[Continuing chapter 18]
God moved in mysterious ways, Walker knew. Still, it would be a shame if success on this field came about because of Parsons’s infantry rather than his own men.
He’s doing just what I would have done, Walker told himself as Parsons brought his second company forward, doubling the strength of the force with which he obviously intended to outflank the defenders of the bridge. Now why can’t I make my own men follow my orders? He’d succeeded in getting Nelson’s company to move up a bit, but though they were well within range of the enemy and he’d ordered them to twice already, Nelson’s men would not fire. Fontaine was within two hundred yards of the creek, and his men at least were firing into the militia on the opposite bank. But Wheat’s company still refused to move at all, in spite of the increasingly profane exhortations of its officers.
Because he was watching Fontaine, he didn’t notice the enemy crossing the creek until Lieutenant Baylor brought it to his attention. “They’re going to hit Parsons in the flank!” Baylor shouted.
Thank you, Lord, for this golden opportunity, Walker thought. “Not if we hit them first!” he replied. “Men!” he shouted, nudging Destiny forward until he was in front of Nelson’s company. With deliberate slowness, he turned his back to the enemy, facing his troops. “Here’s our chance!” he told them. “Their center has broken ranks, and it’s about to expose its flank to us. Charge them now, and we break them. Break them, and we win! Come on!”
He turned Destiny; over the din of the firing he could hear Nelson’s men shouting. All I had to do, he thought, was give them something to do.
Edging the horse to the left, he gestured to Baylor to take command; it was not Walker’s job to throw himself so deeply into one aspect of the battle that he lost sight of all the others. Baylor waved the men forward into a trot, turned to smile at Walker. Any humiliation he might have felt over his failure at the Sabine River crossing will be forgotten now, Walker thought.
Baylor was still smiling when he died. Because Walker was looking at the lieutenant, he saw the impact of the ball that killed him, saw the instant transformation from living, human flesh to dead, soulless tissue. The same volley that killed Baylor struck down a good half-dozen other men of the company. It also killed the momentum Walker had given the advance. For a moment the men wavered, and their line undulated like a snake as some moved forward, hesitated, reversed themselves just as others made to go on. Then the moment passed, and the whole company edged backward. Soon there was a distinct gap between the line the company occupied and the indentations in the grass that marked its furthest progress.
“Damn it, men, move forward!” Walker shouted. “Advance!”
“You go first, you bastard!” someone shouted.
Walker was searching the sullen faces for some clue as to whom he should shoot for that remark when a shrill, unearthly cheer brought his attention back to the enemy.
A second group of militia had crossed the creek and was running, screaming, toward Fontaine’s company on the left. Walker scarcely had time to register this fact when the first group of brightly-clad enemy smashed into Parsons’s left flank.
Walker tried to absorb what was happening, but there was too much and it happened too fast—much faster than anything had happened in Cuba. One of the rebel Texan infantry companies disintegrated, its members streaming back past him in ones and twos, just as an artillery shell exploded in the midst of the other infantry company. Fontaine’s men got off a ragged series of volleys, then seemed to shimmer and vanish as they were subsumed by a larger, amorphous creature made up of themselves and their attackers. Now all of the Texans were across the creek, and their regulars were forming up in a line to make a regulation advance. Walker was horribly reminded of Cuba, of those final agonizing moments watching the Spanish regulars form up.
Then Fontaine’s men were running away, back toward the crest of the rise behind which the supply wagons lay. Walker mouthed desperate prayers. Why, he wondered, is this happening? God is with us; why has God forsaken my men, let their courage trickle away into the dust?
When Fontaine fell from his horse, Walker screamed.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelveGod moved in mysterious ways, Walker knew. Still, it would be a shame if success on this field came about because of Parsons’s infantry rather than his own men.
He’s doing just what I would have done, Walker told himself as Parsons brought his second company forward, doubling the strength of the force with which he obviously intended to outflank the defenders of the bridge. Now why can’t I make my own men follow my orders? He’d succeeded in getting Nelson’s company to move up a bit, but though they were well within range of the enemy and he’d ordered them to twice already, Nelson’s men would not fire. Fontaine was within two hundred yards of the creek, and his men at least were firing into the militia on the opposite bank. But Wheat’s company still refused to move at all, in spite of the increasingly profane exhortations of its officers.
Because he was watching Fontaine, he didn’t notice the enemy crossing the creek until Lieutenant Baylor brought it to his attention. “They’re going to hit Parsons in the flank!” Baylor shouted.
Thank you, Lord, for this golden opportunity, Walker thought. “Not if we hit them first!” he replied. “Men!” he shouted, nudging Destiny forward until he was in front of Nelson’s company. With deliberate slowness, he turned his back to the enemy, facing his troops. “Here’s our chance!” he told them. “Their center has broken ranks, and it’s about to expose its flank to us. Charge them now, and we break them. Break them, and we win! Come on!”
He turned Destiny; over the din of the firing he could hear Nelson’s men shouting. All I had to do, he thought, was give them something to do.
Edging the horse to the left, he gestured to Baylor to take command; it was not Walker’s job to throw himself so deeply into one aspect of the battle that he lost sight of all the others. Baylor waved the men forward into a trot, turned to smile at Walker. Any humiliation he might have felt over his failure at the Sabine River crossing will be forgotten now, Walker thought.
Baylor was still smiling when he died. Because Walker was looking at the lieutenant, he saw the impact of the ball that killed him, saw the instant transformation from living, human flesh to dead, soulless tissue. The same volley that killed Baylor struck down a good half-dozen other men of the company. It also killed the momentum Walker had given the advance. For a moment the men wavered, and their line undulated like a snake as some moved forward, hesitated, reversed themselves just as others made to go on. Then the moment passed, and the whole company edged backward. Soon there was a distinct gap between the line the company occupied and the indentations in the grass that marked its furthest progress.
“Damn it, men, move forward!” Walker shouted. “Advance!”
“You go first, you bastard!” someone shouted.
Walker was searching the sullen faces for some clue as to whom he should shoot for that remark when a shrill, unearthly cheer brought his attention back to the enemy.
A second group of militia had crossed the creek and was running, screaming, toward Fontaine’s company on the left. Walker scarcely had time to register this fact when the first group of brightly-clad enemy smashed into Parsons’s left flank.
Walker tried to absorb what was happening, but there was too much and it happened too fast—much faster than anything had happened in Cuba. One of the rebel Texan infantry companies disintegrated, its members streaming back past him in ones and twos, just as an artillery shell exploded in the midst of the other infantry company. Fontaine’s men got off a ragged series of volleys, then seemed to shimmer and vanish as they were subsumed by a larger, amorphous creature made up of themselves and their attackers. Now all of the Texans were across the creek, and their regulars were forming up in a line to make a regulation advance. Walker was horribly reminded of Cuba, of those final agonizing moments watching the Spanish regulars form up.
Then Fontaine’s men were running away, back toward the crest of the rise behind which the supply wagons lay. Walker mouthed desperate prayers. Why, he wondered, is this happening? God is with us; why has God forsaken my men, let their courage trickle away into the dust?
When Fontaine fell from his horse, Walker screamed.
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
No comments:
Post a Comment