by Elmer Kelton
Now, so sick with fever that they had to help him into the saddle, Rip Ford stood his horse on the edge of one of the dried old riverbed resacas. Overhead, tall palm trees arched in the wind, their cupped fronds appearing almost black against the sky. Before him lay a scattering of Mexican jacales. Beyond these, in shimmering summer heat, stood a town waiting for deliverance.
“Brownsville.” Ford tested the word fondly on his tongue and turned to Frio Wheeler, who sat on a sorrel horse beside him. “How long since you’ve seen it from the Texas side, Frio?”
“Been close to nine months now, Colonel.”
“Perhaps it won’t be long until you can ride down its streets again.” Ford’s voice was weak. His face was flushed and drawn from the siege of fever. But he had refused to allow anyone else to take over his command. For months now he had been preparing for the recapture of Brownsville. He had no intention of being on his back when the Texas troops moved into that town and raised their flag.
“Where do you suppose your wagons are, Frio?”
“I expect they ought to be at my ranch by now, sir. When we left San Antonio, folks were all excited about you whippin’ the Yanks at Rancho Las Rucias. I figured that by the time my wagons got here, we could cross over at old Don Andres’s ferry and save the miles we’d have to cover to Rio Grande City. With luck, I thought you might even have taken Brownsville.”
“So you rode on ahead of the wagons to see how we fared?”
“Yes, sir. The wagons are in good hands. Happy Jack Fleet, the young fellow you saw with me a while back, he was to take them to the ranch and wait.”
Ford smiled thinly, and the smile was quickly gone. The colonel was suffering. “I appreciate your confidence. I only wish I had taken Brownsville already.”
“You will, Colonel. It’s like a ripe apple, ready to fall into your hands. And I want to have a part with you in the takin’ of it.”
Ford gazed with sadness at what he could see of the town. “It’s been a good town to me, Frio. I’ve had some happy days there.”
“Too bad you weren’t in charge of Fort Brown when the Yankees first came. Things might’ve turned out different.”
Ford shook his head. “Nobody could have stood off that many federals with the few troops the Confederacy had here. True, there are some things I’d’ve done differently. But the outcome would’ve been the same. Besides, if is the most futile word in the language. There ought to be a law against the use of it, at least in the past tense.”
One of Ford’s captains rode over and handed the colonel a long spyglass. “They’ve spotted us, sir. Yonder come some Union cavalry to give us a closer look.”
Ford focused the instrument and held it a minute, scanning the dry landscape for sign of any other movement. He lowered the glass and nodded. “Good. There’s a long resaca just ahead of them. As they move up out of it, tell the men to commence firing.”
The captain argued, “Colonel, that’s too long a range. We won’t kill many Yankees thataway.”
Ford shook his head. “I don’t intend to. I never took pleasure in the death of any man, Captain, Yankee or what. If we can immobilize them or push them back without having to kill them, so much the better. There’s been way too much killing in this war even as it is.”
The colonel painfully started to swing out of the saddle. Frio and a couple of nearby officers were quick to step down and help him. Frio took the colonel’s arm and could feel the heat of the fever, even through the sleeve. Ford thanked them when he was on his feet. An enlisted man in a Mexican sombrero stood by to take the reins and hold the horse for him.
Ford said quietly to those around him: “Looking through the glass a few minutes ago, I saw the Union flag waving on its pole down at the fort. Gave me a bad feeling, really, knowing I was about to fire on it again. I always loved that flag.” He glanced at Frio. “Did you know that during the time Texas was a republic I was in its Congress? Back in 1844, I was the man who introduced a resolution in the House proposing that Texas accept annexation into the United States.” The sadness showed again in his face. “Ironic, isn’t it? Now, after twenty years, I find myself fighting to keep Texas out of the United States.”
He looked down, and Frio thought he could see tears in the colonel’s eyes. Or maybe it was the fever. “There are some good men down there in that fort, beneath that flag. Some of them are friends of mine. It’s a sad, sad thing to be forced to go to war against your friends.”
