made his way back down the body-strewn slope. Case looked at his companions. “Okay, stop grinning. I’m not corporal yet. Best go fetch Sergeant Mason and Jackson, if Jackson is fit to bring up that is.”
Jimmy and Feisler set off back down the slope while Case grabbed part of the fallen barricade and pulled it round to the front of the newly aligned cannon. “Okay guys, let’s rearrange this barricade. It doesn’t look like the Mexicans are going to counter attack but we may as well bring some protection to the gunners.”
So the men began rearranging the barricades while more arrived, dragging two big artillery pieces with them. Jackson was carried up, groaning, holding onto a stomach wound, then the corpse of Sergeant Mason arrived. Case saw he had been shot through the chest, and around the wound were black powder marks. He’d been shot from point blank range. “Where was he when you found him?” Case asked Jimmy.
“Halfway down. Why?”
Case shrugged and looked away. “No reason. Just curious.” Jimmy went off to his post while Case stared at the back of Michael. Of all the men who had got to the top, only the young Irishman had not fired. He’d chased off a gunner at bayonet point but it would have been easier to have shot him. Michael had not fired because he couldn’t. He’d fired before he had got to the top.
The newly gazetted Sergeant Lassiter came up and congratulated the squad. He arranged for Jackson to be carried off to the field hospital but he looked worried and shook his head. “Jackson probably won’t survive. We’ll need a replacement. We’ve lost so many we may have to reduce to two companies.”
One of the two newly arrived artillery pieces was a massive 24-pounder and it began shelling the Mexican lines in front of the Palace. The Mexicans responded with shot but their fire was intermittent and slow. Case was confirmed as corporal and he was congratulated by the men. Orders came to prepare for an attack the following morning so preparations went on throughout the afternoon.
&
nbsp; They also had a grandstand view of the attack on the east of Monterey by General Butler. Despite some losses Butler’s men stormed Fort Teneria, thus breaking the defenses outside the city. Mexican troops could be seen streaming back into Monterey. More shooting drew their attention south where the rest of General Worth’s forces climbed the slopes to Fort Soldado, having crossed the river to the west. It seemed impossible the attack could succeed as shot and ball crashed amongst the men but the dogged determination of the Americans pressed the attack home and before long the stars and stripes flew from the fort.
Now only Monterey itself remained, apart from the Bishop’s Palace, which was heavily defended. It was the last bastion left to the defenders outside the city.
And on the morrow Case and his buddies would have to storm it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The fires of the army flickered in the night; an oasis of light in a desert of darkness. Around these sat groups of men talking quietly. The horror of that assault up the slope was still vivid in their minds, and they weren’t looking forward to yet another attack across exposed ground at daybreak. More men had arrived at dusk, reinforcements from the successful attack on Fort Soldado, and the orders were clear. The palace must fall at all costs.
Case was busy sewing onto his sleeves the twin stripes of a corporal, listening to Kenny’s tuneful rendition of The Girl I left Behind Me. He wasn’t a bad singer, Case thought, and maybe could make a living out of his voice should he decide to do so after the war. What had become apparent even after just three battles was that the Mexican infantry wasn’t well led or motivated, and once a battle was seen to be going against them they gave up. The American forces were much more motivated and determined, and it was this that had brought them victory today. Had they been attacking a European army then they’d’ve been shot to bits.
