Soldiers of Conquest (3 page)

Lee knew that he would use all his strength and skill with weapons to help Scott capture the city. The cruelty in which he was about to participate was disturbing. Yet that changed nothing at all for first he was a soldier. Given that he was a soldier, then he would prove his skill and show his bravery and gain promotion.

He was watching the fort when one of its manned cannons blossomed with smoke and flame. Hardly had his mind registered the flash when a shell screamed past some thirty feet over the mast of the Patrita and burst close above the water one hundred yards beyond. The coarse cries of the circling seagulls became shrill and they fled. Wise birds, thought Lee.

In but a few seconds two other shells came arcing down, one landing to the left side of the boat and one just in front, both exploding and flinging up tall geysers of water. Another seven shells fell about the boat but did no harm. Then one landed very close on the starboard side and exploded just above water level. Metal fragments hammered the boat's hull and went whistling across the deck, but hitting nobody.

“Commodore, I think they may have now calculated the powder charge and fuse length,” Scott said. “If you're agreeable, we shall withdraw and inspect the landing site you've recommended.”

Commodore Conner called out to the naval lieutenant, captain of the Patrita, who was anxiously waiting for the command to move his vessel out of cannon range. “Lieutenant, you heard the general, make way for Collado Beach on Mocambo Bay.

“An excellent site for the landing,” Scott said to Commodore Conner. “It's well out of range of the guns of the fort and city, and more than ample beach for my first wave of troops to all land at one time.”

Lee agreed with the general's observation. The Patrita was stopped two hundred yards off shore, and the officers were examining Collado Beach. The shoreline was a smooth, white sand beach some half-mile long and the shoaling water leading up to it appeared quite suitable for the surfboats to run in to land. Still the landing could be hazardous for inland some three hundred feet the dunes rose steeply and just behind them was a dense stand of chaparral in which the enemy could lie in wait and destroy the Americans as they waded ashore.

“I thought you might approve,” Conner said. “I've scouted the shore for miles both to the north and south of Veracruz searching for the best invasion site and this one is my choice.”

“I greatly appreciate that, commodore,” Scott said. He gestured at Isle de Sacrificios, a coral and sand island lying a mile distant to seaward. “What can we do about the small area between the island and the beach? I don't believe my troopships can maneuver enough there to pull off the landing in a swift manner.”

“Much too restricted,” agreed the commodore. “I propose that you allow me to bring your troops from Anton Lizard on my naval vessels for they're more ably handled than your transports with their civilian crews. Further once your troops are load into the surfboats my steamships could tow them into place.”

Scott caught Conner's hand in his giant paw and beamed as he said, “With you and your warships to support me, how can we possibly fail to make a successful landing. No, by the Holy Spirit, we shan't fail.”

“I'm glad that you approve,” Conner said and delighted by Scott's words.

Scott drew himself up to his full height and spoke to his officers. “Gentlemen, we have seen that which we must capture. All principal officers and aids shall meet with me aboard the Massachusetts at two this afternoon to draw up plans for the landing.”

*

“Good luck to you, Sam,” said Lieutenant Bob Hazilitt. “I'll wait here for you.” He halted by the ladder down which he and his comrade officer had descended to the lower deck of Talbott's Trader, the much used and abused ocean-going cargo ship converted to a troop ship and under contract to the army. The ship lay sullen and listless on the end of sixty fathoms of anchor chain in the large harbor at the island of Anton Lizardo twelve miles south of Veracruz.

“I'll need all the luck I can get,” Lieutenant Ulysses Grant replied to the blond headed man. He and Hazlitt were of the Fourth Infantry, of Colonel Garland's brigade, of General Worth's division. “The colonel has turned me down three times already and I don't think this time will be any different.”

Sam wasn't Ulysses correct name. The name had became attached to him due to West Point duty postings often listing him as U. S. Grant, and the other cadets seeing this began to call him Uncle Sam. That was swiftly shortened to Sam.

