Soldiers of Conquest (6 page)

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Lee, on the quarterdeck of the Massachusetts with Scott, Totten, Beauregard, and McClellan, watched the mighty fortress of San Juan de Ulua grow ever larger as the wind drove them into the open water between Isle de Sacrificios and the mainland. He was glad they weren't attacking the forbidding fort. The landing upon the beach would be difficult enough.

Under a cloudless sky and on the sun-burnished waters of Mogambo Bay, Captain Carmichael halted the Massachusetts and dropped anchor with a rumble of chain. He ordered the ship's cannon ranged on the beach, and then came to stand beside Scott and his staff.

“General, my ship is ready and I await your orders,” Carmichael said.

“Thank you. Everything seems to be going according to plan.”

“Let's hope it continues so,” Carmichael said in a voice one would use for a prayer.

Lee glanced at Carmichael and wished he hadn't spoken in that tone. Then he returned to observing the ships. Conner's gunboats, the Vixen and the Spitfire and five armed schooners, had run swiftly in to form a line some ninety yards from the beach and within easy gun range. Each was armed with a single weapon, either a 32-pounder or an 8-inch Paxihan mortar. The sailors were clearing the guns to be ready to sweep the beach with grapeshot to support the infantry. The naval ships that had ferried the troops from Anton Lizardo were moving into position for unloading. The decks of every ship were jammed with blue clad troops.

Lee turned from the activity on the bay and checked the city and fort, and the actions of the foreign ships in the harbor. The British, French and Spanish warships were lying south and east of Ulua, far enough away to be out of range of either American or Mexican stray cannon balls. Near them were merchantmen carrying army contractors such as wheelwrights, blacksmiths, and wagon drivers. And then there were the ships of the less desirable camp followers; the gamblers, the whoremasters and their whores, and the loan sharks.

The decks and rigging of every ship were black with men waiting for the Americans to charge the beach. A British packet had arrived since Lee was last on the bay. It was tied up to one of the British ships for protection. On its deck men were watching, and ladies with binoculars and parasols were equally intent. Farther away at Veracruz, the rooftops of the houses and the great city wall were black with people straining to see the coming battle.

“Any second now,” Beauregard says beside Lee.

“Yes,” Lee agreed. He would soon have his first view of Scott's strategy and generalship. To be defeated here would mean professional ruin for Scott, and a huge black mark on all the officers connected to the campaign.

Scott spoke, as much to himself as to his aids. “If the roles were reversed, I could sweep the beach with five hundred cavalrymen and a thousand riflemen and prevent our force from reaching land. General Morales has twice that number of men under his command in Veracruz. We'll soon know if he is brave enough to come out from behind his walls and fight us when he has the advantage.”

Lee felt the tenseness of the men around him as they waited for the general to give the signal to launch the landing. He was anxious to get ashore but must wait until the enemy was driven from the beach. Be patient, you will miss out on the initial fighting but there will be much more. Your skill as an officer will depend on how well you place the solid shot cannon and the howitzers and the mortars with their exploding shells for they are the weapons that will bring about the capture of the walled city.

Carmichael had been eyeing the signal flags on Conner's ship. He spoke to Scott. “General, Commodore Conner signals that all squadron vessels are in position and the guns ready. All are double-shotted for maximum damage. That and the gunboats should give the Mexicans a hot time should they appear in force.”

“Thank you, captain. We have but to wait for the surfboats to deploy.”

Grant leaned with his back against the smokestack of the Raritan and waited for the unloading of Garland's blue clad infantry to begin. The steamer was in its assigned station and halted with the big side paddle-wheels churning slowly to hold the vessel against the one knot current flowing between Isle de Sacrificios and the mainland. The smokestack vibrated, the tremor carried upward from the moving pistons of the fire breathing steam engine deep in the bowels of the ship. A light rain of soot settled out of the plume of coal smoke and fell upon the soldiers and the two cannons aft of the superstructure on the main deck. The soldiers gave no sign they noticed the soot.

