Halls of Montezuma

by Tony Roberts

  “Oh great!” Jimmy exploded, waving his arms about. “Now we’re in danger of having no supplies and even if we do turn back there’s a chance we’ll be attacked by guerrillas. Good God above, what a mess!”

  Case gestured to the Irishman to sit down. They had gathered in a taverna in Puebla along with other American soldiers. The city had fallen soon after they had moved into the mountains but with a growing number of sick, Scott’s army of fit men now totaled something like 5,000. Case’s squad had shrunk again; Zuckermann had returned home amongst the draftees who had finished their twelve month stint, and Michael had fallen ill to dysentery that was sweeping through the ranks. He was in the city hospital but facilities there were basic to say the least and the medical staff overworked and not entirely the most knowledgeable.

  Kenny and Feisler sat opposite, moodily staring at their beers, not speaking. Case knew what they were feeling; they were isolated high in the mountains, in a foreign city that spoke a different language, and with a greater number of enemy forces ahead of them. So far the Mexicans had not approached but who knows where they were? Also the American supply lines were lengthening while the Mexican ones shortening.

  It wasn’t the best situation to be in, but Case had been through this all before; Cortes had been vastly outnumbered on his march to the capital but had won through. Scott seemed just as determined but they wouldn’t be faced with natives armed with sticks and clubs this time. “I’m sure General Scott won’t push on until he’s certain we can succeed. He’s asked for reinforcements and from what I know the President is backing him all the way. We’ll get more men.”

  Jimmy snorted and sat down. “I’ll be glad to end this bloody war. I’m fed up with the heat, the food, the mosquitoes and climbing these mountains. How much further do they go on up?”

  “Some way yet. There’s a high ridge to cross before we descend into a huge basin that the capital is built in. You’ll see some spectacular mountains, including a volcano. All hard country, semi-desert.”

  “God I hate this country!” Jimmy growled and lapsed into a sullen silence. On the next table Hamble and Hughes were throwing dice, and Case looked for a moment in wonder; it had been just such a thing the two Syrians in his squad on Golgotha had thrown for the right to own the Jew’s robe. He could picture it right there, the exposed position on that hill, the wind, the heat. Heck, even the smell. The last few moments of his normal life! He dispelled the image, screwing his eyes shut tightly.

  “You okay, Corp?” Kenny asked, a worried look on his face.

  “Mmm? Oh yeah thanks. Just tired. Going to go have a look on Michael to see how he’s doing.”

  “Give him our best. Hope he don’t mind us not visiting but we’re sort of, well, allergic to dysentery and don’t want to catch it.”

  “Don’t worry, Kenny, I’ll tell him that!”

  “Mind you don’t get it either, Corp,” Hamble drawled from the next table.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t get it.” Which was true enough. His body killed stone dead any infection that dared show its face around him. The deadly plague in Europe that had killed a third of the population hadn’t affected him, yet those around him at one point were dropping like flies. Dysentery was a laugh compared to that.

  The hospital was close to the plaza, along a street strewn with rubbish. Dogs wandered from pile to pile sniffing and Case didn’t really want to know what may be in those stinking mounds. Getting directions from a nurse he found Michael lying in a rudimentary bed, pale, covered in sweat. He was a shrunken figure, cheekbones prominent. Case was shocked at the change in just four days; the boy was extremely bad. Case dragged a chair over and the sound of it caused the boy to open his eyes.

  “Ah, still with us then Michael,” Case smiled. He didn’t feel like smiling.

  “Case.” Michael licked his lips. “I’m not coming out of this place alive.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Course you are! We’ll have you leading the charge on old Santa Anna’s mansion itself!”

  The young man smiled and shut his eyes. “I’m sorry. Ye’ll find my pack and inside is something that’ll explain everything.”

  Case frowned. “What? What are you sorry about?”

  “The letters will tell ye.” Michael groaned and shook in agony, clutching at his stomach. “My pack, under the bed. Take it away and read what’s inside.” He groaned once more, then reached out a skeletal arm and clutched at Case. “Tell them at home I’m sorry!”

