Soldiers of Conquest (7 page)

Grant pulled both pistols and holding them ready to fire ran beside the big sergeant carrying the colors for Hazlitt's company. Any second now the Mexicans would rise up above the ridge of dunes and a blast of muskets and grapeshot and exploding canisters would strike and riddle the Americans.

He veered away from the color bearer. As an officer he would draw more than his share of fire. It was foolish to also be in the storm of enemy bullets the color bearer would draw. Grant crossed the bare beach and plunged into the sand dunes. Slipping on the loose sand, he stormed ahead and scrambled to the crest of the dunes.

The sergeant with the colors had beaten Grant. Now the big soldier was shouting with jubilation and whipping his flag about over his head. He gave a mighty war whoop, made a last proud wave of the flag, and stabbed its staff into the sand.

With heart pumping from the all-out run, Grant swiftly scanned the land between the crest of the dunes back to the chaparral and was amazed that not one enemy could be seen. The Americans had taken possession of the shore without a musket being fired. The Mexicans had had more than ample time to march to the beach in force after the landing place of the Americans could be determined with certainty. They had not and had missed a perfect opportunity to slaughter the American invaders.

The brigade burst into tremendous victory cries. From out on the bay answering cheers come rolling from the soldiers waiting to land, and from the sailors of the American ships. Something within Grant told him that the celebration was terribly premature.

Worth shouted orders at his brigade commanders. The orders came speedily down the ranks to the lieutenants and the men and they moved out to expand and consolidate the beachhead.

Grant cast one glance at the surfboats heading back for Patterson's volunteers, then looked for Hazlitt.

“Well, are you coming?” Hazlitt called.

“Can't,” Grant said and shaking his head sadly. ”With no fight, I've got to get back to the supply ships. The colonel will expect me to get everything ashore, and have a camp set up for the men in short order.”

“You be sure and do that for I don't like to sleep in the rain. And help the commissary fellows get the kitchen set up too so we can have hot food.” Hazlitt grinned, waved and ran toward the men held in formation by his sergeants.

The lively sea breeze blowing through the open portholes and the doorway of the officers' mess on the Massachusetts had cooled steadily after the setting of the sun. Its gusting breath often reached the vents of the three ships' lanterns hanging above the dining table and sent their flames dancing and flicking. The ship now and again jerked and rattled the dishes on the table as it was brought up short against the end of its anchor chain.

Lee had remained silent during the late evening meal with General Scott, the generals of the divisions, and several other officers. The conversation had flowed freely but Lee had grown tired of it because everybody avoided discussing the situation of the army that was on his mind. As an aid of the general he had to endure the session, still he wished it would end. Lee could see the general was also restless. The mess orderly made the round and poured the final cups of coffee and left.

Scott tapped his coffee mug with a spoon. “Gentlemen, let me interrupt your conversation and discuss our actions for tomorrow. As you know, General Twiggs landed the last of his troops at 10 tonight, and that includes the one thousand Louisiana volunteers that arrived late today. We now have all three divisions on the shore, nine thousand and six hundred men. Pickets and roving patrols are in place.”

Scott continued in a pleased voice and his eyes sparkling. “Not one man was lost. General Morales has made a serious error in not attacking us as we landed. Two or three coordinated cavalry charges at us while we were in the water to our crotches could have turned the landing into a slaughter. Now give us another day to dig in and it will take an army twice, no, three times our size to rout us out.

“Because of the late landing, we weren't able to start building the siege line today. Colonel Totten, tomorrow at first light, I want you and Captain Lee to accompany me ashore to select the location of the line. Your engineers will guide the divisions in its construction.”

“Yes, sir,” Totten said.

“Now let's discuss how we will take Veracruz. And it's ours for the taking. Any army that locks itself behind walls and fights from there can't win. For him to win, he must come out and drive the enemy away. It's obvious that General Morales isn't coming out.

