Home of the Brave (44 page)

“I apologize, gentlemen,”
Robert said. “My father gets a bit carried away with his story
telling.”

“Your father, sir,” Lee
said, in an unpleasant tone, “is a giant who has spent his life
walking among giants.”

“I would have liked to have
heard his story,” Grant added.

“One should honor his
father,” Jackson growled.

Meade shook his head and
walked away.

~

“What’s the matter, Yank?”
General Winfield Scott asked.

“I just embarrassed
Robert.”

“How?”

“I started to tell a story
about the day the Alamo was first besieged.” He shook his head. “I
remember being embarrassed by my Uncle Thomas telling tales of dead
heroes and forgotten battles to my friends. I hope he never
noticed.”

The crack of cannon fire
ripped across the water and the shock wave raised dust in the
cabin. Yank looked at his watch. “Right on time.”

Scott walked to the porthole
and looked out. “I hope this works.”

“It worked for Cortés,” Yank
replied. “It’ll work for Winfield Scott.”

~

“Something wrong?” Colonel
Jack Van Buskirk leaned on the ship’s rail next to his
brother.

“Why do people dislike me,
Jack?” Robert asked. “I try so hard but it doesn’t work. You, on
the other hand, shun everyone and they adore you like
Achilles.”

Jack watched the warships
maneuvering to stay out of the range of the huge guns on the cliff
at La Mancha. “Maybe you try too hard.”

“Could you give me an
example of trying too hard?”

Jack turned to him. “How
about trying to work your class rank into every
conversation?”

“I don’t do that. I never
mention that I was first in my class unless someone asks
me.”

“You mention someone else’s
class rank to get the conversation started in that direction.
Everyone knows you do it. I heard your habit of doing it being
discussed not more than an hour ago.”

“Is it wrong to be proud of
my achievements?”

“I answered your question.
Take it or leave it. Get some sleep. You may not get another
opportunity for several days.”

They both turned toward the
muzzle flash on the distant cliff. The sound reached them seconds
later and then a cannonball splashed harmlessly into the sea, well
short of the U.S. Navy frigate that had been the target.

“If the Mexicans had decent
powder they could hold our ships off so that they couldn’t support
us during the landing,” Jack said.

“They could get decent
powder at any time,” Robert replied. “Why don’t we just take those
guns out?”

“The only way up there is a
trail cut into the cliff of a narrow canyon. Taking it would be
very costly.”

“How big is the
garrison?”

“Just the gunners and an
infantry company or two. But that’s enough to defend it, even if
it’s not an active fort anymore.”

“I wonder why it’s not
active.”

“The Spanish built it to
protect the silver shipments in the bay from pirates. The guns
can’t depress far enough to hit anything close to shore and with
the Mexicans’ bad powder, they can’t reach blue water. I’m going to
bed. Good night, Robert.”

“Good night,
Jack.”

~

“I can climb that cliff and
silence the guns of La Mancha, sir,” Robert insisted. “All I need
is a small boat and some explosives. I’ll row over, climb the cliff
and blow the guns.”

General Twiggs was too
seasick to continue to argue. “If you really think those guns are
worth dying for, Lieutenant Van Buskirk, just tell Captain Zorn
what you need.”

~

“Dad,” Jack whispered. “Are
you asleep?”

“Not any more,” Yank
growled.

“Take it outside, will, ya’,
please,” an officer complained.

Yank signaled Jack to be
quiet then pulled on his trousers and swung out of the bunk to lead
Jack into the passageway outside the senior officers’ cabin.
“What’s the matter?”

“Robert’s decided to
singlehandedly take out the guns of La Mancha.”

“Slow down,” Yank said.
“What guns?”

“Those long 42-pounders
mounted on the cliff. It’s all my fault.”

“First explain to me what
Robert’s doing and then we can fix the blame.”

“Robert and I were
discussing the fact that those huge guns would wreak havoc on our
landing if Mexican gunpowder wasn’t so bad. After I left him, he
got a boat, some explosives and climbing gear, and then he rowed
himself ashore.”

“In this storm?”

“It’s breaking up
now.”

“The sea hasn’t noticed that
yet. What got into him? You said it was your fault.”

“He was in a funk about
people disliking him and I wasn’t very helpful.”

“So he’s
suicidal?”

“Not so much suicidal as
desperate to live up to our expectations.”

“Let me get the rest of my
clothes.”

“There isn’t time to go
after him. We’re landing in less than three hours.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we
go after him, yet. But I think better with my clothes on. Wait
here.”

March 9, 1847

The Bay of Veracruz,
Mexico

When the storm began to move
out to sea, Robert was five hundred feet above the pounding surf
and less than twenty feet from the gun ports on the cliff. His boat
had been smashed on the rocks when he attempted to land on the
narrow beach and most of his gear had gone with it. Now he had
reached an outcropping of rock that he could not find a way around
and he could not climb. When he looked down, he could see no way
back.

Finally, when he could no
longer trust his cold, stiff fingers, he looked up toward the top.
“Help,” he called in his best Mexican accented Spanish. “Can
someone throw me a rope?”

“Who is that?” a sleepy
voice answered.

“Roberto,” Robert said
hopefully.

“What are you doing out
there, Roberto?”

He said a silent prayer that
he’d learned his mother’s Mexican-Spanish accent well enough. “I
went out to piss and the wind caught me. I’m on a ledge and about
to fall. Throw me a rope, quickly.”

Some time passed and just as
Robert was giving up hope, a thick rope slapped down the cliff. “I
have it. Pull me up.”

With a loud creak, a
windlass in the fort began taking up slack.