  “What?” Case stared at the shaking man.

  “S-sorry…” Michael cried out and shook again.

  “Doctor!” Case stood up, looking round. “Nurse!”

  A nurse came flapping along, her dark Indian eyes concerned. “Oh the poor boy!” she whispered in Spanish. “Is he Catholic?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  She produced a rosary from under her white dress and pressed it into Michael’s hands. Michael focused on it and smiled weakly. His lips moved and Case thought he heard the words ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’ and Michael shuddered, then dropped the rosary onto the bed. The nurse began praying and Case cursed under his breath, shut the dead man’s eyes and knelt by the bed. His hand found the pack and he pulled it out, clutching it tight. “Senorita,” he said, handing the rosary back, “please make sure this man is buried in the cemetery. He was a good Catholic.” He pressed into her hand a silver coin and the nurse nodded.

  He then walked away, pack dangling from his hand, head lowered. Senseless waste of life, he thought as he left the building. He’d seen too many deaths, but the ones that got him were those that died for nothing. He avoided the taverna and went instead to his quarters, an adobe and rock house on the northern edge of the city. He opened the pack and, amongst the military junk, found a small pile of letters. They had been sent from Lynchburg, addressed not to Michael but to him.

  Case swore and nodded in understanding. Michael had intercepted every letter meant for him, and probably destroyed every one he’d written, except for the last one he’d posted himself in Monterey. And why? Well, that would be written in the letters, that he was certain of.

  He recognized Ann’s writing. She’d sent all three that had been meant for him. He opened the first, heart pounding. It had been written in December ‘45, just after Michael had arrived at camp. She wrote saying the pregnancy was going well and hope he was okay etc. etc. The thunderbolt was about Michael. He’d found out about Bridget’s affair and had threatened to kill her and Hans. All three had disappeared shortly afterwards and nobody knew where any of them were.

  Case sighed and opened the second. This was after the birth of the child. Ann and Sean had decided to name the boy William, and the child was doing well. She wondered why Case hadn’t replied. Case knew why. She also asked how the war was going and was it tough?

  The third confirmed everything. Ann wrote that Michael had written to the family stating he was with Case and they should not worry. Bridget and Hans had been taken care of by Michael. Case felt a chill. There was one last letter, addressed to Case, but from Michael.

  ‘Case. If ye’re reading this then I’m dead. I’m sorry but I ran away because I killed two people in a rage. Bridget and Hans. I found them together in the barn at her place and the next thing both were dead at my feet. I buried them in the same place we buried those others who tried to burn the farm down. I’m sorry. I couldn’t let ye read any letters sent to ye as they might tell ye why. I hope my soul finds rest, but God will be the judge of that. Take care and I hope ye don’t think too bad of me. Thank ye for everything ye’ve done for me. Michael.’

  The letter dropped onto the open pack and Case put his hands to his face and wept.

  * * *

  Michael was buried in the cemetery in Puebla. The squad attended and fired a volley of shots above his grave. Case never told any of the others about the letters, but Case kept them on him. The rest of Michael’s pack contents were shared out amongst the others.

 
They retired to a taverna to drink to Michael’s memory, and to Case’s surprise he found the Marines there all in a group. Case hailed Jackson and the marine beckoned the small group to join them. Case told Jackson and the others about Michael’s death and before long the marines were toasting his memory, even though none had ever met the boy. “So what are you boys doing here?” said Case.

  “Hell, we were doing nothing in Vera Cruz, so we got attached to General Pierce’s brigade. And now we’re here. Miles from the sea inland in Puebla. Just the place for the marines!” Jackson laughed and downed another glass of what looked like beer. The other marines, about twelve of them, smiled.

  “So how many of you are here?” Kenny asked, sharing a jug of some unidentifiable alcohol with two marines.

  “A company or so. Need any boats to be attacked on the road to Mexico?” a marine called Danek slurred. Case thought he was a Slovak by birth, or so it seemed. Hard to tell with all the slurring. They toasted Michael once more, then the marines, the Tun Tavern, the Stars and Stripes, large breasted whores and drunken soldiers wherever they were, amongst others Case later forgot.

