19 MAY 1851
UPPER BOX CREEK, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
“You’ve been lucky, then,” Patton said.
“Thank God,” Cleburne said, and Patton nodded. They sat around their own fire, watching a pot struggle toward boiling. Cornmeal-and-water dough wrapped around sticks was browning along the near side of the fire—save for the lumps that had fallen off into the flames. Patton preferred to make cornbread in a pan, but he’d been given none.
No one had come by to inquire after Cleburne, though he was apparently the only man hurt in the afternoon’s encounter. In fact, the other men of what had been Pickett’s company didn’t even seem to be aware of their presence in camp. Patton had earlier heard several of them talking about the fight as though they were the only ones who’d taken part in it. They were outsiders, Patton knew. But surely the fight they’d shared should have gone a long way toward making the two of them welcome. Or perhaps it was true that these men preferred their friendship to the arrested and disgraced Pickett to their sense of honor.
“How much does it hurt?” Patton asked, hoping he was being tactful.
“More than you should hope you’ll ever have to deal with, boyo,” Cleburne said. “Still, could be worse. If the ball had hit bone, I’d probably be on my way to dying now. I don’t think there’s anyone here I’d trust with an amputation.”
“Colonel Walker’s a physician,” Patton said. “He’s even practiced in Europe, I think.”
“As I said,” Cleburne replied, his voice flat.
Patton shook his head, but said nothing. Cleburne might or might not be afraid, but he was certainly entitled to his opinion; he’d paid the price this afternoon.
“Now that we’re here,” Patton said, getting to his feet, “I think we should have a look around, see what sort of company we’ve invited ourselves into. Supper can always wait.” He reached to pull the bread away from the fire.
“Don’t be worrying about that,” Cleburne said, raising his good arm to stop Patton. “I’ll watch this and take the bread away when it’s done, and make the coffee.”
“Don’t you want to see?” Patton asked.
“I’ve already got a pretty good idea,” Cleburne said. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
What is the matter with him? Patton asked himself as he walked away from the fire. Cleburne’s attitude was beginning to grate, wound or no wound. He had been in a foul temper since emerging from the big woods, but his mood had got worse since the expedition had made camp. And he was the one who wanted an adventure, Patton thought.
Well, maybe after four times he’s lost his taste for being wounded.
He hadn’t had to deal with anything like this before, though of course they’d all been told at the Institute that fear and cowardice were things every officer had to be able to recognize and handle in his men. For now, all he could think of was how little he wanted to think about this.
The camp was very sensibly laid out; Patton was impressed with Colonel Walker’s organization. A dozen of the wagons had been formed up in three lines, two lines of three wagons each perpendicular to the creek and the third, of six wagons, run parallel to the creek to form an enclosure with wagons on three sides and the creek on the fourth. Within the square were the ambulance in which Walker had his headquarters, and a wagon which held a small forge. A hundred yards beyond this square, the remaining wagons were drawn up into a circle, the enclosure thus made forming an impromptu corral into which the mules were now being led after their evening grazing and watering. The horses were tethered to picket-lines run out from the front of the wagons that made up the square by the creek. Tents had been pitched in the gap between corral and square, and inside the square itself. It was a very compact and sensible design, and very easily defended—though that thought once again brought up the nagging question of why they should be having to defend themselves just yet.
He remembered Stewart’s parting words. Yes, he decided, the attitude of the locals did seem curious. I was told that Texas was groaning under the heel of British money and political interests. I’m having trouble seeing that so far.
He reminded himself of the way he and his fellow-Virginians had felt when those Yankee Federals invaded their country. But there was an obvious problem with such a justification.
That was an invasion. This is supposed to be a liberation.
There was nothing to be gained by worrying about it, he decided. You came here to fight, he reminded himself. And your chances are better of seeing fighting here than if you’d stayed with the regiment.
Patton was approaching the edge of the enclosure when the sight of an unexpected face stopped him cold. He tried to retreat but his brother clearly had seen him as well; there was nothing he could do but commit to a frontal assault. “Hello, Merce,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting to find you here.”
“To say I didn’t think to find you here, George,” John Patton said, “doesn’t begin to approach it. What the hell are you doing here?”
“What am I doing?” Patton slapped his hands across the fronts of his trouser legs, cleaning dust and horse-hair from them. “What the hell are you doing here, Merce? You’re supposed to be in the Californias.”
“Still on my way,” the man said. “I’m serious, though—what are you doing here? This is no place for you. Not safe.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Cleburne said from behind Patton.
“Hell! Don’t sneak up on a man that way, Cleburne” Patton said. “Sorry, Merce. This is Patrick Cleburne, a fellow-adventurer. We’ve been traveling together the last couple of months. Cleburne, my older brother, John Mercer Patton.” He tried to adopt the bluff tone he’d heard from Walker’s captains. “Who’d have figured on finding you here of all places, Merce?”
“I really think I should be the one saying that,” John Patton said. “Have you deserted or something, George?”
“Hell, no. We’re on official business.” He paused, his brother’s glare boring into him. “I didn’t desert. If you must have it, I resigned.”
“What?” John’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “How can you be on official business if you’re out of the army?”
“This doesn’t concern you, Merce. I’m not a boy anymore.”
“I’ll be the judge of what ought to concern me, George.” He examined Cleburne for a moment, then turned back to Patton. “You should leave, George. Leave now, while you still have the chance. And if your government really did order you to take part in this, then God help the Confederacy.” He began walking away, then stopped.
“One more thing,” he said. “I’m known here as Goodall. Allan Goodall. If you have to address me, use that name. I’d be happier, though, if you kept your distance until you leave.”
I’ll be damned, Patton thought as his brother stomped off toward the creek. I thought we got along better than that. Maybe the sun’s got to him like it has Cleburne.
He turned back to ask Cleburne what he’d thought of Merce’s warning. But Cleburne had disappeared.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
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