[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.
He would have preferred terror in any form to the numbness that continued to afflict him. What, he wondered, do I do with myself now? Assuming that I manage to escape Texas without being shot or hanged, where do I go? Can I go back to Richmond and tell them, “Sorry I left my post without leave, but I thought I was operating under orders of the vice president because everybody lied to me and I believed it”? Somehow it didn’t seem likely he’d get too sympathetic a hearing with a tale like that.
“Hands up, you filibusterin’ son of a bitch!”
Patton jolted into alertness, to see two gaudily dressed Texans standing suddenly in his path. They had, he realized, been hiding behind trees and he hadn’t been paying attention. Idiot, he told himself. You’re still on a battlefield, and just about everybody here thinks you’re the enemy.
The Texans were also, he now saw, hideously drunk. “Gonna get me a nice new pistol an’ rifle,” one of the men said, slurring sounds Patton hadn’t thought it possible to slur.
“The horse is mine,” the other said, leveling a single-shot pistol at Patton. “Get down from there, boy, and maybe we’ll let you live.”
They were probably farmers or plantation-owners, Patton thought. Soldiering wasn’t something they’d expected to have to do, and only strong spirits had apparently given them the fortitude to stand up to the terrors of today’s battle.
It wasn’t really that hard to put himself in their place. After all, hadn’t the Federals invaded Virginia? Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to be killed by men such as these, he thought.
Then he recognized self-pity for what it was, and gave himself over to the instincts learned under first his older brother’s fists and then the tutelage of the military instructors at the Institute. He shifted his balance in the saddle, to allow himself to slide off the horse in either direction should it prove necessary. His left hand took both reins; his right he dropped until his fingertips touched the curved handle of the Colt.
“I said, get down from there,” the man with the pistol said. Then, without further warning, he fired.
Patton thrust himself to the left, putting the horse’s head and neck between himself and the gunman. The precaution was unnecessary; a second after the report of the pistol, Patton heard a faint thwack as the ball thudded into a distant tree. Given the way the man was staring at his pistol when Patton sat upright again, the Texan might have fired accidentally. Or possibly he was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing.
The logical thing to do now was to shoot the man and his companion. For a moment, Patton’s right hand gripped the Colt’s handle, thumb reaching for the hammer. Then he let go and straightened up in the saddle. I am done with killing today, he thought—and realized a sudden surge of fellow-feeling for Stewart, who’d said something very similar to him not that long ago.
He spurred his horse forward, kicking out at the Texan as he passed. The contact of boot against torso, the shock it sent up his leg as the man fell, felt good. Any stimulus right now was good.
Too late, he realized that he’d forgotten about the second Texan. The man was unarmed, but the broken tree-branch he swung against Patton’s left shoulder was formidable enough, catching Patton unaware as it did.
He was on the ground, gasping for breath. Landed on my chest, he thought. Where’s the horse? Then a flicker of shadow crossed his vision, and for a split second the universe froze, as in that last moment before the hand of God rang down the end of time.
The pain was so intense, so pure, it made of Patton’s world a white void. The pain had a taste, of stale, bitter walnuts. The pain seemed to say, I am all you ever need know.
After a second or two, though, the pain was nowhere near as intense. He opened his eyes to see the Texan rear back, tree branch over his head, preparing for another blow. Patton wanted to roll out of the way, but the telegraph lines between his brain and limbs seemed to be down. The image looked strange, too.
Could he reach his Colt? He could. Pulling back the hammer even as he drew the revolver from its holster, Patton loosed a shot at the Texan as he began his downswing. Strangely, he heard two explosions.
The Texan spun sideways, the branch slamming into the ground beside Patton’s head. The man hit the ground just as a second shot—or was it a third?—echoed through the trees.
In the sudden silence the followed, Patton heard the muffled hoof-steps of an approaching horse. “Patton,” a voice said, “did you blow up Colonel Walker’s powder wagon?”
Patton turned his head to see Chatham Roberdeau Wheat looking down on him. Even through the haze of blood that blocked one eye and skewed his vision, Patton could see that Wheat’s face was the picture of scarcely contained anger.
Then the façade crumbled, and Wheat began to laugh. “Damn it all, boy,” he said, “if you aren’t the strangest fellow I ever met.” Wheat swung himself out of the saddle and stooped down to help Patton to his feet. “Whatever in the world possessed you to do a thing like that?”
Patton looked around him. The Texans were either dead or dying; he and Wheat were alone in the trees, the only sounds the breathing of Wheat’s horse and the distant rush of the river.
“I found out this morning,” Patton said, “that I’d been brought into this—this thing—under false pretenses.”
“Your people lied to you,” Wheat said. Patton nodded. Walker lied to me too. “Old Fontaine thought that might have been the case. He’s gone, you know,” Wheat added. “Died hard, I’m afraid.” Wheat shook his head. “At that, though, he might be better off than we will. They can’t do anything more to him, can they?”
