[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.”
The officers of the Washington garrison seemed to be taking the assault even more personally than did Travis; while he could not hear, Stewart could tell by the way the man’s mouth moved that the captain nearest him was shouting obscenities as he ordered his men to shoulder arms and prepare to repel the advance.
For a moment, the world was almost quiet. No guns fired; no shells exploded. Men’s voices could be heard, but they seemed to be swallowed up by the vastness of the prairie and the pale blue bowl of the sky.
Then, as though responding to a signal felt rather than heard or seen, everyone seemed to fire at once.
Stewart felt the world cocoon around him, sound pummeling his ears as the musketry and cannon-fire merged into a single, universal din. He knew it had been louder at Harpers Ferry—and much worse in Kentucky—but decided it didn’t really matter. He did remember, though, how the overwhelming force of the sound had gradually dulled his hearing—and how, as was happening again here today, the loss of hearing seemed to sharpen his visual acuity.
He saw the white-metal buttons on an advancing soldier’s jacket glowing like tiny, full moons—silver orbs against the dirty, stained jacket the young man wore. Some of those buttons became harvest-moons, reddened by the young man’s blood when some more vicious piece of metal opened the soldier’s face.
Grey smoke leapt toward him eagerly as the advancing enemy fired a silent volley; Stewart saw hunting dogs in those darting, ephemeral shapes, knew how it would feel to be the desperate prey of such blood-thirsty animals. He also knew the hunted animal’s instinct to hide, to go to ground. Stand firm, he told himself. The men will do what you do.
Some force pulled his vision back from the individual, isolated detail to a broader conception of the fight. Some of his men—it was interesting how quickly they had become his men—were down, he saw. Not too many, though, and that was good. And the enemy? There were gaps in their lines, too—small gaps, though, too small.
Wait. What was happening on his left? Stewart instinctively looked for Cleburne, but the Irishman was nowhere close. It’s up to me, then, he thought. Running forward, he grabbed at the captain commanding the engineers on the bridge. “They’re trying to outflank you!” he shouted, pointing. The rebel infantry had shifted, were sliding obliquely across the front of the men on the bridge.
“I know, dammit!” the captain shouted in response. “Let them get just a little bit closer!”
“They’re going for the gun!” Stewart shouted the words as soon as he thought them, knowing somehow that they were true. He hadn’t always known, in the earlier battles, exactly what an opponent was doing once battle had been joined, but this time, by God, he knew.
The gun was their only advantage. If Walker could capture it—even if he did nothing more than drive the crew away—he was free to advance to just outside musket-range, then fire away with his rifles and his own small cannon until the defenders of Texas were slaughtered or ran.
And if these men did outflank him and reach that hill, then he’d have enemy troops both before and behind him, and slaughter would be inevitable.
Horrified, Stewart saw a second company of infantry moving up alongside the first. Those men alone nearly outnumbered his entire force. And they were being moved with determination the enemy had so far not shown. Stewart saw disaster marching alongside the rebel infantry.
The engineers on the bridge fired just as Stewart opened his mouth to order them to do so. A second volley smashed into the advancing companies, courtesy of the militia in the center of the Texican line. A second later, the militia on the right fired into the mercenary force in front of it. Stewart laughed, shouted wordless defiance, wanted to charge forward and thrash William Walker single-handed.
Then it all came undone, slowly enough that Stewart could watch it and realize the horrible import of what was happening.
The smoke from the volleys lifted to reveal green- and red-coated militiamen crossing the creek. Moments later their flag bobbed as it was carried across, the yellow star pulling the rest of the militia company after it like so many demented wise-men rushing toward, not Bethlehem, but Armageddon.
“No!” Stewart shouted. “Get back!” Outnumbered as badly as he was, Secretary Travis’s only hope for success was a disciplined defense of the natural fortification provided by the creek. Abandon that line, and you gave up your best chance. The militiamen obviously didn’t see it that way; on the opposite bank they paused long enough to reload, then—screaming rum-soaked defiance—charged the second, most recently arrived, rebel infantry company.