Grant hadn't been able to endure being left in the rear. He must be part of the landing and the battle that was sure to come. And so he had joined with Garland's infantry when it transferred from the troopship to the Raritan for the two-hour journey to Mogambo Bay. He believed Garland would know that he was with the men readying for the landing. The fact the colonel hadn't make an effort to spot Grant gave him encouragement to continue on with his plan.

A young private jostled Grant and drew hurriedly back.

“Sorry, sir,” said the soldier. “I didn't mean to bump you, sir. The ship's packed damn tight.”

“That's all right, soldier. We'll soon have plenty of room.” Grant chucked a thumb at the beach.

“Yes, sir,” said the private.

Every square foot of deck was jammed with soldiers. Each man carried a musket with bayonet attached, cartridge box on a white belt and holding sixty rounds, haversack containing two days supply of boiled beef and sea biscuits, canteen, and a blanket. Grant was equipped in the same manner, except his weapons were a saber and a brace of pistols.

The muskets of the brigade were second rate, and Grant regretted that. The soldiers had the standard army issue, a Model 1822, .69-caliber flintlock, smooth bore muskets. Patterson's volunteers were better armed having the Model 1841, a .54-caliber breech-loading rifle. Grant had fired the newer weapon and knew first hand its effective range was at least three times that of the musket, and many times faster to reload.

Hazlitt was near the starboard railing of the ship. He had called his four sergeants to him and was giving battle orders. Grant watched and felt misused that he wasn't granted the same privilege, a lieutenant leading men in a charge onto the Mexican shore.

Shouts arose. Hands pointed. “Look Mexicans. There's Mexicans on the beach.”

A company of two hundred or so Mexican cavalrymen, called Lancers due to the ten-foot lances they carried, had appeared riding swiftly along the edge of the sea from the direction of Veracruz. Immediately the gunboats opened fire and dropped exploding shells among the Lancers. A score of horses fell with their riders. Several horses struck by flying iron fragments shied violently and tumbled their masters upon the ground. The Mexicans still mounted fought to control their horses, and to keep them from tramping on the fallen men. The officer shouted trying to bring order. Three more American shells fell among the Lancers. Their courage broke. The men on the ground that were able to mount sprang upon the rear of a comrade's horse and the company fled into the chaparral.

Is that all the resistance we're going to have? Grant wondered.

The Princeton now had the surfboats into position for loading, the sailors with deft movements of the oars holding them against the side of the hull. With Garland leading, the brigade swarmed down the ladders that hung over the side and into the boats.

Grant waited until Hazlitt's company began to load and then went forward and down into the boat and took a seat beside the man. Hazlitt was pale and tense, as was his appearance each time he went into battle. Grant wasn't concerned for he knew that once the fighting started, Hazlitt became a brave warrior and forceful leader.

“Sam, you've not been assigned to my company,” Hazlitt said.

“Bob, there's going to be a battle and I got to be part of it.”

“You're a glutton for fighting.”

“It comes with being a soldier.”

“I reckon it does.”

“And besides I want to get the blasted war over with so I can go home and get married.”

Hazlitt gave a weak smile at that. He was pleased to see Grant had come along for his courage in battle inspired both him and his men. In addition, Grant was an expert marksman. During the lull before the attack on Monterrey, several officers had discussed their skill with pistols. There was much bragging and friendly arguments arose. A contest to put the boasting to the test was quickly arranged. Grant, though he had remained silent during all the talk, had easily won the shooting match.

Grant's heart was strumming nicely, just a little higher in his chest than normal that proved he hadn't conquered all his concern about being struck by a bullet or exploding shell. He had no guilt from leaving his post and being here. This was war and he was committed to it. Being with the men satisfied something within him. He thought the something came from the belief that life was action and passion, and war contained both.

He checked the troopers and the sailors on the oars. Several men showed fear, their faces pale and taut and their eyes large and showing much white. Those that didn't show fear, were they simply better at hiding it? Or had they done as Grant had, accepted the danger that lay ahead and resigned themselves to whatever happened.

