[Concluding chapter thirteen]
Patton felt a rush of awareness, almost of inspiration. It was the same feeling he’d had at the Institute when he’d finally understood a concept one of the instructors had been trying to pound into his head. He had no idea how well he’d be able to implement Wheat’s suggestion, but he suddenly felt incredibly clear-headed: I’m drunk, he thought, and even drunk I know that what Wheat’s told me makes perfect sense. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “This is the first time anybody’s ever given me such an intelligent, practical piece of advice.” He shook his head. “I spent weeks with Cleburne coming here. I got less inspiration from him in a month than I have in one evening in your company, Captain Wheat.” He kicked at a clump of sod dislodged by some hoof or other at the end of the day’s march. It galled him now to think that Cleburne had perhaps betrayed him, had just possibly abused the trust Patton had placed in him. As soon as he thought that, though, he knew the thought to be unworthy. His face flushed so that he was sure it was visible in the darkness as a glow from a lantern.
“Cleburne just isn’t a gentleman,” Wheat said. He said this in a gentle, disappointed voice, as though he were aware of the tragedy his words implied. “He may have been an officer,” Wheat said. “He may even have served King William, the pompous prig. But he’s from Ireland and can’t have learned the habits of a true Virginia gentleman.” Patton wondered if there was something innate in the Irish that made it so easy for others to despise them. It couldn’t just be Catholicism; he knew plenty of people—Stewart was one—who had a Catholic background. But everyone he’d met lately seemed automatically to assume that because Cleburne was Irish he was somehow flawed. As though he was a Negro.
Patton shook his head. Where in the world had that thought come from? “I think I’m ready to sleep now,” he said. “I don’t seem to be thinking too clearly.”
“That’s fine,” Wheat said. “I’m sure that if I could hold my watch steadily enough to be able to read it—assuming I could even see it in this blessed darkness—it would tell me that it’s past midnight. We have a busy day facing us tomorrow, in all likelihood. Sleep would be a good idea right now.”
He threw an arm around Patton’s shoulder. “But you’ve done well by yourself tonight, my young friend,” he said. “You’ve held up your end of a good old campfire symposium”—he ceremoniously handed the tin cup back to Patton—”and you’ve absorbed a valuable lesson in war-craft. You just be sure to keep this night in mind as you move through the next couple of days. You’ll soon see that just about everything he experiences can become part of a good officer’s education.”
Somebody giggled, sounding utterly juvenile. When he saw Wheat staring at him, Patton realized that the giggle had come from his own mouth. “Sorry,” he said.
“I amuse you, do I?” Wheat raised an eyebrow with exaggerated disdain. “You’re being impertinent, young Patton.” You know, the mere fact that I can say the word impertinent suggests that I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.” He reached for Patton’s cup, sighed when Patton turned the cup upside down to show that it was empty. “You should be listening to everything I say”—Wheat’s eyes seemed to gleam in the starlight—“because everything I say can contribute to your education as a leader of men.”
“That’s why I laughed before,” Patton said. “When you talk like that, you sound just like my—my friend Stewart.”
“Do I.”
“Yes. He’s always going on about how I should pay attention to things other than fighting. If I ever want to be a general. I don’t know if I want to be a general.”
“I’ve heard you talk about the man quite a bit in the past couple of weeks. So what,” Wheat asked softly, “happened to your friend Stewart? Wasn’t he supposed to be with you?”
Patton stared at Wheat, realizing the danger he might just be in. How much did Wheat know? Did he know about Merce as well?
He thought wildly for a moment, grateful for the dark that kept Wheat from seeing the guilt and confusion in his face. “He met a woman in New Orleans,” he said eventually. “And then he learned something he said was important for the future of the country. So he went up the Mississippi, looking for General Davis. Tried to talk him into coming with me; he wouldn’t.” He hoped he wouldn’t blurt out the things Stewart had said to him at their parting.
“The man sounds a paragon,” Wheat said. “Do you know, I think Colonel Walker was a bit miffed at Captain Stewart’s abandoning him? He complains about his insubordinate character and in the same sentence regrets the loss of a second man as well-schooled as you.”
“He thinks that?” Suddenly thoughts of Stewart were banished. Colonel Walker appreciates me?
“Forget I said anything. It’s nothing at all.” Wheat looked searchingly at Patton for a moment, then burst into laughter. After a moment, Patton realized how ridiculous they both looked; it was well past time they were in bed, and Walker would probably chew them out horribly tomorrow. He started laughing too.
