The Tender Flame (12 page)

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Lieutenant Grant Smith saluted General Scott, who was sitting by his campfire alone. Night had fallen, and a pale moon was rising.

“Yes, Lieutenant. Come, sit down.”

When Grant was seated on the opposite side of the small fire, the general smiled. “Lieutenant, I was told about the cannon incident that took place today.”

Grant blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“I want you to know that I am proud to have a man of your caliber serving under me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You are aware that dispatches have come to me periodically from Washington over the past few months.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course you know that I have kept President Polk abreast of our losses and of the reinforcements I’ve had sent from different forts. In a dispatch from the president last month, he spoke of the officers we’ve lost in battle and of the need to replace them. He gave me the authority to make promotions on the field. Actually, the president stated in the dispatch that he was giving me this authority for two reasons. The first reason is obvious. The second reason is so that when men distinguish themselves in battle and deserve promotion, I can take care of it right here on the field. When the rest of the soldiers see a valorous man promoted, it encourages them to distinguish themselves when the opportunity arises.”

Grant’s heart was in his throat. “That makes sense, sir.”

“Therefore, Lieutenant Smith, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of captain.”

Grant swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The general rose to his feet, and Grant followed suit.

“Tomorrow morning I will make your promotion known to all the men, Captain,” Scott said. “However, before you retire for the night, there is someone who wants to interview you.”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“You’ve met correspondent Jack Milan, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, of course, you’re aware of the story he wrote for the newspapers back home about your deed of valor last November.”

“No, sir.”

Scott grinned. “Well, son, everybody back home knows you’re a hero. I’m sure your parents and that girl you left behind are very proud of you.”

“Well, I hope so, sir.”

“Captain Daniels has Jack Milan at his tent, ready to interview you, son. They both know that when you show up there, you will have your new rank. I’ll have captain’s insignias for your uniform in the morning. Now, go answer some questions for Jack.”

It was Tuesday, September 7. Beverly and Lydia were in the kitchen preparing supper when they heard the front door open and Duane call out, “I’m home!”

Beverly smiled at her daughter, whose hands were covered with flour as she kneaded bread. “I’ll go meet your father. You can hug him later.”

Beverly met her husband and noticed he was carrying his usual copy of the
Baltimore Press
. However, what she saw on his face was highly unusual.

“Duane, what’s the matter?” she cried, hastening toward him. “Why are you crying?”

“These are proud tears, honey.”

“What do you mean?”

“Where are the kids?”

“Billy’s cleaning the barn. Lydia’s in the kitchen, making bread.”

“I have something to show all three of you. I’ll go bring Billy in. You keep Lydia in the kitchen.”

Moments later father and son entered the kitchen, and Lydia rushed to hug her father. “What’s the big secret, Daddy?”

Duane handed her the newspaper. “You read it to us, honey. He’s going to be your husband.”

Lydia fought to keep her composure when she read aloud the story on page 3 by war correspondent Jack Milan. She choked up when she read of the courageous deed involving the cannon, and that Grant had been promoted to the rank of captain as a result of his heroism. The words blurred, and she stopped to wipe the tears away before continuing to read. After the story came the interview. This had the whole family crying, as Lydia choked it out a few words at a time.

Grant had boldly given praise to the Lord Jesus for helping him save the lives of other men in battle. He told of his fiancée, Lydia Reynolds, in Montgomery Village, Maryland, and said, “Lydia, if you should read this article, I want you to know that the tender flame still burns.”

Lydia could not continue reading, she was crying so hard. She handed the paper to her father as both Beverly and Billy put their arms around her.

Duane silently read what was left of the interview, and said, “It … ah … it closes off with Grant wishing you a happy birthday, Lydia. And he greets his family, us, his pastor and wife, and all his friends in Montgomery Village.”

The Reynolds family sat down to eat, but the emotion brought on by the article had stolen their appetites.

On September 5, General Scott’s army captured the city of Vera Cruz. As he had prearranged with Washington, reinforcements were waiting offshore, and upon signal that the city was in American hands, they came in.

General Scott called an assembly of all his men and briefed them on his plan to capture the capital city and President Santa Anna. Once Mexico City was conquered, he reminded them, the victory would be theirs.

Each captain then met with his company to welcome the new
men and fill them in on their jobs when they went into combat. Captain Grant Smith was commander of Company F, and while he was addressing his men, his eyes kept going to the face of one soldier who looked familiar to him. After the meeting was dismissed, Grant went to the man, who wore a corporal’s stripes, and said, “Soldier, have we met before?”

The corporal’s face lost color. “We have, Captain,” he said, saluting. “My name is Corporal Gerald George.” He raised his upper lip and showed him a crooked tooth. “You knocked this loose for me.”

“Gerald George! One of the boys who gave Lydia a hard time.”

“Yes, sir. But not after you whipped up on both of us.”

“I’m trying to remember … Kendall! Frederick Kendall! That was the other boy’s name, wasn’t it? You both moved away from Montgomery Village not long after our little tussle.”

“Yes, sir. Freddie’s family moved to Wisconsin just before my family moved to Shelbyville, Indiana. I haven’t heard from him since. I joined the army at Fort Wayne a couple of years ago.”

“Good to see you, Gerald,” Grant said, extending his hand. “And welcome to the war. We’ll have a real fight on our hands when we get to Mexico City. I’m glad to have you in my company.”

“I’m honored, Captain. Ah, sir …”

“Yes?”

“Lydia Reynolds. Do you know if she’s married?”

“She’s not. But she’s engaged to a soldier who’s going to marry her as soon as this war is over.”

