Bonny Blue Flag 18.10

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[Concluding chapter 18]

The other men he encountered by the river were fleeing north, so Patton turned his horse south, weaving around trees and keeping the river in sight on his left. After a few moments he didn’t see any more mercenaries—they must have been the survivors of Fontaine’s company—and that made him feel a bit better. The last thing he wanted right now was to be affiliated in any way with any member of Walker’s filibuster.

As for what might be the first thing he wanted, he didn’t know.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.9

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[Continuing chapter 18]

“What happened?” It was a stupid question, Walker realized. But he had to know.

“What happened?” Fontaine coughed. “I got shot. What does it look like?”

One of his men had pulled the blanket-roll from behind Fontaine’s saddle and propped it under the captain’s head and neck. Surrounded by green grass, Fontaine might have been thought to be resting—were it not for the dark red stain that soaked his coat and shirt.

“I know you’ve been shot,” Walker said. “The surgeon’s on his way. But what happened to your men? Those costumed popinjays should have been no match for you.”

“Those costumed—” Fontaine coughed weakly, spat black liquid into the grass and didn’t finish the sentence. “They were drunk, and they were mean,” he said after catching his breath. “We shot ‘em. Didn’t make a lick of difference. They come at us with bayonets and huge knives and even an ax or two. My boys saw the look in their eyes, and just ran. Didn’t see where they went. Don’t much care, if you ask.”

Bonny Blue Flag 18.8

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[Continuing chapter 18]

Patton fired, cocked, fired again. He wasn’t hitting anything, he knew that. But it felt good to be doing something, since he’d so utterly failed to persuade the men to move forward.

Some of those nearest him were firing away too, cursing between shots in steady, quiet voices that belied the danger they were all in. Wheat was down at the far end of the line, still shouting. He’d gotten down from his horse, now, Patton noticed. Probably to make himself a less obvious target.
Motion far to the right caught his eye. Colonel Parsons was running, his horse in full gallop as he fled the field and abandoned his men. Parsons was fleeing forward, not backward: he’d crossed the creek, and was heading south-west. Calculating bastard, Patton thought. You know you face a bigger risk if you try to run past us than if you skirt around those boys with their cannon. Still, he hoped against hope that the gunners would feel as much contempt for Parsons as he did, and drop a shell on top of the man.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.7

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[Continuing chapter 18]

Ben McCulloch’s first thought on seeing the cloud of dust moving toward him was blasphemous. What kind of cruel joke, he thought, lets us get the best of that bastard Walker, then throws reinforcements into his pocket just when we’re getting ready for a final charge?

He had taken part in the fighting at the beginning, until he’d been certain his fellow Texicans would stand. Then he’d gone around the fighting to scout, to do what he did best.

Now he was in the same position he’d been in a couple of hours ago: watching the approach of a large force he had to assume was hostile. He moved his horse into the lee of a hill, then climbed to the summit to see what he could learn of the approaching men, and still return to the scene of the battle in time to give Travis some sort of warning.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.6

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[Continuing chapter 18]

God moved in mysterious ways, Walker knew. Still, it would be a shame if success on this field came about because of Parsons’s infantry rather than his own men.

He’s doing just what I would have done, Walker told himself as Parsons brought his second company forward, doubling the strength of the force with which he obviously intended to outflank the defenders of the bridge. Now why can’t I make my own men follow my orders? He’d succeeded in getting Nelson’s company to move up a bit, but though they were well within range of the enemy and he’d ordered them to twice already, Nelson’s men would not fire. Fontaine was within two hundred yards of the creek, and his men at least were firing into the militia on the opposite bank. But Wheat’s company still refused to move at all, in spite of the increasingly profane exhortations of its officers.
Because he was watching Fontaine, he didn’t notice the enemy crossing the creek until Lieutenant Baylor brought it to his attention. “They’re going to hit Parsons in the flank!” Baylor shouted.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.5

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[Continuing chapter 18... which continues on through next week]

“Here they come,” Cleburne shouted as he moved behind the line, and Travis nodded—but Stewart realized the man was still looking to his right.

