[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.
The first explosion took him by surprise, so preoccupied was he with the small patch of ground he could see through the spyglass. The reaction of the men was even more of a surprise: Everybody stopped. It was as though the whole scene had been frozen onto a daguerreotype plate; the only motion was the cloud of dust and smoke that dissipated upward from the spot where the shell had landed.
It was a moment before the true import of the explosion registered with Patton: the enemy had cannon. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought. There wasn’t supposed to be that much resistance.
He looked around him. The horses seemed to be handling this latest development with more calm than their riders; the animals stood placidly, while the men stared at one another, wide-eyed. Patton could see the calculation going on behind those eyes, and understood now why Wheat had been concerned. This wasn’t really an army; it was a collection of individual, violent, men pretending to be an army. And now those men were weighing the relative risks of staying or running, something the members of a Virginia regiment or even the underclassmen at the Virginia Military Institute would never do.
He was moving before he fully realized it, waving the men behind him to follow him off the rough road and onto the knee-high grass on the downward slope. “Come on!” he shouted. “Into line!” That wasn’t precisely how the command was supposed to be issued, but that didn’t seem to matter now. Enough of the men followed him that the mysterious force behind most military movements galvanized the whole company into motion.
Once he was sure that the men were following, Patton returned to his examination of the enemy. The brightly clad men on the enemy right were cheering the cannon-shot. Patton decided that they must be some sort of militia, a citizen levy remnant from the war of independence against Mexico. They could safely be ignored; they would undoubtedly prove even less disciplined than Walker’s mercenaries. The gray- and white-clad regulars were more of a concern. Fortunately, Walker’s force vastly outnumbered them. Best of all, the enemy had just one gun; after a moment’s searching with his spyglass, Patton located the weapon—it looked like a very old bronze twelve-pounder—atop a low rise south and west of the main enemy position. If it truly was a twelve-pounder it would out-range Walker’s own cannon, but the gun was being served very slowly; with any luck at all Walker would be approaching the enemy line before that gun was properly ranged.
Because he was looking at it, Patton was able to follow the cannon’s next shot from the moment the smoke erupted from the mouth of the barrel to the instant just before the shell hit. He pretended he could see the ball arcing through the air, revolving slowly; fantasized he could even see the fuse burning as it traveled.
When the shell hit, though, fantasy died. So did a number of men from Fontaine’s company. Patton, expecting the shot to fall as short as its predecessor had, was looking forward when the explosion came; he swiveled in his saddle in time to see the last of the bodies collapse to earth. A horse, sliced open by a piece of the exploding shell, kicked reflexively as it died. One of the human corpses was headless, and Patton felt queasy at queer violation of symmetry.
A chorus of sotto voce profanity erupted from the men of Wheat’s company, and Patton knew that they wouldn’t stand if the Texans continued to shell them from long range. Walker had to advance quickly and come to grips with the forces on the opposite bank of the creek, or he’d lose.
Patton looked around for Walker, finally saw the colonel ride over the rise at the head of Nelson’s old company, now re-formed to make up the center of the line. Keep them moving, Patton thought. But the new arrivals, after they’d formed up into line, stopped. Walker rode forward, and Wheat and Fontaine left their companies to join him. Patton shook his head. Every minute you waste, he thought, the Texans grow more confident.
A few seconds later, Wheat came thundering up, the feather in his hat waving wildly. “Good job, son,” he said, waving to encompass the now nervously shifting line in which his company was arrayed. “We’re going to have to lead the advance—are you ready?”
“What?”
“Fontaine’s men aren’t moving. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. They haven’t taken more than a handful of casualties, but they won’t go forward. They aren’t moving to the back, either, but that’s not doing us much good. Fontaine’s just about apoplectic, trying to get them to budge, but they won’t have it.”
“Well.” Patton couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew now that he’d been coasting, hoping somehow that the battle would take place, and he would do something approximating his duty, without his actually having to think or act deliberately. Time to make a decision, he decided. Either you’re in this, or you ride away now.
“This is the wrong time to get the collywobbles, Patton.” Wheat grinned. “Don’t worry. That was a lucky shot a minute ago; those boys couldn’t hit water by pissing in the middle of the ocean. They’re not going to touch us.” He gestured to something happening behind Patton. “Besides, Walker’s giving us some help.”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelveThere 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.
