The Tender Flame (13 page)

Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself closer to the bank and peered through the brush. The fighting was fierce as both sides peppered each other with artillery and muskets. He strained to see upstream where he had sent his men to intercept the Mexicans crossing the river. But the pall of smoke over the battle blocked his view.

Weakness came over Grant, accompanied by severe dizziness. He summoned what strength he had left and inched his way up the bank on his belly, through dense brush. When he was out of the water, he looked toward the battle but still couldn’t see anything.

It took all the strength he could muster to rip the left sleeve from his shirt, but he finally had it off. His head was spinning as he folded the sleeve, slipped it under his shirt, and pressed it against the wound.

Everything began to whirl around him, and his vision darkened. The last thing Grant was aware of before the black curtain descended was the sound of booming guns.

W
HEN
G
RANT
S
MITH REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS
, he remembered clearly what had happened before he passed out. The pain was still there in his chest where the bullet had entered, but he could not hear the sounds of battle.

He blinked against the grimy sediment clinging to his eyes and strained to hear artillery and muskets and the shouts of fighting men. But there was only the rippling sound of river and the breeze whistling through the heavy brush where he lay.

Grant raised his right hand to his eyes to rub the mud away. When he opened them again, he noted that the sun had moved a long way across the sky since his climb out of the river.

He raised his head to look at the wound. Blood had soaked through the folded sleeve and spread on the front of his shirt, but it was dried. He breathed a sigh of relief.

When his head started to spin again he lay back on the grassy bank, and the dizziness eased. A huge cloud was coming out of the west, its shadow creeping over him like a shade drawn against the lowering sun. The breeze whispered through the brush and touched his face. A slight chill ran through him.

Grant rolled onto his stomach and tried to ignore the spinning in his head as he inched his way farther up the bank until the brush thinned some.

A tinkling metallic sound met his ears from across the river, and he saw several soldiers in United States Army uniforms. Two men were working on the harness of the horses that pulled General Winfield Scott’s supply wagon. He swung his gaze to see where the
Mexicans were positioned, but there was no activity at all. Suddenly Grant saw General Scott and Captain Nathan Daniels guiding their horses along the edge of the river, near the wagon. General Scott called out, “All right, men! Let’s move across the river! Mexico City is next!”

Grant struggled to get to his feet. When he made it to his knees, he saw the long line of men, horses, cannons, and wagons, moving down the bank and into the river. He took a deep breath to call out, and suddenly the black curtain descended on him again. A gust of breath was all he could get out. He fell backward into the brush.

When Grant came to, it was night. There were countless twinkling stars in the black, moonless sky overhead. Silence reigned except for the night wind soughing in the trees and dense brush, and the soft gurgle of the river.

He was cold and shaking.

He crawled to the top of the riverbank, and when his head began to spin again, he lay on his back and let the wind refresh him. After a few minutes, he eased himself to a sitting position. He drew his knees up under him, painstakingly rose to his feet, and stood on shaky legs.

When his head was clear again, he walked haltingly along the bank toward the place his battalion had headed across the river. He shuffled along the rough terrain in the dim light from the stars. Suddenly he stumbled over something and fell to the ground. Groping with his hands, he found the face of a dead soldier. He squinted through the semidarkness ahead of him and saw a number of dark forms on the ground. He was sure they were Mexican soldiers.

A sharp pain lanced through his wound as Grant forced himself once again to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, and then his knees gave way and he felt himself falling.

When Grant opened his eyes, he could hear voices. Although he was lying facedown beside a dead Mexican soldier, he could tell the sun
was shining out of a clear sky. As he homed in on the voices, he realized they were male, and they were speaking Spanish.

Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. He found himself staring into the dark, mustached face of a Mexican soldier who shouted something to the others moving among the dead men.

Soon more soldiers were gathered around him, conversing rapidly. One of them knelt and took a look under Grant’s makeshift bandage. He raised his eyebrows and said something to the others.

Grant was praying silently when he heard slow hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels. When the wagon rolled to a halt, four of the Mexican soldiers picked him up and laid him in the wagon with several corpses.

“Do any of you speak English?” he asked, looking from face to face.

They shook their heads.

“I want to know what you’re going to do with me. Get me somebody who speaks English!”

One of them said something, but Grant had no idea what. He lay helplessly, watching as they carried more dead soldiers to the wagon and laid them next to him.

A short while later, after they had closed the tailgate on the wagon, a man who wore an officer’s uniform drew up beside the wagon and looked down at Grant. He noted the captain’s insignias on the shoulders of Grant’s shirt and said, “What is your name, Captain?”

“My name is Grant Smith, sir.”

“I am General Hernando Vasquez, Captain. You have been seriously wounded. We are going to take you to a doctor, who will remove the ball from your chest and take care of you.”

“I appreciate that, General. Then what?”

“As soon as you are able to travel, we will transport you into the mountains southwest of here, where you will be put in a prison camp with other Americans we have captured.”

“And how long will I be kept there?”

Vasquez smiled for the first time. “For the rest of your life.”

“The rest of my life?”

“Sí. We fear we are about to lose this war, but by keeping some American prisoners, we will not feel that we were totally defeated. Your president, your military people, and your families back home will never know what happened to you. We will allow you to live out your natural lives in our prison camp, but all the while, your people will think you are dead. Please allow us some satisfaction in this war.”