“The danger’s that way, sir.” He pointed to the left. Travis turned to see the renegade infantry, white coats seeming to shine against the green of the grass, moving forward at a steady pace. Stewart was surprised when Travis’s face took on a small, tight smile.

“I can’t help myself, captain,” Travis said, seeing Stewart’s expression. “Despite what they’re doing, I’m proud of the way those men are moving in unison, bayonets pointed sun-ward and shining.” He paused, apparently searching for words. “I fought long and hard to have the army established on a regular basis, you see. So in a terrible way it is good to watch soldiers behaving like soldiers—even if they are arrayed against me by officers whose corruption and wickedness would disgust Satan himself.”

Bonny Blue Flag 18.4

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[Continuing chapter 18]

 “What I wouldn’t give for another hundred men. And another gun up on that rise.” Cleburne smiled, as though he hadn’t just asked for the moon. Stewart bit back the sardonic reply that hovered, demanding to be spoken.

Instead, he asked, “You’ve noticed the gap, I take it?”

Cleburne nodded. Stewart, looking at the Texan standing beside his friend, wondered if Travis recognized the opportunity. Walker had arrayed his irregular cavalry in three units, two of which were now advancing, on foot, toward the creek. The third unit, though, hung back. And while its place in the advance had been taken by what looked to be a company of renegade Texas infantry, the infantry had had to swing well to the west to get past the blockage formed by the reluctant third company of irregulars. As Stewart watched, the westward movement of the infantry opened a steadily larger gap between its left flank and the right flank of the next-closest advancing unit. Had he been able to direct a charge into that gap, the battle would have been over within minutes.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.3

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[Continuing chapter 18]

Patton turned around. The two three-pounders were being wheeled forward by their crews; a thin cheer rose from the column as the guns passed and rumbled down the gentle slope. Patton smiled as the first of the guns came to a stop directly behind the small crater left by the first cannon-shot. Somebody with that gun crew was operating on the assumption that lightning wouldn’t strike twice in the same place.

“All right,” he said. The words were inaudible to all but the handful of men closest to him, but that didn’t matter; he’d meant them for himself. To the company he shouted, “Dress that line and prepare to dismount!” Some of the men cheered in response, but the cheer didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. You boys deciding you don’t care for soldiering after all? he silently asked them. He checked himself; you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking that. Another, more recently born part of himself replied, you should truly be ashamed of yourself for being here at all.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.2

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[Continuing chapter 18]

There was nothing unique about the landscape on the south side of the low rise. It was just another piece of Texas prairie, tall green grass bordered by trees on the east where the river was. Patton knew, nonetheless, that he would remember his first sight of the field on which they were to fight. Stewart had once told him his first view of the Bolivar Heights at Harpers Ferry was forever burned into what he had called the memory-gallery in my mind.

The Texans—he could no longer think of them as “the enemy”—were spread out in a straggling line on the south bank of a creek, on either side of a crude wooden bridge. White- and gray-uniformed men held the bridge and the banks to the west; to the east the defenders wore a bizarre mix of buckskins, dress coats, and uniforms whose combined colors suggested a peacock’s tail. Napoleon’s armies were said to have looked like that, though on a much more grand scale. Presumably they were better disciplined, too; it was well after Captain Fontaine’s company had led the advance over the crest of the rise that the ridiculously dressed defenders began to form up into line. Patton automatically took his spyglass from his belt and raised it to his eye, judging distances.

Bonny Blue Flag 18.1

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30 MAY 1851

I think I’m going to be sick, Travis thought. I’d forgotten how wretched a man can feel when he’s on the verge of facing the guns.