“What’s happened?” Patton asked. In spite of it all, he had to know.
“There wasn’t much fight left in our boys by the time Fontaine died,” Wheat said. “When you blew the powder, that clinched it. Everybody started running—and then dragoons came up as the boys were trying to collect their gear and get out. It’s ugly back there, and that ain’t the half of what it’s going to be. Walker’s gone in the head; he thinks God will spare him. As for me, I’m putting my faith in my horse’s stamina. Want to come?”
“Let me get my horse.” Patton tried to run to where the animal waited, staring; he settled for a brisk walk, the most the splitting pain in his head would allow him. Wheat’s offer, though, had done a lot to make the pain more bearable. This was the answer to his question: he would become a soldier of fortune, joining Wheat in the service of some foreign power. Let the world think he’d died here. That was at least partly true anyway.
As he walked the horse back to Wheat, though, he looked down at the dead Texan, and knew that running wasn’t an option for him. It never had been.
“Captain,” he said, “you’d best get going without me. You don’t have anything to regret about this adventure”—
“Short of allowing Walker to talk me into it in the first place,” Wheat said drily.
—“because you knew from the start what you were doing and why you were doing it. But I have caused a lot of harm to a lot of people, because I allowed unscrupulous men to play on my vanity.”
“You’re a young man, Patton,” Wheat said. “It’s not your fault that you didn’t know better. Next time you will.”
“It’s because I don’t want there to be a next time that I have to go back,” Patton said. “I have to make amends. I don’t know how, but I have to.”
“All right,” Wheat said, swinging easily into his saddle. “If that’s your choice, you’ve the right to make it. Just be sure you’re not doing this because you think that letting yourself be punished will make any difference to the men who’ve died or their wives, mothers or children. ‘Cause I can assure you it won’t. Nobody’s going to think you’re noble just because you let them hang you. Their men will still be dead.”
The small part of Patton’s soul that had hoped for just such a forgiveness slunk away and hid. “I know what I have to do,” he said.
“And I’m running out of time to do what I have to do,” Wheat said. “Good luck to you, boy. And be sure to have your head looked at. That’s a nasty cut you’ve got.” He doffed his hat in a salute; the feather, Patton noted, was gone. “You’re a good soldier, Patton. It’s been a pleasure serving with you.”
Patton saluted, a proper parade-ground salute. “Thank you, sir,” he said. But Wheat was already gone.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelveThe 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.
He would have preferred terror in any form to the numbness that continued to afflict him. What, he wondered, do I do with myself now? Assuming that I manage to escape Texas without being shot or hanged, where do I go? Can I go back to Richmond and tell them, “Sorry I left my post without leave, but I thought I was operating under orders of the vice president because everybody lied to me and I believed it”? Somehow it didn’t seem likely he’d get too sympathetic a hearing with a tale like that.
“Hands up, you filibusterin’ son of a bitch!”
Patton jolted into alertness, to see two gaudily dressed Texans standing suddenly in his path. They had, he realized, been hiding behind trees and he hadn’t been paying attention. Idiot, he told himself. You’re still on a battlefield, and just about everybody here thinks you’re the enemy.
The Texans were also, he now saw, hideously drunk. “Gonna get me a nice new pistol an’ rifle,” one of the men said, slurring sounds Patton hadn’t thought it possible to slur.
“The horse is mine,” the other said, leveling a single-shot pistol at Patton. “Get down from there, boy, and maybe we’ll let you live.”
They were probably farmers or plantation-owners, Patton thought. Soldiering wasn’t something they’d expected to have to do, and only strong spirits had apparently given them the fortitude to stand up to the terrors of today’s battle.
It wasn’t really that hard to put himself in their place. After all, hadn’t the Federals invaded Virginia? Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to be killed by men such as these, he thought.
Then he recognized self-pity for what it was, and gave himself over to the instincts learned under first his older brother’s fists and then the tutelage of the military instructors at the Institute. He shifted his balance in the saddle, to allow himself to slide off the horse in either direction should it prove necessary. His left hand took both reins; his right he dropped until his fingertips touched the curved handle of the Colt.
“I said, get down from there,” the man with the pistol said. Then, without further warning, he fired.
Patton thrust himself to the left, putting the horse’s head and neck between himself and the gunman. The precaution was unnecessary; a second after the report of the pistol, Patton heard a faint thwack as the ball thudded into a distant tree. Given the way the man was staring at his pistol when Patton sat upright again, the Texan might have fired accidentally. Or possibly he was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing.
The logical thing to do now was to shoot the man and his companion. For a moment, Patton’s right hand gripped the Colt’s handle, thumb reaching for the hammer. Then he let go and straightened up in the saddle. I am done with killing today, he thought—and realized a sudden surge of fellow-feeling for Stewart, who’d said something very similar to him not that long ago.
