13 MAY 1851
NEAR CARTHAGE, PANOLA COUNTY, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
“Still just two men I can see,” the scout reported. “One’s older—I can see he’s got gray hair. The other’s younger, big and fit.”
“That’d be old man Blair and his boy Tom, probably,” Pickett said. “I could tell better if I got a closer look.” He gazed with undisguised acquisitiveness at Walker’s spyglass. Walker ignored him. After a moment, Pickett turned back to look down the slope at the log house. “Don’t see Stevens anywhere. He’s the hired hand—leastways he was a year ago.”
“Perhaps times have been hard,” Walker said. “Let’s hope not, though. We left nearly two thousand pounds of fodder and twelve wagons back at Mr. Perry’s farm. From the look on his face, I rather doubt I’ll see any of that material again.”
“Don’t you worry, Colonel,” Pickett said. “Them oats is there, all right. Corn too, I’ll bet. And old Blair will be real happy to help us out, sure he will.”
“We’ll see soon enough,” Walker said. He worked his way down the reverse of the slope until he judged he could stand without being seen from the farm below, then walked down to where Fontaine and Wheat sat on horseback, talking. Wheat’s men were much improved for their rest, and it had taken the column just ten hours to travel the twenty-odd miles to this farm just south of Carthage, the Panola county seat. The plan God had revealed to him was so far working perfectly.
“I’m assured the supplies are there, gentlemen,” he said when he reached his subordinates. “I still see just the two men I spied yesterday, so there shouldn’t be a problem. Nevertheless, this will give us a chance to see how our men perform. I want to surround the farm to ensure that nobody escapes. Major Fontaine, you take half of your men and ride around to the west. Captain Wheat, you and half of your men will skirt the farm to the east. I want a perimeter of one hundred yards from the buildings, or at the edge of the woods, whichever is closer. Place five men in a group every forty to fifty yards—and make sure they’re visible from the farm. We want to impress these people with our strength.”
“Yes, sir!” Wheat said.
“Finally,” Fontaine muttered. The two men spurred their horses and rode back to where the column waited alongside the Carthage Road.
Walker went back up the hill and settled back onto the ground, propping himself on his elbows. Soon he saw horses approaching on the road, the men moving in two files as they’d been trained. Fontaine led his men around one side of the hill, and a few minutes after the last of them had passed Wheat’s company appeared, and headed in the opposite direction. Walker didn’t try to suppress the pride he felt at this sight; the men moved in perfect order, and even from this distance he was able to see the eagerness in their eyes. All his hard work had been justified, and God had helped him to forge a weapon that would give him power over the greatest country in the Americas, possibly in the world. Two hundred fifty men, he thought, and Texas the prize. What a pity that this age has no Homer to record such deeds as we will perform in the next few days.
Walker gathered the rest of his scouting party to him just as messengers approached from Fontaine and Wheat to announce that the men were in position and the farm surrounded. “Pickett,” he said, “I’m going to give you the honor of informing Mister Blair of our request.” Walker handed a letter to Pickett. “You will deliver this, then bring Blair’s reply to me. Make it clear to Mister Blair, though, that only a reply in the affirmative is acceptable.”
“What do I do if he refuses?” Pickett grinned, and Walker wondered just how deep the divisions in these counties still ran.
“Your job is to persuade him to see reason. No reasonable man will resist once it’s made clear how desperate is his position.” Walker thought a moment; he hadn’t really answered Pickett’s question. “If in spite of your efforts Mister Blair refuses to accede to our request, you are ordered to make him prisoner, along with any other persons you find. We will hold any prisoners until such time as we’re at least a day’s march from the nearest town, then release them.”
“Yes, sir,” Pickett said.
He was still grinning. “I want you to take another man with you,” Walker said. Someone who’s never been to Texas, he thought. “Mister Walker,” he said to a short, intense young man. “You will accompany Mister Pickett to the Blair farmhouse.”
“Yes, sir.” James Walker, no relation, was a boy of nineteen who’d been expelled from the Virginia Military Institute by an instructor named Jackson, just before the war broke out. After unsuccessfully challenging his instructor to a duel, young Walker had refused to join the Virginia Army. He’d been more eager when his elder namesake had come recruiting in Virginia, and although his temper occasionally made for discipline problems, he’d been a steady soldier. He’d be a good brake on whatever animosities Pickett still felt toward his opponents from the Moderator-Regulator conflict.
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