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“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.”
The officers of the Washington garrison seemed to be taking the assault even more personally than did Travis; while he could not hear, Stewart could tell by the way the man’s mouth moved that the captain nearest him was shouting obscenities as he ordered his men to shoulder arms and prepare to repel the advance.
For a moment, the world was almost quiet. No guns fired; no shells exploded. Men’s voices could be heard, but they seemed to be swallowed up by the vastness of the prairie and the pale blue bowl of the sky.
Then, as though responding to a signal felt rather than heard or seen, everyone seemed to fire at once.
Stewart felt the world cocoon around him, sound pummeling his ears as the musketry and cannon-fire merged into a single, universal din. He knew it had been louder at Harpers Ferry—and much worse in Kentucky—but decided it didn’t really matter. He did remember, though, how the overwhelming force of the sound had gradually dulled his hearing—and how, as was happening again here today, the loss of hearing seemed to sharpen his visual acuity.
He saw the white-metal buttons on an advancing soldier’s jacket glowing like tiny, full moons—silver orbs against the dirty, stained jacket the young man wore. Some of those buttons became harvest-moons, reddened by the young man’s blood when some more vicious piece of metal opened the soldier’s face.
Grey smoke leapt toward him eagerly as the advancing enemy fired a silent volley; Stewart saw hunting dogs in those darting, ephemeral shapes, knew how it would feel to be the desperate prey of such blood-thirsty animals. He also knew the hunted animal’s instinct to hide, to go to ground. Stand firm, he told himself. The men will do what you do.
Some force pulled his vision back from the individual, isolated detail to a broader conception of the fight. Some of his men—it was interesting how quickly they had become his men—were down, he saw. Not too many, though, and that was good. And the enemy? There were gaps in their lines, too—small gaps, though, too small.
Wait. What was happening on his left? Stewart instinctively looked for Cleburne, but the Irishman was nowhere close. It’s up to me, then, he thought. Running forward, he grabbed at the captain commanding the engineers on the bridge. “They’re trying to outflank you!” he shouted, pointing. The rebel infantry had shifted, were sliding obliquely across the front of the men on the bridge.
“I know, dammit!” the captain shouted in response. “Let them get just a little bit closer!”
“They’re going for the gun!” Stewart shouted the words as soon as he thought them, knowing somehow that they were true. He hadn’t always known, in the earlier battles, exactly what an opponent was doing once battle had been joined, but this time, by God, he knew.
The gun was their only advantage. If Walker could capture it—even if he did nothing more than drive the crew away—he was free to advance to just outside musket-range, then fire away with his rifles and his own small cannon until the defenders of Texas were slaughtered or ran.
And if these men did outflank him and reach that hill, then he’d have enemy troops both before and behind him, and slaughter would be inevitable.
Horrified, Stewart saw a second company of infantry moving up alongside the first. Those men alone nearly outnumbered his entire force. And they were being moved with determination the enemy had so far not shown. Stewart saw disaster marching alongside the rebel infantry.
The engineers on the bridge fired just as Stewart opened his mouth to order them to do so. A second volley smashed into the advancing companies, courtesy of the militia in the center of the Texican line. A second later, the militia on the right fired into the mercenary force in front of it. Stewart laughed, shouted wordless defiance, wanted to charge forward and thrash William Walker single-handed.
Then it all came undone, slowly enough that Stewart could watch it and realize the horrible import of what was happening.
The smoke from the volleys lifted to reveal green- and red-coated militiamen crossing the creek. Moments later their flag bobbed as it was carried across, the yellow star pulling the rest of the militia company after it like so many demented wise-men rushing toward, not Bethlehem, but Armageddon.
“No!” Stewart shouted. “Get back!” Outnumbered as badly as he was, Secretary Travis’s only hope for success was a disciplined defense of the natural fortification provided by the creek. Abandon that line, and you gave up your best chance. The militiamen obviously didn’t see it that way; on the opposite bank they paused long enough to reload, then—screaming rum-soaked defiance—charged the second, most recently arrived, rebel infantry company.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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