[Continuing chapter seventeen]
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
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.
I know how hard it will be for you, learning this, and the manner of your learning it will make it the worse. If our friendship has meant anything to you, though, Patton, I beg you to believe this.
Your brother John has been working as a special agent for Secretary of State William B. Travis, and he has spent the past five months infiltrating this conspiracy. I have seen the evidence he has gathered and I believe him: the threat to Texas is not from the British, who have other fish to fry. It is from your own government, I fear. Some in the Confederate government have paid Colonel Walker to filibuster Texas into the Confederacy, and he has been told to stop at nothing in order to achieve this goal.
Patton shook his head. This couldn’t be true. For it to be true would have to mean that everyone had lied to him—General Mercer, Senator Brooks. Charles Stewart? No, not Stewart. Was this what Stewart had been trying to tell him when they parted? If so, why couldn’t he have been forthright about it?
Because you wouldn’t have listened to him, his conscience told him.
For what it’s worth, Patton, your brother thinks that Walker has plans of his own, and means to betray both his backers in Richmond and his supporters in Texas. But even if this is true, it does not mitigate the original crime.
I know how hard this will be for you. But I am also sure that you will do the right thing, if only you learn the truth in time. God bless you, Patton, and good-bye. If we don’t meet again, know that I was proud to call you friend, however briefly.
A post-script had been scrawled, in evident haste, at the bottom of the page.
John Patton has given me the enclosed to pass to you, in the event that my letter is not sufficient to convince you that the cause you serve is fatally flawed.
That would be the oilskin packet. Numbed by what he’d already taken in, Patton bent to pick it up. Opening the packet, he felt a sickening chill sweep through him. Though he didn’t recognize the handwriting on the single sheet of paper, he knew the name signed at the bottom: Stewart’s uncle, James Stewart.
“Come on, I said! Get moving!” Startled, Patton looked around. The man who’d yelled at him—one of Fontaine’s lieutenants—rode over to the next group of slackers, his voice rising in exaggerated outrage as he approached them. The camp had nearly vanished, last night’s sea of tents giving way to a meadow of trampled grass and ash-strewn fire pits. Patton shook his head, perplexed and nauseated at once. How long have I been standing here? What has happened to me?
He had dropped the letter at some point. Picking it up again, he could not help but see phrases that seemed now to have been limned with blood: we set no restrictions on your actions was one; under no circumstances will we acknowledge our relationship should you be taken was another. President Calhoun does not know and will not be told was the worst, he decided. That was the sentence that confirmed, to Patton, that what he had been doing was not only not at the request of the Texans, but was in addition a violation of Virginian and Confederate law.
—He was tearing at the buttons on his coat. Only his tent now stood, alone in a field at the far end of which a column of wagons, men and horses was beginning to assemble. A horseman approached him—Wheat, labeled by the feathers in his hat-band.
“Patton, what the hell are you doing?” Wheat shouted as he approached. “We’ve been watching you for twenty minutes and you just stand there, twitching. Walker’s fit to burst.”
Walker. Patton didn’t want to think about Walker, lest he give voice to those thoughts. “Sorry,” he said. He tried to speak over his shoulder, without having to turn to face Wheat. “Having some trouble with my uniform. Please tell Colonel Walker that he should go on, and I’ll catch up as soon as I’ve cleaned up my tent.” To demonstrate his sincerity, he began pulling ropes and pegs from the ground, collapsing the tent in a sudden, sad heap. I feel like that tent, he thought.
—He was on horseback. Men looked up at him as he passed. I’ve rejoined the column, he thought. I don’t remember coming here. He wore the worn, greasy trousers and coat he’d worn since leaving New Orleans, over a month ago. For a moment he didn’t understand why he wasn’t in uniform, as he’d intended. Then memory returned.
—Standing, watching the column heading off southward, in the direction of the capital. Stripping off the uniform, now a thing to be despised. Burying the hated thing under his fire pit, hoping that enough heat remained in the embers to burn the kersey, burn away the stain on his honor. Snapping the sword in half and throwing the pieces as far as he could, screaming his disgust and shame in the most hateful, blasphemous words he could summon.
The letter, he thought in a panic. I didn’t burn the letter, did I?
No, he hadn’t burned it. He wasn’t entirely aware of why it was that he’d held onto the packet and its treacherous contents, but they had not gone into the flames or under the earth. Instead, he’d placed them in an inside pocket of his jacket. Patting his breast now he felt their presence, a reminder of his shame. The weight of the packet pressed against his chest, directly over top of his heart.