Robert waited until he’d
been dragged into the gun port, then he drew his pistol, prayed
that it wasn’t too wet and pulled the trigger.

~

Yank and Jack were on deck,
looking west toward the cliff when the whole top seemed to burst
into flames. An instant later the heat wave reached them and
seconds after that the thunder of a powder magazine exploding woke
the entire ship.

“Well,” Yank said, watching
the fire-lighted clouds of smoke billowing into the starry sky. “We
can still get a couple of hours of sleep before we hit the
beach.”

“Sleep?” Jack looked
incredulous. “How can you sleep now?”

Yank shrugged. “Whatever’s
happened is in the past so there’s no longer anything we can do for
Robert. At least we know he made it through the sea and
accomplished his mission.”

March 8, 1847

Veracruz, Mexico

At 3:30 AM, the First
Division, in special landing craft, began rowing toward the Mexican
coast. General Worth was the first man on the beach. By 11:30 PM,
Scott’s entire army was on shore. However, a new storm blew in
causing the ships to move into deeper water before the siege guns
could be landed.

Many horses were suffering
from laminitis; Scott’s favorite mount had severe colic and even
the healthiest animals were spooky. Before the voyage, however,
Abraham Van Buskirk had obtained several rolls of matting that
enabled Yank to provide limited exercise for his three horses
without the risk of them slipping on the deck. Yank had faithfully
exercised, fed and groomed the horses every day and had seen to the
way their slings were fitted. As a result of his efforts and
Abraham’s, Yank was well mounted while the rest of the army was
not.

March 9, 1847

Veracruz, Mexico

At dawn, Major General
Robert Patterson’s division set out northward to envelop the city
in a siege line from Collado to Playa Vergara. Patterson had
expected to be in command of the entire Expedition and was vocally
resentful of Scott’s appointment by President Polk. When given his
orders, Patterson had argued that the city should be taken by
storm, not by siege. Scott had insisted that the cost in dead and
wounded would be too high and refused to discuss it further, thus
adding to Patterson’s hostility.

One of Patterson’s brigade
commanders, Brigadier General Gideon Pillow, who had been President
Polk’s law partner, was so stridently opposed to Scott that Yank
had felt it necessary to ride out with Pillow’s brigade in hope of
quelling the disruptive feud and avoiding an open
mutiny.

General Pillow’s task was to
cut off the water supplied to Veracruz from the spring at Malibrán
while Patterson marched on around the city. They had travelled
about three miles inland when they came upon what they first
thought was a Negro man in a tattered U.S. army uniform. Pillow
spoke to the man then sent an aide back for Yank. Yank rode forward
and reined in abruptly when he saw his son, face blacked by smoke
and gun powder with singed hair and no eyebrows or eyelashes. “Good
morning, Robert. Early for a stroll, isn’t it?” Yank said
dryly.

“Good morning, Dad.” Robert
saluted. “I hosted a little beach party and have been up all
night.”

“Yes. I saw your fireworks.”
Yank dismounted and led Beelzebub forward, handing the reins to
Robert. “Take him back to the stables for me, please. He’s too
temperamental among all these seasick cavalry mounts.”

“Have you another
horse?”

“Yes. I brought three” He
helped Robert up onto the saddle. “Find your brother when you get
back, please. He’s been very worried about you.”

“Be careful,
Dad.”

Yank slapped Beelzebub on
the rump and stepped clear of any possible kick.

Robert was almost unseated
but managed to wave.

General Pillow signaled the
head wrangler to bring a remount forward for Yank. “That boy’s cut
from the same cloth as your father, General.” Pillow nodded toward
Robert who was racing back toward the beach.

“You could be right, Gideon.
I never knew my father and I hardly know my son.” He accepted a
boost from the wrangler and swung up into the cavalry issue saddle.
A half an hour later they were in sight of Malibrán.

The town was not fortified
but it was well defended by cavalry who were doubly effective
against the sick, injured and jumpy horses of the Americans. When
General Pillow’s horse threw him, Yank rallied Pillow’s men, formed
them into two ranks and led a charge into the Mexican cavalry’s
center. As he crashed into the first rank attacking and defending
in all directions with his sword, he soon realized that there was
no one behind him.

A Mexican soldier with a
machete managed to get close enough to hack the back of Yank’s
right hand. He switched his sword to his left, drew his pistol with
his right, cut his way through the first rank, shot the commanding
officer and immediately had his horse shot from under him. While he
was on the ground, he received two bullet wounds to his back and a
sword stab to his left thigh.

March 10, 1847

Chapultepec Castle,
Mexico

When informed of the
American landing, Santa Anna was livid. “You knew of this.” He
pointed a finger at Marina who was dressed like a Spanish lady and
seated near the terrace doors of her well appointed
apartment.

“Yes, of course I knew,” she
replied calmly. “Are you saying that you did not?”

“How would I know?” he
spluttered.

She gave him a theatrical,
wide-eyed look of amazement. “You would have to be the biggest fool
since Montezuma if you did not know it.” She shook her head. “You
dare to call yourself the
Napoleon of the
West?
If the people and your soldiers ever
learned what a fool you are, they would rise up and tear you to
shreds. In all likelihood you will be saved from that by the United
States taking you as a prisoner of war as Texas did.”

He stared at her, unable to
find words. His face was beet red and the veins in his neck and
temples stood out. “I will take a hundred thousand men and crush
these invaders,” he stammered at last. “And then I will ride
triumphantly into the zócalo, dragging you behind my horse where I
will personally hang you. When you are dead I will let the people
beat your corpse like a piñata until there is nothing left but food
for the crows.”