  Then the provosts turned up, batons flailing, shouting at the men they were under arrest. Jackson eyed Case who nodded, his fists balling, and the two groups stood up and inferred that the provosts hadn’t the benefit of any parentage.

  “Okay, you drunks, you’re under arrest,” the provost officer snarled, closing in on Jackson. The marine laughed and kicked his chair against the provost’s legs. Before the policeman could recover, Jackson had landed a meaty fist into his face, sending the man backwards onto the floor. With a whoop the combined marine-infantry group leaped into the fray and drove the provosts out of the taverna, bottles and chairs following the hasty retreat.

  Laughing hysterically, Case led the men to the rear of the building through the back of the bar and through an open window. They climbed down into an alley and staggered off, arms round their shoulders, singing raucous and obscene songs about a trio of women who were found on board a ship by sex-starved sailors. Before the marines returned to their quarters, they promised to watch out for each other if they bumped into them again, and went their separate ways.

  In the middle of summer reinforcements arrived and General Scott felt he had enough men to press on. Leaving 3,000 sick behind in the city, he pressed on with 11,000 men towards the Mexican capital. Rumors got back to the marching men, sweating and toiling up and up towards the top of the mountains, that Santa Anna had raised an army of 30,000 to face them.

  “Heck, Corp,” Hamble gasped, fighting for air in the thin atmosphere, “how the hell are we gonna beat that lot?”

  “What were these 30,000 doing last week?” Case answered, drawing in deep lungfuls that hardly satisfied his body’s hunger for oxygen. “Tilling the fields, begging for money? Or, if they had been soldiers, running away from yet another defeat? They may have three times our number but they’re ill-trained, badly-led and inexperienced. I don’t think their superior numbers count for much.”

  “Well they fight like the devil, especially those bastards in the San Patricios,” Jimmy said, stopping and turning to stare back down the road they’d snaked up. The San Patricios were the Irishmen who had deserted to the Mexicans and now fought as a regiment in their own right. They were the toughest troops they’d faced so far.

  They resumed their climb and at 10,000 feet topped the ascent and paused to look in wonder at the snow-covered peak of Popacatapetl, the volcano Case had promised they’d see. “Well, what did I tell you lot?” he grinned.

  “Bloody hell,” Jimmy gaped in awe. “What a sight!”

  “And that’s another,” Feisler said, pointing ahead. The men turned and looked down. Ahead, in an immense valley, three thousand feet below, sprawled the city of Mexico. Shimmering in the heat, half seen, were the domes of the cathedral and spires of the palaces. Gasps came unbidden from mouths as the men stared at the green of the valley, such a contrast to the arid land they had passed through. Case had wondered how he’d feel looking down on a place that twice had played a big part of his past, and he felt a frisson of goose-bumps run up his back. Gone were the Teotec and Aztec buildings, destroyed by the God-fearing Spaniards. No more any trace of what had once been a monument to pre-European wonder.

  Case orientated his memory to what he’d seen all those years before. The great palace of Montezuma would be somewhere close to the great cathedral that shimmered in the heat haze in the distance. Perhaps they’d built it on top of the palace. That often happened.

  The officers stood with telescopes to their eyes, staring at their objective. Fingers pointed ahead to the great looming bulk of a castle perched on a rocky outcrop close to the city. That would have to be taken before the city was invested. And there weren’t many routes the army could take. Case saw that the number of lakes that had existed had dwindled and marshland now stood where once great open expanses of water had, but the causeways across them still stood, and it was along here the army would have to march. And every one was covered by Mexican cannon and determined defenders.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Whitby downed his beer, wiped his lips and eyed the German brothers. The two of them were suspicious of anyone wanting to meet with them, but the lure of a discussion of the whereabouts of their missing brother Hans was enough to overcome any hesitation they felt.