The problem was that there wasn’t enough for him to do. He just didn’t have enough men, and the few he had were being arranged with admirable facility by Cleburne and Captain Stewart. The wounded Irishman and limping Confederate seemed to be in their element here, and Travis idly wondered if either man might be amenable to staying around, should the day end happily for them.
And what chance is there of that? he wondered. “I do wish you’d counted them,” he said to McCulloch. “I’d feel better knowing what we’re up against.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Secretary,” McCulloch said. “There’s easily twice as many of them as there is of us. That ought to make you feel just fine. Knowing any more would just depress you, I think. It’d scare Hell out of me.”

“I know. I’m not criticizing you, Marshal. You’ve done good work these last few days, and I’m grateful. I just want the fighting to start, I guess. I hate waiting.”

Why Is This a Thing?

Further to the ongoing monologue about critics and criticism, yesterday's reading brought me this. Why in the world is this sort of stunt considered necessary?

Okay, that was a rhetorical question. I know perfectly well why it's being done. And knowing this makes me all the more happy I don't have to review movies anymore. Or, in fact, to watch them at all if I don't feel like it.

Bonny Blue Flag 17.5

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[Concluding chapter seventeen]

Patton nudged his horse forward. It must have been instinct that made him curious about the reason the column had stopped moving, he decided, because it could no longer be a matter of him caring about what happened. The letter that weighed so heavily on his heart had pretty much destroyed his chances of ever caring about anything again. How could he ever face Stewart again, should God give him the chance to? And what would his family think if they learned what he’d been doing? He felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and fought to banish those thoughts. If instinct was still working for him, then let instinct take over completely, and leave the rest in God’s hands. In a deliberate gesture of acquiescence, he slackened his hold on the reins and let God guide the horse.

Bonny Blue Flag 17.4

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter seventeen]

That’s a lot of men, God damn it. Ben McCulloch didn’t bother to count them; they were more than two hundred, and that was depressing enough. Probably closer to four hundred, he thought as he thumped down the rise to his horse. If we’re lucky, Travis has a third that number.

And you still have to get past their scouts if you’re going to get this information back to Travis, he reminded himself as he mounted.

Bonny Blue Flag 17.3

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[Continuing chapter seventeen]

Patton dropped his arms to his side and stared into the east, heedless of the glare from the rising sun. He felt the sheet beginning to collapse in on itself, edges pressing against his palm as his hand slowly crushed the letter. This is preposterous, he thought; how dare the man hide such a treacherous accusation, like a viper amongst my personal effects?

He could not bring himself to destroy the letter, though, at least not before he had finished with Cleburne’s ridiculous accusations. He drew it forth, smoothed it out, continued to read.

Bonny Blue Flag 17.2

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[Continuing chapter seventeen]

The sun was well up when Patton awoke next, and when he realized just how deeply he’d slept, he was grateful for the rest. No doubt, he thought, I’m just relieved that this long ordeal is nearly over.
What do I do once we’re in Washington? he wondered. He’d been so focused on the march itself that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about anything beyond that. Perhaps it’s more accurate, he chided himself, to say that you indulged in the luxury of not having to think. And now it’s time to start thinking again.

Would he be going back to Virginia a hero? Or would he be made to keep his work here a secret? How quickly would Colonel Walker release him? And once released from Texas, would he be allowed to rejoin the army?

This, he thought as he struggled out of his bedroll, is why you were so eager not to have to think while on the march. There were just too many things to consider, too many possibilities that frustrated attempts to find a simple answer to the question of What next?

Bonny Blue Flag 17.1

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30 MAY 1851

MILLICAN CREEK, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS

Patton woke to the sound of voices. It was an easy awakening, because it had been a poor, shallow sleep. The last couple of nights had been bad, and he wasn’t sure why; this ground was in no way less comfortable than any he’d slept on earlier.

“That is good news indeed,” Colonel Walker was saying. The voices were close by; that was unusual, because it meant that Walker had left his ambulance to come out to the edge of the camp. Patton had taken to sleeping out here, the better to be close to the sentries should he be needed. For Walker to come out here in the dead of night, though—what time was it?—was most unusual.

