Soldiers of Conquest (37 page)

Grant hurried down to the floor, and leaving the priest under guard by two Marines, stole back to his lines on the causeway. There he obtained a mountain howitzer from Lendrum, disassembled it, and distributed its parts and ammunition among the men.

Grant hoisted a wheel to hang on a shoulder and led the crew toward the church. Because of the bulky loads the men carried, the previous path wouldn't do and so they dropped off the causeway and sloshed through the ditches filled with mud and water reaching to Grant's chest. Undiscovered by the enemy, they again reached the church and climbed to the belfry. There they swiftly reassembled the gun and loaded it with canister. With Grant calling directions, they hurled shot down upon the enemy below, wounding and killing men and throwing the rest into confusion.

As Grant worked with his crew, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Lieutenant Pemberton one of Worth's staff officers standing behind him.

“General Worth wants to see the officer manning the gun here,” Pemberton said. “It seems that's you.”

“Tell him that I'll report to him in a little while that I'm busy right now.”

“I don't think that'll do,” Pemberton said. “When a general says to report, it's best that a lieutenant does it promptly.”

“That's probably good advice,” Grant said. He called out to his gunners, “Keep firing.”

The two officers went down to the ground and stole past the walls and houses to Worth.

Grant saluted. “Lieutenant Grant reporting, sir.”

Worth returned the salute of the wet, muddy, young man stained with gunpowder smoke. “You must be the one with the gun in the church belfry?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“That's mighty fine work getting the gun up there. Your shots are telling on the Mexicans. I'll send you another gun.”

“Thank you, general,” Grant replied. There wasn't enough room for another gun in the belfry, but it wasn't smart to contradict a general.

Grant returned to the church with a squad of men and the second howitzer. He let the gun set by the church door and took his men to the belfry to relieve the first gun crew. As he began to call out direction for sighting the gun, an American horse drawn gun came charging up the road toward the barricade.

One of Colonel Duncan's lieutenants rode horseback beside the cannon. Nine gunners rode astride the teams, or clung to the caisson seats. For one hundred and fifty yards the men breasted the enemy fire. Then the horses and five of the men were hit by a pair of exploding shells and fell crashing to the pavement. The lieutenant and his remaining four men cut the writhing and screaming horses loose from the guns and swung them around and standing unprotected, naked to the shells whipping down the road, dueled with the guns behind the barricade.

As part of a coordinated assault, platoons of Americans had gone off both sides of the causeway and stolen along through the water as Grant had done. Now they pulled themselves upon the causeway and struck behind the garita. A company of men rushed forward along the road from the main body of Americans toward the garita. They made it half the distance before a devastating fire from the garita forced them to take cover behind the stone arches.

Grant and his men, and Clarke's men on the opposite side of the barricade, continued to fire down on the Mexicans. The volleys had now mangled or killed almost every Mexican gunner and artillery mule. The remaining enemy soldiers had deserted the garita and were dragging one of their guns with them toward a large building that appeared to be a barracks.

The American artillery lieutenant on the road fired a ball that splintered and weakened the garita gate. Seeing this fine shot, the Americans that had come in from the sides now quickly converged and sprang forward and crashed open the city's mighty defensive gate. The men were met by a barrage of canister fire from several cannons firing from the barracks. They pulled back and found shelter behind the garita walls. The two young lieutenants that had led the charge called out to their men and they sank down to sit on the pavement to rest.

Grant, in the belfry spoke to his squad of artillerymen and Marines. “You did good work. Now go and find your outfits.”

The men filed away down the stairs from the belfry. Grant remained behind looking out across the land where a cloud of dense gray gun smoke had formed and stretched off over the valley. To the east at the Belen Garita, the thundering of the cannon and popping of musketry were ending in a ragged tailing off. To the west a blood-red sun was settling onto the horizon. The end of the day being so near surprised Grant for in the intensity of the fighting along the road and in the houses, he hadn't noticed the passing of time. The battle wouldn't be decided today.

