[Concluding chapter fourteen]
Stewart had the opportunity to watch Cleburne in command when Travis ordered him to seize the ferry across the Navasota. The Irishman might not have risen any higher than a lieutenancy in the English king’s army, but he would easily make a colonel or better in the Americas. If he chose to entertain such an ambition. The ferryman and his family were surrounded with quiet efficiency by Cleburne, a man identified to him as a Texas marshal named McCulloch, and a half-dozen hand-picked farmers who knew a thing or two about sneaking up on people.
Not that there was any need for a fight. The ferryman turned out to be no enthusiast of the Reynolds fellow who’d made himself president, and was more than willing to accompany Travis and his men in their march on the Brazos ferry about a mile to the west. Which in turn was easily taken; Stewart wondered if anybody in this republic actually cared for the concept of government at all. The sun was setting when Stewart, Cleburne and the elder Patton got across the Brazos; by Stewart’s estimate it would be several hours yet before the full force of Travis’s counter-insurgency was over the west bank of the river.
While they waited for the others, they discussed George Patton.
“He’s not so far off,” John Patton said, “that we couldn’t reach him and get him out before Walker reaches Washington. But it’s probably too late for that now.”
“I’m sorry, Patton,” Cleburne said, shaving a forearm-sized branch into kindling strips, “but I have to agree with you. The best we can do is hope he’s got the wit to stay back in what’s coming.”
“What’s coming,” Stewart said, “is a fight, and it’s likely to be bloody. Walker can’t afford to lose—with what I know about him and his backers he’ll go to the gallows if he’s beaten here—and the Texans can’t afford to either. They lose their country if they lose this fight.”
“Hell, Stewart,” said Cleburne, “it’s a civil war. Those are always ugly.”
“Don’t remind me.” Stewart wondered if other soldiers had the nightmares he had endured from time to time over the past two months. “I’m getting a feeling, from what I’ve heard tonight, that this is going to be a lot more vicious than anything that’s happened between my people and the Federals.”
“Which worries me more’n a little,” John Patton said, building Cleburne’s kindling-strips into a pile. “George isn’t the most sensible boy you met, and I’m thinking there’s a solid chance he’s going to anger people on both sides of this coming dust-up. It’d be just like him to get himself shot by his own side.”
Cleburne pulled a tinder-box from his bag. “Get me some dead-fall if you can find it, would you Stewart?” He took a likely strip of kindling, feathered it with his knife, and struck sparks at it until he had it alight. “We don’t have much in the way of provisions here, but I see no reason why we can’t at least have the comfort of a fire.”
When the fire was going—and they had shared some of it with others—Cleburne leaned back against his saddle and told Patton, “We’ll just have to keep watch for him, once the collision comes, and hope that if he does get himself into trouble we can, between us, get him out of it intact. Or mostly intact anyway.”
“Sight better than he deserves,” grunted John Patton, settling down and pulling a bedroll around him.
“If we aren’t able to do something about those people in town,” Stewart said, “we may wind up hoping that Patton is looking out for us.” He shifted so was was as close to the fire as safety would permit; he had no bedroll, not having expected to need one. At least his valise made for a pillow.
“Does this mean,” Cleburne asked, “that you're going to help?”
“I wasn’t joking about that earlier,” Stewart said. “Helping to beat Walker really is why I’m here, Cleburne.”
Not that there was any need for a fight. The ferryman turned out to be no enthusiast of the Reynolds fellow who’d made himself president, and was more than willing to accompany Travis and his men in their march on the Brazos ferry about a mile to the west. Which in turn was easily taken; Stewart wondered if anybody in this republic actually cared for the concept of government at all. The sun was setting when Stewart, Cleburne and the elder Patton got across the Brazos; by Stewart’s estimate it would be several hours yet before the full force of Travis’s counter-insurgency was over the west bank of the river.
While they waited for the others, they discussed George Patton.
“He’s not so far off,” John Patton said, “that we couldn’t reach him and get him out before Walker reaches Washington. But it’s probably too late for that now.”
“I’m sorry, Patton,” Cleburne said, shaving a forearm-sized branch into kindling strips, “but I have to agree with you. The best we can do is hope he’s got the wit to stay back in what’s coming.”
“What’s coming,” Stewart said, “is a fight, and it’s likely to be bloody. Walker can’t afford to lose—with what I know about him and his backers he’ll go to the gallows if he’s beaten here—and the Texans can’t afford to either. They lose their country if they lose this fight.”
“Hell, Stewart,” said Cleburne, “it’s a civil war. Those are always ugly.”
“Don’t remind me.” Stewart wondered if other soldiers had the nightmares he had endured from time to time over the past two months. “I’m getting a feeling, from what I’ve heard tonight, that this is going to be a lot more vicious than anything that’s happened between my people and the Federals.”
“Which worries me more’n a little,” John Patton said, building Cleburne’s kindling-strips into a pile. “George isn’t the most sensible boy you met, and I’m thinking there’s a solid chance he’s going to anger people on both sides of this coming dust-up. It’d be just like him to get himself shot by his own side.”
Cleburne pulled a tinder-box from his bag. “Get me some dead-fall if you can find it, would you Stewart?” He took a likely strip of kindling, feathered it with his knife, and struck sparks at it until he had it alight. “We don’t have much in the way of provisions here, but I see no reason why we can’t at least have the comfort of a fire.”
When the fire was going—and they had shared some of it with others—Cleburne leaned back against his saddle and told Patton, “We’ll just have to keep watch for him, once the collision comes, and hope that if he does get himself into trouble we can, between us, get him out of it intact. Or mostly intact anyway.”
“Sight better than he deserves,” grunted John Patton, settling down and pulling a bedroll around him.
“If we aren’t able to do something about those people in town,” Stewart said, “we may wind up hoping that Patton is looking out for us.” He shifted so was was as close to the fire as safety would permit; he had no bedroll, not having expected to need one. At least his valise made for a pillow.
“Does this mean,” Cleburne asked, “that you're going to help?”
“I wasn’t joking about that earlier,” Stewart said. “Helping to beat Walker really is why I’m here, Cleburne.”
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
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