He glanced up at Frio, and Frio nodded slowly.
The colonel added, “Any man can kill an enemy, if duty calls on him to do it. But it takes a strong man to be able to kill a friend.”
A chill went through Frio.
The captain spoke up. “They’ve come to the riverbed, Colonel. Shall I give the boys the word to fire?”
Ford nodded regretfully. “Cut ’em loose.”
Frio had his hands full just holding onto the sorrel horse when the firing started. The mount had not been around guns like most of the soldiers’ horses had. The first volley was so deafening it brought a sharp pressure of pain against Frio’s eardrums. Powder smoke began rising gray and thick from a couple of hundred positions along a scattered line. Through the drift of smoke, Frio could see a half dozen Union horses down. The Yankees had spread out suddenly but were still riding, coming head-on.
From this point the Texans spent no more volleys. There was a constant rattle of uneven fire as individual soldiers chose their targets and squeezed their triggers. The range was still long. Many of the bullets picked up dust from the parched ground in front of the federals. Now and again a horse would fall, or a man. The federals swept into another old riverbed. A few seconds later Frio expected to see them come up on this side, but they didn’t. It occurred to him after a moment that they had taken cover in the bottom of the resaca, safe from the angry bullets of rebel guns. In a minute or two firing commenced over the rim of the old bed. The Union soldiers had dismounted and were answering fire with fire.
“A long-taw proposition,” the captain said. “Neither side can do much like this.”
Union bullets snarled harmlessly overhead, or dropped uselessly into the dust. Ford put up with it for a while. His men were firing only now and again as they saw a target. With them, ammunition was still too precious to waste. The federals were spending a lot more of it with no more results.
Presently Ford said, “Captain, let me see that glass again.” He brought it to his eye and studied what part of the town was open to view. He nodded in satisfaction as he lowered the telescope. “It’s about as I had expected. A Union relief column is on its way. Now is the time to give them a jolt.” He pointed westward. “Is B Company deployed over yonder where I wanted them?”
The captain nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” replied Ford. “If you-all will kindly help me onto my horse.…”
He swayed toward the mount. Frio and the others quickly went to his support. They helped him into the saddle. He looked down at Frio. “How about you, Frio? Want a closer look at Brownsville?”
Frio smiled. “Yep, Colonel, I sure do.” He swung onto the sorrel.
To the captain, Ford said, “I’m going to take B Company and flank that resaca. I think when the Yanks see us coming they’ll fog out of there in a hurry. As they do, you bring this company down. They’ll be caught two ways. It’s my hunch they’ll stampede back toward the fort, and they’ll carry that relief column with them.”
The captain nodded, pleased. “I expect you’ll spoil General Herron’s supper, Colonel.”
Ford replied, “Those Yankees have spoiled many a one of mine.”
Too sick to be riding, but driven by his stern determination, Colonel Rip Ford led the way to where B Company waited in reserve. Frio had to spur to keep up with him. They reached the waiting men, who sat patiently smoking and telling yarns in the shadows of their horses.
The colonel said simply, “Boys, are you ready to go out there amongst them?” He turne
d his horse and started toward the resaca, trusting the men to follow after him. They did.
The range was still at least three hundred yards when the colonel said, “Into the skirmish line, boys, and let’s hear you yell.”
The men fanned out in a long, ragged line. At Ford’s order, they moved into a gallop. The shrill yell started at the center and rippled up and down the line like a shock wave. It was a savage, exultant thing that made hair stand on the back of Frio’s neck. He found himself swept along with it. He yelled too. Saddlegun in his hand, he stayed near the colonel. There was little target, for the federals were down in the safety of the old riverbed. But at Ford’s order his men began firing anyway.
Moving up a rise, Frio saw alarm strike the dismounted Yankees with the force of a bombshell. They ran for their horses, swinging into their saddles. The officers were moving as fast as their men. Those who could not catch their horses, or who had lost them, swung up behind other men. The Yankees spurred over the rim of the riverbed. For a moment it looked as if they would retreat eastward. But over in that direction, another group of Ford’s horsemen popped up as if by magic. And now the captain came from the center of the line with all his men.