The two men were each twenty-four years old, had graduated together from West Point two years before, and were fast friends and messmates. They had been with General Zachary Taylor fighting Mexicans for the past nine months in northern Mexico.

He moved toward Brigade Commander Colonel Garland's quarters at the end of the companionway dimly lighted by the rays of sunlight being refracted down from above through the deck by an oculist, a conical glass prism set in the overhead. Colonel Garland had assigned Grant duties as quartermaster for his brigade early in the campaign with General Taylor. Those duties entailed obtaining all the provisions necessary to keep the brigade, consisting of the Second and Third Artillery and the Fourth Infantry, some 1,300 men clothed, fed, and tented, and their hundreds of animals tended to. Grant's men also acted as wagon drivers, ferriers, guards, and transported all the provisions from camp to camp. During the voyage south, the soldiers had been provisioned from central stores. Now the brigade was about to land at Veracruz and Grant hated the thought of again taking up the duties of foraging across the foreign land in search of supplies to buy, or take by force if necessary, as the army fought its way inland. The muscles hardened along his jaw. He had come to fight as a line officer and win promotion, and somehow he would find a way

Grant came to Garland's quarters and knocked. At a gruff “Enter”, he pushed aside the partially open door and stepped across the raised threshold and into the small cramped cabin with the ceiling made of the beams and planking of the deck above. Garland sat at a small desk holding several sheets of papers, pen and ink well. An open porthole above the desk gave light and a little air. A bunk, a three-foot square table with two chairs, and a large brass bound trunk took up most of the space. The quarters had been that of the ship's first mate until the colonel had commandeered it. Grant saluted the colonel.

“What is it, lieutenant?” Garland said and returning the salute of his senior quartermaster. Garland liked the young lieutenant, standing some two inches below average height, slender, square jawed. He recalled him in the fight for Monterrey with General Taylor in northern Mexico. Garland had been ordered with his brigade to advance into an unknown maze of buildings with narrow, crooked streets against an enemy that was twice their number and behind heavy stone defensive works and with every rooftop full of Mexican riflemen firing down on them. Grant had galloped up and joined in the fighting just as Garland was ordered to advance deeper into the city, and this without allowing the brigade to replenish their ammunition which was in short supply from the first attack. The Americans were brought to a stop as they drew near the center of the town. Mexican riflemen and artillerymen firing canister from two strong forts knocked half the Americans off their feet within a few minutes. A third of the officers were killed or wounded. Returning the heavy fire, the brigade soon ran low on ammunition. Garland asked for a volunteer to ride for ammunition. Grant quickly volunteered. He sprang upon his horse and with an arm hooked around the horse's neck and hanging along the side of the horse opposite the enemy fire, raced away. At every street intersection, the Mexicans poured heavy fire at Grant. Reaching the supply depot, he loaded a packhorse with powder and shot and sped back. The Mexicans flung a hail of bullets at Grant at every crossing. Unwounded, Grant had fought on through the two-day battle for Monterrey.

“Sir, I request to be relieved of quartermaster duties and returned to my company for line duty.”

“And why is that, lieutenant?”

“I wish to be part of the landing.”

“I can understand your feelings, but the men deserve a skilled quartermaster. You fit that bill.”

Grant wasn't going to give up easily. He must be assigned line officer duties. “Sir, as you know, I've foraged all over northern Mexico for supplies for the brigade. I sincerely request that I not have the same duties here. It seems quite fair to pass the duties on to someone else and allow me to go on the line. There are many other men who can perform the duties of quartermaster.”

“None as well as you. You know animals and equipment and keep accurate accounts of funds. I've heard other officers say that the men of our brigade are the best fed and best clothed in the army. No, I can't do without you as my senior quartermaster.”

“But, sir…”

“No buts, lieutenant. Your request is denied. Attend to your assigned duties.”

The little steamship Patrita wound a course through the scores of ships housing Scott's army and crowding the harbor of Anton Lizardo and sidled up to the tall hull of the Massachusetts. The steamer's boatswain flung a line to a seaman on the Massachusetts and the little steamer was made fast to the ship.

