[Continuing chapter thirteen]
“What did I say that offended him?” Patton asked, miserable. He stared into the fire. All he’d wanted was some reassurance that he’d been doing the right thing, would continue to perform adequately in whatever fight was to come.
“Nothing,” Wheat said. “You said nothing wrong. Old Fontaine’s just a bit touchy, that’s all. He’s probably seen more fighting than you and me put together—he’s certainly seen more of the world than we have. But he doesn’t like to talk about it.” Wheat took another pull from the jug, and passed it to Patton. “He told me once fighting was just his job, and he saw no need to discuss business when he wasn’t doing business.”
“Just a job?” Patton stared, wondering if the whiskey was affecting his hearing. “How could he think that? I’ve always thought that being a soldier was something—well, something noble. Something to be proud of, anyway.”
“That may change, son,” Wheat said. He wasn’t smiling now. “Best get used to that idea.” He reached for the jug; Patton, realizing that he hadn’t taken his sip, swallowed too much and burst out coughing. The fire flared up angrily where he spat whiskey into it.
“I don’t know why Fontaine started down this road,” Wheat said, “but I started out thinking a bit like you. Since there was no fighting that I considered honorable in my home—driving Indians from their land hardly seemed noble to me—I thought I’d offer my skills to those who needed them.”
“Where did you end up?”
“Mexico, at first. That’s where I met Colonel Walker. This was back when they were fighting over the place after the emperor died. It was very convenient for General Santa Anna that the new fellow was only twelve and needed a regent. Some folks thought it was a bit too convenient, and it was a bloody couple of years before everything settled down. A lot of private armies got set up by the noble class, and I ended up in one of them.” He took another drink, and for a moment he was somewhere a long way off, his eyes open but dead to Patton and the entire camp.
“It seemed honorable enough work. We were fighting against a would-be dictator, after all. After a couple of fights, though, I discovered a couple of things. The most immediate was that the people I was fighting for weren’t a hell of a lot better than Santa Anna.” He shook his head, remembering again. “The most important from your perspective, Mister Patton, is that when you get stuck into it there’s not a lot that’s noble or honorable about fighting.”
Patton opened his mouth to speak, but Wheat raised the hand holding the jug. The liquor gurgled. “I’m not saying that war’s a bad thing. And I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it. God help me, when I’m on my horse and the balls are flying it’s as exciting as Hell. I feel alive in a way that I just don’t any other time. Maybe it’s knowing that my men depend on me. Maybe it’s knowing that any second I could take a ball to the brain and that would be the last of Earth for me. I don’t know why I like it, but I’m honest enough to admit that I do like it.”
He passed the jug to Patton, and motioned him to drink. Only when Patton had taken a careful sip—his head was beginning to buzz and the crackle of the fire sounded ominously loud now—did Wheat continue. “The God’s own truth, though, is that fighting is a dirty, scary business. I don’t know what you’ve seen, Patton—or if you really have seen nothing beyond that scrap with the Texans—and I sure don’t want to afright you, but if you decide to make this your life’s work, you’re going to see things that will make it easy for you to understand why old Fontaine doesn’t talk much.”
“Not even to help out a fellow-soldier? I hope that I can be considered a fellow-soldier by you, Captain.” Patton shook his head; he’d meant to think that, not say it. Perhaps I’m a bit less familiar with spirits than I thought. He felt a giggle coming on, suppressed it angrily.
“Maybe he’s trying to do you a favor,” Wheat said. “Just remember that we North Americans are children when it comes to the art of slaughtering one another. The Europeans are grand masters, and Fontaine fought for the Holy Roman Emperor in Italy. He’s never told me what he saw there, either. I just assume it’s something I don’t want to know about.”
“What should I know, then?” Patton found himself slumping, and straightened up. Then, since it was sitting idle, he picked up the jug and had a drink. “I want to do my duty honorably, even if it’s in an activity that’s brutal and de—debased.” He shook his head. “Pretty powerful stuff.”
“You’re learning your first lesson,” Wheat said. He got easily to his feet. “Come walk with me, young lad, and I’ll regale you with tales of how best to command men in the heat of slaughter—sorry, of battle nobly entered into.”
Patton stood up with considerably less grace, he felt, than Wheat had shown. He bent over to pick up the jug, but Wheat placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s too heavy, junior. I’ve an idea.” He rummaged in one of the tents, emerging with two tin cups. “Fill these,” he said, “and we won’t have to carry the whole heavy stoneware thing.”
“Jug,” Patton offered.
“That’s it,” Wheat said.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
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