“We have all studied the drawings and written material that is available describing the defenses of the city, and we have examined what we could see from the sea. And we have what the Britisher Giffard told us. So now let's hear recommendations on how to proceed.”

“General, we can take the town by storming the walls,” said Worth. “Wait for a dark night and steal up close. Then rush the walls in force before the Mexicans could assemble and prevent us from getting over. I'd lead the attack with my regulars.”

Twiggs nodded quick agreement. “Right. We can have them in a few hours once we're set to attack.”

Lee was dismayed that the two generals would consider charging such strong walls where the defenders would be expecting just such an action. Surely Scott wouldn't agree to it.

Scott spoke to Patterson. “And you general, what do you say to a frontal attack?”

“I wouldn't advise storming any walls that the cavalry couldn't jump and so be able to help the infantry,” said the old gentleman and shaking his gray head. “And that means that I wouldn't recommend attacking Veracruz's high walls.”

Lee was pleased with Patterson. He would watch these generals and learn much about them during the coming campaign.

Scott caught first Worth and then Twiggs with a penetrating look. “How many men would it cost to take the city by storm?”

The two officers glanced at each other. Then they looked away with neither meeting Scott's eyes.

Slowly rotating his coffee cup on the table, Scott waited for one of the men to reply.

Worth squared his shoulders and faced Scott. “There would be losses but we could immediately march into the highland and avoid the yellow fever.”

Scott spoke and his tone grew harder with each word uttered. “I estimate we would lose more than a thousand men killed and wounded. That would leave us with a very small army to fight our way nearly three hundred miles to Mexico City. Could we capture a nation with so few men? And consider this, it may be weeks before we get reinforcements.”

Scott eyes smoldered as he looked into the eyes of each of his generals. In a stern voice he said. “Gentlemen, we are greatly outnumbered and that's a hard fact. Every battle will be fought against superior numbers, and most likely with them behind fortifications as here at Veracruz. We can't afford to lose one man unnecessarily. Above all we dare not lose one battle for that would mean disaster, the very end of our campaign.

“I have decided that we will throw a siege line around Veracruz and bottle it up to prevent reinforcements from arriving. Once that has been accomplished, we will take the city by siege and bombardment. We will pound them with every gun we have. If we lose more than a hundred men, I shall consider myself a murderer. Your orders are to establish the siege line and place our cannons where they will do the most damage, and do it swiftly. Once Veracruz is taken, we shall turn our guns on Fort San Juan de Ulua and take it also. Should the bombardment not succeed in a reasonable time, we will be preparing for storming the walls.

“Tomorrow morning headquarters will be moved to the shore. Now, gentlemen it's getting late so I say, goodnight. Go and make preparations for what must be done.”

Lee filed out of the mess with the other officers, and then veered off and walked to the ships railing. Joe Johnston came up and stood beside him. They silently stared out across the black sea. On the shore a thousand bivouac fires burned with leaping orange flames. The voice of a man raised in song came to them.

“He had better do his singing now,” Johnston said. “We're going to have a lot of American blood on the ground before this war is over.”

*

With the night draped in blackness over Talbot's Trader, Grant seated himself at the tiny table in his cabin. Placing paper close to the frail light of the candle, he began a letter to Julia Dent. She had been his betrothed for two years and in all that time he had seen her but once. Feeling an immense yearning to hold her in his arms, he told her how much he missed her. He continued on to describe the beauty of the harbor and the beach. He told her that the army had arrived at Veracruz and had made a successful landing upon the coast, and that he wished for a short war so that he could return to the States and they could be married.

Grant finished his writing and studied the flickering flame of the candle. Julia seldom wrote, and rarely expressed any fondness for him. He reflected upon this characteristic of Julia's, and upon his mother Hannah whom he had never seen cry or express any feelings for his father. Maybe all women were like that. Reflecting upon that thought, he prepared the letter for the mail packet.

*

In the gray gristle of dawn's first light, Grant came awake to the ship trembling and shaking under powerful blasts of wind. He knew a “norther “, a fast moving storm with gale force winds had arrived. It was the curse of all sailors on the Mexican coast, and now of the American soldiers.