He wiped at the sweat on his face and wearily went down the stairs and out of the church to sit on the pavement against the garita wall with the men of his Fourth Infantry. They had been marching and fighting all day, had had a terrible loss of comrades, and now it was time to rest and give thanks for still being alive.

A group of horsemen caught Grant's sight. On the road not a quarter mile away, Scott and nearly a dozen officers were making their way toward the garita. It's safe for you to come now thought Grant. Behind the horsemen came the ambulance wagons picking up the wounded. The dead must wait for tomorrow.

Lee rode with Scott and half a dozen command officers on horseback through the litter of blue uniformed bodies lying dead or wounded on the San Cosme Road. The horses advanced by delicately placing their hooves so as not to trod upon the men. Both the San Cosme Garita and the Belen Garita had been taken. But God! Their capture had been a deadly affair for the soldiers. Worse yet, the enemy wasn't beaten. He must surely have thousands of fresh fighters to meet the invaders tomorrow as they continued their drive into the city.

Lee noticed movement from the wounded as Scott passed through them. Those that could stand did so; those too badly hurt to rise brought themselves to a sitting position. All of the men watched the general with their pain filled eyes. With their gray faces holding an expression of pride of what they had done, of the bravery they had shown, of the wounds they had taken on his orders, they saluted their general. Scott raised his hand in salute to the men, and rode on with his hand to his brow. ‘Yes indeed, general', Lee thought, ‘they deserve your full respect.'

Lee began to shake as the full weight of his exhaustion and the weakness caused by the wound swept over him. An infinitely dense blackness settled upon him. He reached out to catch hold of the pommel of his saddle. In the blackness he couldn't find it. He leaned to the side, then still further, and fell from the saddle and landed hard on the pavement.

*

As the thickening dusk became black night, Grant walked back along the road and entered one of the bigger houses he had fought his way through. He found a candle, lit it, and searched about and located a little food and a bottle of wine. He ate by himself in the abandoned house, and for some unexplainable reason was glad that he was alone.

Carrying the half empty wine bottle with him, he found a bed on the second floor. Ah, what a grand sight the clean, neatly made-up bed was. He drank again from the bottle, corked it, and sat it on a nearby table. He dropped down on the bed with his dirty clothes on, and placing his weapons within reach, closed his eyes.

From outside the house on the road came the rumble of the heavy wheels of Huger's big siege cannons. Tonight there would be little rest for the artillerymen because the guns must be positioned to support the final assault on the city. Grant heard the big 10-inch mortars fire five shots into the city as a good night message to Santa-Anna. That should make the Mexican general consider what was coming his way tomorrow.

Grant lay recalling the day's battle and what the morrow could bring. He knew first hand from the fighting with General Jackson at Monterey how dangerous combat was on the streets and among the houses of a city. Thoughts of Noah Grant came, what did that old man, no he would have been a man even younger than Grant was now, think as he lay resting after a hard fight during the battle for independence and faced another equally hard one in the morning. He would like to have known that man whose blood he carried in his own veins.

He reached for the wine bottle and took a long drink. He held it in his mouth for a moment, savoring the taste, and then let the fine liquid slowly slide down his throat. He was asleep by the time the last drop had left his mouth.

*

Lee awoke with someone gently shaking him by the shoulder. Beauregard sat beside his bed and watching him with a concerned expression.

“You all right, major?” Beauregard asked.

“Let me check,” Lee said. He was still tired, his wound was painful, and he ached in other places when he moved. “I think I'll live,” Lee said with a slight smile. “But I do ache here and there.”

“I'm glad to hear that you'll live.”

“What time is it?”

“About six thirty. I thought you might want to know what's happened since you fell off your horse.”

“I guess that's why I hurt pretty much all over. What's the news?”

“The city might be ours without more fighting. Last night, or more accurately this morning about four o'clock city officials came to Scott and wanted to negotiate a surrender. They said Santa-Anna had left the city with his soldiers.”