The bluecoats had only one way to flee, and that was south. They ran headlong, maintaining no formation. Theirs was a panicked flight, every man for himself, for only God knew how many of those screeching Texans were pouring out of the brush behind them.
In pursuit, Ford’s companies joined on the ends and made a solid line, moving forward at a gallop, sweeping down into the sandy old riverbeds and out again on the far side, dodging their horses around the palm trees. The Texans kept up a desultory fire that was aimed more at frightening than at a kill. It was hard to shoot straight from the back of a running horse anyway. The man who claimed he could would probably lie about other things too.
The fleeing federals overran the relief column without slowing down. For a moment the second group of bluecoats seemed about to come forward and give fight. But they changed their minds, turned their horses about, and went running with the others, running for the cover they could find behind the lumber and stone walls of the town. To Frio it was much like a stampeding herd of cattle, sweeping up another herd in its path.
Ford was falling behind, for in his condition he had a hard time just staying in the saddle. He shouted for a cease-fire and pullback, and somehow some of the officers heard him through the din of hoofs and yelling men and roaring guns. Gradually the Texans pulled their horses to a stop almost within the edge of the town itself. They obeyed the colonel’s orders grudgingly, for they had gotten a small, sweet taste of victory, and it was hard now to spit out the apple.
Forming again at the point from which the charge had begun, some of the officers voiced the same disapproval as their men.
Ford, who looked deathly tired now but nonetheless pleased, simply shook his head and lowered himself into the shade of a palm.
“You did fine, boys. Now we just let Herron stew over this thing for a while. Then we’ll see what happens.”
Night came, and Ford dispatched three men as spies to enter the town. Wearing old Mexican clothes, they could pass unnoticed wherever they wanted to go. Much later the three came back. Frio could read victory in the square thrust of their shoulders, their broad grins as they approached the colonel’s small fire.
“Colonel,” one of them said cheerily, without a salute, “it’s just like you figured. Herron’s loadin’ up and pullin’ out. They say he’s retreatin’ down the river—givin’ up the town for good.”
The colonel nodded and stared a long time into the coals. At first Frio thought Ford was simply lost in thought. Then he saw the colonel’s lips move ever so slightly, and he caught a fragment of a whispered prayer. At last Ford looked up, his fevered eyes proud as his gaze moved from one to another of the men who stood in the circle of firelight. “Well, boys, we’ve done it. We’ve put him on the run with a force not a quarter the size of his, and we’ve shed precious little blood in doing it.”
An officer said with emotion, “Texas will never forget this day, Colonel.”
Ford shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong; they will forget what we’ve done here today. But their forgetting it won’t alter the fact that it was done. History doesn’t change just because somebody fails to get credit.”
He turned to Frio. “How would you like to be the first man to bring cotton wagons into Brownsville after the Union occupation?”
Frio felt a quick glow. “I’d be tickled, Colonel.”
“Well, then you go on to that ranch of yours and fetch them. By the time you get back, I think you’ll find Brownsville ready and waiting for you.”
16
As a schoolboy, Frio had studied about the glory of ancient Rome, and his imagination had soared grandly as he had pictured the march of the victorious Roman legions along the Appian Way. These things came back to his mind now as he made his own much smaller and probably dustier triumphal entry into Brownsville at the head of a long line of cotton wagons.
It was just three months short of a year since the dark and terrible night Frio had ridden out of burning Brownsville, taking Amelia and Chico with him. On the surface, the town didn’t seem to have changed much, except those sections that had been touched by the great fire. Some of the damaged buildings had been reconstructed. Others still lay as they had fallen, their charred shells like blackened skeletons, a scar upon the land.
Townspeople—Anglo and Mexican alike—stood in the street and cheered as the wagons rolled into view, the dust rising in a heavy fog behind them. Along Elizabeth Street, Frio could see Confederate and Texas flags flying from makeshift flagpoles and draped from second-story windows—flags wisely stored away these many long months of Union occupation.
