Mexico by James Albert Michener — Read

When my grandfather landed at Veracruz in late 1866 and climbed the familiar road he had marched nineteen years earlier with General Scott as they fought their way to Mexico City, he anticipated no difficulty in locating his friend General Early: "Stands to reason. If he's still in that big white hat with the turkey feather and that long white coat, everyone will know where he is. " Using his adequate Spanish, he asked a watchman: "Where might I find American soldiers who came down here after our war? " and the man pointed: "That little church. Many Americans drink there all day."

When he entered the courtyard of the church, set off by a high adobe wall, he found the Confederates, and one look at the motley crew assured him that he had joined the losers. They were an unkempt lot, unshaven, unwashed, some of their clothes in tatters, but intermixed with that type were a few men of obvious breeding, men who could not tolerate living in a nation governed by men like Butcher Grant. Clay naturally gravitated toward those of his own kind but was prevented from joining them by the others, who showered him with questions: "What battles did you see? What generals did you march with? Did you have to leave America? " Some rough types not only asked questions, they also demanded answers, and in their eagerness for news of home he detected loneliness and the fear that they might never again see their homeland.