The first explosion took him by surprise, so preoccupied was he with the small patch of ground he could see through the spyglass. The reaction of the men was even more of a surprise: Everybody stopped. It was as though the whole scene had been frozen onto a daguerreotype plate; the only motion was the cloud of dust and smoke that dissipated upward from the spot where the shell had landed.
It was a moment before the true import of the explosion registered with Patton: the enemy had cannon. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought. There wasn’t supposed to be that much resistance.
He looked around him. The horses seemed to be handling this latest development with more calm than their riders; the animals stood placidly, while the men stared at one another, wide-eyed. Patton could see the calculation going on behind those eyes, and understood now why Wheat had been concerned. This wasn’t really an army; it was a collection of individual, violent, men pretending to be an army. And now those men were weighing the relative risks of staying or running, something the members of a Virginia regiment or even the underclassmen at the Virginia Military Institute would never do.
He was moving before he fully realized it, waving the men behind him to follow him off the rough road and onto the knee-high grass on the downward slope. “Come on!” he shouted. “Into line!” That wasn’t precisely how the command was supposed to be issued, but that didn’t seem to matter now. Enough of the men followed him that the mysterious force behind most military movements galvanized the whole company into motion.
Once he was sure that the men were following, Patton returned to his examination of the enemy. The brightly clad men on the enemy right were cheering the cannon-shot. Patton decided that they must be some sort of militia, a citizen levy remnant from the war of independence against Mexico. They could safely be ignored; they would undoubtedly prove even less disciplined than Walker’s mercenaries. The gray- and white-clad regulars were more of a concern. Fortunately, Walker’s force vastly outnumbered them. Best of all, the enemy had just one gun; after a moment’s searching with his spyglass, Patton located the weapon—it looked like a very old bronze twelve-pounder—atop a low rise south and west of the main enemy position. If it truly was a twelve-pounder it would out-range Walker’s own cannon, but the gun was being served very slowly; with any luck at all Walker would be approaching the enemy line before that gun was properly ranged.
Because he was looking at it, Patton was able to follow the cannon’s next shot from the moment the smoke erupted from the mouth of the barrel to the instant just before the shell hit. He pretended he could see the ball arcing through the air, revolving slowly; fantasized he could even see the fuse burning as it traveled.
When the shell hit, though, fantasy died. So did a number of men from Fontaine’s company. Patton, expecting the shot to fall as short as its predecessor had, was looking forward when the explosion came; he swiveled in his saddle in time to see the last of the bodies collapse to earth. A horse, sliced open by a piece of the exploding shell, kicked reflexively as it died. One of the human corpses was headless, and Patton felt queasy at queer violation of symmetry.
A chorus of sotto voce profanity erupted from the men of Wheat’s company, and Patton knew that they wouldn’t stand if the Texans continued to shell them from long range. Walker had to advance quickly and come to grips with the forces on the opposite bank of the creek, or he’d lose.
Patton looked around for Walker, finally saw the colonel ride over the rise at the head of Nelson’s old company, now re-formed to make up the center of the line. Keep them moving, Patton thought. But the new arrivals, after they’d formed up into line, stopped. Walker rode forward, and Wheat and Fontaine left their companies to join him. Patton shook his head. Every minute you waste, he thought, the Texans grow more confident.
A few seconds later, Wheat came thundering up, the feather in his hat waving wildly. “Good job, son,” he said, waving to encompass the now nervously shifting line in which his company was arrayed. “We’re going to have to lead the advance—are you ready?”
“What?”
“Fontaine’s men aren’t moving. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. They haven’t taken more than a handful of casualties, but they won’t go forward. They aren’t moving to the back, either, but that’s not doing us much good. Fontaine’s just about apoplectic, trying to get them to budge, but they won’t have it.”
“Well.” Patton couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew now that he’d been coasting, hoping somehow that the battle would take place, and he would do something approximating his duty, without his actually having to think or act deliberately. Time to make a decision, he decided. Either you’re in this, or you ride away now.
“This is the wrong time to get the collywobbles, Patton.” Wheat grinned. “Don’t worry. That was a lucky shot a minute ago; those boys couldn’t hit water by pissing in the middle of the ocean. They’re not going to touch us.” He gestured to something happening behind Patton. “Besides, Walker’s giving us some help.”
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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