Patton struggled up from his bedroll. It was easy to see Colonel Walker; the pale yellow light of a lamp revealed a small group of men standing behind one of the tents. Beside Walker stood the two captains, Wheat and Fontaine. They were speaking to a fourth man, who judging by his outlandish costume was a Texan. That, Patton remembered, was how the Rangers had dressed during the war with Mexico.

Brainnnsssss...

Ontario Power Generation issued (evidently in error) an alert message at the semi-unghodly hour of 7:24 on this Sunday morning, to the effect there had been some sort of ... INCIDENT ... at the massive Pickering Nuclear Power Plant (just east of Toronto) early today.*

Maybe.

A couple of hours after the initial message, the alert was more or less retracted: it had, we were now told, been sent out in error. Yeah, right. Who are you going to believe, Ontario Power Generation or Patrick Nielsen Hayden?†

Lorna and I were discussing the situation over breakfast when I realized what very well might be the horrible truth: amongst our favourite dishes are cervelles au buerre noir (calves' brains, lightly breaded and fried and then served with browned butter) and beyin salatası  (Turkish cold-brains salad).

Could the reason we aren't hiding under our bed today be because we have somehow become... naaahhh.

*The emergency alert seems almost to have been calculated to maximize fear and concern while minimizing efficiency and information transfer. Lorna tells me the French-language version of the message was if anything even less coherent and useful.

†Ignore the fact PNH's tweet was issued more than 30 minutes before the warning-that-wasn't alert. There is nothing to see here. MOVE ON.

Bonny Blue Flag 16.6

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[Concluding chapter sixteen]

Cleburne handed the spy-glass to Travis without a word. The walls of Fort Walker weren’t very high, but they were high enough to allow Travis to watch Reynolds disappear down the street.

“Want someone to be after him?” Cleburne asked.

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary,” Travis said. “I don’t think there’s a lot of point to hunting him down at this stage, do you?” He felt little joy at their success—he felt little of anything, in fact—and that bothered him. After all I’ve been through, he thought, this should mean more to me.

“If you’re asking me,” Cleburne said, “you’re making the right decision. He’s completely discredited now; he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Probably on his way to Mexico,” Travis said. “Santa Anna will no doubt find some use for him. And perhaps he’ll come back to be a problem for us at some point in the future. But we can’t afford to worry about that now, can we?” And that’s why I’m not as happy as I’d like to be, he thought.

“We can’t,” Cleburne said. “Walker’s still out there, and you’ve precious few men available for fighting him as it is. You don’t want to be sending anyone on a chase after Reynolds—like I said, he’s spent.”

“Let’s go back down, then,” Travis said, “and see what we can do about sending a force out to meet Walker before he gets here.”

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    Chapter Fourteen    Chapter Fifteen    Chapter Sixteen

Bonny Blue Flag 16.5

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[Continuing chapter sixteen]

Stewart got to his knees—and now he saw Cooper. The Ranger captain lay on his back, behind the body of his horse. His rifle crossed his body—a wisp of smoke even now drifting upward from the end of the barrel—but there was no chance that Cooper would be using it again.

No less than three balls had hit Cooper, two in the chest and one in the cheek. Any one of them would have been fatal. There wasn’t much blood visible, but he supposed the soil of the street would thirsty this late in the spring, in a country as dry as this.

Bonny Blue Flag 16.4

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter sixteen]

Stewart smiled to himself. There were maybe two dozen soldiers visible outside the old capitol building, and most of those were walking aimlessly in groups of three or four, clearly confused by the sounds of shooting and the absence of any sort of direction from their officers. Could there possibly be a worse-organized insurrection? he thought. Next to these fellows, that Nat Turner and his followers were military geniuses. It certainly gave one a whole new appreciation for the work done by the provisional Congress of the CSA in getting the Second American Revolution under way.