After the laughter had burned itself out, Wheat clapped Patton on the shoulder. “Time for bed, my son,” he said. “We’re going to feel this in the morning,” he added in the ponderous tones of a prophet. “Let’s get ourselves to our tents and enjoy what may be our last good sleep for a while.”
As Patton crawled between his blankets in the tent that nobody shared with him, he wondered what Stewart was doing—and Cleburne and Merce were doing, and whether the Irishman’s wound was healing. As he drifted off to sleep, he was sure he heard Stewart’s voice, muttering something about liberty and the blood of tyrants.
“Cleburne just isn’t a gentleman,” Wheat said. He said this in a gentle, disappointed voice, as though he were aware of the tragedy his words implied. “He may have been an officer,” Wheat said. “He may even have served King William, the pompous prig. But he’s from Ireland and can’t have learned the habits of a true Virginia gentleman.” Patton wondered if there was something innate in the Irish that made it so easy for others to despise them. It couldn’t just be Catholicism; he knew plenty of people—Stewart was one—who had a Catholic background. But everyone he’d met lately seemed automatically to assume that because Cleburne was Irish he was somehow flawed. As though he was a Negro.
Patton shook his head. Where in the world had that thought come from? “I think I’m ready to sleep now,” he said. “I don’t seem to be thinking too clearly.”
“That’s fine,” Wheat said. “I’m sure that if I could hold my watch steadily enough to be able to read it—assuming I could even see it in this blessed darkness—it would tell me that it’s past midnight. We have a busy day facing us tomorrow, in all likelihood. Sleep would be a good idea right now.”
He threw an arm around Patton’s shoulder. “But you’ve done well by yourself tonight, my young friend,” he said. “You’ve held up your end of a good old campfire symposium”—he ceremoniously handed the tin cup back to Patton—”and you’ve absorbed a valuable lesson in war-craft. You just be sure to keep this night in mind as you move through the next couple of days. You’ll soon see that just about everything he experiences can become part of a good officer’s education.”
Somebody giggled, sounding utterly juvenile. When he saw Wheat staring at him, Patton realized that the giggle had come from his own mouth. “Sorry,” he said.
“I amuse you, do I?” Wheat raised an eyebrow with exaggerated disdain. “You’re being impertinent, young Patton.” You know, the mere fact that I can say the word impertinent suggests that I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.” He reached for Patton’s cup, sighed when Patton turned the cup upside down to show that it was empty. “You should be listening to everything I say”—Wheat’s eyes seemed to gleam in the starlight—“because everything I say can contribute to your education as a leader of men.”
“That’s why I laughed before,” Patton said. “When you talk like that, you sound just like my—my friend Stewart.”
“Do I.”
“Yes. He’s always going on about how I should pay attention to things other than fighting. If I ever want to be a general. I don’t know if I want to be a general.”
“I’ve heard you talk about the man quite a bit in the past couple of weeks. So what,” Wheat asked softly, “happened to your friend Stewart? Wasn’t he supposed to be with you?”
Patton stared at Wheat, realizing the danger he might just be in. How much did Wheat know? Did he know about Merce as well?
He thought wildly for a moment, grateful for the dark that kept Wheat from seeing the guilt and confusion in his face. “He met a woman in New Orleans,” he said eventually. “And then he learned something he said was important for the future of the country. So he went up the Mississippi, looking for General Davis. Tried to talk him into coming with me; he wouldn’t.” He hoped he wouldn’t blurt out the things Stewart had said to him at their parting.
“The man sounds a paragon,” Wheat said. “Do you know, I think Colonel Walker was a bit miffed at Captain Stewart’s abandoning him? He complains about his insubordinate character and in the same sentence regrets the loss of a second man as well-schooled as you.”
“He thinks that?” Suddenly thoughts of Stewart were banished. Colonel Walker appreciates me?
“Forget I said anything. It’s nothing at all.” Wheat looked searchingly at Patton for a moment, then burst into laughter. After a moment, Patton realized how ridiculous they both looked; it was well past time they were in bed, and Walker would probably chew them out horribly tomorrow. He started laughing too.
After the laughter had burned itself out, Wheat clapped Patton on the shoulder. “Time for bed, my son,” he said. “We’re going to feel this in the morning,” he added in the ponderous tones of a prophet. “Let’s get ourselves to our tents and enjoy what may be our last good sleep for a while.”
As Patton crawled between his blankets in the tent that nobody shared with him, he wondered what Stewart was doing—and Cleburne and Merce were doing, and whether the Irishman’s wound was healing. As he drifted off to sleep, he was sure he heard Stewart’s voice, muttering something about liberty and the blood of tyrants.
Chapter Thirteen
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