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.”
“I seem to recall you saying something similar at San Jacinto,” McCulloch said with a grin. “Bowie and Crockett almost had to arrest you to hold you back, according to what I’ve been told.”
“Arrant nonsense,” Travis said. “If anything, I was too cautious to be a good commander. Politics is definitely better suited to my temperament.”
He looked to his left, to where Captain Stewart was chivying into position on the wooden bridge an under-strength, makeshift company assembled from the engineers and artillerymen of the Washington garrison. The one gun they’d been able to bring sat on a rise some fifty yards behind them. McCulloch had said the invaders had two guns. Travis shook his head. “Why don’t they come?”
“They’ll be here,” McCulloch said. “They’ve got scouts with them, so they’re more’n likely to know we’re here. Walker’s just getting everybody in order, is my guess. The dance’ll start on time, Mr. Secretary. Don’t you worry.”
Stewart limped up from Travis’s right. “I don’t envy whoever tries to take on those boys,” he said with a gesture behind him to the two militia companies they’d put together in the time allotted them. “They’ve been drinking, and they’re getting mean.”
“Oh, no,” Travis said. Drink could destroy an army; it had certainly done for the Mexicans at least twice during the revolution. “Who let that happen?”
“Who was going to stop it?” Stewart asked. “These fellows are farmers and plantation owners, sir, and it’s their land that’s been invaded. I’ve seen snakes with a more pleasant disposition.”
“I appreciate their anger, I really do.” Travis was somewhat surprised to realize that this was true. He’d long since thought himself immunized against the stronger emotions. Perhaps the politician hadn’t taken him over completely after all. “But we have to make sure that they hold. It won’t do to have them so itching for a fight that they charge Walker as soon as they see him.” Travis coughed, looked down to find the source of the dust that tickled his throat and discovered that it was him: he’d been shuffling his feet in a sort of spastic solo dance. Get a grip on yourself, man, he told himself. “Captain Stewart, I’m going to make you personally responsible for seeing that our militia holds its ground. Tell me I can count on you.”
“I’ve already settled in my mind, sir. By helping you I’m directly serving my own country. I’m happy to be of service.” Stewart didn’t look entirely happy about what he’d just said, but he betrayed no reluctance as he walked back to where the militia-men, ridiculous in their old-fashioned Mexican uniforms, were clustered around what Travis now knew was a jug or two of rum.
Travis looked around him. The position was a good one; if only they’d been able to gather more men. If only the army had more men in the capital as opposed to guarding the frontiers from the Mexicans and the Kiowas and Comanches. If only. If only.
He found himself calculating his options should they lose today. Will they treat me honorably if I surrender? Will I be prepared to die if I have to? Will I have the choice?
“We have to hold,” he said.
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelveI 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.”
“I seem to recall you saying something similar at San Jacinto,” McCulloch said with a grin. “Bowie and Crockett almost had to arrest you to hold you back, according to what I’ve been told.”
“Arrant nonsense,” Travis said. “If anything, I was too cautious to be a good commander. Politics is definitely better suited to my temperament.”
He looked to his left, to where Captain Stewart was chivying into position on the wooden bridge an under-strength, makeshift company assembled from the engineers and artillerymen of the Washington garrison. The one gun they’d been able to bring sat on a rise some fifty yards behind them. McCulloch had said the invaders had two guns. Travis shook his head. “Why don’t they come?”
“They’ll be here,” McCulloch said. “They’ve got scouts with them, so they’re more’n likely to know we’re here. Walker’s just getting everybody in order, is my guess. The dance’ll start on time, Mr. Secretary. Don’t you worry.”
Stewart limped up from Travis’s right. “I don’t envy whoever tries to take on those boys,” he said with a gesture behind him to the two militia companies they’d put together in the time allotted them. “They’ve been drinking, and they’re getting mean.”
“Oh, no,” Travis said. Drink could destroy an army; it had certainly done for the Mexicans at least twice during the revolution. “Who let that happen?”
“Who was going to stop it?” Stewart asked. “These fellows are farmers and plantation owners, sir, and it’s their land that’s been invaded. I’ve seen snakes with a more pleasant disposition.”
“I appreciate their anger, I really do.” Travis was somewhat surprised to realize that this was true. He’d long since thought himself immunized against the stronger emotions. Perhaps the politician hadn’t taken him over completely after all. “But we have to make sure that they hold. It won’t do to have them so itching for a fight that they charge Walker as soon as they see him.” Travis coughed, looked down to find the source of the dust that tickled his throat and discovered that it was him: he’d been shuffling his feet in a sort of spastic solo dance. Get a grip on yourself, man, he told himself. “Captain Stewart, I’m going to make you personally responsible for seeing that our militia holds its ground. Tell me I can count on you.”
“I’ve already settled in my mind, sir. By helping you I’m directly serving my own country. I’m happy to be of service.” Stewart didn’t look entirely happy about what he’d just said, but he betrayed no reluctance as he walked back to where the militia-men, ridiculous in their old-fashioned Mexican uniforms, were clustered around what Travis now knew was a jug or two of rum.
Travis looked around him. The position was a good one; if only they’d been able to gather more men. If only the army had more men in the capital as opposed to guarding the frontiers from the Mexicans and the Kiowas and Comanches. If only. If only.
He found himself calculating his options should they lose today. Will they treat me honorably if I surrender? Will I be prepared to die if I have to? Will I have the choice?
“We have to hold,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
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