Captain Lee, waiting on the deck of the ship with the other officers that had been ordered to assemble, watched as General Scott and Commodore Conner came up the gangway to the deck. Scott looked up at his commander's flag with its blue background and red center waving at the main truck. Lee saw a hint of pride come over Scott's face. The expression was swiftly erased. Both men faced Old Glory and gave her a snappy salute.

Conner swept his hand to encompass the gathering of sailing ships and the forest of masts covering the waters of the bay. “General, the day of the windjammer, of every kind of sailing vessel will soon be over. And it's all because of that,” he pointed down at the steam driven Patrita with its stack giving off a thin black ribbon of smoke. “I'm glad that I'm retiring,” he said sadly.

“Don't retire too soon, commodore. We still have work to do.”

“I won't desert you just yet,” Conner said with a faint smile upon his wasted, furrowed face.

            The two senior officers received and returned the salutes of the officers on the deck and went into the Massachusetts's war room. The general and the commodore seated themselves at the head of the table.

Scott's cabinet officers and the division generals filed into the room and took seats around the table. Lee began to evaluate these men with which he would fight a war. General Worth was a square built man with a broad face, deeply set eyes, and an erect and commanding military bearing. He had pronounced that he would win a grade or death in the war. General Twiggs, bull-necked, silver bearded and silver headed, was an aggressive fighter whose main tactic in battle was to charge the enemy. General Patterson was the oldest of Scott's generals, and a wealthy man with a quiet and reserved way about him. He had no ambition to attain higher rank and was here to “Participate in the capture of the Mexican Nation” as he put it.

Patterson, due to his age and knowing much of the fighting of his brigade of volunteers would have to be done by his subordinates, had brought his three brigade commanders with him, Generals James Shields, John Quitman, and Gideon Pillow. Shields and Quitman were experienced battle officers. Pillow had no military experience and his only qualification for appointment as an army general was that he had been President Polk's law partner and had helped him become president by bringing about his nomination for that office at the Baltimore convention in 1844.

Lee watched as Scott silently regarded his subordinates. Scott at sixty had been a general officer for half his life, having made his first star as a brilliant artillery officer and had had a substantial part in the Americans beating the British at Chippewa in 1815. Shortly thereafter he had been wounded at Lundy's Lane and made a prisoner by the British for a month. He had commanded the armed forces during the Seminole Indian War in 1839, and had been the American Army's chief officer since 1841. His insistence on military spit-and-polish had earned him the name of Old Fuss And Feathers.

Lee knew Scott would be measuring his officers against what he knew lay ahead. Scott could make plans and give orders, however the execution of them lay with his field officers and the success of the invasion and the march inland to conquer the Mexican capitol depended upon the judgment and courage of the men at this table.

Scott caught Lee's eyes upon him. The captain had the most penetrating look of all the officers. Knowing the engineers were the elite of West Point graduates, Scott had selected three of them for his aids. Lee, Lieutenant Pierre Beauregard and Lieutenant George McClellan. Lee had the best pedigree, his lineage going back a thousand years to England and before that to France. Beauregard, a young, swarthy faced Creole with black hair and eyes came highly recommended. The brainy McClellan, with his slim build and a little below average height appeared even more boyish than his twenty years. He had entered West Point at the tender age of fifteen. West Point rules had been waived to allow for his enrollment.

Scott spoke in a no nonsense voice. “Gentlemen, let us begin. First I want to summarize our position for what lies ahead. Then we shall decide what to do, how to do it, and how quickly. Our greatest foe may well be yellow fever, el vomito as the Mexicans call it that arrives in this low country in early April. Whatever we are to do, must be accomplished before that scourge hits our men for it would destroy our army more efficiently than Mexican grapeshot. We must, and I repeat MUST be off the coast and into the highlands by the end of March. Another reason to swiftly capture Veracruz and Ulua is that Santa-Anna will receive word within a very short time that we are here in force and will march to defend the city.