[Continuing chapter 18]
Patton fired, cocked, fired again. He wasn’t hitting anything, he knew that. But it felt good to be doing something, since he’d so utterly failed to persuade the men to move forward.
Some of those nearest him were firing away too, cursing between shots in steady, quiet voices that belied the danger they were all in. Wheat was down at the far end of the line, still shouting. He’d gotten down from his horse, now, Patton noticed. Probably to make himself a less obvious target.
Motion far to the right caught his eye. Colonel Parsons was running, his horse in full gallop as he fled the field and abandoned his men. Parsons was fleeing forward, not backward: he’d crossed the creek, and was heading south-west. Calculating bastard, Patton thought. You know you face a bigger risk if you try to run past us than if you skirt around those boys with their cannon. Still, he hoped against hope that the gunners would feel as much contempt for Parsons as he did, and drop a shell on top of the man.
“Fontaine’s down!” Captain Wheat was behind him, mounted again. “You take the company, Patton. I’m going with Walker.” Patton looked to the left; Walker’s horse pounded across the grass toward where a small group of men stood around a rider-less horse. The men Fontaine had led were gone, vanished as though plucked from the earth by the hand of God. Even their attackers had gone; the small group around the horse was isolated, alone on the prairie, with just a few wisps of powder-smoke to suggest there was anything out of the ordinary about the situation.
“What company?” Patton asked quietly as Wheat rode off. A company would obey orders. A company would move to attack if he told it to. With Wheat gone, these men were much more likely to shoot him than obey him.
The firing died down for a moment, as though everyone on the field had spontaneously decided to pause for breath. Patton replaced the half-empty chamber of his rifle with a fully loaded chamber, then began packing ball and powder into the first chamber. Safely reloaded, he looked up to assess the situation. The Texan loyalists had almost all crossed the creek; those militia-men who had charged Parsons now stood, somewhat uncertainly by the look of them, scarcely two hundred yards from where he knelt with the rest of Wheat’s company. Parsons was gone, as were most of his men; the number of bodies strewn around the Texan militia was frightening. Walker’s left flank had been swept completely clear as well. For the loss of a few dozen militia, the Texans had killed, wounded or routed nearly two thirds of Walker’s force.
And instead of rallying his men, Walker had run off to look after the health of one of his captains.
It’s over, Patton realized. Maybe these men don’t realize it yet, but they will—just as soon as the Texan commander re-dresses his line and orders the advance.
A man, obviously an officer, appeared at the head of the militia before them and, as if to confirm Patton’s assessment of the situation, began to whip the men into something resembling a line. Patton recognized something in the officer’s posture and, torn between pride and sadness, he pulled out his spyglass and focused on the man. It was Charles Stewart. I’m glad you survived whatever happened to you when the federals invaded Kentucky, he thought. Then he swept the glass across the rest of the Texan front, looking for Cleburne.
He found the Irishman standing beside a man who might have been the Texan commander—a trim, somewhat pompous looking man with black hair and a coat much too fancy for a battlefield. Cleburne was smiling. And well you might, Patton thought. Nobody else here seems to know that you’ve won. But you know.
One of Wheat’s men let loose a shot that rang loudly in Patton’s ears. He looked back to see Stewart staring almost directly at him, and realized that the man had been shooting at his friend.
His first impulse was to shoot the man—as though killing someone else could have any impact on the shame he felt right now. Instead, he got to his feet and walked over to the man. “Why’d you go and do a thing like that?” he asked.
“Well, the son of a bitch looks like he’s getting set to come at us,” the man said. “I figured it was sort of my duty to stop him. Sir.”
“You think it’ll make any difference?” Patton made a decision, and propped his rifle on his shoulder. “I don’t know about the rest of you,” he said, “but I’m going home.”
He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t care. The men who were guarding the animals said nothing when he retrieved his horse, said nothing when he mounted and rode back up the slope down which he’d come with such miserable trepidation not more than an hour ago. He didn’t care about them, either. A hand on the Colt in his holster was sufficient to warn them against saying or doing anything to stop him.
At the crest of the slope he shifted in the saddle to look back. The Texans were beginning a slow advance, tentatively as if well aware of the damage those Currie rifles could do. They were also advancing into range of Walker’s cannon, he realized.
I could do something about that, he thought. He rode to the supply wagons, thinking himself a fool. Since I was six years old, he thought, I’ve never disobeyed my parents or my superior officers. I’ve never done anything God or Lord Jesus would disapprove of. And now look at me.
He found a lamp in the first wagon, lit it from a tinder-box, and drew and cocked his Colt before riding down the line of wagons to the one he wanted. “You might want to get out of here,” he said to the men transferring barrels from the powder wagon to one of the gun limbers. Then he threw the lamp into the powder wagon. I’ve never deliberately done a bad thing until I came on this trip, he thought. I was a good, Christian, Virginia gentleman. And now look at me.