He spurred his horse forward, kicking out at the Texan as he passed. The contact of boot against torso, the shock it sent up his leg as the man fell, felt good. Any stimulus right now was good.
Too late, he realized that he’d forgotten about the second Texan. The man was unarmed, but the broken tree-branch he swung against Patton’s left shoulder was formidable enough, catching Patton unaware as it did.
He was on the ground, gasping for breath. Landed on my chest, he thought. Where’s the horse? Then a flicker of shadow crossed his vision, and for a split second the universe froze, as in that last moment before the hand of God rang down the end of time.
The pain was so intense, so pure, it made of Patton’s world a white void. The pain had a taste, of stale, bitter walnuts. The pain seemed to say, I am all you ever need know.
After a second or two, though, the pain was nowhere near as intense. He opened his eyes to see the Texan rear back, tree branch over his head, preparing for another blow. Patton wanted to roll out of the way, but the telegraph lines between his brain and limbs seemed to be down. The image looked strange, too.
Could he reach his Colt? He could. Pulling back the hammer even as he drew the revolver from its holster, Patton loosed a shot at the Texan as he began his downswing. Strangely, he heard two explosions.
The Texan spun sideways, the branch slamming into the ground beside Patton’s head. The man hit the ground just as a second shot—or was it a third?—echoed through the trees.
In the sudden silence the followed, Patton heard the muffled hoof-steps of an approaching horse. “Patton,” a voice said, “did you blow up Colonel Walker’s powder wagon?”
Patton turned his head to see Chatham Roberdeau Wheat looking down on him. Even through the haze of blood that blocked one eye and skewed his vision, Patton could see that Wheat’s face was the picture of scarcely contained anger.
Then the façade crumbled, and Wheat began to laugh. “Damn it all, boy,” he said, “if you aren’t the strangest fellow I ever met.” Wheat swung himself out of the saddle and stooped down to help Patton to his feet. “Whatever in the world possessed you to do a thing like that?”
Patton looked around him. The Texans were either dead or dying; he and Wheat were alone in the trees, the only sounds the breathing of Wheat’s horse and the distant rush of the river.
“I found out this morning,” Patton said, “that I’d been brought into this—this thing—under false pretenses.”
“Your people lied to you,” Wheat said. Patton nodded. Walker lied to me too. “Old Fontaine thought that might have been the case. He’s gone, you know,” Wheat added. “Died hard, I’m afraid.” Wheat shook his head. “At that, though, he might be better off than we will. They can’t do anything more to him, can they?”
“What’s happened?” Patton asked. In spite of it all, he had to know.
“There wasn’t much fight left in our boys by the time Fontaine died,” Wheat said. “When you blew the powder, that clinched it. Everybody started running—and then dragoons came up as the boys were trying to collect their gear and get out. It’s ugly back there, and that ain’t the half of what it’s going to be. Walker’s gone in the head; he thinks God will spare him. As for me, I’m putting my faith in my horse’s stamina. Want to come?”
“Let me get my horse.” Patton tried to run to where the animal waited, staring; he settled for a brisk walk, the most the splitting pain in his head would allow him. Wheat’s offer, though, had done a lot to make the pain more bearable. This was the answer to his question: he would become a soldier of fortune, joining Wheat in the service of some foreign power. Let the world think he’d died here. That was at least partly true anyway.
As he walked the horse back to Wheat, though, he looked down at the dead Texan, and knew that running wasn’t an option for him. It never had been.
“Captain,” he said, “you’d best get going without me. You don’t have anything to regret about this adventure”—
“Short of allowing Walker to talk me into it in the first place,” Wheat said drily.
—“because you knew from the start what you were doing and why you were doing it. But I have caused a lot of harm to a lot of people, because I allowed unscrupulous men to play on my vanity.”
“You’re a young man, Patton,” Wheat said. “It’s not your fault that you didn’t know better. Next time you will.”
“It’s because I don’t want there to be a next time that I have to go back,” Patton said. “I have to make amends. I don’t know how, but I have to.”
“All right,” Wheat said, swinging easily into his saddle. “If that’s your choice, you’ve the right to make it. Just be sure you’re not doing this because you think that letting yourself be punished will make any difference to the men who’ve died or their wives, mothers or children. ‘Cause I can assure you it won’t. Nobody’s going to think you’re noble just because you let them hang you. Their men will still be dead.”
The small part of Patton’s soul that had hoped for just such a forgiveness slunk away and hid. “I know what I have to do,” he said.
“And I’m running out of time to do what I have to do,” Wheat said. “Good luck to you, boy. And be sure to have your head looked at. That’s a nasty cut you’ve got.” He doffed his hat in a salute; the feather, Patton noted, was gone. “You’re a good soldier, Patton. It’s been a pleasure serving with you.”
Patton saluted, a proper parade-ground salute. “Thank you, sir,” he said. But Wheat was already gone.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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