Grant came out of his cabin and into the stiff wind raking the ship's deck. To maintain his footing on the plunging, rearing vessel, he held to the taut, straining rigging with the ropes strumming like piano wires under his hand. Overhead a low mass of dark gray clouds sped south. A gull shot past like a white arrow, barely missing the ship's whipping mast.

All around him the sea was a ribbed expanse of high waves with every crest crowned with white spume. Half way along the ship's length, the waves crests ran level with the railing. Grant could have scooped up a handful of foam by merely reaching out for it. The Trader plunged its bow into a huge roller and breaking free brought a ton of water aboard that swept the length of the ship in a dense curtain.

All the ships of the fleet, except for three of the supply vessels, had their snouts pointing into the north wind and pulling mightily on their anchor chain. The three supply vessels had been torn from their anchorages by the wind and driven ashore where the huge breaking surf was pounding their ribs upon the beach. Two of them were close together directly opposite Grant, and one a quarter mile farther away along the shore.

Grant recognized the ships on the beach. The two closest vessels carried officers' horses, the third wagons. His mare was in one of the ships. He had captured her from a herd of wild horses roaming the plains north of the Rio Grande and had broken her to ride. He hated to think of the harm being inflicted upon the gentle animal.

He saw Captain Lyford and his two mates standing together and partially protected from the wind on the lee quarterdeck. He made his way to them.

“Captain, I need to take men to those wrecked ships and salvage what I can of the cargo,” Grant called through the strident whine of the wind in the shrouds.

“And the sooner the better, I know. But I can't put a boat in the water with the sea running so damn high. However it's been easing up for the past hour. If it continues falling, I'll take a chance on two of my boats and enough men to handle them in half an hour or so.”

“I'll get my men ready.” Grant said.

Grant descended into the shadow filled lower decks of the Trader and found Sergeant O'Doyle. “Sergeant, we've got ships washed up on the beach. Muster the men and get them prepared to go ashore to help with salvage. We've a lot of work to do and won't be coming back here any time soon so have them carry enough food for a couple of days and a blanket. ”

“Yes, sir,” O'Doyle replied.

“Probably be at least half an hour so have them eat something. I'll call you when its time to come on deck.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant turned and shouted at the men in the tiers of bunks. “Up and dressed you blockheads. You've been wanting to go ashore and here's your chance. We're to help the lieutenant salvage cargo.”

*

Grant's men climbed up from the hold of the ship and stood squinting in the light of the upper world. They spread their legs and braced on the heaving deck. Sergeant O'Doyle came to Grant and saluted.

“Lieutenant, all the men are accounted for and ready to go ashore.”

Grant returned the salute. “Just waiting for Captain Lyford to give the signal to load the boats.” He turned to watch the seamen at the davits and lowering boats.

A young quartermaster with a face strained with fright was eyeing the turbulent, wave tossed sea lying between the ship and shore. He called out. “Sergeant, I can't swim. If the boat sinks I'll sure as hell drown.”

“Now, Crowley, buck up. Trust Lieutenant Grant for he'll call it right.”

Crowley gave Grant a questioning look.

Grant winked at him and grinned, and hoped he was making the correct decision in putting his men onto the sea in small boats.

Crowley smiled weakly back.

Grant returned to surveying the angry sea. The north wind had slowed to a quarter gale and the waves had decreased to six feet or so. Even so to try to row a small boat across the heaving water appeared extremely dangerous. The captain must know what seas a boat could withstand for him to be willing to risk his seamen. Grant could do no less with his men.

“Lieutenant Grant, I have the boats alongside,” Captain Lyford called. “Load your men.”

Grant raised his hand in acknowledgement of the captain's words. Then he called to O'Doyle. “Let's get the men over the side.”

He led to the railing above the ship's boats riding the waves along the lee side of the Trader. Four oarsmen and a coxswain were already in place in each boat.