  August, the elder and more intelligent, did much of the talking for the two of them. Franz was brooding and angry, his twin brother was more keenly missed by him, but he let August do the talking as he would know what was best. They were sat in a small coffee shop, the only one in town, across the street from St.Peter’s.

  “This guy Lonnergan is responsible for the disappearance of your brother and his girlfriend,” Whitby said. “Or in some way anyway. I bet he knows where they are buried. I know he’s has killed many times. He is a killer, a maniac. He must be stopped. Look what he did to me!” He raised his hook and waved it in front of the two men.

  “But why are you here, a Philadelphian, in Lynchburg looking for this man?” August was worried as to why no local law enforcement officer was looking for Lonnergan.

  “He came to Philadelphia from England, and I heard he was wanted over there for multiple murders. Some guy came across recently from England and told me this, but he’s gone and vanished since he got on Lonnergan’s trail. It’s a safe bet he came to a bad end. He’s now fighting in Mexico, probably the only way his blood lust will be satisfied. If he dies you’ll never find what happened to your brother.”

  August looked at Franz. “So why not get help from the American law offices?”

  “What? He’s fighting for this country! It would have to be proven without any doubt he’s a murderer, and there is none. He’d be alerted and he’d flee into the wilderness and we’d never find him! Best have local help and you’d want to find out where your brother’s remains lay, wouldn’t you? Then he is the only one who knows.”

  “You mean what you are doing here is illegal and you don’t want any of the authorities to find out,” August sneered. “You need us to do your dirty work.”

  Whitby drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Yeah. I want to get even with this bastard and don’t want any lawman getting in my way.”

  Franz nodded. August sensed his brother’s assent. “Yes, but we’ll only help you get Lonnergan so we can find out where Hans is. No others will be hurt, you understand? We are tired of all this fighting. So. Tell us what we must do.”

  * * *

  The problem facing General Scott was how to pass the strong Mexican defenses that blocked the road at El Penon. The fortress stood in his way. To go round it to the north would mean a forty mile detour around Lake Texcoco, and even then they would have to fight through 5,000 Mexicans encamped at Guadalupe Hidalgo. To the south the army would have to march via Mexicalcingo and this would leave his right and rear open to any sortie from El Penon.

  He decided to resort to his scouts t
o find a way, and his excellent scout Captain Robert E. Lee decided to get advance intelligence from Corporal Lonnergan. Case was happy to speak to the Virginian again. He was damned bright and he reckoned he had a great future in the military. Case scratched his head at the dilemma facing the army and remembered something from the scrambled escape from the Aztecs. He recalled a route to the south of Lakes Chalco and Xochimilco the fleeing Spanish had used to get away. Perhaps by reversing some of that journey the Americans could by-pass El Penon and get inside the outer defenses towards Mexico City.

  Lee thanked Case and took his small group off to find out if the path was still there. When he got back he advised General Scott that the route around the two lakes’ southern edges was the only path to take, and Scott signaled for the army to move as soon as possible.

  Case returned to his tent after one tiring patrol to find a wrapped bundle in his tent and a note scribbled from Captain Robert E. Lee, thanking him for his help in aiding his scouting missions. It ended with ‘….and as a mark of my thanks please find herein something which I think will assist you in the fighting to come. If you ever need my help I’ll be honored to do what I can. Yours, Robert E. Lee, Captain of Engineers, US Army in Mexico.’

  He unwrapped the cloth and gasped as a gleaming and oiled Minié rifle that lay there, somehow evil and comforting at the same time. A box of cartridges and powder was also inside the bundle. He laughed and held the gun up. Good old Captain Lee!

  Case grinned when Captain Jameson, newly appointed regimental commander, told them later that day that they would be marching to the south of the lakes. Lee must have found the old track and judged it safe. Marching along it on foot or even on horseback was fine, but the artillery and wagons had a rough time, shaking and rattling like crazy. The gunners cursed and sweated, little realizing they were retracing the route the conquistadors had taken all those years ago. This time the glory and riches were not awaiting them; just a mass of desperate, grim and determined Mexicans.