Soldiers of Conquest (15 page)

“Then you must show me the city. Not to find fault with you Americans, but just to see all that has happened to it during the bombardment.” Marie looked into Lee's eyes and waited for his reply.

“I find the penalty very harsh,” Lee said with a frown.

“Too harsh?” Marie asked and taken aback, or a skilled actress.

“Very much so, but I did promise.” Then Lee smiled broadly showing he was playing along with her game.

Marie laughed, a lovely bell-like tone, and caught Lee by the hand and squeezed it.

“Close up your ranks,” Grant called to the weary, dust covered men as he rode forward along the length of the caravan. He ignored the unfriendly looks flung at him by the men. This was the fifth day of foraging and he had pushed the troopers hard every hour of daylight not spent bargaining for animals. Now the men were straggling as the heat built under the burning tropical sun.

Grant had stopped his band of foragers at the towns and ranchos they came upon and now had acquired somewhat more than two hundred horses and mules. The men at the ranchos had often refused to sell their animals, protesting bitterly that they needed them to ride to manage their livestock. Grant had his orders and he had one hundred and eighty men with rifles and so he took the horses by threatening force. He paid what he considered a fair price every time, but still he left behind angry, cursing caballeros that would take revenge if they should ever have the opportunity.

He had no saddles or bridles for the purchased animals; still the foot soldiers jumped at the chance to ride bareback. They had fashioned halters from rope and could control their steeds well enough by that means. The animals not ridden were being driven along near the center of the wagon train.

The caravan traversed a road of brown dirt stretching across flat grasslands of the purest green. Ahead and barely visible some three miles away, a small village sat astride the road. Off on the right about a mile the Rio Actopan meandered serpentine-like in the floodplain it had carved from the land. The river's floodplain held a dense stand of woods, and Grant kept a wary eye in that direction. Far off on the left, a small herd of cattle grazed the lush, knee-high grass. If Grant had been after meat, he would turn aside and take the cattle.

Enemies could come down on the Americans from any point of the compass, and to provide an early warning he had assigned a squad of Dragoons to ride one half mile off on both flanks of the caravan. Regardless of a warning by the flankers, it would be extremely difficult to mount a strong defense against Mexican cavalry because the caravan of horsemen, wagons, and animals stretched for more than half a mile.

Reaching Chilton and Hodding riding in the lead, Grant slowed his horse to match the pace of the mounts of the two officers.

“How does it go back there?” Chilton asked.

“Everybody's hot and dusty and still grumbling about us not stopping for the noon meal,” Grant replied. “But I've got a feeling that this isn't one of the times to listen to the men. If we hustle we can deliver these animals to Scott before dark. Then we can give the men a couple day's rest.” He had done his best to insure the success of the foraging expedition, and though he had wanted to locate and buy more animals, he wasn't too displeased. Now he must get men, horses and mules safely to Veracruz.

The officers fell silent. The only sound from the caravan was the creak of leather and the sodden plops of the horses' hooves in the thick dust of the road.

*

The sound of two distant rifle shots jerked Grant's eyes in the direction of the Rio Actopan. A pair of quick shots was the signal that the flanking Dragoons had spotted an enemy.

“I thought the woods by the river was a dangerous place,” Grant said to Chilton and Hodding riding in the lead of the caravan with him.

“Damn I hope it's not true,” Hodding said anxiously.

“My boys wouldn't make a mistake about something like that,” Chilton said.

“They're too far away for us to see what they see,” Grant said quickly. “Best we take it as gospel. If it's Mexican cavalry, it won't be but two or three minutes before they're here. Get your men into position and do it fast.” On the second day of the expedition, Grant had joined with the two officers in devising a strategy to resist an attack. Twice the troops had been run through a drill of the plan and he hoped that was sufficient to now get them into place before the enemy struck.

The three officers whirled their mounts and spurred off. Reaching their men they called out orders. With shouts from the sergeants and hurried movement by the men, the lead wagons reversed course while those in the rear continued ahead and the caravan converged upon the ten wagons and the cavalcade of horses and mules at its center.

*

“How many of them are there?” Grant asked the corporal of the scouts. The squad had arrived spurring and flogging their mounts.

“Maybe two hundred and fifty and all cavalry, sir,” the corporal said in an excited voice. “They were hidden in the woods by the river and we didn't see them until they broke clear. I didn't stick around to try and get an accurate count.”

“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.

A crash of musket fire rippled along the American lines. Burning gunpowder flamed red and smoke boiled out in a cloud. Men were half deafened by the thunderous explosion.

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.