Frio rode the sorrel horse that was his favorite. Amelia McCasland sat on the first wagon, face aglow as she entered the town that had so long been home. Chico rode on top of the cotton bales, waving with pride at the youngsters who watched him enviously. There was a touch of brag about him in the way he threw out his chest. This was the biggest day in the boy’s life.
Rip Ford’s Texas troops stood scattered up and down the street, being congratulated by the townsmen because they had made it possible for this wagon train to come into Brownsville. Other trains were bound to follow within days. All up and down the winding trails, riders were telling teamsters that Brownsville was open again, that they could cut south and quit the much longer routes that led to Laredo and Rio Grande City.
Two Mexican boys raced along afoot in front of the wagons, crying excitedly, “Los algodones!” The cotton men! Women waved handkerchiefs, and men shouted for joy.
Frio reined over and waited for the first wagon to pull up even with him so that he might ride beside Amelia. He wished they could have brought María along to see this show. But they had decided that the baby, born in April, was still too young to make the trip and breathe the thick dust of the wagon train. So María had remained at the ranch with the infant son she had named Blas. Natividad de la Cruz was there, along with a pair of vaqueros, to watch out for her. A widower himself, Natividad had taken an increasingly protective attitude toward María. Someday, when her grief had faded and the proprieties had been observed, Natividad would present his own case.
Ahead of the wagon train was the site of the McCasland store. Frio watched Amelia closely, worried about her reaction when she would see whatever was left of the place. He needn’t have worried. She looked, and a momentary sadness came into her eyes, but there were no tears. Someone had cleaned off the lot. All the charred lumber had been removed. Only the smoke-blackened foundation rocks remained.
Amelia spoke softly, “I guess Tom must have seen to it that the place was cleared. I’m glad he did.”
It was the first time Frio had heard her speak her brother’s name in months. Even when he had told her about Tom leading the Union patrol to try capturing the wagon train and about Frio’s letting
Tom escape into the brush, she had listened without a word of comment.
Frio said, “I expect Tom went back across the river when the Union troops left town.”
Amelia nodded soberly. “He couldn’t stay here.”
They rode on down to the old cottonyard on the riverbank. As in other times, Hugh Plunkett stood there waiting, his face solemn but proud. He stepped to one side and waved the lead wagon on by. “Just take her down to the far end yonder,” he yelled. He reached out with his big hand as Frio rode up. Frio leaned down to shake with him. “Just like it used to be, ain’t it, Frio? Happy days have come again.”
“Happy?” Frio said evenly. “Long as that infernal war is still on, I don’t expect there’ll be any happy days.” He looked out across the big, empty yard. “One thing isn’t like it was. No cotton here.”
“There’ll be aplenty of it, though,” Plunkett said. “Your train is just the start. Before long there’ll be so much cotton here a man can’t hardly count it all.” He nodded briskly. “Yes, sir, we’ll show them Yankees.”
Frio saw a movement at Hugh Plunkett’s little frame-shed, where the cotton agent kept his papers. A woman stood there. Plunkett turned to follow Frio’s gaze.
Frio squinted. “That’s Mrs. Valdez, isn’t it?”
Plunkett nodded, his mouth turning down sadly. “She’s been waitin’ to see you, Frio. She’s got somethin’ to tell you.” Hugh rubbed the back of his neck and looked away a moment. “Before you go talk to her, Frio, there’s somethin’ you ought to know. I ain’t never told you because I promised her I wouldn’t. But now I think you ought to know what you owe to her. She’s the one came that night and told me the Yankees were goin’ out to kill you. Wasn’t for her, you’d be dead right now.”
Frio and Amelia looked at each other in surprise. Frio reached up to help Amelia down from the wagon before it went all the way to the end of the yard for unloading. Chico clambered down by himself, jumping the large part of the way and springing nimbly to his feet after going down on hands and knees.