When the wagon’s canvas cover burst into flames, he spurred his horse in the direction of the river. He had almost reached the trees when the powder exploded.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelvePatton fired, cocked, fired again. He wasn’t hitting anything, he knew that. But it felt good to be doing something, since he’d so utterly failed to persuade the men to move forward.
Some of those nearest him were firing away too, cursing between shots in steady, quiet voices that belied the danger they were all in. Wheat was down at the far end of the line, still shouting. He’d gotten down from his horse, now, Patton noticed. Probably to make himself a less obvious target.
Motion far to the right caught his eye. Colonel Parsons was running, his horse in full gallop as he fled the field and abandoned his men. Parsons was fleeing forward, not backward: he’d crossed the creek, and was heading south-west. Calculating bastard, Patton thought. You know you face a bigger risk if you try to run past us than if you skirt around those boys with their cannon. Still, he hoped against hope that the gunners would feel as much contempt for Parsons as he did, and drop a shell on top of the man.
“Fontaine’s down!” Captain Wheat was behind him, mounted again. “You take the company, Patton. I’m going with Walker.” Patton looked to the left; Walker’s horse pounded across the grass toward where a small group of men stood around a rider-less horse. The men Fontaine had led were gone, vanished as though plucked from the earth by the hand of God. Even their attackers had gone; the small group around the horse was isolated, alone on the prairie, with just a few wisps of powder-smoke to suggest there was anything out of the ordinary about the situation.
“What company?” Patton asked quietly as Wheat rode off. A company would obey orders. A company would move to attack if he told it to. With Wheat gone, these men were much more likely to shoot him than obey him.
The firing died down for a moment, as though everyone on the field had spontaneously decided to pause for breath. Patton replaced the half-empty chamber of his rifle with a fully loaded chamber, then began packing ball and powder into the first chamber. Safely reloaded, he looked up to assess the situation. The Texan loyalists had almost all crossed the creek; those militia-men who had charged Parsons now stood, somewhat uncertainly by the look of them, scarcely two hundred yards from where he knelt with the rest of Wheat’s company. Parsons was gone, as were most of his men; the number of bodies strewn around the Texan militia was frightening. Walker’s left flank had been swept completely clear as well. For the loss of a few dozen militia, the Texans had killed, wounded or routed nearly two thirds of Walker’s force.
And instead of rallying his men, Walker had run off to look after the health of one of his captains.
It’s over, Patton realized. Maybe these men don’t realize it yet, but they will—just as soon as the Texan commander re-dresses his line and orders the advance.
A man, obviously an officer, appeared at the head of the militia before them and, as if to confirm Patton’s assessment of the situation, began to whip the men into something resembling a line. Patton recognized something in the officer’s posture and, torn between pride and sadness, he pulled out his spyglass and focused on the man. It was Charles Stewart. I’m glad you survived whatever happened to you when the federals invaded Kentucky, he thought. Then he swept the glass across the rest of the Texan front, looking for Cleburne.
He found the Irishman standing beside a man who might have been the Texan commander—a trim, somewhat pompous looking man with black hair and a coat much too fancy for a battlefield. Cleburne was smiling. And well you might, Patton thought. Nobody else here seems to know that you’ve won. But you know.
One of Wheat’s men let loose a shot that rang loudly in Patton’s ears. He looked back to see Stewart staring almost directly at him, and realized that the man had been shooting at his friend.
His first impulse was to shoot the man—as though killing someone else could have any impact on the shame he felt right now. Instead, he got to his feet and walked over to the man. “Why’d you go and do a thing like that?” he asked.
“Well, the son of a bitch looks like he’s getting set to come at us,” the man said. “I figured it was sort of my duty to stop him. Sir.”
“You think it’ll make any difference?” Patton made a decision, and propped his rifle on his shoulder. “I don’t know about the rest of you,” he said, “but I’m going home.”
He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t care. The men who were guarding the animals said nothing when he retrieved his horse, said nothing when he mounted and rode back up the slope down which he’d come with such miserable trepidation not more than an hour ago. He didn’t care about them, either. A hand on the Colt in his holster was sufficient to warn them against saying or doing anything to stop him.
At the crest of the slope he shifted in the saddle to look back. The Texans were beginning a slow advance, tentatively as if well aware of the damage those Currie rifles could do. They were also advancing into range of Walker’s cannon, he realized.
I could do something about that, he thought. He rode to the supply wagons, thinking himself a fool. Since I was six years old, he thought, I’ve never disobeyed my parents or my superior officers. I’ve never done anything God or Lord Jesus would disapprove of. And now look at me.
He found a lamp in the first wagon, lit it from a tinder-box, and drew and cocked his Colt before riding down the line of wagons to the one he wanted. “You might want to get out of here,” he said to the men transferring barrels from the powder wagon to one of the gun limbers. Then he threw the lamp into the powder wagon. I’ve never deliberately done a bad thing until I came on this trip, he thought. I was a good, Christian, Virginia gentleman. And now look at me.
When the wagon’s canvas cover burst into flames, he spurred his horse in the direction of the river. He had almost reached the trees when the powder exploded.
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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