“Oh, really? Is he from Montgomery Village?”

“Sure is.”

“Do I know him?”

Grant chuckled. “You’re looking at him.”

“Wha—? You? Lydia’s going to marry you?”

“She’d better! She’s wearing my engagement ring.”

“Well, what do you know! I knew she had a sizable crush on you, but I didn’t know you developed one on her.”

“That and a whole lot more.”

At dawn the next day, General Winfield Scott led his beefed-up army west into the high country toward Mexico City. As the days passed they met much opposition and fought many battles. Each battle was a victory for the United States Army, and Scott kept his men marching relentlessly toward the capital city.

On the evening of September 9, Scott camped his men on the east bank of the Rio de la Compani, near the city of Puebla. It was a forested area high in the mountains, less than sixty miles from Mexico City.

The general had just finished eating his supper when one of his scouts rode in to tell him there was a large Mexican force camped about a half mile west of the river. Scott knew there was no way he could get his men, animals, artillery, and equipment safely across the river in the dark. The enemy no doubt knew they were here and would move up to intercept them. They would have to fight the Mexicans on the riverbanks tomorrow morning.

A heavy rain fell during the night, muddying the river and running its depth to about five feet. The sky was cloudy at dawn, but the rain had stopped.

Scott positioned his artillery among the trees that lined the river. Spaced between the cannons, and flanking them for a quarter mile on both sides along the bank, were infantrymen on their bellies and on their knees, ready to open fire on command. Scott also had placed men in the trees who were watching for the Mexicans as dull light came over the land. One of the men saw the enemy artillery and infantry in their positions across the river and signaled a man on the ground, who quickly ran to General Scott, stationed a few yards from the river behind some large boulders.

The general gave the command to commence fire, and immediately the roar of battery filled the morning air, followed by the shriek of shells and the rattle of musketry.

Shells struck trees along the banks on both sides, shattering them and hurling deadly fragments in every direction.

On horseback, the captains rode up and down the ranks of their companies, shouting encouragement to keep their men steady in the teeth of the fight, and to help them maintain the ranks even as men fell wounded or dead.

The day wore on. It was about an hour past noon when Corporal Gerald George lay on his belly between two other men, pouring gunpowder into his musket. Through the drifting smoke he caught a glimpse of Captain Smith on his horse, threading among the trees just behind the firing line, shouting commands and words of encouragement to his men.

Upstream, the Mexicans were crossing the swift, muddy river with their muskets held above their heads. Mexican cannons continued to blast away at the Americans to give cover to the infantry crossing the river.

Smith saw that his company was closest to the crossing point. He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and galloped toward the men at the end of the line, shouting as loud as he could that they were needed upstream to intercept the Mexicans crossing the river.

Suddenly Smith’s horse took an enemy bullet, let out a high-pitched cry, and stumbled at full gallop down the riverbank. Smith was trying to get out of the saddle when a bullet struck him in the chest. Both rider and horse plunged into the river and disappeared.

Gerald George jumped up and ran in that direction. Other men of Company F were rising to their feet, intending to dive into the river as soon as their captain surfaced and bring him to safety.

But there was no sign of horse or rider.

The Mexicans cut loose fiercely, and every man who was on his feet had to flatten himself in a hurry.

“There’s his horse!” a sergeant shouted to George.

The animal had risen to the surface some forty yards downstream and was floating on its side. But there was no sign of Captain Smith.

Corporal George dropped his musket and dashed along the bank behind the line. When he reached the end of the firing line, he dived into the murky river. Mexican bullets chopped water all around him.

A lieutenant took over in Grant Smith’s place and rode his horse along the lines, shouting commands and encouragement.

Suddenly someone shouted, “It’s Corporal George!”

Downstream a hundred yards, a mud-caked Gerald George stumbled his way up the steep bank. A private left his spot in the firing line and ran as hard as he could to George.

“Gerald, you all right?”

George gasped for breath. “Yeah. I’m fine. But … but I couldn’t find the captain. The water’s too muddy.” George fought back the tears and looked toward the raging battle. “We’ve got to get back into the fight, Dave.”

Corporal and private ran to the line, amid whining bullets, and resumed their places. Cannons roared. Muskets popped, and the blue-white smoke weighed down the air. Shouts and yells along the river made the heavens ring.

When his horse was crumpling beneath him, Grant Smith knew he and the animal were going down the riverbank and into the muddy water. Reacting instinctively, he pulled his feet from the stirrups. Only the right one came free. Then Grant’s chest felt as if someone had hit it with a sledgehammer.

Suddenly he was under the water with the horse taking him all the way to the bottom. He held his breath and opened his eyes, closing them instantly when he realized the water was too muddy to see anything. The pain in his chest was horrible.

Grant’s left foot was still stuck in the stirrup, but at least the horse had ended up on its right side. Grant’s lungs felt as if they would burst as he fought the twisted stirrup. Finally he was free!

He swam for the closest bank as the swift current carried him downstream. The pain in his lungs was now almost as excruciating as the wound in his upper chest.

Suddenly his hands touched branches above his head. By the hand of God, he had reached the bank beneath heavy brush. Grant
clung to the branches with his right hand, stuck his head out of the water, and gulped air. His ears unplugged quickly, and the sounds of battle filled them. He blinked at the muddy film that covered his eyes and saw that he was on the wrong side of the river.

He looked at the wound in the upper left side of his chest, which was bleeding profusely. The ball must still be in him. He was sure he would feel pain in his back if the lead ball had gone completely through.