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.
I know how hard it will be for you, learning this, and the manner of your learning it will make it the worse. If our friendship has meant anything to you, though, Patton, I beg you to believe this.
Your brother John has been working as a special agent for Secretary of State William B. Travis, and he has spent the past five months infiltrating this conspiracy. I have seen the evidence he has gathered and I believe him: the threat to Texas is not from the British, who have other fish to fry. It is from your own government, I fear. Some in the Confederate government have paid Colonel Walker to filibuster Texas into the Confederacy, and he has been told to stop at nothing in order to achieve this goal.
Patton shook his head. This couldn’t be true. For it to be true would have to mean that everyone had lied to him—General Mercer, Senator Brooks. Charles Stewart? No, not Stewart. Was this what Stewart had been trying to tell him when they parted? If so, why couldn’t he have been forthright about it?
Because you wouldn’t have listened to him, his conscience told him.
For what it’s worth, Patton, your brother thinks that Walker has plans of his own, and means to betray both his backers in Richmond and his supporters in Texas. But even if this is true, it does not mitigate the original crime.
I know how hard this will be for you. But I am also sure that you will do the right thing, if only you learn the truth in time. God bless you, Patton, and good-bye. If we don’t meet again, know that I was proud to call you friend, however briefly.
A post-script had been scrawled, in evident haste, at the bottom of the page.
John Patton has given me the enclosed to pass to you, in the event that my letter is not sufficient to convince you that the cause you serve is fatally flawed.
That would be the oilskin packet. Numbed by what he’d already taken in, Patton bent to pick it up. Opening the packet, he felt a sickening chill sweep through him. Though he didn’t recognize the handwriting on the single sheet of paper, he knew the name signed at the bottom: Stewart’s uncle, James Stewart.
“Come on, I said! Get moving!” Startled, Patton looked around. The man who’d yelled at him—one of Fontaine’s lieutenants—rode over to the next group of slackers, his voice rising in exaggerated outrage as he approached them. The camp had nearly vanished, last night’s sea of tents giving way to a meadow of trampled grass and ash-strewn fire pits. Patton shook his head, perplexed and nauseated at once. How long have I been standing here? What has happened to me?
He had dropped the letter at some point. Picking it up again, he could not help but see phrases that seemed now to have been limned with blood: we set no restrictions on your actions was one; under no circumstances will we acknowledge our relationship should you be taken was another. President Calhoun does not know and will not be told was the worst, he decided. That was the sentence that confirmed, to Patton, that what he had been doing was not only not at the request of the Texans, but was in addition a violation of Virginian and Confederate law.
—He was tearing at the buttons on his coat. Only his tent now stood, alone in a field at the far end of which a column of wagons, men and horses was beginning to assemble. A horseman approached him—Wheat, labeled by the feathers in his hat-band.
“Patton, what the hell are you doing?” Wheat shouted as he approached. “We’ve been watching you for twenty minutes and you just stand there, twitching. Walker’s fit to burst.”
Walker. Patton didn’t want to think about Walker, lest he give voice to those thoughts. “Sorry,” he said. He tried to speak over his shoulder, without having to turn to face Wheat. “Having some trouble with my uniform. Please tell Colonel Walker that he should go on, and I’ll catch up as soon as I’ve cleaned up my tent.” To demonstrate his sincerity, he began pulling ropes and pegs from the ground, collapsing the tent in a sudden, sad heap. I feel like that tent, he thought.
—He was on horseback. Men looked up at him as he passed. I’ve rejoined the column, he thought. I don’t remember coming here. He wore the worn, greasy trousers and coat he’d worn since leaving New Orleans, over a month ago. For a moment he didn’t understand why he wasn’t in uniform, as he’d intended. Then memory returned.
—Standing, watching the column heading off southward, in the direction of the capital. Stripping off the uniform, now a thing to be despised. Burying the hated thing under his fire pit, hoping that enough heat remained in the embers to burn the kersey, burn away the stain on his honor. Snapping the sword in half and throwing the pieces as far as he could, screaming his disgust and shame in the most hateful, blasphemous words he could summon.
The letter, he thought in a panic. I didn’t burn the letter, did I?
No, he hadn’t burned it. He wasn’t entirely aware of why it was that he’d held onto the packet and its treacherous contents, but they had not gone into the flames or under the earth. Instead, he’d placed them in an inside pocket of his jacket. Patting his breast now he felt their presence, a reminder of his shame. The weight of the packet pressed against his chest, directly over top of his heart.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
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