Bonny Blue Flag 16.3

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[Continuing chapter sixteen]

The corporal shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “I can’t tell you what’s going on, Mister Reynolds,” he said. “Fact is, nobody here knows. And the fellow we sent up to the fort hasn’t come back. Yet.”

“Well, have you heard from the men at the capitol?” I shouldn’t have to lead this idiot through his paces, Reynolds thought angrily. He’s supposed to be a professional soldier, damn it all.

The corporal hesitated, then said “No,” in a way that made it sound as though the word was being dragged out of him with red-hot tongs.

Bonny Blue Flag 16.2

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[Continuing chapter sixteen]

“Can’t you just wait them out?” Russell asked. “Surely they’re not going anywhere.”

“Can’t spare the men to watch them,” Stewart said. “Or the time, for that matter. We’re doing well, Mister Russell, but we need to have everything tied up here before first light if we’re going to secure the city and have a hope of meeting Walker before he gets here.”

McCulloch had already taken the men with the ladder around the corner of the house; when Stewart caught up with him, McCulloch was standing, looking up at the second-floor windows, presumably trying to guess which window looked in on the fugitives. “It’s the left one,” Stewart said. “But don’t set the ladder against the building until I tell you.”

Familiarity's Discontents

(Being the latest in an apparently ongoing discourse on criticism and critics.)

A few weeks ago I was talking movies with my friend Do-Ming and the discussion turned to the critical responses to Frozen 2. I haven't seen the movie myself, but I've noticed a sufficient number of reviews to lead me to mention to Do-Ming that the critics hadn't been as kindly disposed to the sequel as they'd been to the first.

Do-Ming mentioned that he'd been on the aggregator site Rotten Tomatoes* and had noticed that the critics' average was some 20 points lower than the public's average (I think it was something like 77% good for the critics, 97% for the public). What accounted for the difference, he asked. "Are critics really that picky?" One friend (RIP) argued that in fact critics were jerks who wanted non-critics to feel inferior; as I was working as a critic at the time she made this accusation I was somewhat hurt. So I prefer Do-Ming's implication, even though it's not precisely flattering either.

Does Anybody Else Do This?

It's January, which means once again it is time for my annual re-reading of Georgette Heyer. I started doing this years ago as a means of cheering myself up during the most dismal parts of an Ontario winter, and lately I've really come to look forward to it. Even if this year I've given myself permission to read only the novels I really enjoy (last year for some now-forgotten reason I decided I was going to read everything we had of Heyer's historicals; not a great idea), so the re-reading will probably be done by the end of the month.

But now I'm curious: am I the only person who does this? I know many people re-read their favourite books (Lorna especially), but does anyone else make a ritual of it?

Bonny Blue Flag 16.1

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29 MAY 1851

It was too much to hope, Stewart thought, that the bastards would give up without some kind of a fight. Just don’t take too many of these fellows with you when you go, he thought to the men barricaded in the late General Beauregard’s bedroom. We don’t have too many to spare as it is.
Already one of Miller’s men had dragged himself away and down the stairs with a ball embedded in his hip or leg; too many more casualties and Travis would have no one to stand with him against Walker’s filibuster when it arrived. Stewart looked around as the smoke from the shooting thinned, and saw four—no, five—militiamen edging closer to the stairs. They’re scared, he realized, because they can’t see the enemy. Then it occurred to him that the reverse might also be true, and could work in his favor.

He walked down the hall to the stairs and the men gathered there, winking at them to show that he, at least, was not worried about anything. “You two”—he pointed to a couple of the larger men—“start pulling heavy furniture in front of that door. They want to stay in there? We’ll let them. Make as much noise as you can—I want those people to know they’re trapped.”

2020 Vision

Alert readers (both of you) will have noticed this blog has been engaged in radio silence for the past week. Well, that's about to end. After the successful (if exhausting) conclusion of a family visit and a hosted New Year's Eve party, yours truly is about to get stuck back into work again.

And for a change I might even have things to talk about that aren't serialized posts of desk-drawer novels.