A young soldier not far from Grant spoke to the young soldier beside him. “Billy Boy, you know something?”

“What's that?”

“We're just seven dollar a month targets. And that's all we are.”

“That's too damn cheap,” replied Billy Boy. “I feel that I'm worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

“Then maybe some day you'll make sergeant and be a ten dollar target,” said the first man with a boyish laugh.

Grant was a sixty-four dollar a month target and he too felt he was worth more than what he was being paid. He smiled to himself.

The loading of the brigades was completed, and with the Princeton once again hooked onto the surfboats from both the Raritan and Potomac, they were towed into position four hundred yards behind the screen of gunboats. To the rear of the surfboats, Patterson and his volunteers and marines waited on the steamer Porpoise. Twiggs and his regulars were farther back on another naval vessel.

Grant scanned the anchored foreign warships and merchantmen. The decks were crowded with crewmembers and passengers, with some having sought the highest possible perches on the ships, even the crow's-nests were full, from which to better see the Mexican cannon devastate the foolhardy Americans charging the shore. Beyond the gently undulating water of the bay was the white sand beach framed with dense green brush, and inland Mt. Orizaba with its snow-capped crown rising sparkling and bold above the forested foothills in between.

The grand scene didn't relieve Grant of his worry about the timing of the landing. The day had been eaten away by the loading of the men onto the naval vessels, followed by the trip to Mogambo Bay, and lastly the transfer to the surfboats. Now the landing was being made just before sunset with night but a couple of hours away. That allowed little time to land, fight a battle, and secure the beach. Darkness would give all the advantage to the defenders in entrenched positions, knew the lay of the land, and could be reinforced as needed.

A thunderous roar jarred the air and Grant whirled to look to the north. Ulua and Veracruz had fired a barrage from their big cannon. Every shot fell short, their impacts into the sea sending huge gouts of water leaping skyward. Another six to seven hundred yards range and one of those shells could have struck a surfboat where men, packed like sardines, would have been killed by the scores. Still the barrage was of a benefit to the Americans for they now knew the maximum range of the Mexican's guns and could anchor with the knowledge they were safe.

The signal gun boomed on the Massachusetts. The bands of the regiments struck up the Star Spangled Banner. Cheers rose from the American sailors and soldiers on the ships.

The surfboats cut loose from the Princeton, and with regimental pennons fluttering from the stern of every one, speedily formed in a line abreast the shore. Bull-voiced General Worth gave a war cry and the sailors bent to their oars and the surfboats raced for the beach. The boats darted through the screen of gunboats and into the open where they were fully exposed to the Mexican artillery that would be hidden behind the sand dunes. Grant expected that any moment camouflage would be flung aside and the Mexican cannon would be blasting the Americans with exploding canisters.

The sailors pulled powerfully and the boats sliced landward through the water. Worth, in a sleek gig rowed by four sailors, sprinted ahead of his men. In less than a minute, they were so close to the shore that the American gunboats couldn't fire over their heads to knock down enemies should they suddenly threatened them.

Worth's gig grounded and the general sprang into the water and splashed ashore. Just like the general, Grant thought. He had to be first to set foot upon the hostile shore. The general had courage and spirit, but was too impetuous, too quick to act, and because of that was dangerous to the men he led. Grant hoped the general wouldn't get them killed.

With wooden bottoms grating on the sand fifty feet from the shore, the wave of surfboats came to a stop and the whole brigade jumped into the shallow surf. Holding their muskets and cartridge boxes high, the men ran for the beach

The captains and lieutenants of the companies, gripping their sabers and the color bearers with their muskets slung over their backs on leather straps, moved out a few yards from the water's edge. The company of soldiers they led hastily formed behind them in battle order.

Worth shouted at Garland and Clark and swung his saber to point at the ridge of tall sand dunes at the end of storm surge a hundred yards inland. He wheeled around and charged toward the dunes. Screaming a mighty battle cry, the brigades of staunch and battle-hardened veterans ran after him in a long blue line.