On September 15, 1847, news came to Montgomery Village—as well as the rest of the United States—that General Winfield Scott’s battalion, and the regiment of soldiers with General Zachary Taylor, had converged just outside Mexico City the previous day, and together had captured it. Antonio López de Santa Anna was now a prisoner of the United States Army. The fighting was over, and the soldiers who had survived the war were going home.

News of the war’s end came to the Reynolds home in early afternoon, when Beverly and Lydia were working in the sewing room at the rear of the house. They heard neighbors shouting exultantly and dashed outside to see what the excitement was about. Men and women were waving newspapers and whooping the news that General Winfield Scott and his army had captured Mexico City and Santa Anna. The Mexican army had laid down its arms. The war was over! Their fighting men were coming home!

When Lydia heard it, she burst into tears and wrapped her arms around her mother, saying between sobs, “He’s coming home! My darling Grant is coming home!”

As Beverly held her daughter and wept with her, she saw Duane and Billy hurrying down the street. The Reynolds family stood in their front yard, rejoicing and hugging each other, and soon they were joined by Scott and Marjorie Smith and their girls.

When the initial exultation had subsided, Duane and Beverly
invited the Smiths in to pray together and give thanks to the Lord that soon Grant would be home. They gathered in a circle in the parlor and each person prayed aloud. When the last amen was said, everyone was weeping for joy.

On Sunday afternoon, October 10, a heavy sky lay over Montgomery Village, and a steady rain poured down. Even though the weather was dreary, there was no dreariness in the Reynolds house, where the Smiths had been invited to Sunday dinner.

Their excitement was almost palpable as the two families sat down to a delicious meal of roast chicken and all the trimmings. They had learned that morning from Pastor John Britton, as he made the announcements from the pulpit, that he had been in Baltimore the day before and had overheard some officers from Fort McHenry discussing the return of the victorious army. General Winfield Scott and the men of Fort McHenry were stretched out in a long line across Kentucky and Virginia. They were traveling in small units and would be arriving one after the other for the next three or four days.

To make sure he had heard correctly, Britton had asked the soldiers about it. The officers explained that the troops had not all left Mexico on the same day; therefore they would be arriving at Fort McHenry a few hundred at a time. Some could arrive as soon as the next day. There would be more arriving each day. The last of the soldiers would probably be there by Wednesday.

As raindrops pelted the windows, the sole subject of conversation around the dinner table was Grant’s return.

Two riders halted their horses in front of the Scott Smith home. Their hats were pulled low and they wore brown slickers with special markings to identify them as soldiers of the United States Army. Together they mounted the porch steps.

They waited for a long moment after knocking on the door, then knocked again. When there was no response, one of them said, “Let’s try the back door. Maybe they’re somewhere in the rear of the house.”

When there was no response, they stepped off the back porch and headed toward their horses.

“Hey, soldiers!”

Through the rain they saw a middle-aged man standing on his back porch. “Yes, sir?” said one of them.

“You fellas looking for the Smiths?”

“We are, sir.”

“They’re eating dinner with the Reynolds family, who live one block east and two blocks south.”

“Thank you, sir,” said one man. “Do you know the number on the house?”

“No, but it’s the second house from the corner on the west side. It’s the only house in the block with a big oak tree smack in the middle of the front yard.”

“Appreciate the information, sir. Thank you.”

The neighbor smiled. “Thought for a second there that one of you might be Captain Grant Smith. He’s due home pretty soon. You fellas know him?”

“Ah, no, sir. But we’ve heard a lot of good things about him.”

The neighbor grinned and nodded. “Well, anyway, you’ll find his parents and his sisters at the Reynolds house.”

The soldiers thanked him again, made their way to the front of the house, and mounted their horses. One of them commented that he was glad the rain was easing some.

Dinner was over at the Reynolds house and everyone had moved to the parlor. As Lydia talked about her plans to welcome Grant upon his arrival, movement out front caught Theresa Smith’s eye. She strained to see through the window, and her pulse quickened when she saw two men in army colors and insignias dismounting near the
big oak tree. She jumped out of her chair and ran toward the door, shouting, “It’s Grant! It’s Grant! Oh, he’s home! He’s home!”

Everyone rushed up behind Theresa as she jerked the door open, saying, “Grant, you’re home! You’re—”

A great disappointment swept over the group when they saw the dripping faces of two uniformed strangers, who looked nervous and ill-at-ease.

Duane moved past Theresa and said, “I’m Duane Reynolds, gentlemen. May I help you?”

“I am Lieutenant Wesley Albright, sir. And this is Lieutenant Clayton Lewis. We’re looking for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Smith. We were told by one of their neighbors that they were here.”

“Yes, they are. Please come in.”

The soldiers removed their wet hats and dripping slickers before moving through the door. Scott and Marjorie stepped forward and introduced themselves.

Lieutenant Albright cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, could we talk to you in private, please?”

Scott frowned. “Is this about our son? Is this about Grant?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“We’re all family here,” Scott said. “This young lady here is Lydia Reynolds. She and Grant are going to be married as soon as he gets home from Mexico. Whatever this is about can be told to all of us.”

“Could we go into the parlor so all of you can sit down?” Lieutenant Lewis said in a soft tone.

Marjorie’s hands were trembling. “What is it? Please tell me! Has something happened to our son?”

“We’d really like all of you to sit down, ma’am,” Albright said.

When everyone was seated, the two officers remained on their feet, standing shoulder to shoulder. Albright cleared his throat again and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, we have been sent here from army headquarters in Washington. It is—it is our sad duty to inform you that your son, Captain Grant Smith, was killed in action on September 10.”