Previous First
[Continuing chapter ten]
“Trained” turned out to be a rather generous word to describe the Texas Army. Over the remainder of the day Patton learned that with just a handful of exceptions the soldiers under Parsons’s command were recent immigrants to Texas who had joined the army because they couldn’t find work anywhere else and wouldn’t try to break ground for new farms. There were a lot of Germans and Irish—each time he heard a variant of the brogue, Patton wondered if Cleburne was well and where he’d got to—and even a handful of Italians who’d fled the Holy Roman Empire.
What there wasn’t was any leavening of native-born Americans to instill discipline. Parsons had brought only five officers with him, and three of those were from the Second Dragoons and either incapable of or unwilling to provide much in the way of leadership to the infantry. Worse was the state of the non-commissioned officers. Two companies should have had at least a dozen sergeants and corporals, who again could reasonably be counted on to be Americans. Parsons had but four with him—and one of them was a German newly promoted. The Texans kept a formation that was as bad as, if not worse than, that of Walker’s force. God only knew how well they’d hold together under fire; in talking to a few of the men to ascertain their degree of understanding, Patton learned that most of them were only casually acquainted with drill, and at least one of the men had never fired a musket before. Patton prayed that their opponents would be even more likely to break. He trusted that this would be the case because at heart they would know that the government they supported was corrupt.
The one thing the Texans did well was march. They’d been on the road for three solid days, and they still set a hard pace for Walker’s men to follow. Whatever worries he may have had about their discipline, Patton had to admire the dogged, unimaginative way they set one foot in front of the other on the bright green grass of the spring fields over which they walked without complaining.
At Walker’s suggestion Patton rode ahead of the main body and found a suitable site for a camp, beside a creek about ten miles south-west of the Trinity crossing. Watching the men setting up tents, Patton knew that the doubling of the force’s size was going to make it many, many times harder to get the column moving tomorrow morning. He was looking for Captain Wheat, in order to present a suggestion that the camp be roused an hour before sunrise, when he heard shouting from the western fringe of the camp.
He’d come to recognize the hysteria-edged tone that signified a murderous rage, and, patting his holster to assure himself that he still carried his Colt, Patton began to run in the direction of the fight. Several others followed him, though most of the men scarcely looked up from the bedrolls on which they had sprawled.
He found Captain Wheat standing in front of a group of four men on horseback. Even from the back, he recognized the leader of the horsemen: Pickett, who’d obviously grown tired of being under arrest and decided to leave.
“For the last time,” Wheat was saying as Patton approached, “I’m ordering you to dismount and return to your tents. You have no cause to be leaving this camp.”
“Colonel Walker never relieved me of the responsibility for finding supplies for this column,” Pickett said. There was something of the cornered animal in his voice, and as Patton drew closer he could see that Pickett was pointing a revolver at Wheat. Patton drew his own Colt, as quietly as he could, and cocked it very slowly, wincing as the hammer locked into place with an unbearably loud click. The others seemed not to have heard, though, so Patton began edging around to the front of the group.
“We don’t need supplies,” Wheat said. “We never needed the kind of supplies you’re going to look for. You were never interested in the success of this expedition, Pickett. All you ever cared about was having Walker’s assignment as an excuse to justify robbery and murder.”
“Are you calling me a thief?” Pickett laughed. “I been called worse. Anyway, I always thought I was a patriot.”
“That kind of trash might amuse some, but it won’t fool me,” Wheat said. “You’re still at the point where all you’ll get is a dismissal from Walker. Press me any further, Pickett, and I’ll see that you’re hanged for this.” Wheat kept his hands from his sides; he’s not going to give Pickett any excuse to shoot him, Patton thought.
“Don’t you come high and mighty on me,” Pickett snarled. “You think I don’t know what this is all about? You think anybody truly believes that you’re here to liberate this blasted country?”
Thunder cracked. Pickett lurched forward, then back, then fell out of his saddle. Somebody shouted. Wheat threw himself down and to the side, one hand going to his head.
Patton whirled around, to see Lamar Fontaine standing in a cloud of smoke. Fontaine fired a second time, and another man fell to the grass. One of the remaining two men spurred his horse forward; the other raised his hands. Fontaine aimed a shot at the fleeing man, but missed.
For a moment Patton stood, gaping at the grisly scene. Fontaine had just shot two of his own men, without so much as blinking. What kind of man, he wondered, can do that sort of thing? He hadn’t even been here long enough to understand the situation.
Then the situation reimposed itself on Patton’s mind, and he rushed to Wheat. The latter had struggled to his feet, still holding his hand to his head. “Let me see,” Patton said. There was an angry red welt on Wheat’s ear, but no blood flowed.
“Bastard must have had his finger on the trigger,” Wheat said. His face was pale. “Shot me when Fontaine shot him. Probably never could have hit me if he’d been trying.”
“You’re all right, sir,” Patton said. “The ball just grazed you.”
“I’ll put some alcohol on that, then,” Wheat said. “And generously apply some from the inside, as well. Thank you, Patton. I saw you coming up to help me.” He looked over Patton’s shoulder. “Here comes trouble,” he said.
“What in the world is going on here?” Colonel Walker shouted. “Explain yourself, Captain,” he said more quietly when he reached Fontaine.
“Nothing to explain,” Fontaine said. “They were threatening Wheat. I shot ‘em.”
Walker looked at the bodies. “Pickett and James Walker.” He turned to Wheat. “What happened, Captain Wheat?”
“They’d heard about a big farm or plantation a couple of hours’ ride from here,” Wheat said. He’d clapped his hand over his ear again; Patton wagered it must sting something awful. “So they decided that, arrest or no, they were going to go and ‘requisition some supplies.’”
“We don’t need supplies,” Walker said. “I didn’t authorize any such requisition.”
Wheat sighed. “It was never about supplies, Colonel.”
Walker flushed, then scowled. Patton had seen that expression before. Walker had looked that way several times when Patton or Stewart—especially Stewart—had pointed out uncomfortable truths, or errors of judgment that Walker had made. “I want to see you two at my quarters in ten minutes,” he said to Wheat and Fontaine. “We have some matters of importance to discuss.” Then he turned and stomped back toward the centre of the camp.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
No comments:
Post a Comment