“And?”

Beauregard grinned. “Our old general has had enough negotiating and told them that he had fought his way into the city and now intended to have it without any further talking. The city must be surrendered or he would begin bombarding it at first daylight.”

“So he's learned that it's not a good strategy to talk with the Mexicans.”

“It seems to me that they're better at it than we are. Anyway, this morning at daylight, city officials brought a white flag to Quitman. Still Scott plans to enter the city in assault formation. Worth and Quitman are to advance at the same time, with Worth going to the Alameda, and Worth to the Grand Plaza and take possession of the National Palace. Scott will join Worth for the grand entry. The general sent me to find out if you're able to ride along with him.”

“Most certainly I am.”

“I thought you'd be unless you were completely dead. You'll need to be in full dress uniform for that's the way we're riding in.”

Lee called out, “Connally, bring me my dress uniform.”

“It's already laid out for you, major,” Connally said and coming into the room, having obviously listened to the conversation. He chucked a thumb at the uniform draped over the back of a nearby chair. “And I've got a bath ready. Do you want me to shave you?” He nodded at Lee's wounded arm.

“I could use a little help in getting ready, that's for sure.”

*

September 14, 1847. Under a yellow morning sun, Scott and Worth both on horseback took places side by side at the head of Worth's division. With Harney's Dragoons and Semmes Marines as escort, the division left the magnificent park Alameda amid the clatter of horses' hooves upon the cobblestone. Harney's regimental band struck up “Yankee Doodle” to lighten the steps of the men. General Worth wore his field uniform with its stains of the battle of yesterday. General Scott was resplendent in full dress uniform with saber and spurs, epaulets gleaming gold against his blue uniform and snowy plumes flowing from his cocked hat. He rode his superb bay charger, with all his staff officers following on horseback in prescribed uniforms and in prescribed order.

The two generals guided a course along the broad avenue toward a towering white building in the center of the city. Both sides of the street were lined with silent brown-skinned people watching the lean, battle-stained Americans parade past.

Grant marched with Hazlitt in front of his company of infantrymen. He had removed as much dirt from his uniform as possible and had scrubbed his face in a basin of water in the house where he had slept. Still he was dirty, but no more so than other soldiers and nobody seemed to mind. The rank and file and even the officers seemed to regard the dirt, gun smoke stains, and crude bandages as badges of their fighting.

Shortly the National Palace, a massive stone building with many balconies on the upper story, came into sight on the border of the Zocalo, the city's Grand Plaza. A scarred American flag whipped about from the staff on top of the palace. The sidewalks, and the windows, balconies, and tops of the houses surrounding the Grant Plaza were thronged with thousand of silent, watchful townsfolk.

In the center of the great square, General Quitman's soldiers were drawn up in orderly ranks facing the palace. The general paced back and forth in front of his ragged, bloodstained troops. At the foot of the broad stairs leading up to the palace, Quitman had assembled those city and national government officials that he could find. They fidgeted and glanced with worried eyes at the terrible, savage Americans.

Loud cheers sounded as Scott mounted on his charger came into sight of the soldiers assembled in the plaza. He spurred his mount to a gallop and swept into the plaza with Harney's Dragoons, their swords drawn and leaning on their shoulders, galloping close behind him. Quitman's regimental bands struck up “Hail Columbia.” Scott reined his big horse to a stop in front of the troops with their cheers drowning out the sound of the band.

The general, splendid in his dress uniform and so different from his battle stained soldiers, listened another moment to the triumphant shouts. Then with a pleased expression upon his large face, he drew his saber and in a grand sweeping swing of the weapon saluted his men.

Scott spoke, “Brave rifles, you have gone through fire and come out steel. You have fought a splendid battle and won a magnificent prize, one of the great cities of the world. No army has ever showed more courage. Never once did you falter in the long march from the sea and through the mountains to this far place.”